#They are all jedi. They all believe the same things and work towards the same goals

[just-some-random-blogger]

Hii!

I just came across your empress work with kylo ren and i absolutely loved it.

But i was wondering...

Could you maybe write something like that but with kylo marring a jedi reader to restore balance and peace to the galaxy?

Say That Again

"-- say it," Kylo mutters. His voice becomes shaky, "I want to hear you say it."

Kylo Ren x Jedi!Reader | 1k+ | cw: gender neutra!reader, implied kidnapping, violence/mentions of injury, lovers to enemies, pining, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: this req is remix of this anon's and @copiasratsstuff request where basically YN refers to Kylo with his first name and it makes him snap. also T_T i had to send myself this anon ask because i accidentally posted this WITHOUT ANYTHING on the post LMAO. i hope you enjoy it my loves <3 <3 <3 tbh I think this turned out better than what I had in mind slayyyyed

My heart pounds as I run down the halls. My hands were tingling and moistened with agitation. I huff when I catch sight of the space craft.

I swipe an arm and, using my Force, a pair of stormtroopers crash to the side, clearing my passage.

The footsteps thundering towards me grows louder when I get to the ship and pry the door open with my Force. Just as I'm about to get into the vehicle, a scorching blow hits my leg, then my shoulder. A loud cry leaves my lips before I can even think.

Similarly, I hear painful screaming from afar. "Didn't I say to hold your fire?!"

My panic heightens at the echo of that voice. Through the excruciating pain, I tell myself to push forward. This was it, after all, this was the opening to the freedom I was waiting for.

But the next thing I knew, a dark Force overcame me, and I didn't have enough strength to break free of it.

I thud into the arms of my captor, and whine in pain. I clench my jaw and slowly lift my eyes, glaring at him.

My expression is vaguely reflected on the Supreme Leader's black mask. He sighs before speaking, "you reap what you sow."

I growl and hiss, "and soon will you."

He carries me in his arms, all the way back to my prison cell. He sets me down on his bed l, and as he takes off his helmet, I fling him back with Force, making him lose his balance.

The man doesn't topple though. What only happens is his dark hair falls onto his face. He tilts his head, "childish."

I scoff, "I'm glad you're self-aware."

The Sith Lord says nothing in response. He walks off, props his helmet on his cabinet, and opens a drawer. He walks over to me with bandages and ointment.

I raise a brow as he sits on my side, "you're not going to heal me?"

"The pain will be good for you," he replies, grabbing my injured leg with little regard.

I whine and shift to lessen my discomfort. He begins to lather ointment on my laser gash.

As he does this in silence, and as I behold his profile, his nose, his lips, his lashes, I see flashes of the past from his face. I see a memory of when we were younger, both still under the guidance of our master, Luke. I see his sweet smile, hear his soft laugh, feel his tender kiss... my Ben.

Of course, we were young fools in love. Deep down, we knew we could never be; attachments were dangerous. And yet he promised me himself and I promised him myself, and somehow he believes that was the same as us being married.

That was why he captured me. That was why he was binding my wounds. That was why he was unwilling to let me go. According to him, I was the balance the galaxy craved, I was the balance he long yearned for.

"We are married," he says, a-matter-of-factly.

My face sours, "get out of my head."

"Even if you did, even if you managed to run," he turns to me, one hand gripping my knee, "you think I would just let you go?"

We stare at each other for a while.

"After all I've done to have you?" he narrows his eyes.

"You wouldn't be able to find me," I lean in as I retort.

He leans closer, "and yet you would eventually surrender because your heart is weak."

I whine when he pulls the bandage around me tighter than necessary.

"Your soft heart would not bear the destruction I'd exact on the stars to find you," he ties the bandage and turns back to me. He scoffs under his breath, "you and your empathy."

The last of what remained of Ben Solo stared at me. Perhaps I was the only one delusional enough to see it. He was barely there in face, and in soul, I fear he may be lost forever.

I turn away.

He releases my leg and grabs my arm, "take your top off."

I decide not to put up a fight, there was no point. I take my burnt top off so he could wrap the injury on my shoulder blade.

He moves me so my back is turned to him. He stares at my wound for a prolonged moment. I am tempted to look back at him when I realize he felt pity for me.

"You shouldn't have run."

I don't look back, "you shouldn't have chased after-" I hiss when he applies ointment on my burn.

"You shouldn't have run," he repeats, harder this time.

"Kylo, please-"

"What?"

I look over my shoulder.

"What did you just call me?"

His expression is that of shock and excitement. I quickly correct myself, "Ben. Your name is B-"

"That's not my name," he raises a finger, "that's not what you said-"

"That's what I mea-"

"Say that again, say it," Kylo mutters. His voice becomes shaky, "I want to hear you say it."

I clench my jaw and shake my head. "Your name is Ben Solo."

He releases a deep breath.

I grab his cheeks. It was the first time I had ever willingly touched him, and so tenderly at that, "that is your name. That is who you--"

"Ben is dead," Kylo grabs my wrists, yanking me away from him.

My heart races when I feel the hot air from his lungs.

"I am all that's left," he whispers, brows furrowing. His voice is shaky again, "Ben was weak. He could not even speak his love for you out loud," he shakes his head, "not me. I would make sure the whole galaxy knows my love for you."

I gasp when he grabs my face and kisses me. I immediately shove him away, and when I do, this man with wide, glassy eyes stares back at me.

For once, his face evokes something more than anger out of me. I see his desperation and it pinches my heart.

"Ben-"

"That's not my name," he blurts, snapping out of his trance and jumping to his feet. His moment of vulnerability was over. Staring down at me now was no one else besides the Supreme Leader of the First Order. He wipes his face and blankness falls on his features.

I mean to call his name out again but he speaks before I can.

"I will have a medic attend to your wounds," he says flatly, "don't think to flee while I'm gone."

I watch him walk out of the door.

[lightsaber-dorphin]

Jedi Order Corps and Subdivisions

More of my worldbuilding for the inner structure of the Jedi Order. This time focusing on the Corps and the schools of thought/ roles within the Order.

Some of these are canon, others are my own creation. The Jedi consolidating to one temple on Coruscant during the Ruusan Reformation is canon, but I’ve taken my own liberties with it. Without further ado, lore!

Prior to the Ruusan Reformation, there were a number of independent denominations of the Jedi. Most of them merged into one order based in the Coruscant temple during what was called the Reunification.

Many denominations had different ideas of what a Jedi should be/ how they should use their powers. As a result, Jedi from certain traditions tended towards certain jobs within the reunified order. The corps and their branches formed as a result of certain traditions and teachings being passed down by Jedi who occupied certain roles.

The corps aren’t administrative divisions. Individual Jedi have their corps and branch affiliation listed on file as a marker of what they specialize in/ what they’re trained to do. Jedi are selected for missions based on their corps and the specifics of the mission, and answer to whichever body sent them on the mission. (see my Jedi Order Bureaucratic Structure)

Reunified Jedi Order:

One permanent location on Coruscant

Wayfinders:

Wandering Jedi who are technically members of the Order & follow its precepts but don't answer to the Council

Nonspecific:

Individual members can and do have corps/ division affiliations, but the group as a whole doesn't have a corps/ division affiliation

Usually part of the Sentinels or EduCorps

People aren’t selected to be trained for these jobs it’s all volunteer work

A lot of people do it part-time or for short periods, but a few folks make it their permanent gig

Maintenance workers:

Sometimes someone says “what if instead of going on missions I patched all the holes in our drywall” and why would they stop them

Lots of part-time volunteers

Most are Sentinels, because their philosophy encourages learning random useful skills

Quartermasters:

Distribute supplies

The Order buys stuff in bulk and then Jedi pick it up from the quartermasters office

Kitchenmasters:

Jedi way of saying chef

Transport mechanics:

Do you know a Car Person? Imagine if they were a monk.

Accountants:

The most dedicated to preserving the Jedi way of life of any group in the Order

Without these unthanked warriors the Jedi Order would’ve been destroyed by late-stage capitalism

Most are Lore Keepers

Lawyers:

Usually hired from the outside

Inspired by "Jedi Counsel” on ao3

Sometimes a Jedi goes to law school

Temple Guards:

Protect the temple and are its first responders

Based on the lore from "Nameless"

Very connected to the living force within the temple

A little spooky!

Education Corps:

Advance in rank via academic achievement

Maven is the title equivalent to Knight

Can have multiple padawans at one time (but usually don’t)

Lore Keepers:

Strongly believe in the importance of academics

Believe knowledge is the path to connection with the Force

Based on "The Librarian's Lineage"

Preceptors:

Teaching is hugely important to the Jedi, and all Jedi teach & learn how to teach to some degree, but for Preceptors it’s their main focus

Like the MedCorps it has a lot of transfers

Normal Preceptors:

Classroom teachers

Have formal education training

Either work for the Department of Classes or the Department of Primary Classes

DoC and DoPC are roughly the same thing, except the DoPC is for the general education classes all Jedi take as children and the DoC is for elective and continuing education classes

Battlemasters:

Teach lightsaber classes

Have formal education training

Inspired by "Careless to Let It Fall" on ao3

Main differences are that there’s more than one & they take education classes

Crèchemasters:

One lead crèchemaster and two-ish assistant crèchemasters per every 6-ish younglings

Formal training in early childhood education

Must serve as an assistant crèchemaster before being a lead crèchemaster

Assistant crèchemasters are from "aphelion" on ao3

Exploration Corps:

One-on-one apprenticeships

Rarely in the temple (unless they have a padawan, when they’re required to be there more often)

Usually have a bed in a communal room at the temple instead of their own apartment

Use Knight title. Yes this is sometimes confusing

Vanguards:

Wandering explorers/ patrol the galaxy

Instead of responding to specific requests they visit places & are available if anyone wants their help

Specific purpose is to make sure the Jedi don’t neglect/ are unaware of certain parts of the galaxy just because it hasn’t requested Jedi aid in a while

Seekers:

Find potential Jedi and offer them a place in the Order

Bond with new initiates and ease their transition into the Order

Archaeologists:

Expertise in Force-temple ruins

An undead Sith~ sleeping in your bed. Who you gonna call? Ghost! Busters!

Work closely with the Lore Keepers

Most likely to become Wayfinders or leave the Order (by percentage not numbers)

“Former Jedi who got really interested in a niche of archaeology without many Force-related ruins” is a thing in the archaeology community

They can work on normal digs but the Senate won’t approve sending them/ use of Jedi funds

Medical Corps:

MedCorps padawans are very rare. Most members transfer in from another corps

Student healers from other corps have a healing mentor in charge of their healer training, separate from their lineage-master

Healer is the equivalent title to Knight. Healers-in-training are called Student Healers, no matter what their rank is

Knight Corps:

Knights being a fifth corps

This is the corps we see most in canon

One-on-one apprenticeships, Knight title

Guardians:

Focus on fighting abilities & lightsaber combat

Consulars:

Negotiators, ambassadors, diplomats

Focus on Force abilities

Sentinels:

Focus on non-Jedi skills such as hacking

Considered a midpoint between Guardians and Consulars

Shadows:

Jedi spies

Answer to the High Council

Watchfolk:

Permanent/ long-term posting within a system

Agriculture Corps:

Focus on nature-related abilities

Grow most of the food for the Order

Very involved in disaster relief work

Rarely in the temple & usually have a bed in a communal room instead of a personal room

Have long-term postings & typically get settled there

Padawans are assigned to a group rather than an individual

Maven is the Knight-equivalent title

The chapter that inspired this whole project

Terraformers:

Large-scale Force usage

Can revitalize uninhabitable areas

Use the Force to rapidly speed up regrowth, kickstart life on planets where there is none, etc.

Conservationists:

Don’t believe in using the Force on the scale that Terraformers do

Use the Force to help individual plants grow, stave off rot and parasites, connect with animals, etc.

Beastmasters:

Creature specialists

Force-sensitive animal control

Inspiration

[jedi-enthusiasm-blog]

The Heart of a Jedi

It is a common belief in the galaxy that the Jedi are not permitted to love. Silently, some people mourn the children given to the Jedi, believing they will be brainwashed to hide their emotions and be unable to love. Disdainfully, some parents who don't wish to give their children to the Order claim that their children will never know love if they are taken in by the Order.

But love is a word with many connotations. How can a Jedi affirm or deny such accusations when they may be working with widely different definitions of the same word? When beings can mean any number of disparate emotions, many compatible with their way or life and many others contradictions of their code, values and vows?

The Jedi do not claim love is forbidden to them. How could they, with what love means to them? Saying love is allowed is misleading, and saying it's encouraged severely understates how important love is to them.

Love is essential, central to a Jedi's life. One cannot be a Jedi if they are devoid of love.

The Jedi do not claim that love is forbidden to them, as they share an ideal of kindness and compassion for all forms of life.

How could they strive towards this without love, as they understand it? Not affection, necessarily, for a Jedi must be compassionate even towards those they dislike. Rather, a deep respect for life, an attempt to understand it and its connections, and an endless drive to reduce suffering where they can.

That, to a Jedi, is love.

A Jedi must love everybody. They love the starving, the abused and the slaves of the galaxy, because they need their help. They love pirates, slavers, and corrupt politicians, when they dislike and want to stop them.

They even love the Sith.

But for many beings in the galaxy, that is not enough. For many beings in the galaxy, that is not love. And as long as the Jedi reject the cruel thing the galaxy calls love, that grasps and steals and demands to own, long as the Jedi accept the inevitability of death, the futility of holding on to what is not meant to be held, there will be those that call the Jedi loveless.

How sad, a Jedi would say, to be unable to conceive love without cruelty.

[varpusvaras]

It's a pretty afternoon on Coruscant, for once.

They are standing just at the entrance of the Jedi Temple, waiting for Wolffe to come out, and Fox is enjoying his moment of sunlight without having a barrier over his head, when there is something flying towards his head. In a snap, he has raised his hand and caught whatever it is.

"Nice catch!" Fox looks over to see Wolffe jogging towards them, with a small bag in his hand. He glances down at his own hand and to whatever he had just caught.

It's a fruit of some sort, round and with a very light and soft pink color.

"Souvenirs from General Koon", Wolffe says, opening the bag in his hand. "He called these Hallous and said we had to try them."

He starts to give everybody else a fruit from the bag as well. It's moments like these that Fox kind of wishes he also had a Jedi, who would call them all by their names and give out fruits and other treats. Fox isn't even sure when the last time was that he actually ate fresh food.

Everybody is taking a bite out of their fruits already, not bothering to wait until Fox gets his musings to an end. They all seem to enjoy it with smiles on their faces, so Fox takes a bite as well.

Fox hadn't thought before this that it could be possible for a food to punch him inside his mouth, but now he has to believe it. The fruit is spicy like those hot peppers in the stew that Thorn had bought in one of the first weeks of their posting, and it leaves a rough, tingling afterburn in Fox's mouth. The same afterburn follows the piece of fruit down his throat when he swallows, making him cough.

Cody, who is standing closest to him in their circle, reaches to pat him on his back.

"Don't choke", he says. "Wolffe probably doesn't want to go and tell General Koon that his fruit killed you."

Fox draws in a deep breath. He looks all of them over. Rex and Bly are still munching on on their fruits, with not one twitch in their expressions.

Fox's eyes are burning with gathering tears. He hurries to wipe them away.

Is his spice tolerance this bad? He hadn't thought so before, but...

Fox looks back at the fruit in his hands, then back at the others. They are almost done with theirs.

Fox is not going to give them any more reasons to make fun of him. They've been doing it lately more than enough, about everything they just possibly can. He takes a second bite and keeps his face still.

He's almost out of breath after the last bite, but he doesn't let it show. Thankfully nobody is pointing it out, too busy with heckling Bly at the moment because he just happened to accidentally call his General by her given name.

The burning feeling inside his mouth and throat don't leave him fully until the next day. He really, really needs to work on his spice tolerance.

---

"Oh, love", Breha is giving him a slightly concerned smile. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine", Fox manages to mumble, before he has to sneeze again. Thank Manda, he already had a tissue in his hands. His eyes and nose are burning.

Breha sighs.

"I should've made sure", she says. "You haven't really lived anywhere with this much...nature, before."

"You couldn't have known", Fox coughs. "And really, the Kaminoan's were supposed to engineer us without these kind of promblems."

"I don't think that's possible, with how many of you there are", Breha says. "Some things like this must've slipped, or happened during the gestation."

Possibly. Fox is not going to pretend that he understands anything about genetics.

Breha leaves for a moment, and Fox hears her move around the kitchenette area their living quarters have. She comes back with a steaming cup in her hands.

"The Hallous are in season in the Northern Hemisphere", she tells him, setting the cup in his hands. "They make a sweet tea blend infused with them, and it's good for your immune system."

Right. Fox guesses that something that spicy might as well burn all the nasty gunk in his airways away, so he takes a sip. He scrunches up his nose a bit from how much it burns, and Breha gives him another tissue, before getting up again.

She comes back a few minutes later with her own cup, and starts on her work while calmly sipping from it.

Fox is honestly impressed. He hadn't thought that Breha had much of a spice tolerance. Bail certainly doesn't have, and much of the traditional food of Alderaan is very mild and puts great emphasis on clean flavours. Oh, well, he learns something new every day. This all just now means that even his wife has a better spice tolerance than him by far.

He finishes his tea. It doesn't make him feel any better, as now his throat is even more scratchy than it was before. All it really does is making him even more tired, but he can't really sleep because of how hard it is to breathe.

He glances longingly out of the window. It's pretty out there, with gentle sunlight and green trees and everything in blossom, and he is allergic to all of it.

Fox grumples and closes his eyes.

---

Bail comes home the next week with a mild cold, and Fox watches him drink the tea like it's water. Alright, now this is really just embarrassing.

---

Fox tugs nervously at the collar of his suit. It's dark blue and goes together with what Breha and Bail are wearing, and he suddenly feels like he is out of his depth. Wearing the armor had given them all some sort of anonymity, even to him with his distinct paint job. It's probably going to take a while until Fox gets used to people looking at him, and looking at him without it.

It's also still strange to not be the one who is standing on guard, but to be the one who is guarded. Fox's job tonight is to stand there, look presentable, and not make a scene.

Things are still a bit...tense. There have been deglarations of peace and all that, but in many places, it still feels like one wrong move can light up everything again.

Fox can't help himself but to keep an eye out for everything that happens in the room. This is the first time after the War that Breha has travelled anywhere that is not in the Deep Core, and Fox is not going to stop himself from feeling protective of her. She is his wife, after all, and Fox has all the training necessary to keep her safe, if the situation demands it.

In the meanwhile, he tries to fullfill his primary job. Stand there, look presentable, and do not make a scene. He is still new to his position, so he is not yet expected to make some deep political statements.

Stand there, look presentable, and do not make a scene. He can do this.

Things are going well when they are served the first drinks of the evening.

"Here, Your Majesty", the server gives Breha a glass first, and then turns to Bail and Fox. "Your Highnesses. We do appreciate a lot of the same flavours as you in the Deep Core, and I think you will find this drink familiar. It's made with Hallous concentrate, to bring out the natural flavour powerfully and really make it the star of the drink."

"Thank you", Breha smiles brightly at them. "That sounds lovely."

Fox also thanks the server as he takes his glass, and does not show anything as their host gives out a speech and then a toast, and drinks with the rest of the guests. He manages to keep his face still by breathing deeply through his nose. All those years of training saving him in this moment, even if nothing what he learned while growing up was supposed to prepare him for a situation like this.

The drink is awful. Absolutely disgusting, if you ask Fox. It's so spicy that it stops tasting like anything at first, and then leaves a raw, bitter burn all the way down to his chest. His tongue feels immediately like it doesn't fit into his mouth properly anymore, pressing painfully against his back teeth. Fox really, really does not understand how every single person in the room can drink something like this and not automatically make even the slightlest of faces. Is this really just a thing he doesn't understand about people who were born into Royalty? Is it really just that much of an acquired taste, and him not liking it just shows that he really is just a nobody compared to them all?

Fox is proud of how well he managed to power through it, all of those things concidered. He tries to swallow a bit, to wash the taste out even a little, but he's barely getting his own spit down.

He sucks in a breath between his teeth. It's not reaching his lungs properly, leaving him feel weirdly unsatisfied. He tries again. It's barely getting past his lips, which feel...oddly numb. Huh. Was the spice really hitting him that bad?

Then it hits him that he can't breathe.

Fox tries to swallow again. It gets stuck somewhere at the back of his throat, the same place where all the air is getting stuck as well, and he clears his throat a bit behind his hand. It helps a little, letting him get something down to his lungs, but Fox has been choked out before and he knows when it's not enough.

It's not enough.

Sateen is with them, and he is standing closest to Fox and Bail, with Breha's own bodyguards standing next to her, and Fox, in his rising panic, sees him turn towards him.

"Fox?" Sateen asks, keeping his voice low as he steps closer and carefully grabs Fox by the arm. "Are you alright?"

Fox tries to say no, but then there is white static taking over his eyes and he vaguely feels himself pitching forward-

-and he wakes up with something heavy on his face and a rush of cool air, and he gulps it up desperately. It enters his lungs with a deep, sweet relief, and then makes him cough.

There is a hand on his forehead, large and warm and familiar. Fox has the mind to open his eyes.

The first thing he sees is Bail's extremely concerned face above him, and then somebody else's as they lean closer to him.

"Deep breaths", they say, and Fox obeys. The more air he is getting in, the more aware he is becoming of his surroundings, and that is when he notices that there is a lot of commotion all around him.

He tries to look back up at Bail, to ask what is going on, but the other person telling him to breathe is really insistent of him doing just that and not talking, so Fox relents just for a moment longer.

He does glance around from the corner of his eyes, though. The whole room is in absolute chaos, with people shouting and screaming in a rising cacophony, and with multiple Guards in different uniforms trying to contain it all with seemingly very, very bad results.

The people leaning over him are talking something about oxygen levels and adrenaline and blood pressure and a lot more that Fox doesn't have the capacity to understand right now, so he just breathes.

He does feel a sense of disappointment in himself. His job had literally been just to stand there, look presentable and not cause a scene.

He isn't standing, most likely doesn't look presentable while lying on the floor, and this definitely counts as a scene.

Fox presses his eyes back shut. Just his luck.

---

Rex: I can't believe that you out of all of us managed to almost cause a full blown conflict because everybody thought you were poisoned, while you were just having an allergy attack

Rex: I thought that was a thing only Skywalker and General Kenobi were able to do

Fox: Shut up

Bly: No, no, really. You really couldn't tell that you were allergic to that stuff? You've seen all of us eat them with no problems!

Fox: You guys are all a bunch of weirdos, how was I supposed to know that you all didn't just enjoy eating shit like that?

Wolffe: Next time you see us eating something without problems while you are actively choking on it because it tastes like molten lava to you, please call us a bunch of weirdos out loud. That could save the Galaxy in the future, apparently

Fox: Cody, Ponds, they are bullying me. I almost died!

Ponds: and almost caused another conflict while doing so

Cody: Stop it, everyone. We're glad that you're okay, Fox'ika

Fox: Thank you. At least somebody here still loves me

Cody: BUT, there is a saying Obi-Wan used to say-

Fox shuts down his commlink at that point. Bail gives him a sympathetic look from the chair next to Fox's bed.

"Are they making fun of you?" He asks.

"Of course they are", Fox huffs, and then resists another urge to just reach to his back and scratch. "I almost died and I'm suffering and they're making fun of me."

Bail takes his hand gently to his.

"I'm not making fun of you", he says, with humour in his voice but enough soft love in his eyes that Fox lets it be for now.

"Thank you", Fox says, squeezing Bail's hand. Partly to show back affection, partly to stop himself from giving into the urge to scratch. "How long do I have left?"

Bail looks at his chrono.

"Another hour", he says. "I'm sorry. We just want to make sure this doesn't happen again."

"It's fine", Fox sighs. "I would rather it doesn't happen again, either, but why does testing for allergens take so long?"

"That, I do not know", Bail says. He then straightens up a bit to take a look at Fox's back.

Fox sees the grimace on his face, even though Bail tries his hardest to wipe it away quickly.

"I'm karked, aren't I?" Fox asks.

"Well, I wouldn't say so", Bail tries to smile placatingly at him. "I'm sure it's completely normal for it to look like that."

He, very wisely, understands to shut up after the next look Fox gives him.

[separatist-apologist]

The Acolyte

Summary: When a mission on the planet Umbara goes wrong, Jedi Padawan Feyre Archeron will come face to face with the one creature the High Republic has believed long extinct: a Sith Lord.

Read on AO3

Note: This is a collaboration between the beautiful, smart, perfect, all-around talented @velidewrites who, upon watching the previous episode of The Acolyte, said, "Qimir is so Rhys coded." This has been our brain rot ever since.

DO NOT REPOST SITH RHYS

-

Drumming her fingers along the arm of the chair, Feyre waited with little patience. She ought to have it—it was unbecoming for a Jedi Padawan to be so antsy, so fidgety, but she couldn’t help it. It felt like years since she’d gone anywhere outside the temple besides hunting down street food. Master Tamlin wasn’t over their last mission.

Reckless, he’d called her.

Efficient, was how Feyre would have described herself. What was the point of tradition if it resulted in the deaths of so many innocents? Rules, protocol—it was all meaningless to Feyre in the moment. What mattered was the lives of innocents, not making sure Master Tamlin was satisfied she did everything by the book.

Tamlin loved the code, loved rules, loved everything except doing things the way Ferye wanted to. It was tempting to wonder why, of all the possible Padawans he could have had, he’d chosen her. They were a strange match even by the Jedi’s standards. Tamlin said the force had called out to him, urging him to take her under his wing.

Feyre sometimes thought he merely saw chaos where order ought to reign supreme, and made it his personal mission to bring her to heel. He was holding her back—Feyre wanted to be a Knight and free herself from Tamlin’s hold and he refused, telling the council she wasn’t ready.

She was, though. Feyre was stronger, faster, better than her pupils, a good number of whom had already graduated and were working under the watchful gaze of all Masters rather than just one. 

Let him take me on this mission, Feyre thought, sending it out into the world. One last mission—I can prove I’m ready.

Tamlin appeared from behind arched, hissing doors, his white robes swishing around beige boots. He’d tied his shoulder length blonde hair half off his face which made him look more severe, somehow. Green eyes pinned her in place, keeping her from standing even when she wanted to. Something about the hard set of his mouth made her think twice.

“The council wants you to join me,” Tamlin said, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “It’s a bad idea.”

“Who are we to argue with the will of the Council?” Feyre asked breathlessly, finally standing. It was good luck, the first of many, she decided. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

“This is too dangerous and you’re too reckless,” Tamlin said, turning for the long stretch of hall between them. Feyre’s long braid swung from her shoulder, tracing a path along her spine as she worked to keep up with his fast strides. 

“I’ll do as you say, Master,” she swore, truly believing she would. Tamlin only shook his head because he knew better. Feyre could be impulsive—it was one of her worst qualities.  

“You never do,” Tamlin replied with a heavy sigh. “It’s a mistake to bring you to Umbara.”

Umbara? Feyre practically vibrated with excitement, swallowing to keep her feelings in check. She’d heard of the Shadow World, seen it in the archives when she studied. She’d never been there, though. It felt like a waking dream, too good to be true.

“What’s happening on Umbara, Master?”

“Deaths,” Tamlin said, eyes cutting toward her as he carved a path through a gathered crowd of awed younglings. “Jedi deaths. That shouldn’t be possible.”

“Perhaps they were caught by surprise,” she said, though Feyre, too, found it troubling. What was the point of training if a regular blaster bolt could end them, same as anyone else? She’d always imagined her death would be more spectacular. A fiery inferno, likely as she jumped in and out of hyperspace while Tamlin shouted at her. 

Oh, but what a way to go.

“We’re only investigating,” Tamlin said, turning so abruptly that Feyre tripped over her own white and gold robes in her haste. “Remove all ideas of grandeur from your mind.”

“I will,” she promised, but it was too late. This would be her test, she decided—one last mission to prove not just to Tamlin, who would likely never believe her ready, but to the Council themselves that she should be elevated to Knight. Tamlin had held her back for the last time.

They parted ways, Tamlin mumbling under his breath as Feyre practically skipped her way out of the temple. She wanted to tell her sisters what she was doing and knew if Tamlin realized she still had this connection, he’d march them right back into the Temple and demand she be put back in the Archives.

Feyre swore she’d tell them she couldn’t read if he did.

She, like all children, had been taken to the temple before she had a chance to truly know her family. And either by luck or the force or some other cosmic entity, she’d stumbled into Elain first—and then Nesta. How many women in the galaxy had the last name Archeron, after all? Elain was a rising politician, unhindered by an overbearing Master and Nesta the head of a Bounty Hunters Guild.  There was no denying the relation—they all had the same heart shaped faces, the same cheekbones, and the same whip-fast wit. 

Nesta ought to be back by then, though if not, Elain would be in her little office working hard to make a name for herself. Nesta had explained their family had once been wealthy before a few bad investments ruined it all. Sending Feyre away had been a mercy, and when their mother died, well…that was one less mouth to feed. 

Nesta learned to fight with vibro weapons, Elain with words. If their father was still alive, they’d never said and Feyre hadn’t dared to ask. Deep in her heart, she felt a small amount of resentment for the man who’d sent her away, depriving her of the connection with her family. Even if it had been selfless—even if he’d wanted to give her a better life. 

On climate controlled Coruscant, Feyre found herself standing amid a sunny, breezy day. Tilting her face skyward, she swore she felt a phantom breeze caress her skin. Turning, she decided she’d get something to eat, first, and to see him. It was wrong, the strange attachment she had to the man who ran the turbo dog cart closest to the Jedi temple and yet he remembered her name. Remembered the things she told him.

He was her friend. 

Feyre’s feet began moving of their own accord, body slipping into the throngs of people that lived on the planet. The cacophony of smells and noise—the chaos of it all—made her blood thrum with excitement. Feyre never felt more alive than she did just outside the Temple. Here, Feyre could pretend she was just like anyone else…ignoring the slice of hair woven into the traditional padawan braid, separate from her own thick, long hair she’d refused to cut, and the purple saber clipped to her belt. Still, she was practically bouncing as she made her way down the steps toward rows upon rows of shops advertising anything a person could ever want. Somewhere among the madness was Nesta’s little cantina, run by her friend Emerie most of the time. Feyre might stop in for a drink if she was feeling bold, though Tamlin wouldn’t approve.

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, she reasoned. She’d just have to be careful to drink slow as alcohol went straight to her head.

Most things did, in truth. After a lifetime of denial, anything heady was practically a drug. 

Feyre fell into line, catching sight of the man handing out turbo dogs. Rhysand.

He’d appeared one day—or perhaps she’d merely never noticed him, though it seemed impossible that she could have walked by and not noticed him. His hair was so dark it gobbled up all the light around him, gilded blue in the late afternoon sun. Piercing blue eyes seemed practically violet when the shadows fell over his face just right, with brown skin that looked warm to the touch and just the shadow of a beard gracing the cut of his jaw. 

Not that she’d dare. She was definitely forbidden from that, though all the teaching in the world couldn’t truly stop her wanting. He looked up right on cue, smiling when he saw her just like he always did. There were people in front of her, so Feyre waited, schooling her face into careful neutrality when all she really wanted was to bound up to him and tell him everything.

What did it matter? Who was he going to tell? Feyre imagined, when she needed to temper some of her interest in this stranger, that he told stories of the Jedi Padawan to his friends in whatever local watering hole he frequented. Perhaps they all laughed.

But maybe he didn’t. 

“There you are,” Rhys said when it was finally her turn, large hands deftly putting her dog together. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. And Feyre considered herself rather well-traveled. She’d seen a lot of faces. Rhys’ was all sharp angles and graceful lines, drawn together just so—on anyone else it might have made them seem too severe or perhaps lopsided. Not Rhys, who seemed blessed by some otherworldly entity despite his rather humble profession. 

There, in a black tunic, she caught sight of the familiar black tattoo crawling up his neck, half hidden beneath the white shirt just beneath. What did they mean, she wondered? She’d never dared to ask.

“I was looking for you,” Rhys added when Ferye didn’t speak. Heat stole over her cheeks, causing her to duck her head. 

“I’m where I always am,” she replied, grateful there was no one behind her to hurry things along. 

“Still trapped in the Archives?” Rhys asked sympathetically. 

“Not for long,” she said, unable to contain her excitement. “I’ve been assigned to Umbara.”

His dark brows rose. “What business do the Jedi have on Umbara?”

Feyre shrugged, wishing she could tell him the truth. It was a betrayal, even if he was harmless enough. She’d tell him everything when she returned, besides. Likely with some embellishments to make herself seem more heroic and more skilled than she was. As if he knew the difference. 

“I thought Umbara was supposed to be dangerous,” he continued, quickly turning the sign on his stand to read closed. Another elicit thrill raced up her spine. He wanted to walk with her while she ate, dragging out their conversation just a little longer.

Feyre wiped sauce from the corner of her mouth quickly, hoping he didn’t notice how the red stained her sleeve. “It is,” she said through a mouthful, hoping Rhys found her charming and brave rather than young and a little pathetic. “But nothing I can’t handle.”

“Oh, I’m certain of that. Is your Master still angry with you?”

She nodded, swallowing her bite quickly. “He thinks I’m reckless, but…” Biting her inner cheek, Feyre thought of the children who would have been swallowed by flames had she not intervened. Tamlin, and many other Jedi, would remind her it wasn’t possible to save everyone. She couldn’t let herself become so attached to simple strangers.

Feyre could feel them all in the force, just like every other Jedi. Their fear overwhelmed her, and try as she might, she simply could not block it out. Feyre let it all in, let their emotions rush over her like water until they clouded her judgment. And then she acted, honed by instinct and twenty one years of training. 

“But?” Rhys prompted, slowing his steps so Feyre didn’t have to work so hard to eat and breathe. They walked further from the temple, descending into one of the lower levels where the Jedi were unlikely to venture. He lived down there, somewhere. Did he see sunlight from his windows, she wondered? Or was he, like so many others, trapped in darkness? 

“It was wrong not to help,” she said fiercely, flooded with righteous emotion. Rhys smiled.

“I agree,” he said, running a hand casually through his hair. Feyre tried not to notice how a lock flopped into his eyes just as she tried not to imagine what it would be like to brush it away with her own fingers. 

“If I do this by the book, though, I think I can go around Tamlin to the Council and ask to take my trials,” she said, confessing to Rhys something she hadn’t even told her sisters. Again—it was harmless to tell him. He was just a man on Coruscant, her friend, truly. He had a passing interest in the Jedi and a passion for turbo dog meat. 

“What will you do then, once your Jedi Knight Feyre Archeron?” he questioned, eyes sliding to the padawan braid draped over her shoulder. 

“I don’t dare to think about it, just in case,” she said, finishing the rest of her meal and tossing the trash into a nearby bin. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Smart,” Rhys praised. “Who knows what’s waiting on a planet like Umbara.”

“Something dangerous, I hope,” she said with more bravado than she felt. If he guessed, he didn’t say.

“You should be careful,” he warned, just like he always did. It didn’t annoy her as much as when Tamlin said it, perhaps because Rhys wasn’t asking her to remain behind on Coruscant for safety reasons. Sometimes Feyre thought Tamlin wanted her to remain a Padawan until she died despite the early conversation they’d had all those years ago about her hopes and dreams. He’d been so supportive when she was younger.

Now he felt like a tyrant. 

Feyre left Rhys not long after when he said he needed to pick up a crate of meat, disappointed they never managed more than about ten minutes of time together. What she would say if she ever got more eluded her, though sometimes she conducted long conversations with him in her mind. At least there she was always witty, always charming, and he was always impressed with her. 

Feyre went to see Nesta and Elain, told them of her mission hastily, and promised she wouldn’t be gone too terribly long. How much time could it reasonably take to investigate the murders of a couple Jedi? They weren’t Masters, after all—it had been a trio of Knights she knew in passing, their bodies still missing. All that had been found were parts.

A hand here.

A torso there. 

Weapons missing. 

Feyre had a nightmare that evening, her mind grappling with what could have gone wrong to take out three Jedi in such a manner. Perhaps a bomb? A sniper hidden on a roof, cloaked somehow? 

Or, more thrilling and terrifying all at once, a long-extinct Sith somehow rose from the grave. Feyre had only ever heard stories of the legends—unlike Jedi, who were numerous, their Sith counterparts moved only in groups of two. A Master and Apprentice. Having spent so much time in the archives, Feyre read that once an apprentice finished their training, they’d kill their own Master and take an Apprentice of their own, thus repeating the vicious, cannibalistic cycle in perpetuity. 

The Sith were extinct, hunted to nothing centuries before Feyre had been born. If one managed to pop up, they’d be cut to pieces before they could manage to find and corrupt an apprentice, nevermind how they’d manage to truly immerse themselves in whatever perverse culture the Sith claimed. Still, it was an interesting fantasy and even after Feyre woke in a cold sweat, mind still racing from the shadows that seemed to press against her temple, she let herself imagine what it would be like to encounter one.

To cut one down.

Feyre bet they’d let her skip her trials if she did. Not that she wanted a Sith running around, of course. It was merely the wistful imaginings of all padawans hoping for glory. Feyre wanted to make a name for herself.

Old resentment bloomed in the morning as she packed her things into a sack, careful not to fill it to the brim. It would irk Tamlin, resulting in a lecture about how materialistic she was. Was it materialistic to not want to wash her robes every single night? In the sink, no less, while they were conserving water for drinking and washing? Tamlin would tell her to wear her tunic and robes more often between washings but Feyre got sweaty sitting in the cramped quarters of the ship. They started to smell like onions and while Tamlin might not mind, she certainly did.

Rolling them tight, Feyre packed three sets, closed up her knapsack, and made her way toward the shipyard just as dusk broke over the horizon. The light bounced off the metal buildings, half blinding her as she walked. 

What she wouldn’t have given for some shadows right then. 

Tamlin was waiting, handing over credits to the dock worker along with his clearance papers while they worked out which lane they’d take and what time they’d leave. It was all terribly boring, though she supposed it was important that they didn’t make the leap to hyperspace while another ship came out, obliterating them both in a fiery inferno.

Why did the thought amuse her? Feyre suppressed the smile forming as she clenched her fingers into fists, nails biting against her palm. Tamlin turned, eyes drifting toward her back at the pack slung over one shoulder. He didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. Feyre could feel his disapproval coming off him in waves.

Silence was its own blessing, she supposed. Better than having to defend herself and submitting to the eventual lecture that would go on for what felt like ever. Still, she could feel his disappointment as they took their seat in the small, sleek craft they’d be in for only the force knew how long. Tamlin did the preliminary checks while Feyre settled everything in, finally sitting in the co-pilot's chair. 

Not a word was spoken until they jumped to hyperspace. Feeling his eyes burning holes against her skin, Ferye finally sighed with exasperation. “Just say it.”

“I think it was a mistake to involve you in this,” he said in that measured way of his, unaware of how deep his words cut. “You’re not ready for this kind of mission.”

“You don’t trust me.”

It wasn’t a question but merely a statement of fact. What other conclusion was she supposed to draw? Tamlin balked at every outing, especially as of late. Feyre had heard it a million times before and though she considered herself relatively tough, she thought she might cry if she had to listen to him list her faults again.

“When did I say that?”

“You didn’t have to say it,” Feyre snapped, swiveling in her chair to face him. Multicolored lights lit up the otherwise dark cockpit, while the console separated them. Feyre could see the saber resting lightly against Tamlin’s thigh and knew if he ignited it, she’d find the familiar green blade humming before her. It had once been a comforting sight.

She didn’t know what it was now. 

“I think I do need to say it in order for it to be true,” Tamlin replied, infuriating as ever. She wanted to wring his neck, an inappropriate thought she couldn’t shake.

“No, you don’t, because you say it a million different ways. I’m too reckless, I don’t think, I’m impulsive and every other little thing. And when you’re not constantly saying that, you’re arguing passionately to the Council that I don’t belong on missions and you refuse to help me prepare for the trials—”

“Have you considered that I am not ready to let you go?” Tamlin asked in a low voice.

Feyre paused. Oh, that was a dangerous thing to admit and they both knew it. Feyre’s eyes slid to the windshield before them, suddenly nervous. “You have to.”

“I know. I know,” he said, unaware that the low, urgent way he spoke those words angered her. He’d hold her back because he liked her? Even if it wasn’t forbidden—and Feyre had to believe that any kind of relationship between a Master and a Padawan was—it was downright cruel. She could be his peer, at least, and in a position to have this conversation with him without worrying he’d drop her in the archive again while avoiding her so she had no one to practice with. 

“I want to be a Knight, Tamlin,” she told him, fingers twisting in her lap. 

“There’s time—”

“You’re wasting it!” she burst out, rising from her chair so quickly she slammed her head against the low ceiling. “For the sake of feelings you know we can’t act on!”

“It’s only attachment that’s forbidden,” he argued, as if he hadn’t just admitted he was holding her back to satisfy his own desires. Feyre wanted to scream—wanted to wrap her hands around his large neck and squeeze until his eyes bulged and a raspy apology split from his lips. 

She’d take it too far if she didn’t get away from him. There was practically nowhere to go—down a ladder and into the hold, Tamlin right behind her. 

“Feyre–”

“No.”

Her heart thudded rapidly, lodging itself in her throat as she spun around. Tamlin’s tan skin paled at whatever he saw looking back at him, palms raised in defense. 

Take a breath. You are one with the force. Take a breath. 

“Feyre, can we talk about this?” he pleaded. There would be no avoiding it, and Feyre, never known for her tact, would have to figure out a way to navigate the conversation without throwing a wrench in her entire future. 

“Not now,” she said, exhaling through her nose. “I need—I need to think.”

Hope sprung like weeds in his eyes as Feyre tamped down her fury. Feyre knew, looking up at the man she’d once loved like a brother—respected like a father—and knew he would hold her hostage until she agreed to his terms. Lying felt wrong, deceiving him worse. If she went to the council, would they listen? Would they believe her over a Master? 

Tamlin nodded, mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tried to find the words he wanted. “I just…I’m not ready to say goodbye.”

Feyre could think of a dozen Masters and Padawans who continued to work alongside each other. Was he not ready to say goodbye to her, or to the power he had over her? The thought chilled her, filling her with fear. 

“You don’t have to,” she replied in a careful, measured tone though every inch of her vibrated with panic. “Very little has to change.”

Tamlin offered a humorless laugh. “Even you don’t believe that, Feyre. You’ll race off on a dangerous mission by yourself the first moment you get.”

“I won’t,” Feyre protested. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she hated being alone. A mission by herself seemed like a particular brand of hell. Every moment Feyre got she was looking for company—seeking out the other padawans, her sisters, hell, even the turbo dog guy when she could catch him.

But rarely Tamlin. Not since he’d begun to sideline her and her resentment had grown like one of Elain’s gardens. When had that begun, anyway? Racking her brain, she realized it had been around the start of her nineteenth birthday. Two years—how foolish not to realize the underlying problem. There was so much wasted time and too much ground lost. 

Tamlin only shook his head. “Let's table this for now. You rest—I’ll keep watch.” She nodded, swallowing all the words she wanted to say as a plan began forming in her mind. She’d petition the council, she decided as she watched Tamlin climb back up the stairs. Either they’d believe her or they didn’t, but she was entitled to another Master if she wanted one.

The thought didn’t give her peace, though. As Feyre slid into the small bed hidden within the wall, her anger burned hot in her chest. This was not the Jedi way—she needed to find a way to forgive him for what he’d done to her.

But she couldn’t. Even in sleep, Feyre did not find peace. Her dreams were tinged red and shadowed, as though her anger had been made manifest. She woke to the sound of light beeping and Tamlin pulling open the small door so light flooded in.

“Can we trade?”

She only nodded, rubbing at her eyes as she scooted out of the narrow space. His fingers grazed her collarbone as she hopped to the ground, narrowly avoiding his hands reaching for her waist. Feyre had to resist the urge to slap him away, to not bark out, don't touch me. Tamlin merely watched, his disappointment obvious. What he thought was going to happen, she wondered? That he’d admit she’d been purposefully holding her back and hobbling her self-esteem simply to meet his own needs and she’d swoon? Fall into his arms? Abandon all the tenants of her teachings for him?

Feyre let him sleep longer than he had—Tamlin had only given her four hours, but Feyre gave him the remaining eight. She flung the door open just before they were about to burst out of hyperspace, and only because she was required to. He was still the Master, she his student and her whole future was in his hands.

“You’re angry.”

Feyre flipped the switches that would pull them just outside the atmosphere of Umbara, the neon blue of the stars fading as they slowed their descent.

“I’m frustrated,” she admitted, not wanting to give him any honesty at all. He was manipulating her, using the teachings of the Jedi against her and Feyre didn’t know how to fight back. She wasn’t equipped for these sorts of games, didn’t know the rules to even play. 

“I’m sorry,” Tamlin murmured, as if that was enough to erase two years of wasting her time. “Do you want to discuss it?”

“Is there any discussion we could have? Am I allowed to say no?”

“Stars, Feyre, I’m not—of course—” Tamlin set his jaw, grinding his teeth together loudly. “Of course you can.”

But everything in his body told her that he’d be angry if she did. It was written all over his face.

“Can we just wait until we’re back on Coruscant?” she asked, forcing herself to speak softer, lighter, to avoid whatever was brewing in his gut. “You don’t feel it?” Tamlin demanded.

“Tam,” Feyre breathed, invoking an old, familiar nickname. It was enough to settle him, the tension between them evaporating. “We’re in the atmosphere. Let's do our mission, go home, rest, and then we can discuss…us.”

She didn’t dare look at him. Could he taste the lie? Did he suspect she intended to speak with the council the minute her feet were back on Coruscant? Could he stop her? Feyre had too many questions as they were plunged into shadowy darkness. Umbara demanded her attention, pushing everything else to the side as Feyre stared. The local star was simply too far for its ray to penetrate, its reach beyond even the Republic. 

“What were they doing out here?” Feyre wondered aloud, breath curling around her face like shadow. 

“I don’t know,” Tamlin replied, deftly landing on the landing pad in the local ship port. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

“Where do we start?”

Tamlin knew, of course. They’d been too busy arguing over the state of their tattered relationship to discuss the mission, and now Tamlin had all the clues and all the control, just like he always did. Feyre would be given information piece-meal, rewarded when she pleased him and iced out when she irritated him. It had been that way between them for a while. At least she understood that part of the dynamic, bothered as she was by it. 

“This way,” he said, disembarking with barely a glance back. Fingers balled to fists, Feyre followed after him, eyes searching the dark hungrily. Umbara was hardly some backwater planet that barely had running water, let alone civilization. Umbara was advanced in a way that would have made the cosmopolitan Coruscanti residents weep. Towering buildings tried to banish the shadows, bathing the surface in artificial lights. If she strained her eyes beyond the urban sprawl, Feyre thought she could see rolling hills rising like mist in the distance. 

Maybe that was her imagination filling in the gaps. 

What was beyond the gloom, where not even technology and light could touch? What secrets did the shadows hold? Perhaps it hadn’t been anything sinister at all, but merely the wildlife that had gotten the Jedi. Feyre shivered in spite of herself, wishing she could step closer to Tamlin without it being uncomfortable. In one fell swoop, he’d wrecked the delicate bond between master and padawan.

Her resentment reignited, hot as any flame. Her emotions were all over the place, though carefully guarded to keep Tamlin from sensing them. She’d learned to do this as a youngling, annoyed that she broadcast her every feeling to anyone who happened to be near, but perfected it when she found her sisters. Feyre didn’t trust the Jedi not to make them leave, even if it was a little unfair. Maybe they wouldn’t have.

But maybe they would have. And Feyre simply couldn’t take the risk. 

On the busy streets, Feyre kept her eyes straight ahead even as she examined the people from the corners. Umbarians were near human—their skin pale and bluish from the lack of sunlight, their hair white or silver, though sometimes so impossibly black that Feyre wasn’t sure if it was hair at all. Pale blue eyes peered through the gloom and she’d heard they could see colors regular humans couldn’t, though who knew how true that really was. Feyre wished they could linger and she could spend some time immersed in the local culture, but Tamlin walked quickly, determined to get them both in and out. Whether that was merely to conclude his investigation or bring their conversation to the fore, Feyre couldn’t tell. He was inscrutable that way. 

Along one of the neatly laid streets stood a rather shady looking cantina, even by Coruscant's standards. Feyre felt a thrill of excitement as Tamlin walked through the hissing steam of the door into the smell of liquor and sweat. 

Feyre’s eyes snagged on the chrome bar and the two impossibly large men seated on too-small stools. They likely would have fit a regular man perfectly fine—Tamlin could have sat with no issues at all. These men were built like warriors, with warm brown skin so at odds with the milky paleness of the locals and strange, scrawling tattoos inked in black. They both turned, their hazel eyes nearly gold as they landed first on Tamlin, and then Feyre. 

The larger of the two had his wavy, dark hair pulled half off a face marked with scars, confirming her theory he was a warrior. The other, more classically handsome, with shorter hair and sharper features, seemed entirely unblemished. That didn’t mean he looked less lethal. Feyre reached out with the force, trying to get a sense of these men but nothing but oily cold greeted her. Likely mercenaries, she decided as they turned back to their cups and the beautiful blonde woman wiping down the counter with a stained rag.

She had familiar eyes, though Feyre couldn’t quite place them. Was it the dark brown, or the shape? Blonde hair cascaded over fair skin, neatly curled either by her own hand or good genetics. Tamlin’s eyes lingered for a moment, too, before his lips pressed in a severe line. He didn’t speak as he approached—he merely swept his robe to the side to reveal his saber hanging from his belt.

The two warriors sitting at the bar grinned. Feyre didn’t think Tamlin noticed. Around them, people of varying species sat at tables, the hum of chatter enough to drown out their own conversation. 

“I wondered when your lot was going to turn up,” the blonde said, offering Feyre a smile that felt less menacing and warmer than what she’d given Tamlin. “Might as well sit down.”

Feyre did before Tamlin could stop her, hand on her shoulder as she slid next to the massive, long haired man. 

“We’re not here to drink. Three Jedi were slaughtered nearby, and the last place they were seen was here. In your cantina.”

“I’m Morrigan, though my friends call me Mor. You, I think, can call me Morrigan—you don’t seem like you have a lot of friends and I don’t see that changing anytime soon,” the woman told him, filling up a tankard of ale as if Tamlin hadn’t said anything. She slid it right past him to Feyre and somehow it felt like a test.

Antagonizing the locals wasn’t going to help them, Feyre reasoned. They needed information and they sounded like police. Relax, she wished she could say to Tamlin. But he was too rigid, too set in his ways and too proud to ever admit there might be a better way to get things done. His disapproval frustrated her even as she raised the spicy brew to her lips.

It earned Mor’s approval. 

“Look,” she said, cutting Tamlin off just as he was about to speak. Her eyes were still trained on Feyre as she pulled out a holo disc. “Your friends were here—I never disputed that fact and I’m not now. They came in for a few drinks, as you can see here…and then they left. Alive.”

Feyre did see that. The holo, sped up, showed all three knights order a drink, sit at a nearby table, and eventually leave with all their limbs in tact.

“It’s a rough planet,” the man next to her said, obviously eavesdropping. “Plant probably got them.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. It was possible, of course, though it seemed unlikely.

“Did they say what they were doing out here?” Tamlin demanded, his irritation plain. 

“Bet they were following the rumors,” the other man said, his voice icy and dark. Feyre nearly choked on her ale at the sound, eyes sliding of their own accord back to his beautiful face. He wore fingerless gloves, revealing horrific scars over the little skin he had revealed. What had happened to him? 

“What rumors?” Tamlin’s temper was rising, his force signature warming Feyre’s cool skin. 

“Is this a local ghost story?” Feyre asked them, offering up her most charming smile. 

“Something like that,” the man beside her chuckled. “They say he’s some kind of force user. Powerful.”

“Impossible,” Tamlin dismissed. 

“Cassian. Azriel,” Mor murmured, though there was no displeasure on her face. It was merely an order to mind their own business. Despite her more diminutive stature, both men returned to their drinks looking a little shamed. 

“Do you think they’re true?” Feyre asked, ignoring the waves of frustration rolling off Tamlin.

“I know three Jedi walked out of this bar alive, and met something in the dark,” Mor said, leaning forward so her hair spilled across the bar. “The wildlife and fauna here are dangerous if you’re stupid or careless. I didn’t think Jedi were either.”

“They’re not,” Tamlin all but hissed.

“Then maybe you ought to start there,” Mor said, eyes still only on Feyre. 

“They say he’s just outside the city,” Cassian added, nosing his way back into the conversation. “Lives on the edge of a mountain.”

“Or was it in the mountain?” Azriel asked with a sharp grin. Feyre knew they were trying to scare her and Tamlin, but she was genuinely intrigued. A dark force user seemed unlikely, but perhaps some kind of equivalent ability, like the Nightsisters were said to have. She wanted to know more than she wanted to unravel the mystery of the dead Jedi. 

“This was helpful,” Tamlin said in a tone that suggested the exact opposite as he tossed a couple credits onto the bar. Thanks for nothing, she swore she heard him say, though his lips never moved. Feyre gulped down the rest of her drink while Cassian and Azriel went back to studiously looking anywhere but at the rest of them. 

“Take care,” Mor said only to Feyre, offering a pretty smile. “I’ll see you around.”

Cassian and Azriel both turned to look at her with those unnerving eyes, their smiles suggesting the same thing. No one looked at Tamlin at all, who half jerked her off the stool and toward the door. Feyre stumbled, looking over her shoulder to find their smiles gone, replaced by some other emotion that almost looked like fury. 

“There was something strange about them,” Feyre said the moment they were back in the dark. “Didn’t you think—”

“Why didn’t you let me handle it?” Tamlin demanded, rounding on her so quickly that she did fall back then, her ass hitting the ground hard enough to rumble up her spine. She scrambled to her feet, eyes smarting with embarrassment. “They were making fun of you!”

“They—they weren’t,” she insisted, swallowing the urge to cry. She thought of how Mor had looked at her with respect, pulling out that puck so Feyre could see the Jedi had left unharmed.

If she’d been crueler, she would have told Tamlin the truth. They spoke with derision because they didn’t like him. 

“Let's go,” he said, his eyes like ice. “We can circle back in the morning.”

“Fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. Feyre stewed as they walked toward the inn they’d be sleeping in, grateful for the two beds that were provided rather than one. If she had to sleep next to Tamlin, she thought she might have flung herself out a window. They still shared the small space, dodging the other as best they could, tempers still high. He kept sighing, waiting for her to ask him what he was thinking like she often did in the past. She didn’t, though. 

Feyre fell asleep thinking not about Tamlin, but what Mor had told her. Of the man who supposedly lived in or around the mountain and the power he commanded. It seemed more like a children’s story meant to keep them from wandering and yet…had those Jedi gone looking? It would be tempting, certainly, especially if that man had been framed as a force user. She wanted to go looking, too, even if Tamlin didn’t, though she didn’t know how to convince him of it. 

Feyre woke to darkness and Tamlin already dressed. He was standing by the door, hair left around his face.

“You’re awake. Good. I’ve been thinking about last evening,” he began, hand reaching for the control panel on the wall. Feyre sat up, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm.

“What about it?” she asked.

“I think it’s best if I conclude this investigation on my own. You’re…you’re safer here, I think.”

Feyre’s mouth fell open of its own accord, snapped shut as she processed his words. “Safer?”

“I want you to remain in this room until I return—”

“No!”

“I’m sorry, Feyre. But things will move much faster, and go smoother, if you just let me handle this.”

“Tamlin!”

She scrambled out of bed, but he was quicker, reflexes sharper. He offered one last glance back, eyes hardly apologetic at all.

“Tamlin!” she yelled, but the door hissed shut just in time for her palm to smack against the cool metal. She screamed his name twice to no avail. He’d locked her in the room. Feyre turned toward the window, too small for her to crawl out of even if she shattered it. 

Think, she ordered herself, but the walls of the tiny room seemed to close in on her, the darkness heavy and oppressive. Tamlin was a lot of things, but at their foundation, he was her mentor. Her teacher.

Her friend.

Did she mean anything to him at all? Or was she merely an object for him to protect with no consideration of her own wants, needs, or desires? Feyre’s hurt shifted into anger, her mind replaying the argument in the ship. The realization he had been holding her back because he wanted to keep her around longer, that he would derail her entire life to satisfy himself. He was supposed to put his padawan above himself and yet…

Feyre went back to the door, reaching back into the force. It was wrong—so, so wrong—to use it the way she was. The once warm air chilled as she embraced, just for a moment, the hatred she felt. Metal crunched and snapped, the bolts whining before they broke entirely. When Tamlin returned, he’d know what she’d done and how she’d done it.

Let him, she thought as she gripped tight to that anger. It was a lifeline right then, antithetical to her teachings as it was. Hatred, anger, fear—all led to the dark side of the force. She needed to let it go.

All Jedi touch the dark side. 

She’d read that in one of the books in the archive. Well, here she was, touching it too. Feyre stepped from the ruined wreckage feeling more powerful than she ever had in her life. She’d atone when she returned to Coruscant, would tell the Council everything and hoped they understood her reasons, her feelings.

But right then, Feyre didn’t care about any lesson Tamlin had ever taught her. He’d betrayed her many times over, so thoroughly that it couldn’t be repaired with centuries worth of time. It was tempting to hunt him down and confront him, but Tamlin was a Master who’d been trained by someone who valued his education. He’d beat her easily—smugly.

No.

Once outside, Feyre’s gaze turned toward the darkness and the mountains she assumed lingered just beyond. For only a moment, Feyre took stock of herself. Was she afraid of what she’d find? 

Was she afraid to die?

No.

Feyre stepped with confidence, unafraid of the darkness around her. Maybe it was unchecked hubris that guided her, or some sense that the force would protect her. Feyre didn’t bother thinking too much about it, vanishing out of the city toward the mountains that loomed overhead like great, craggy fingers. All at once, Feyre understood why people would imagine a monster lived here—who else might survive it? It occurred to her, as she got further and further from the city, that this was foolish—she ought to go back to the ship and send a message to the Council before Tamlin knew what she had done. 

Feyre nearly turned back—she should have. If it hadn’t been for an overwhelming tug in her gut, she might have abandoned her plan entirely. Feyre kept moving, her body knowing the way even as her mind raced. She could feel the presence of something—someone—watching, waiting. The wind picked up, ruffling her hair around her face and too late, Ferye realized she hadn’t bothered to braid her long hair, nor had she changed from her training pants and tank-top. She’d merely run out, caring only that her feet were laced up in her white boots and her saber was clipped to her belt. It should have felt cold but Feyre was warm as her speed picked up, eyes trying desperately to cut through the dark. 

It never occurred to Feyre she might be running straight into a trap until a strong, bare arm wrapped itself like a noose around her neck. Clotheslined back, Feyre gagged as her fingers attempted to pry the grip off to no avail. She twisted, catching sight of a strange, angular mask in the gloom and familiar black tattoo’s scrawled up her assailant's strong bicep and Feyre swore smoke trailed off him, creating massive wings just behind him.

The man was strong, but Feyre was quick, kicking behind her to catch him in the knee. He grunted through the mask as she spun, heart racing, and ignited her purple blade. Whatever he was, Feyre was certain he was no match for an armed Jedi. Feyre didn’t wait for him to regain the upper hand, swinging furiously with all the skill she’d earned over the years.

Her breath caught as his own blade ignited, a brilliant, bleeding red, to block her strike. For a moment they were deadlocked, her staring up into that eyeless mask while their sabers hummed with anticipation. 

“You’re—”

He pushed back though he didn’t come forward to strike her again. Instead, he cocked his helmeted head as though curious to see what she’d do next. Feyre couldn’t breathe fully, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“That’s a Jedi’s weapon.”

The dark, mechanical laugh that sounded in response made her heart stumble. 

“Where did you get it?”

She didn’t expect an answer, though Feyre could force one from him. He wasn’t a Jedi—she’d never seen a blade that color before. Lunging, Feyre struck again, expecting to reveal his inability to truly wield it. A lightsaber belonged to a Jedi the way a person’s arm did—it was instinctual, innate. Not just anyone could pick it up and wield it. You needed a connection to the force and this person…

This person had it. He blocked her with skill, moving quicker than he should have been able to. Feyre was all offensive strikes, hair whipping around her face until she could smell the singed edges on the wind mingled with the sweat dripping from his skin. 

“Who are you?” she panted when he forced her back, just hard enough to put six feet of space between them. 

He didn’t answer, head snapping up to look behind her as something rough gripped Feyre around the navel and wrenched her back so forcefully it stole the remaining breath from her lungs. Tamlin has used the force to remove her from the fight, stepping around her with his green blade ignited. Feyre wanted to scream, though if it was to warn the assailant or Tamlin, she didn’t know. She couldn’t move, dazed and pinned by Tamlin’s superior use of the force. All she could do was lay there, desperately gasping for air, as Tamlin spoke words she barely heard. 

The warrior with the red blade made the first strike, moving in a blur of color that made her stomach roil. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might have been toying with her and yet watching him match Tamlin blow for blow, Feyre knew with sickening clarity what was coming. 

“Let me go,” she whispered. His pride would be his downfall, would get them both killed. “Let me help you.”

If he heard her whispered plea, Tamlin didn’t respond. He moved just as quickly, dodging rocks half hidden beneath the soft grass. The pair vanished over a hillside for a moment before they were back, dodging and striking like two masters determined to see the other one fall. For a moment, Feyre thought Tamlin had the upper hand when he kicked the warrior in the chest, his blade slipping from his grip. Tamlin attacked three in a row, bashing the assailant over his mask until it was cracked-useless.

Tamlin raised his own saber to make the killing blow but she knew, somehow, what was coming. The assailant reached out, his own blade flying back into his hand. He pulled, turning one red blade into two. 

Tamlin couldn’t react fast enough. With one hand, his green saber was blocked while the other humming red blade drove neatly through Tamlin’s throat. His grip on her relinquished and Feyre scrambled to her feet, noting that Tamlin had managed to cut open the warrior's helmet. 

Tamlin fell to his knees, turning his head to look at her before he died. If he truly saw her or not, she didn’t know.

He was dead before his shoulders touched the ground.

Feyre made her way over, holding her own blade with something akin to fear. Blinking, it didn’t register who was standing in front of her until she heard a familiar voice.

“Surprise.”

Exhaling a shaking breath, she drank in the sweat soaked onyx hair now falling into violet-blue eyes. Rhys cocked his head again to look at her, a half smile playing on his lips.

“You killed Tamlin,” she whispered.

“Was that its name?” he replied without remorse. “You brought him here.”

“I—” Feyre didn’t know what to say. Rhys continued to look at her with that cold amusement. “You didn’t kill me.”

“I didn’t come to kill you, Feyre.”

Her grip on her blade tightened. “Then why are you here? You…you pulled me here.”

His smile widened as he stepped over Tamlin’s still warm body like it was little more than trash. Perhaps to him it was. 

“Just as you pulled me to Coruscant,” he said, peering down at her with curiosity. 

Feyre yielded a step, keeping distance between them. Her mind was screaming static, unable to string together anything coherent. Feyre couldn’t figure out what was happening. She wasn’t adrift, but she didn’t feel awake anymore. This was a dream, somehow, and Feyre would wake up still angry with Tamlin, who would be alive.

She hadn’t wanted him to die. She’d just…she’d just wanted to be free.

“What do you mean?” she heard herself ask, her own voice taking on a dream-like quality. 

Something soft pulled against her—not the force, or, not exactly. It wasn’t like when Tamlin had pinned her to the soft grass, the force a boulder against her chest. This was more muscle memory, something that lived within her. 

“You’ve been calling me for a long time. When I was a boy, I used to dream about skies the color of your eyes,” he murmured, tilting his head again to study her. 

“You’ve been watching me.”

His grin widened. “Yes.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

He shook his head, hair sliding along his forehead. “You know that’s not true. I feel it, you know. Your pain, your anger…your hatred. I feel it all, Feyre. I could take it all away from you.”

She stumbled back another step. “No,” she whispered, unsure if she was telling him, or herself. He only smiled, his face still illuminated beneath the hum of his vibrant blade. 

“The Jedi are holding you back, Feyre,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. Feyre swore she could feel the words caress her cheek like a phantom kiss, cool against her overheated skin. “They refuse to see how magnificent you are and are afraid of the power you hold. They will never give you what you want.”

A strange, half-sob, half breath escaped Feyre. All she could do was shake her head back and forth, still stumbling back. She shouldn’t have come, she should have stayed in the room. Tamlin—Tamlin had been right. “This is my fault,” she managed, panting as she continued to move away from Rhys.

“Feyre,” he warned, stalking forward for her. Feyre broke into a sprint he interrupted with the force, lifting her off her feet and dragging her back to him. Feyre’s toes skimmed against the grass and though she could not move, Rhys wasn’t hurting her, either. He merely held her gaze, searching for something she prayed wasn’t there. 

“What do you want from me?” she whispered. “What are you?”

He stretched his neck left, and then right, his tattoos catching in the light. Too late, Feyre realized she’d seen them in the cantina the day before—Cassian and Azriel had sported the same ones. They’d told her about the force user, they’d lured her here. But worse, even, was the knowledge that they’d only been able to do that because Feyre had told Rhys before she’d left. She’d told him she was going to Umbara. She’d laid her own trap for him.

“There is no name for what I am, though I think the Jedi call me Sith,” Rhys said, his voice low and cold. “I want you, Feyre. Join me. Let me train you, teach you—not as an apprentice or acolyte. An equal.”

Sith. 

Fear won, in the end. Feyre pushed against his hold, shoving him so far back that he spun several times through the air before landing far from her in the distance, his saber finally sheathed. Feyre didn’t wait—she took off running as quickly as she could. There was no escaping him on Umbara, but if she could warn the Council, she could—stars, she didn’t know. 

Feyre made it to her ship, closing it up and turning it on before she managed to catch her breath. It was a betrayal to leave Tamlin’s body on Umbara, to not give him a proper burial befitting a Jedi Master and Feyre was afraid. 

She should have been. The moment Feyre made the jump to hyperspace, she heard him.

“Feyre, darling,” Rhys murmured, appearing seemingly from nowhere. He had her cornered in the cockpit, his larger body blocking the only way out of the ship. Anger replaced fear as she screamed, launching herself from the chair with such force she didn’t feel pain when her thigh clipped the edge of the dash. She and Rhys went plummeting into the hold, tumbling to the hard, cold steel in a tangle of elbows and limbs. He groaned when her knee connected between his legs, causing her to slam it against him again, just because she hated him.

Straddling his waist, Feyre hit him so hard a small amount of his blood splattered against her cheek. Raising her fist to hit him again, Feyre realized he was grinning with red stained teeth, eyes watching her not with anger or horror, but delight.

“Do it,” he said, pushing his hips into her as his hands held her firm against him. “Hit me. Hurt me.”

“I thought you were my friend,” she accused, trying to writhe free of his grasp. There were a pair of stun cuffs hanging just beyond the door to the sleeping chamber and if she could grab them, she could restrain him. Could at least force him to face justice for what he’d done.

“I am your friend, Feyre. You just haven’t realized it because you’re so indoctrinated,” Rhys replied, still holding her tight.

“Let me go,” she ordered and to her surprise, he did. Feyre scrambled to her feet, careful not to look at the stun cuffs even as she inched close enough she could have snatched them. Rhys, too, stood, wincing slightly. Good. She hoped he hurt, that he had bruises in places he couldn’t even mention. That they reminded him of her when he was alone in a cell buried on Coruscant. 

“I’m not going to join you,” she threatened. 

Rhys only shook his head. “You will.”

Feyre backed away slowly as he approached, letting him play predator for just a moment. She wasn’t sure she liked the look in his eye—the same she’d seen on Tamlin’s face when he admitted why he wouldn’t let her take the trials. Rhys reached for her face, fingers curled to brush her cheek and Feyre struck. Quicker than he expected, she slid the cuff around his wrist, chaining the other to a nearby beam.

Rhys only laughed. Even when she pulled his sabers off his belt he still laughed, watching her like she was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. “Feyre,” he all but crooned, still looking exactly like a predator. His eyes seemed to shift right then, the violet shifting to red and back just long enough for her to see what the darkside had done to him. “Feyre, darling. You’re acting as if I am not exactly where I want to be.”

“In a prison cell on Coruscant?” she hissed in response.

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll make it that far, do you?”

“Yes. I think I’ll testify at your trial and watch them behead you.”

Rhys only grinned. “We’ll see.”

Feyre left him there to gather her thoughts, strangely calm in the wake of the restrained Sith Lord in her hold. No one had prepared her for this—she’d never been trained for this situation. She shouldn’t be angry with Tamlin, who couldn’t defend himself, but if he’d just taught her like a Master should have, she might know. Everything Feyre knew, she’d taught herself and it showed. 

Her fingers hovered over the console, hesitating when she went to dial the code to reach the Council. She didn’t need Tamlin’s advice to teach her that, at least. They could advise her. 

Tell them. 

Feyre’s indecision cost her. She was exhausted, her adrenaline ebbing as she sat in the cockpit, warring with herself on what to do, how best to act. What even to say. How to explain that this was her fault, that she’d kept secrets even when having friends outside the temple wasn’t forbidden. She should have known, though. Should have sensed him.

Why hadn’t she?

Feyre’s fingers pulled back against her chest, her decision made when she felt him behind her. She barely had time to turn before Rhys raised his hands.

“Forgive me for this,” he murmured before he ripped the force over her head like a blanket. The world went dark, and Feyre was lost to slumber.

To peace.

Feyre woke with a start. The air was warm and she was in a rather large bed, still clothed in her tank top and trousers, though her boots were missing and her feet were bare. Reaching beneath the heavy silver blanket, she found her saber, too, was gone. Feyre kicked off the blankets and made her way across cool marble for a door that was, predictably, locked.

A note on a table just beside, in elegant cursive, read, 

Feyre,

You are not my prisoner, though the door may suggest otherwise. Please relax until I return.

I will explain,

Rhys

Would he explain why he’d disarmed her, too? Feyre crumpled it in her fist before stalking for a set of large windows overlooking an amethyst river winding down the mountain peaks. Certain he was about to give her some lecture about how she was his guest who simply wasn’t allowed to leave, Feyre took herself first to the ‘fresher to wash the blood, sweat, and anxiety from her skin before putting on the only clothing available to her.

He was a bastard, offering up those satin cuffed pants in a pale blue color, alongside a matching top that tapered to a point just above her navel. No shoes, no socks—nothing but bare feet and an exposed collarbone that offered far too much real estate for him to damage should they come to blows again. 

There was nothing to do once she was dressed but pace and ruminate. Feyre tried to hold her anger over what had happened on Umbara, and in her own way, she supposed she did. Only, instead of seeing Rhys cutting down Tamlin with ruthless efficiency, she saw Tamlin’s face as he admitted he didn’t want her to take the trials because she’d leave him. She saw his dismissal when he told her she couldn’t complete the mission with him.

Saw how he’d died because he refused to let her fight alongside him. 

And in her heart, Feyre knew that if she’d been allowed to join the fight, Rhys would have backed down. Wouldn’t have fought them both as hard because she was important to him for some twisted reason. They could have destroyed Rhys. They could have walked back to the Jedi as heroes who’d seen the faces of other Sith and could better hunt them back into extinction.

He didn’t trust her. Hadn’t viewed her as someone who could help. 

Now he was dead and she was somewhere she shouldn’t be. Feyre turned as the door hissed open, her thoughts settling as Rhys strolled in.

He, too, had showered, his dark hair pushed off his face and his beard a mere shadow clinging to his jaw. The faint red of his eyes shifted in the light, slipping into violet as he came fully into view. 

“Is there some sort of dress code here?” she asked, noting his sleeveless black attire once again. 

“Blue looks wonderful on you,” was his reply. “You look well rested.” “No thanks to you,” she snapped.

Rhys shrugged his broad shoulders. “Someone ought to attempt to take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me! I need you to let me go.”

“Where will you go?” he asked casually, glancing at the door still open behind him. “Back to Coruscant.”

Feyre opened her mouth to tell him yes, but the word didn’t come out. She’d hesitated on the ship and she was hesitating now. 

A smile spread over sensual lips. “Ah. See? You don’t want to return.”

“That’s not true.”

Rhys reached for his belt where her saber was clipped and tossed her to her with ease, eyes tracking the movement. “No, you don’t. You could have cut me down—”

“I can’t,” she said with an air of breathless desperation. “I’m only a padawan.”

His brows crinkled. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I’m just a student. I…” Feyre didn’t know how to explain it to him. “You didn’t have a Master?”

His grin widened. “Once. For a time, I suppose.”

“Did you kill him?”

Rhys only continued to smile, his silence answer enough. 

“I couldn’t have killed you,” she repeated, trying to get her point across. “You spared me.”

“I had no intention of taking your life, but I wouldn’t have stopped you from taking mine. To die at your hands…that would have been an honor. To see you take up my helm, lead my warriors…” His smile was almost dreamy.

“I thought Sith only moved in pairs.”

“I am no Sith, Feyre,” he said, cocking his head so a lock of dark hair fell against his eyes. “Those are Jedi terms, not mine. I never said I was Sith, nor do we put labels on what we are.”

“But you are evil,” she shot back.

Rhys arched one dark brow. “Am I? From where I’m standing, it seems I did you a favor. I freed you from the shackles of a man who warped his teachings and traditions to keep you under his thumb for his own selfish desires—”

“And what do you call all this?!” she demanded with a shriek.

“Liberation,” he replied easily, as though he’d practiced this very speech and it was going exactly as he hoped. “You can be free of Jedi doctrine and dogma, can do whatever you like. Feyre, your power, I—”

He ran a hand through his dark hair as he stepped toward her, more cautious than he’d been on Umbara. “I could show you.”

“Sith don’t do equals,” she said, well aware she was really asking with curiosity rather than slinging accusations. “Only Masters and Apprentices.”

“I am Sith only by your standards,” Rhys replied with more earnestness than he had any right to express. “Dark, light…it’s all just the force.”

This was dangerous and she knew it. Rhys’s eyes flashed red for just a moment, reminding her that the Sith were liars by nature. Master manipulators. It was working, though and he must have known it. When had he gotten so close? Rhys reached for a lock of her hair, curling it around his fingers.

“I feel your pain, Feyre. I’ve felt it for a long time. You’ve spent a lifetime trying to meditate it away but what if you embraced it?”

“I’d be a traitor to everything I believed. Just like you are,” she repeated, stepping away from him before she could get too lost in his words. They tempted her, pulling her down as though he were some great, all-encompassing current. 

Back turned, Feyre only heard the hiss of his ignited saber. “Fight me, Jedi,” Rhys snarled, his voice laced with condemnation. “Fight me so I can show you what you really are.”

Feyre whirled around too fast, forgetting to think about what was happening. With a pushing leap in the air, Feyre’s blade was lit and crashing against Rhys’s before her feet touched the ground again. He grinned savagely, blocking the blow like it was nothing to him. Who cared how she killed him, Feyre reasoned as she lifted her blade again. So long as he was dead.

Rhys dodged her in a flurry of swings, but didn’t move to attack her back until Feyre got a little too close to his throat. Her blade singed over his cheekbone, sparing his facial hair, drawing a neat line of blood over his otherwise immaculate skin.

He was brutal, then, eyes a burning red as he spun on her, forcing Ferye to take on the defensive position rather than the offensive. Her wrist ached from the effort to keep that saber in her hand, though Feyre did not back down, either. Feyre, perhaps, should have realized what he was trying to do when the backs of her knees hit the side of the bed, but Feyre hadn’t put Rhys’s plan together until he’d wrenched her blade from her hand, tossed it across the room, and pinned her beneath his body and the mattress.

“You hate me,” he panted, sweat sliding down his forehead. His dark hair was soaked again, falling into those unnatural eyes like branches of a willow. He was beautiful right then, unfairly so, with his cheeks flushed and his wild eyes. “Say it.”

“I hate you,” she replied, gaze drifting toward his mouth. She shouldn’t want someone like him. 

“I almost believe you,” Rhys replied, chest heaving from the exertion of their fight. She hadn’t realized she was panting, too, until he leaned close enough she could practically taste his breath. Feyre hitched her leg up over his hip in an attempt to roll away, but Rhys grabbed her thigh, holding her so she could feel how uninterested in fighting her he was. 

“I’ve waited,” he murmured, lips caressing the side of her jaw as his other hand came to her throat. Rhys pinned her by her neck, fingers squeezing just enough to make her dizzy. “You’re the only woman in the galaxy I’d pretend to serve turbodogs for.”

“You think turbodogs are beneath you?” she asked. Feyre would have laughed at the realization that this brutal Sith Lord spent years on Coruscant pretending to be little more than a vendor if she hadn’t been so turned on right then. 

“I think pretending to be something I’m not was beneath me,” Rhys said, mouth touching hers. It was brief, a whispered breath before he pulled away to look, but Feyre felt it. His touch was electric, waking up a slumbering piece of her soul she hadn’t known existed at all. Rhys saw it, his smile triumphant.

“You’re mine, Jedi,” he murmured, cocking his head to the side as he arched a brow. Tell me I’m wrong, that arrogant look seemed to say. 

She couldn’t and he knew it. Rhys had known it the moment he turned up on Umbara because Feyre had been telling him so since they’d become friends. She’d told him her frustrations, her hopes, her irritations…Rhys knew it all. Could sense her even when she’d been too clouded to sense him. Maybe this dormant part of her had always recognized him.

Or maybe she merely liked the man hovering over top her, his eyes giving away his plan. Feyre met his gaze. Rhys stopped playing his games, mouth slanting over hers with a heady, desperate groan. Feyre kissed him back, tasting the sweat and heat on his tongue mingled with the left over copper from their fight. Feyre learned quite quickly that kissing him was a lot like fighting him.

He wanted to break her down until she gave in, and this was a far more effective battle in which Feyre yielded too much too soon.

After all, it was her leg he had hitched around his waist. She could have pretended he was driving the whole thing but Feyre was rubbing against him like a cat. It felt good, his hand around her throat, his cock between her legs, his tongue in her mouth. Worse, even, were her hands slipping from where he’d pinned them over her head, stuck thanks to the heaviness of his body laid across her own. Distracted by the kissing, Rhys didn’t notice until Feyre had them against his chest, not to shove, but to run them down the smooth material of his tunic. Rhys sighed, his thumb pressing against the hollow of her throat for only a moment.

Feyre gasped, arching her neck for a deeper breath. Rhys pounced, kissing her deeper, more fervently. She’d done exactly what he’d wanted, opening entirely so he could 

“You really didn’t know it was me?” he breathed, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. “Not even deep down?”

Feyre fisted her fingers at the nape of his neck, wanting him to just shut up, even for one second. No, she thought to herself as their teeth collided in a frenzy of need, the darkside clouds everything. 

But she’d been clouded by her own anger, her frustrations with Tamlin and the lack of movement in her career. Feyre wouldn’t have noticed Rhys was sith if he’d worn a badge printed to the front of his chest declaring him such. Surely he knew it.

“I need you. Right now,” Rhys breathed, his mouth sliding from her lips to kiss a path down her jaw. His teeth caught on her earlobe, tugging just a little rougher than she thought he meant to, though Feyre enjoyed it. The hand on her thigh moved toward her bare stomach, teasing the thin material as he pushed it higher and higher.

“I don’t—I’ve never—”

“I’ll talk you through it,” he promised, taking his other hand off her throat as he slid himself down the length of her body to settle on the floor between her legs. “I’m going to lick your pussy now.”

Feyre blinked, her mind frustratingly blank. Rhys took advantage, removing the pants he’d provided for her with ease to toss them over his broad shoulders like they were nothing.

“Peace is a lie, Feyre,” he murmured, once she was bared before him. Callused fingers slid up her thighs, parting them wider and wider until she was spread obscenely. 

“No peace,” Rhys repeated, his gaze burning as it raked over her half naked form. “Only passion.”

Rhys did exactly as he promised, licking up the center of her body while holding her gaze. It felt like there was some kind of magic there, something hypnotic that kept Feyre from looking away. Maybe it was simply her need for control that kept her eyes pinned on him. Whatever it was, Feyre panted as she watched, her arousal burning through the last remaining defenses she had.

No peace—only passion. 

Peace had always been hard, even with hours of mediation. Feyre understood passion well, though—she’d been battling it her entire life. Swallow her anger, swallow her frustration—swallow everything in an effort to find some higher purpose. She’d failed over and over.

Maybe a better teacher could have shown her a clearer path.

Maybe she’d always been destined to fall. 

Feyre arched her hips as Rhys drew her closer, eyes fluttering shut as he continued to tease his tongue over her clit. Over and over, in rhythmic circles, until she felt like she might die. Feyre was too hot, the desire burning through her from the inside out.

Rhys moaned against her skin, fingers spreading her wider before teasing her sensitive opening. Inch by agonizing inch he went, pushing that finger further and further until Feyre was whimpering, hips rolling against his hand and mouth looking for relief. Rhys only chuckled. 

“Needy,” he taunted, his voice strained. “What will you look like impaled on my cock?”

“Please,” Feyre replied, though she wasn’t sure if she was asking him to return to licking or shutting up. “Rhys, please.”

He lowered his face again, eyes rolling back into his skull before he resumed his attention on her swollen clit. Feyre barely noticed the way he worked that second finger into her body until he pulled away again, swearing softly about the tightness of her body. She was so close to finishing and desperate for it. 

He knew it. Rhys began pumping his fingers in and out of her body rougher, his mouth sped up until Feyre’s head hit the mattress, staring upward at the dark ceiling. “Rhys,” she pleaded. Her body was on fire, electric and aching. Her arousal wound its way up her spine, settling at the back of her throat and in her lower belly. He sucked, fingers curling so they found some secret spot only she’d ever known about and Feyre was undone. She screamed without meaning to, half plea, half prayer—the only word that escaped his name. Rhys didn’t stop until Feyre whimpered, boneless and exhausted on the bed.

“You’re not done yet,” Rhys said, rising up to his full height. Feyre could only watch as he peeled off his clothes, head cocked like a predator once more. “I won’t rest until I’ve had all of you.”

“And then what?”

“Then you’re mine,” he breathed, fingers unclasping the button on his pants. He’d already removed his top, revealing a toned body worthy of the arms she’d seen during their fight and more muscles than she’d known one person could reasonably have. The tattoos were on full display, unbroken by clothing though still just as indecipherable. She started to ask him what they meant, but Rhys’s pants fell to the floor, revealing the thick, hard length of him and Feyre forgot about everything else.

“You can’t put that in my body,” she whispered as he crawled toward her, the muscles of his back shifting with each graceful movement.

“I can,” he murmured, lowering himself over her flushed body for a kiss, “and I will.”

Feyre let him, forgetting for a moment what was going to happen. He tasted sweet after having his tongue in her body and his hands managed to take her top off before Feyre registered how he did it.

“You’re remarkably unobservant,” Rhys breathed, shifting his hips so the tip of his cock brushed against her wetness. “We’ll work on that.” Rhys slid himself inside her just an inch, though it was enough to draw a gasp from Feyre, fingers digging into his biceps.

“Breathe,” he ordered, eyes searching her face. “You’re doing so well, Feyre, darling.”

“I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, pushing deeper. “You will.”

Even if she’d wanted to escape him, it was too late. Rhys made good on his threat from earlier, slipping deeper and deeper into her body until Feyre was certain she couldn’t take it. But he’d been right—by the time he bottomed out, she’d begun to adjust to the stretch it required to accommodate him, her discomfort turning to pleasure. 

“Look at you,” Rhys breathed, the tendons in his neck strained from keeping himself still inside her. “You take my cock so well.”

Rhys pulled out and thrust back in with the same brutality she’d come to associate with him. Feyre gasped, not out of pain, but desire. It felt good to be treated like she could handle something rough. Like she wasn’t fragile—like she was strong. 

Rhys kissed her again and she realized she was practically screaming her thoughts at him through the force. “You’re mine, and I’m yours,” Rhys breathed, nose nuzzling her own. “Those are our own tenants, the only code we live by now.”

Feyre met him thrust for thrust, kissing him rather than answering. She could feel the cold of the dark sliding through her, washing out the light that had once existed. With each new slide of Rhys’s cock, Feyre fell further and further into shadow. 

Where she belonged. 

“Take it,” Rhys moaned into her neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin. “Take all of it.”

As if she had a choice. Rhys gripped her hips, pulling her into him harder and faster, until all Feyre knew was the taste of the salt on his skin and the sound of his breathing in her ear. His hand found her throat again, pinning her beneath him as Rhys thrust over and over. His fingers squeezed just enough to leave her breathless without hurting her.

Feyre came again, surprised by the intensity of her orgasm. Her teeth sank into his shoulder to suppress the urge to scream again as Rhys moaned her name, whining ever so softly before slamming himself entirely into her body so he, too, could release himself.

He collapsed a moment later, face nuzzled into her neck. Sweat slicked down his back and over his forehead, making his golden skin glistening beneath the lights.

Rhys rolled over a few moments later, one powerful arm thrown over his eyes.

Feyre sat up, ignoring that she could feel the proof of his desire sliding out of her body. “What do these mean?”

Rhys glanced down at his tattoos inked over the top of his chest, arms, and shoulders. “Luck in battle,” he murmured, tracing one of the swirling lines with his finger. “According to the customs of my people.”

There was no point in asking if they worked. So instead, Feyre held his gaze as she said, “He locked me inside.”

Rhys leaned up on his elbows, hair half falling in his eyes. “I know. I know. Never again, Feyre. Never. Again.”

There was rage in his words—a promise that they would make themselves strong no matter the cost. Feyre wanted that. She wanted to be untouchable. Not a pet, not the delicate woman some man loved, but fierce. Strong.

Feared.

“Never again,” she whispered, lacing her fingers through his as he brushed a kiss over her knuckles.

“Sleep, first,” Rhys murmured, opening his arm in invitation. “Then we train.”

“And then?”

Rhys offered her a sleepy smile as Feyre pressed her head to his chest. “Revenge.”

[6lostgirl6]

Ties That Bind Part 1

Pairing: Yandere!Anakin Skywalker x Fem Jedi!Reader

TW: General Yandere Behavior, Kidnapping, Mentions of Murder

A/N: I am very excited to be sharing another wonderful collab with the amazing person @britany1997! She has been very supportive and an absolute joy to work with! We have shared many laughs together while working on this fic! She is a very talented writer and friend and you should send her your love! She deserves it! I love you Britany! ❤️

Word Count: 2.3k

Sweat pooled around Anakin as he sprang forward in bed, gasping in a haze of fear and anger. His head fell to his hands as he struggled to catch his breath.

Sleep had eluded him for months as every night ended the same, with visions of your corpse flashing through his tortured mind. 

Anakin discarded his blanket in frustration, grabbed your picture from his work bench, and sat on the floor to meditate. 

His brow furrowed as he attempted to squash his rage and uncertainty, to let them go and let the force fill him with the comfort he needed. 

But to let go of his emotion, would be to let go of you.

Though he mumbled to himself, ‘there is no emotion, there is peace, there is no passion, there is serenity,’ he couldn’t make himself believe that. You were his peace, you were his serenity.

He abandoned his meditation in a huff. Anakin liked to think he was a patient man, a good Jedi. Yet how could he sit back and do nothing? The visions would never stop, it was time to take matters into his own hands.

Despite his failures at meditating and stopping his mind from whirling, he was struck by a solution. He was deep in concentration, staring at the ground, your picture nestled against his uncovered chest.

The visions would undoubtedly stop if he could protect you and keep you safe from harm. What if the force hadn't been working against him after all? He was immediately filled with purpose, a fire in his eyes that couldn't ever be extinguished. He will defend you even if it means doing the unthinkable and abandoning the Jedi code. 

What other reason would there be besides protecting the one you loved the most, even if it required being selfish? Absolutely nothing was of greater significance than you, his long-time friend, whom he had been pining over for many years. The forbidden feelings he could no longer ignore. There was no greater reason, no other reason, than you. 

It was all for love. 

Despite the summons from the Chancellor, Anakin thought the Galaxies Opera House was well worth the journey through Coruscant. Though the visions of your impending death haunted him, Squid Lake, a strange ballet performed by a team of Mon Calamari acrobats, calmed his worries and enabled his mind to focus on something far more pleasant. He wished he could take you to one as lovers rather than as companions one day once you are away from harm. The Chancellor, however, required his attention once more.

His eyes were focused ahead as he said, "The Sith and the Jedi are similar in almost every way, including their quest for greater power." The Chancellor’s face bore a deep and serious expression.

“The Sith rely on their passion for their strength; they think inwards, only about themselves.” Anakin answered back firmly, turning his head towards him as he spoke.

“And the Jedi don’t?” asked the Chancellor, turning his attention towards Anakin without wavering, his eyes never leaving his face.

“The Jedi are selfless, they only care about others.” Anakin spoke strongly, turning his attention forward, just before the Chancellor continued to speak, making Anakin's blood run cold.

“Although they prevent you from loving freely in accordance with your own desires. They would never approve of your love for your friend or the things you would do for her.” He spoke with a voice filled with stomach-churning truth. “Your companion, (Y/N).”

Anakin turned to face the older man, his eyes wide with surprise as he whispered quietly. "How did you know-"

"I know many things, Anakin." He responded. "You say they are selfless and care about others. But what would the council say if they learned of your hidden desires, your affection that you have for your fellow Jedi?" 

For once, Anakin couldn't speak because the Chancellor's words struck him deeply. His eyes were fixed on the opera playing ahead of him as he slowly sunk into his chair. He wasn't watching the event, though; instead, he was fixated on his thoughts, his visions of your approaching demise, and the possibility that the council would learn of his feelings for you. They'd shun him. He couldn't save you if they were in the way. His heart was pounding, and his mind was racing. 

It was the Chancellor's voice that silenced his racing thoughts. 

“You ever hear the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the wise?” 

No, he would not let them stop him from loving you, from saving you.

Your saber clashed against Anakin’s as you traded swipes back and forth. He smirked as you narrowly missed his shoulder. You stuck out your tongue in reply.

It’d probably be easier to spar with someone else, you and Anakin had trained together as Padawans, practically grown up together. He knew every move you’d make before you could even think to make it. But, unfortunately for him, you could anticipate his every move as well.

You leaped as he swiped his saber at your feet, “missed again Ani,” you teased. You noticed a strange expression cross his face when you uttered his name, but it quickly vanished.

“You’re lucky today,” he smirked, “but luck runs out.” Anakin swiped his foot behind yours, causing you to tumble onto your back, he stood over you, lightsaber pointed towards your chest. 

You groaned, “fine, I yield.”

He chuckled as he switched his weapon off and offered you his arm to pull you to your feet. “Better luck next time?” he teased. 

“Ha ha,” you mumbled humorlessly, as you allowed him to pull you up.

"Let's not pretend you didn't cheat, Ani." You continued jokingly. You leaned over to grab your fallen lightsaber when you failed to notice the unknown expression resurfacing on his face. However, it did not completely disappear, his darkening eyes fixated on your body, images racing through his mind of scenarios unsuitable for a Jedi.

He adored it when you addressed him as such. 

His expression returned to normal as you straightened up, and he had a mischievous smile on his face once again. "Never, ever underestimate your opponent." He chuckled as he extinguished his lightsaber and attached the hilt to his belt.

“Yeah, Yeah.” You replied, the smile refusing to vanish from your expression. 

"Come now; I only tease." Anakin remarked softly, staring at you with a more genuine smile, one that could compete with the sun if he so desired. Since you were both padawans, he has consistently been an enchanting man. He had a way of charming himself out of most trouble and making one's heart feel like it was going to burst.

This was a secret you kept hidden within your heart for many years, the sentiments you had for Anakin that were more than just friendship. However, according to the Jedi code and attachment regulations, you did everything you could to drive those emotions away. Your feelings got less difficult to disguise as you practiced meditation and late-night self-reflection. In addition, you knew in your core that Anakin was an exceptionally gifted Jedi and that your affections for him were never going to be reciprocated. 

“Everything alright?” 

You recovered from your subconscious, glancing at Anakin as he stood directly in front of you, his eyebrows furrowed in slight concern. 

"Yes, I'm sorry." You replied before reactivating your lightsaber, your eyes bright with purpose and your smile returning. "Let's continue."

After many long hours of trading blows, you and Anakin were huffing, your foreheads drenched with sweat. 

“Call it a night?” you asked as Anakin wiped his brow clean. 

“Mhmm,” he hummed in reply, “it’s late, want an escort back to your quarters?”

You laughed. He didn’t. 

“No Ani it’s fine,” you promised, “I think I can manage the couple of steps it takes to get there.”

“It’s on my way anyway,” he protested.

You shot him a confused expression, “on your way to where?” 

“To the archives,” he told you nonchalantly, “I needed to look into something.”

Your brow furrowed, “look into what?”

He groaned, tugging gently at your arm, “just let me escort you.”

“Fine, fine,” you reluctantly caved.

He offered you his shoulder, a smirk painted on his face. You scoffed and punched his arm instead, causing a soft laugh to fall from his lips. 

He smiled and shook his head at your stubbornness, you never made anything easy. But it didn’t matter, he’d never been one to back down from a challenge.

The walk to your quarters passed quickly as you exchanged stories with Anakin. You clutched your stomach as tears rolled down your cheeks as he told you the story of his last battle with General Grevious. Anakin had spent so much time with Obi Wan over the years, Anakin’s impression of his sarcastic banter was spot on.

“Well this is me,” you joked, gesturing to your door. Anakin nodded but didn’t move to head towards the archives. 

Your brow furrowed in confusion, “…so I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

He seemed to snap from his momentary trance, “yes of course,” Anakin hesitated, “do you need anything else before I go?”

Your head cocked to one side, “no, not really.” 

Walking you to your room had been strange in itself, this was ridiculous. “Ani…” you bit your lip, “are you ok?”

Anakin seemed taken aback by your sudden question, “of course,” he composed himself, “I better be off to the archives, I’ll see you for training in the morning.”

You watched him walk off before slipping into your room. You sat down to meditate, but you couldn’t rid your mind of Anakin’s weird behavior. Something wasn’t right. 

You sighed, coming to terms with the fact that you would not be one with the force tonight and crawling into bed. As you drifted to sleep a thought popped into your head.

Weren’t the archives in the opposite direction?

Anakin sent a glass flying into his wall in frustration. He watched as it shattered, spraying shards onto the floor around his work desk. 

He threw his head into his hands. He could monopolize your training time, walk you to your quarters every night, wake up early to be at your door every morning.

But it would only take one second, one second where he left you alone, one second where he wasn’t right by your side, one second and you were gone forever. 

If he balled his fists any harder, his fingernails would slice the skin. He knew what he had to do. You might hate him for a moment, but he could live with that.

But if you died? There was no living if not with you.

The Jedi Temple was destroyed.

Your fellow Jedi were slaughtered in cold blood. 

You could feel your heart frantically beating as you rushed through the halls of pure massacre, the walls forever tarnished by the horrors that had been committed. Fellow Jedi that you’ve trained with are lying on the floor lifeless, and some are in cauterized pieces. You felt like you could throw up at any moment, the hilt of your lightsaber held in your shaky grasp. You were in a state of delirium; your thoughts were filled with dueling lightsabers and people screaming in fear. However, there was one thing that was absolutely certain.

You needed to find Anakin.

‘Please, let him be safe.’ You thought to yourself as you managed to turn a corner, your other hand gripping your ribcage, your heart threatening to explode. ‘By the force, please protect him.’ 

You were anxious to find him, yet filled with dread. Your mind was racing with images of his form in pieces, his eyes lifeless without any warmth. It almost made the journey too much to bear. 

You rounded another corner that led towards the entrance of one of the temple’s many great halls. As you pushed through the entrance, a heavy feeling filled your chest, and you were completely unable to go any further. Your eyes were wide, and you could feel your breath failing you. 

As you gazed into the distance, you noticed a familiar figure, clad in a brown robe with a hood covering his face, that you had never failed to recognize, even at a distance. As the figure walked towards you, a large group of clone soldiers followed behind him, weapons drawn. In his hand was his own lightsaber, which he clutched tightly in his grasp.

Anakin.

"Ani!” You cried, disengaging your lightsaber and rushing towards him with tears in your eyes, prepared and ready to meet him with a sense of relief. 

You threw your arms around him, tears rolling down your face as you sobbed. He returned your embrace, arms wrapping around the small of your back, pulling you into his chest.

“Ani,” you muttered between sobs, “I’m so glad you’re ok, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

He tightened his grip on your waist, holding you close, “I know what you mean…”

You sniffled as you tried to gather yourself, “Anakin, so many lives…” you hiccuped, “what happened.”

“Only what needed to.”

“What?” you exclaimed as you looked up to meet his eyes. 

The sight of his blood stained face made you gasp. No. This wasn’t the Anakin you knew. This couldn’t be happening.

But it was. The man you’d carried a torch for all these years, your best friend and confidant, stood before you, clothed in the blood of your friends.

You pushed against his chest, trying to escape from his grasp but he refused to let you go. He held you tightly against him with one arm, using his other hand to brush hair from your face affectionately. A gesture that once would have made you blush now filled you with malice.

“I know you don’t understand now, but you will my love,” he whispered, “now sleep.”

“Anakin…no…” you fought a losing battle to keep your eyes open. You were strong in the force, but Anakin was stronger.

Your head lulled to the side as you fell asleep in his arms.

Taglist:

@prettywhenibleed @leiasolo77 @britany1997 @misslavenderlady @arianamhm @rottent33th @slaasherslut

[professional-yearner]

Jumping off of the Order 66 question from a few weeks ago, I have to wonder; what if their cyare is a Jedi (one-sided) or a force sensitive? (Actually I wonder if force sensitivity is a gray area bc the orders were to annihilate Jedi specifically but anyway...)

I think things would go about the same, personally! Ultimately, in my own headcannon (that obviously doesn't really reflect canon), the clones obsession with these people that have been kind to them when so many others have not would sort of short-circuit their programming (organic chip or not, good treatment your not used to can change your whole brain chemistry!). The twisted love they have for these individuals after being deprived for their whole lives of care and consideration would override their urge to purge them, Jedi or not. (And I think force sensitives fall under this umbrella too, I dont think the chip is picky lol)

Unpopular opinion, though; I don't know how many clones would be overly obsessed with their jedi.

Of course, I'm sure some are at least fond or protective, but how many would tip the scale over to obsession I'm not sure.

I think, unfortunately, Slick had a point. The jedi are largely complicit in the clone's treatment and don't go out of their way to make their lives easier, some not valuing them as anything other than cannon fodder (Ki-Adi-Mundi when I CATCH you-)

Of course, jedi see the value in all life to some extent, but going out of their way to care and treat the clones with tenderness and consideration is just something that's not realistic with them following the jedi rule of attachments. Also, (not to excuse it) war hardens a person, especially a general. It's not too much of a shock to see that a lot of them have to gloss over the clones and resist the urge to form connections with them.

Instead, I raise you obsessed Jedi. So repressed and torn with their forbidden attachments to the clones, they either find themselves becoming increasingly infatuated with both the clones and you. (Or in competition with you, but thats a another sermon for another Sunday.)

They see how tender and sweet you are with the clones, they appreciate how much you do for them that they themselves cannot. (Maybe even find themselves wondering what that tenderness and care would feel like directed at them.) They would even be willing to share you with the clones if they would allow it. Which in my opinion, most clones would be wary of. Even if said individual left the jedi order just to be with them and you.

The clones have at best experienced cordial to lukewarm treatment from their jedi, (despite how the individual might want it, there are rules), they don't want to share with anyone they don't feel close with. Even if they do feel some comradery towards them, it's cultivated more of a bond you would have with your superior at work than a friendship in most cases. (Or a sibling bond, as I believe Rex and Ahsoka have, which I do think could lead to a platonic yandere fixation!)

So, it is very complicated in my opinion, but idk you can ignore this if you want 😭 I don't know how many people will agree or even understand this I'm mostly just rambling about my own theories and feelings.

[graylinesspam]

Older sisters

post war, O66 never happened, Au.

Ahsoka had been loved, cherished as a little sibling.

She'd dealt with a rash of over protective brothers, that despite their physical circumstances managed to hit all the awkward preteen sibling experiences. Like giving her stern lectures on boys. Cheering on her first crush. Being generally awkward about puberty. And stuttering around obvious sex jokes they wanted to make so bad, but couldn't because she was there.

She'd been the kid sister, in all the little mundane ways that made their relationships rich, that swelled her heart with affection.

But she'd been more than that too. She had to be. Through whatever cruel circumstances, men that would slap their hands over a chatty brother's mouth to keep him from making a dick joke in front of her would also bow to her order. She held their lives in her hands. It was a concept she never truly wrapped her head around. And maybe never would. But it was a responsibility that she took very seriously.

First on the battlefield doing every damn thing she could to keep them alive. Then in front of the senate and al over the holoweb and anywhere she could get people to listen to her; To listen to them. Then briefly in the war again. And now, now she was the shepherd leading them into the galaxy. Not as soldiers but as free men.

Ahsoka was responsible for the clones in a way that many of them did not comprehend. They still believed that she was their kid sister. Little 'soka, come to play house with them while they all figured out how to live. And she allowed them to think that. She enjoyed it. Needed it even. Needed them to believe that they were taking care of her and not the other way around. Needed them to feel useful. Needed them to not feel indebted towards her. Not like some of the clones did.

Dogma, Rex, Cody, Tup. Too many brothers still looked to her with gratitude in their eyes. With a knee jerk response to do whatever she commended of them.

She didn't want that. She wanted them to figure out on their own how to be men. men who ran their own live. Who made their own calls.

But that didn't release Ahsoka of her responsibility. She may have left the public advocation for clones in more trained hands, Like Senators Chuchi and Amidala. Or the Jedi council. Or the new Mandalorian government. But Ahsoka handled the nity grity. the detail work. Ahsoka taught them as individuals, how to budget, how to pay bills, how to travel without GAR resources. All things she'd had to learn on her own.

She has a unique perspective living amongst men who were simultaneously much older and much younger than her.

Or, at least, she'd thought it was a unique experience.

When Echo turned up, he brought company. And lots of it. Clone force 99 were some of the roughest men she'd seen outside of the outer rim. Certainly rougher around the edges than any clone she'd ever worked with.

They were pleasant enough. Just strange for clones. Wrecker was a trendous help to have during the building process of the little compound they were putting together. As was Hunter. He was an excellent leader. He was deffinitly no Clone Commander. Every CC that Ahsoka had worked with had the same bow to bow acknowledgement of Ahsoka. Recognizing her rank and trusting her intuition. Hunter had no such inclinations.

It was actually refreshing. He argued with her more than anyone else did. Never hostile arguments. They were all civil. He as just a particular man with many opinions about how she was running just about any aspect of the compound. He argued with her the same as he would with any other clone. He broke the seal on making crude jokes in front of her. And was generally a pushy crass soldier in her presence.

And the compound benefited from it.

CF99 didn't strike her as the kind of solders who were ready to settle down yet. They still had that itch under their skins to get out there and do somthing. Anything.

She hadn't expected them to make any real effort to stick around until she met the reason that they did.

Omega was just the most perfect ray of sunshine that Ahsoka had ever met. She was kind, resilient, and optimistic. Even in the face of her most brazen and unlikable brother, Crosshair.

In a sea of brothers Ahsoka found herself a sister. She blames the little blonde girl for how Hunter puts up with Ahsoka's presence. Ahsoka and Omega clicked in that primal almost telepathic way that young girls do. Like magnets drawn to each other and disrupting the electromagnetic fields around them, bringing something young and untamed out of Ahsoka who at barely 18 often felt old.

They were close, which is why it didn't take Ahsoka long to recognize a pattern she wasn't aware even existed in anyone else, or ever could.

Despite her physical age Omega had a lot of authority with her brothers. They were quick to do almost anything she asked of them. Like a herd of new parents scrambling to keep their child happy. Many children would have become spoiled on the attention. Getting anything they wanted out of their guardians. But not Omega. With her big heart and her many years more life experience than her brothers. She used to her influence to take care of them.

To lure them to sleep with bleary eyed stories of bad dreams. Or forcing a decent eating schedule on them by insisting on having one for herself and making everyone else join her. Or railing in their wandering spirits with games, and challenges, and new emotional frontiers instead of the endless expanse of the galaxy. Or smoothing over their arguments with a subtlety that Ahsoka admired.

She was wise far beyond her years, and as much as she could twist her face into the bright eyed gleam of innocence Ahsoka often caught her looking contemplative and nurturing as she studied her brother. She ruled their lives with a gentle care almost motherly.

Another little big sister dedicating herself to keeping her brothers alive and together.

It was the only way Ahsoka could live her life after the war. And it seemed whatever happened in the labs on Kamino had the same effect of Omega.

She opened her heart to her little sister. Made a space where they could exist, exactly as they were. Kindred spirits in the galaxy. Living for love and learning to love living again. That dimming of something old and wizened in their eyes slowly transformed from something painful to something contented.

As they played their roles of kid sisters and eldest siblings.

[auxxrat]

mother, where have you buried all your children?

Hi everyone !! this is a really quick oneshot that I just had to write out. I'll probably expand on it later, but !! had to get it out. my pookies gave me the idea so :>

I hope u enjoy it !!

the throat singing is inspired by this song from Avatar, bc I think it's beautiful and it emotionally moves me.

Tags !!

angst, shaak ti, delta squad

The Jedi believe that everyone is tied together within the Force. That no matter what, our souls remain connected, no matter how far apart. And once someone’s gone, they disappear from the Force completely—a noticeable wound—the feeling of emptiness. 

That was all Shaak Ti knew now: the waves of dread, the feeling of a hole punched through her chest, the knowledge that they were never coming home. Each clone had their own song, each verse and chorus an achievement or milestones reached. 

But every song had to have a last verse. 

Too many bodies came home. Sometimes the only thing that can be salvaged is a piece of armor, anything–just to take home and bury properly. These funerals could only be held at certain times when the storms of Kamino calmed their rage and the waves dulled. What was left of the fallen was decorated with the highest of honor.

The faces of the dead were painted, gifts given for the crossover into whatever waited after this life. The clones had to believe in something. 

Goodbyes were said as the eldest of them carried the bodies down to the depths of Kamino, where the platforms lowest to the sea hung. Everyone gathered, solemn faces, many hidden by helmets. The waves may have settled but the rain didn’t, it pelted down against armor and skin, matting the clones’ dark hair onto their foreheads. 

Shaak and Appo stood at the front while Delta Squad led the line of bodies. There were no voices as the bodies were set down, even the smallest of clones had the harshest glares. The rain didn't ease up, streaming down Shaak’s face in replacement of tears. She could not cry. 

Boss made eye contact with her as he set down the last body. But it would never be the last body; they both knew that. There were so many brothers here, so many pieces of them. When is it going to be enough? How many more need to die for this great plan? They both asked each other with their eyes only. 

Even now, Shaak could feel their bodies dropping. She could feel every single one dying, it didn't let up, not even when she was supposed to be burying them. 

Boss joined the small group at the front, while the rest of Delta worked on lifting the first coffin onto their shoulders. He joined the small group of boys, standing beside them, serving as an example. Backs straight, you're honoring your brothers. 

He began a guttural, pain-filled throat song, projecting their mourning for the Universe to hear. The boys joined in depending on how high or low their voices were, but the song was all the same. 

It was something deeper than pain, deeper than loss. They sang that pain through their chests, crying out in beautiful octaves. Boss’ voice ran deep towards the end, drawing out a long cry as the last body was cast into the roaring sea. Deliver them to somewhere better than here.  At the end of their long cry, there was silence again, the rain sounding like bullets on the metal of the platform. Shaak Ti and Boss made eye contact again, and this time Shaak was crying; eyebrows tied into a knot as the rain poured down her face. How many more are going to die before this is over?

Read it on AO3!!!

[cloneshipping-collector]

brief crosshunt thoughts because @wolveria has turned me to the dark side into a crosshunt girlie

so like i think that crosshair and hunter were a thing all throughout their time in the field. maybe it took a few weeks or months to make it official, but there was always something there and the entire squad knew it

then order 66 happened.

crosshair and hunter went to find caleb together, each believing that the other was on their side. hunter saw crosshair take the shot and realized, for the first time in their lives, something had shifted between them.

he tried to brush it off. ignore the feeling. but crosshair kept pushing. “you sure that padawan died when he fell?” “Hunter let that jedi kid escape. or do you want to keep lying to us?”

then they were sent to onderon and hunter knew that the two of them couldn’t go back to the way they were. he remembered the young clone the squad found on kamino and knew he had to save her.

we all know what happened when they went back to kamino. the batch got detained and crosshair got taken away to enhance his chip.

hunter had to have wanted to go find him and get his love back. he probably felt so betrayed when he saw crosshair in the imperial armor. he wanted crosshair to come with them, but in the moment, the best decision for his squad was to leave as soon as possible.

when hunter got taken by the empire towards the end of season one, i wonder if crosshair was hoping they could return to being lovers, just under the empire instead of the republic. they had missed each other more than words could describe. as much as they missed each other, there was a hurt that was just a bit stronger than the loneliness.

at the end of season one, when crosshair once again chose the empire over his squad, his batch mates, his hunter, he probably never expected that he’d see his (now former) love again. hunter probably felt the same way.

they both went their separate ways and had their own adventures.

crosshair thought he might’ve fallen in love again, only to have that comfort brutally ripped from his hands.

hunter focused on finding a place that he (and his squad) belonged in the galaxy.

they had accepted the fact that they’d never see each other again.

until tech found out that crosshair had been taken to tantiss.

after the failed mission to eriadu, tech was killed, omega was taken, and crosshair was seemingly lost as well. all of these factors very obviously took a heavy toll on hunter between seasons 2 and 3.

imagine the shock when crosshair stepped off of the ship that hunter’s daughter omega had just come off of. imagine all of the rage, betrayal, mourning, excitement, everything that came rushing to both of them.

it would take a while, but they were finally given another chance with each other, and they were going to take full advantage of it.

tl;dr: s1 e1 was kinda a crosshunt breakup, s1 e16 was a PROPER crosshunt breakup, s3 e4 they finally got a chance to be together again but really had to work to overcome everything that had separated them

….theres a reason i’m not a fanfic author lol, take my poorly structured word vomit over these gays

[miss0atae]

Random Thoughts about The Rebound Ep 5 and 6 :

Let's give credit where its due, The Rebound remains a compelling story and these two new episodes haven't changed my view on the series. It's truly an interesting sport series. Even if you're not a fan of basketball or a fan of the main actors. I'm neither of those and I still find a real pleasure watching it. I would even say, it shouldn't deter you from giving it a chance.

▪️ So Ryu and Zen were back to square one in their relationship and they couldn't stand each other anymore in these episodes. Their disagreement was starting to be an obstacle for the team as they were constantly fighting on the court. Their coach figured out a way for them to make peace. He forced them to be tied to each other for 24 hours. When you can't escape the other one, you're forced to deal with it. It was easy to see they both missed each other, but what happened in the past is still remaining a sore point between them. Of course, Zen is still sad and lost about the disappearance of Ryu in the past, but we kind of get pretty fast that it's not the only thing which hurt him. From the beginning of the 5th episode, we had a flashback of Ryu and Zen when they were in middle-school. They were both showering and helping rubbing soap to each other. Then, they got this moment… There are a lot of interrupted moments between them. Zen was fully expecting Ryu to kiss him and he was eager to do it… but then Ryu freeze and decided not to do it. I believe Zen was clearly hurt by this too. Even if he can't really say it out loud, he has these very strong feelings for Ryu and he finds himself constantly disappointed by him. While being force to stay together all the time, Ryu and Zee's anger quietly dissolved to make they find their strong bond again.

▪️ The state of the team is totally linked to whatever Ryu and Zee are feeling when they are playing with the rest of the team players. When they are both in their right mind and happy with each other, the team is able to success in anything they want to do. Otherwise, when they are at odds or something is bothering them, the team isn't able to work well together. I'm not saying the rest of the players are just here to make contrast, but most of them remains solely background character. Only few of them seems to be important to the story: Jed who is mostly the comic relief, Prince who has a special bond with Jed (but it remains to be really seen), Shogun who is the basketball prodigy and Jedi as Ryu's friend. Lin is totally the token girl of the series who will be used to create some tension between the main couple as she has a crush on Ryu. Thankfully the story seems to have provided her with an alternative choice when she will see that she has no chance of being with her crush.

▪️ Last week, I thought it was Ryu who was hurt because he couldn't get Zen to see his feelings for him. I felt he was the one who was showing more his love. I think it was because both Q and Atom questioned him about it. It made me think it was him who was, at the moment, more in love or more aware of his feeling. However, now that I watched episode 5 and 6, it seems to me that it's the opposite. Zen is the one who has already accepted his romantic feelings for his friend, while Ryu isn't really sure about it. I mean, he likes/loves Zen. It was shown countless times, but at the same time, he doesn't really want to talk about it or to make others know about it. By the end of episode 5, we get a kiss between them. It was full of lingering feelings for something they wanted to experience before, but didn't get to. The way Ryu was slowly moving his face towards Zen to kiss him sweetly. He was also stroking Zen's hand. It felt to me like he was finally experiencing something he deeply wanted to do, for a long time. Ryu didn't have any hesitation and gladly consented to this kiss because it is also something he desires. The moment is truly precious for them and it is reinforced by the melody of the soundtrack. However, when Ryu heard the sound of the dropped bottle, he quickly opened his eyes and you could see how scared he was and he turned over fast. It left Zen alone who was still looking at him, as if he was still processing everything. Ryu was flustered and he was looking at the ceiling, while Zen was still looking at him, hurt again. I get deeply emotional thinking about this scene.

▪️ Let's talk about Atom now. I have to make amends. I was so hard on him last time after I described my thoughts about episode 3 and 4. I felt like we couldn't trust him and he would hurt Zen… Turns out, he is better than I thought he would be. I think he really wants to make a friend. Since he never really seems to have a real friend in his life, the first person who was nice to him, he got too attached. The way he wants to be close to Zen is so wrong, but at the same time, I believe he just doesn't know how to do it. That's why it gets across as clingy and a bit controlling. I'm not saying he is right. I'm just feeling like he needs to understand boundaries and how to create a healthy friendly relationship with someone. There is also the fact, that he doesn't just want to be friend with Zen, but he also has a tiny crush on him too. Atom has grown in a family that expects him to devote his time to sport. His father seems to be really authoritarian and Atom can't really do what he wants. It seems he made really a lot of effort to be available when he met Zen. I felt bad for him. It is not easy to grow up in a family where you have to constantly prove your worth and when they expect you to stand out. Now we know he is also a basketball player in a rival team. I'm glad he remains true to sport values and didn't befriend Zen because of this. Of course, he becomes the perfect love rival for Ryu and he seems determined to be close to Zen. I wonder what it will bring. Now that he is again in my good book, I feel like I'm back with the same dilemma I had while watching Deep Night where I couldn't decide if Seiji had to be with Pan or Ken.

▪️ I also felt really bad for Q. It seems to me that he is stuck in this life without any way of escaping it. Yes, his relationship with Boss Tos is hot, but at the same time it’s kinda pitiful. There is nothing sexy or healthy in their relationship. Q doesn’t seem to have any feelings for him and he only has sexual intercourse with him to protect Ryu. However, it’s not exactly working well and he is back into threatening Ryu to work for them and to play street basketball. Q is always dragging Ryu back to the trappings of his past. At the same time, we can’t deny the protectiveness Q has for him. I really think he has his best interest at heart, but unfortunately Q is not a big shot in the “streets”. He is just a small fry.

I really want to see what is going to happen in the next episodes.

[split-spectrum]

Water and Rock

Chapter 1

Pairing: Obi Wan/FemReader

Warnings/Tags: (None in the first chapter, but more to come) explicit content, drug use, dubcon, character deaths, slow burn

Description: There are only so many excuses a master and padawan can make to kiss under "extenuating circumstances" before circumstances stop arising and start being created. You are an expert at your craft - a Jedi knight in service as a spy for the Republic. When your former master Obi Wan joins you on a mission, it's clear things aren't the same as they once were. The trials you face together may break your bond, or turn it into something else entirely.

--

A second explosion rocks the port side of the ship, and you can barely hear your own muffled voice over the ringing in your ears.

"They've disabled our hyperdrive."

General Kenobi's face is grim. "Not good."

Your legs are struggling to keep you upright as you stumble against the bucking of the dying ship.

"Any suggestions, Commander?" he asks, a note of detachment in his voice that you wish you could mirror while plummeting to certain death.

☆☆☆

"Now would be the time to share any skills you've acquired on your solo missions."

You bite back a sarcastic comment about espionage missions rarely ending in dogfights. "Sir, if you're able to clear the atmosphere, we might still lose them in the asteroid field. If you can keep us from getting shot down for the next few minutes, I think I can manage the changes needed in the power converters to get the hyperdrive back online."

He considers this, then nods. "Fine. Do it. Divert as much power as you can without shorting the main systems."

He takes his place back at the helm and you slide a few feet to the back of the ship, dropping to the floor and immediately getting to work on the wiring. Another glancing blow hits the ship, and the tool you've grabbed skitters across the floor.

"I would love to recommend that you stay low until you reach the city limits, in case they have any qualms about shooting their own people and decide to use less firepower... but you're in command of this mission and I don't give the orders," you say, as if talking to yourself.

You snatch the tool back up and send a quick look to the captain's chair where Obi Wan is giving you a mildly unimpressed look. But he adjusts his controls, lowering the trajectory.

Too late. Another blast, and the ship is now shaking violently.

"All main engines are down on the port side." You flip through diagnostic screens, reading them aloud as Obi Wan struggles to keep the controls steady. "Remaining engines operating at only sixty percent. No, fourty... we're not going to make it."

All hope drains from your face while Obi Wan pulls up a map on the main console, adjusting coordinates. "Even if we manage to survive, our location has been compromised and our cover blown. I see only one option at the moment."

He zooms in, highlighting a nearby moon, Keoth. "We can try for a landing, and hope they believe we've died in the crash."

You take yet another hit, and this time you're knocked to the floor. You give a desperate smile. "They certainly aren't giving us many other options."

You stand back up and manage to strap yourself into the copilot's seat just in time for the power to begin failing. The ship begins its death spiral toward the moon below, its surface filling the viewport much too quickly for your stomach to handle. You give yourself over to the force, your master's piloting, and whatever luck has brought you this far.

Wordlessly, you plummet to the ground, reminding yourself not to give in to fear as the belly of the ship scrapes first against the trees, then against the rocky terrain. When the skidding finally stops and you haven't burst into a fireball, you silently thank the force as both of you remain in your seats for a moment, catching your breath.

"Let's hope the Black Sun didn't see where we went down," you say, finally unstrapping your belt once your legs are steady enough to stand up.

Obi wan stands as well. "I suppose we'll know soon enough."

His comment is enough to silence both of you again, and you listen in anticipation of more blasting. When nothing immediately happens, Obi Wan makes his way to the back of the ship and opens the cargo bay door. It creaks, straining against broken hinges, and slowly reveals the dense jungle outside. You step out, inspecting the damage to the ship. It's catastrophic.

"Black Sun or not, we aren't going anywhere anytime soon. It appears we'll need to send a status report to Coruscant and wait for rescue," he says, heading back into the ship to access the comm panel.

You step forward to follow him and wince, touching your head. Your hand comes away with blood, which must have been trickling down your forehead. He stops on the cargo ramp, placing a hand to the back of your head, steadying you for inspection.

"Hold still."

He turns your head this way and that, and steps back, walking into the ship to get a medpac. He takes one out of storage and makes his way back to you. "I am no medic, but that needs attention."

You wave a hand dismissively. "I'm fine. I must have hit it when I was working on the power converters. I'm more concerned about the ship's condition than a bump on the head."

He ignores your protest and starts to unpack a gauze pad, leaning toward you. Instead of letting him finish, you take the pad from his hand and press it in place, holding it there. You give him an appreciative look, which is enough to end the conversation. He turns his attention back to the comm panel. After a moment, he sighs.

"The normal communications systems are too damaged and the long-range communicator can't get a signal. We're cut off."

You close your eyes, trying to accept this new turn of events and find a way to move forward. You open them again and stare out of the cargo bay for a long time, thinking. Finally, you speak.

"If we can boost the signal of the long range communicator, we might be able to get a message back to one of my contacts on Oba Diah," you point, and his gaze follows your hand to the top of a mountain. "We just need to find higher ground."

"It's a possibility." Obi Wan considers it further, then gives a small shake of his head. "Probably our only possibility at present. We'll need supplies."

The both of you get started packing, eating and drinking as much as possible before leaving the rest of your supplies behind on the ship. With the pressing heat of the jungle, you consider leaving your robes behind, but ultimately pack them for extra bedding.

You shed the rest of your layers and leave on your tunic, arms bare. It doesn't do much to alleviate the pressing heat, but at least the fabric is light. Meanwhile, Obi Wan somehow decides to leave his outfit unchanged, removing only the most outer layer. It seems unbearable, but then, he's always been one of those jedi who choose to wear the most uncomfortable clothing. He told you once it was a constant exercise in learning to ignore the distraction of discomfort. You simply thought of it as unnecessary suffering.

"If I remember correctly, this moon has a 9-hour rotation. Looks like we have about 3 hours of daylight left," you say, pulling your bag over your shoulders.

Obi Wan follows you as you enter the jungle, stepping over vines. "We should make the most of it, then. Be wary. We don't know what kind of wildlife we may find."

"Actually, I've read the wildlife on Keoth is non-aggressive. So long as we don't provoke anything, I imagine we'll be fine."

"You keep your studies sharp, as always."

There's an unfinished lilt to his voice at the end of his sentence, where years ago, the words 'my padawan' may have fit.

When the jedi council had been deciding where to place you as a youngling, you hadn't made the choice easy for them. You didn't have any decipherable talents. At least, not at first. You weren't skilled with a blade, nor with hand-to-hand combat, and you weren't a particularly quick study at meditation. You weren't *bad* at any of those things, just not as adept as your peers. Nothing about you stood out, so finding a master with whom to place you became an ongoing task.

At first, you were sent to spend time at the healing houses. Often if a youngling wasn't predisposed to combat, their healing abilities soon revealed themselves. After months of training, not even the faintest sign of a healing ability made itself known. After that followed new master after new master. You learned from all of them, picked up skills from each of them, but none had been able to bring out your true strength. Your only consistent abilities seemed to lie in making rash decisions and engaging in reckless behavior. And as you neared the age for knighthood, it was becoming more of a liability to the order with each passing day

Thankfully, the council decided to counteract your behavior with a jedi who was the embodiment of forethought and decorum: Master Kenobi. You thought of your new assignment as a punishment at first, being placed with one of the strictest masters in the order, but with time and patience, he had shown you how to connect with the force like no one ever had.

It was through his guidance that you had discovered your unique talent for mind tricks. Most jedi could control one person with a weak will. You, on the other hand... you could control whole rooms of people with nothing but a suggestion. You could influence the minds of those with stronger wills and higher intelligence. You could disappear into a crowd by hopping from one consciousness to another almost effortlessly. It was a very rare gift, and it made you the perfect Republic spy.

It also meant that your tutelage under Master Kenobi was short-lived. Once your exceptional talent was revealed and honed, you were soon urged by the council to take the trials. A part of you always wondered if the need for your specific skillset in the war effort had driven you to take the trials before you were ready. Nevertheless, you passed. You struggled terribly, but you passed. And you were soon inundated with intelligence missions. Many jedi worked in partnership with one another, but on your assignments, a partner was often a liability. Instead, over the years, you formed a network of contacts in some of the seediest places throughout the galaxy. It was crucial work leading to vital information, but it was also isolating.

So, when you were given an assignment on Oba Diah with your former master, it was welcome news. Your mission had been to spread a rumor within the Pyke Syndicate that someone was selling a rare jedi holocron on the black market, in order to draw the attention of Lord Tyranus. When Tyranus arrived on Oba Diah to investigate, an attack would be launched in an effort to capture him. But the jedi council hadn't been aware of how deeply in league with the Black Sun Clan the Pyke had become, and weren't aware of their full numbers, or their access to information. Your deception had been revealed, and as a result, you're now staring up at the peak of a mountain that's miles away, while trudging through hot, sticky jungle air.

You've been walking for hours at this point, hardly able to see in the dimming light, and you ignite your lightsaber for the dual purpose of lighting your way and cutting a few branches out of your path. "It's nearly dark. Maybe we should make camp soon."

Obi Wan nods, although he keeps walking, and you keep following. "You're right. We'll make better time when we can see where we're going."

He finally stops in a small clearing, pulling out his water ration and taking a drink. You pause as well, using your lightsaber to slowly walk around the area and inspect. The trees aren't so dense in this area. Once you clear the brush off ground, it should make a reasonable-

You cut your inspection short, hearing a loud cracking sound in the darkness. You lock eyes with Obi Wan.

"Yes, I sense it as well," he says, lowering his voice. He ignites his lightsaber and you take your automatic positions, backs to one another, as you peer into the darkness of the jungle. Something is out there. You can feel it watching you.

A ravenous snarl suddenly erupts nearby, as a creature twice your size lunges out of the vegetation at Obi Wan. He deftly moves to the side, dodging its enormous claws. The beast's eyes glitter in the green reflection of your saber. Its teeth are so large it can't even seem to entirely close its mouth, drool dripping onto the ground below.

As the beast circles you, searching for a weak point to attack, you look over the matted hair covering its body, its raked-back ears and its short, stunted nose. You don’t recall this species in your study of this planet's moon. It roars and launches itself toward you again, and you slash upward, singeing one of the tufts on its ears. The smell of burnt hair and flesh hangs in the humid air, and the creature howls in pain, scrambling back toward both of you.

Obi Wan force pushes the beast backward, but it uses its legs like a springboard, ricocheting off a tree to snap its jaws at his neck. Again, he dodges, but not quickly enough to avoid its claws, which manage to catch his shoulder. Obi wan returns the stab by driving his lightsaber through the creature's arm, which finally causes it to relent, letting out a screech of pain.

It shuffles backward, then quickly disappears back into the jungle, leaving as suddenly as it had arrived. The two of you remain on alert, panting and glancing around the trees surrounding the clearing, now completely pitch black. After a few moments, it seems the creature has no plan to return, and Obi wan sighs.

"Non-aggressive, I believe, were your exact words?"

You grimace. "Perhaps the archive could use an update on Keoth."

He gives you a slight raise of his eyebrows, turning to say something else, but grits his teeth when he moves his arm. You shine your light toward his shoulder, seeing the blood seeping through his clothing.

"We should clean that," you tell him. Though your voice holds concern, it isn't the first time you've seen him injured. And because you've seen him injured plenty of times before, you're aware he'll ignore his injuries until you start to waste time over it. So you wait, patiently, unmoving.

He pulls his pack down from his shoulders and drops it to the ground. "We only have two medpacs. I'm not certain it's necessary."

He waits for your response, but you don't give him one, so at last, he searches his bag until he finds a medpac. When you see that he appears willing to listen to you in this instance and he begins to open a medpack, you drop your own pack to the ground and busy yourself with starting a fire.

You clear a small area of the ground and cut down some branches. Then you use the heat of your blade to burn some kindling you make by cutting off the bottom fringe of your tunic. Within a few minutes, the fire is crackling and you turn your attention back to Obi Wan, who has prepared the bacta spray and is pulling off his clothing.

He's... you swallow. Your eyes are drawn to his skin as it's revealed, and all at once it occurs to you that you've never seen your master without a shirt on. Even during late nights, you've seen him in his bedclothes, but never... never like this.

He's facing away from you, already having removed his belt and tunic, and he's quickly and unceremoniously pulling his dark brown undershirt over his head, dropping it to the ground. Despite trying to focus on the claw marks, you can't help but stare at his golden skin, the muscles of his back tapering down to his narrow waist. Then, all at once, your eyes fixate on the tattoo that graces his shoulder.

You can feel the synapses in your brain as they short circuit. You don't recognize the symbol, just a black marking of some kind which you've never seen before.

It's at this moment he seems to feel your gaze and turns around, holding the bacta spray. You tear your eyes up from his bare chest to look him in the eyes. He raises his arm, turning to the side. "Is it quite deep? I can't tell."

You blink, trying to steel yourself and focus on the task at hand. The injury doesn't seem serious, just a surface level puncture. You shake your head. "It's not that bad. You've had worse."

You try to force a smile but you imagine it comes off as nervous. Your eyes keep darting up to the tattoo as he displays himself for you.

"You look concerned, Commander. I assure you, I'm fine." He lowers his arm, giving you a strange look.

You stifle a cough, caught staring. "No, I know. I was just surprised."

"Surprised?"

"Yes, your... tattoo. I, uh, didn't know you had one."

A look of understanding passes over his face. "Oh, that. Yes."

He looks a little shy, but still as unreadable as always. "I had it done when I was much younger; a padawan. At the beginning of my time with Master Qui Gon."

You finally manage to regain control of your expression. "I see. I would never have suspected."

He dabs at his wound with a medical pad, then starts to spray it down. "You would probably be disappointed to learn that many jedi choose to mark themselves as a sign of their culture or for other reasons. In that way, I'm not as unique as I would sometimes like to believe."

You shake your head. "I'm aware. I just... wouldn't have expected it from you."

He smiles a little, then winces when he places a gauze pad onto his skin. "It was... a different time in my life."

The fire pops loudly beside you, the noise pulling you out of your trance. You sweep some more underbrush off the ground, throwing it into the nearby bushes while keeping your gaze firmly on your work. When the ground is clear enough, you lay out your bed roll and try to ignore him while he pulls his undershirt back over his body.

When your breathing finally returns to normal, you're able to turn your thoughts to something safe, like food. You pull a supply bar out of your bag, break it in half, and hand the other half to Obi Wan.

"Thank you," he says. Then he stares at you for a moment. His eyes narrow and he takes a step to close the distance between you, reaching his free hand out to nearly touch the side of your face.

Your breathing becomes shallow again. "General...?"

"You might do well with some of this spray, yourself. Your head isn't looking much better after all this walking."

You realize he's staring at your injury and your shoulders relax a little. "Oh. Yeah, thanks."

You take the spray as he offers it, then change the dressing as well. When you've finished, you climb, exhausted, for many reasons, into your makeshift bed and close your eyes.

You feel Obi Wan settling into his bed roll beside you. "I will take first watch. Rest well. It seems this journey may be more difficult than we had anticipated."

You stare up at the leaves above your head. Yes, you think. Yes, it may.

Masterlist // Next Chapter >>

--

[celestial-specter]

Here I am again, for more in-depth analysis of The Bad Batch!!

Here you go, @skellymom :))

Aftermath’s battle simulation: How one scene reintroduces us to Clone Force 99, and possibly foreshadows later events in the series.

(Part 2)

As the simulation begins, Hunter orders Crosshair to ‘take the towers.’ Crosshair is thus the first to split off from the rest of the group, quickly climbing one of the towers. As I discussed in part 1, the higher levels in this scene represent the empire. To explain this idea further in reference to the towers themselves, in literature, towers have been used to represent strength, success, and power - all things which Crosshair personally craves. With all this in mind, this movement provides an early indication of Crosshair’s upcoming departure to climb the ranks of the empire. The climb itself is treacherous with no equipment, but Crosshair manages it with ease, quickly reaching the top level - just as he manages to rise to the level of Commander of his new imperial squad.

Once in position, Crosshair makes quick work of shooting and disabling the four towers. I have thought through several interpretations of what these four towers could represent, but my two personal favorites are:

The towers are a representation of Crosshair’s relationships with his four brothers; his disabling attack on each tower shows the severance of his ties to each brother.

The towers have a much more literal meaning, representing the four members of his own imperial squad that Crosshair later kills on this same training ground.

Meanwhile, at Hunter’s order, the rest of the squad push further into the training ground, leaving Crosshair behind on the tower.

When the battle seems to be taking ‘too long,’ Wrecker charges in alone to take down the droids, unconcerned about the danger to himself. Tech does briefly reach out to stop him, but then does not seem to be worried for his brother either, rolling his eyes as he watches from behind the barrier. While we do not see the reactions of the others during this moment, I assume they also were largely passive towards Wrecker’s antics. To me, this carefree attitude is similar in tone to the first few episodes of the series, in which the batch remain largely unaware of the danger they are in from the empire, and Wrecker begins exhibiting symptoms of his inhibitor chip activating. They remain unaware of this huge risk until the episode Battle Scars, in which Rex reveals the truth about the chips.

The composition of the shot in which Wrecker asks Tarkin for more droids to battle is also interesting - Wrecker is naturally larger than the rest of his squad due to his strength-based enhancements, and most shots we see of him are composed to enhance his size (e.g. placing him beside much smaller characters such as Omega). As far as I am aware, this is the only shot we have seen which purposely makes Wrecker look physically small - the height from which Tarkin is viewing him at does most of the work, but this is furthered by none of his brothers being beside him for comparison.

Tarkin himself is not a man of physically imposing stature - this is made obvious when the audience sees him beside the Kaminoans. So, the framing of this shot, with Tarkin appearing to be much bigger than Wrecker, makes the usually giant clone appear almost… doll like.

This shot, as seen below, could be interpreted simply as Tarkin looking down on all clones, viewing them as unworthy of service in the new empire. While I agree this is definitely relevant, I believe it is only a piece of a larger problem. Even in the time of the Republic, many nat-born officers viewed clones simply as cannon-fodder - as in, they were created and thus, expected, to die for their army. But, as we saw in The Clone Wars, many Jedi formed close bonds with their clone battalions, and were instrumental in the clones forming their own identities outside of their lives as soldiers.

Now, with the Jedi order destroyed, imperial officers such as Tarkin, and later Hemlock, are free to treat clones as they wish; simply as toys to be played with for their own entertainment, and to be discarded as soon as they are no longer useful.

When Tarkin then orders the use of live rounds, Wrecker encounters a force even stronger than himself, which the audience can see takes him by surprise. This definitively foreshadows the activation of Wrecker’s inhibitor chip - as the ‘muscle’ of the team, it is likely rare he ever encountered an opponent he couldn’t fight off before, and yet both here, and on Bracca, he was caught off guard and suffered as a result.

When Wrecker is shot by the droid in his right shoulder and flung to the ground, it is Tech who puts himself at risk to move from behind the barrier and drag Wrecker out of danger. This mirrors how he is the first member of the squad and the most at risk of physical harm when Wrecker’s chip first activates. Interestingly, Wrecker is shot in the exact same place that Crosshair later shoots him in during their standoff in the hangar. As Wrecker would be viewed by many as the heart of the squad, having him end up injured in both of these scenarios is a good way to highlight that these moments are strong emotional turning points for the batch and their story.

Seeing that his brothers are now in active danger, Crosshair begins to shoot the new droids firing live rounds, still in his position atop the tower. When the droids then turn their attention on him, the shots they fire damage the tower Crosshair is standing upon. He abandons his post, hanging precariously over the edge of the tower for a moment before sliding down to the ground level. These moments could reference Crosshair realization that the empire does not care about any of the clones, leading to his decision to shoot Lieutenant Nolan, thus abandoning his imperial service and falling back to the very same low societal level that he began with, and that his brothers still occupy.

Once back on the ground, Crosshair returns to Echo and Hunter, but they immediately must move behind a barrier to avoid being shot. Pinned down, Crosshair’s sarcastic commentary during this moment shows he is beginning to lose faith in their ability to complete the simulation successfully. Echo comments that their training blasters are useless against the new droids- each member of the team is already aware of this fact, yet Echo being the one to vocalize it shows he likely accepts new information faster than the rest of his brothers (a notable progression in Echo’s character development since his first appearance in The Clone Wars). As such, Echo is the first member of the team to recognize the breadth and power of the new empire, and the consequences it will have for the clones. He is also the first to begin actively fighting against it by joining Rex’s clone rebellion.

[burnwater13]

Moff Gideon holds the Darksaber over Grogu's head, while Din Djarin (out of frame) looks on. Image from The Mandalorian, Season 2, Episode 8, Redemption. Calendar by DateWorks.

What Do You Know?

Grogu supposed the Mandalorian thought he was afraid. Moff Gideon was standing right there holding the energized Darksaber right over his head. It probably looked scary. It definitely sounded scary. But Grogu knew something that Moff Gideon didn’t know. He wasn’t afraid of lightsabers. Not even one being held over his head. After all, he could see it. He could sense it. It was real. Which meant it could be defeated.

That was one of the first lessons younglings were taught. How to recognize and guard against the improper use of a lightsaber. It made sense. The Jedi weapon was dangerous in ways that blasters and disruptors were not. They were personal weapons and that meant you would be fighting another person, not a droid or some automated defense system. That meant you could use knowledge to overcome skill. 

One of the first things you were taught during that lesson was that when a lightsaber was still, you didn’t have to move. You used that time to study your opponent. What did you have that they wanted? What did they have that you could use against them? Were there objects that you could hide behind or use as shields. Your first job was collect as much situational data as possible. It was always to your advantage.

One of the next things you were taught was if the blade was moving,  you could take action on the person holding it with a higher rate of success, then attacking the blade itself. Push their hand back toward them. Pull their feet out from under them. Use those objects you identified in that space to block them.

Grogu’s personal plan was to use the cape Moff Gideon wore to blind him, wrap him up like a ronto ration and then turn the dang thing off and slip out of the binders, if he had to. That’s right. If Grogu could use the Force to lift up a mudhorn, he could definitely lift up the cape, the Moff, and the lightsaber itself. The binders wouldn’t stop that from happening, but it was to Grogu’s benefit to let Moff Gideon think they would. Just like it was to Grogu’s benefit to let the Moff think he was all tired out from throwing those stormtroopers around. He wasn’t. He just wanted the ex-Imp Warlord to think he was. 

Of course a lot of those same lessons had applied to many of the people Grogu had to work with and through, including the Mandalorian. The bounty hunter had been mystified by the mudhorn, but not afraid. He’d been incapacitated during their initial fight with Moff Gideon on Nevarro, so he had no idea what Grogu had done to that stormtrooper or their flame thrower. But then neither had Moff Gideon. Maybe it was the shock trooper. Maybe it was the bounty guild leader knowing more about the building’s systems. Maybe it was the assassin droid. The point was to keep those ‘maybes’ playing out for as long as possible. Uncertainty could be your friend if you knew how to take advantage of it. 

On Gideon’s ship it hadn’t been easy to sit there while he and the  Mandalorian began to spar. Grogu still needed both men to think that he was defenseless. It would be harder for Grogu to fight Gideon directly if the Mandalorian was distracted by the change in their roles. He didn’t want his friend to fear him and be driven into that unpredictable panic that often gripped people who couldn’t believe their own eyes. 

Yes, he considered the Mandalorian his friend despite the fact that they were rarely in agreement on what steps to take next and how to effectuate the change they both wanted to see in the galaxy. The Mandalorian was trained to be a warrior and relied on that training not just on the battlefield but during the more mundane aspects of life as well. Which caused Grogu no end of irritation, annoyance, and trouble.

Grogu had been trained to be a diplomat and a defender of life while maintaining balance within the Force. It wasn’t easy and he hadn’t been able to finish his training thanks to the people who created the environment that allowed Moff Gideon to survive despite the end of the Empire. Grogu would rather understand the problem and find ways to resolve it peacefully and without the loss of additional lives. He’d learned from the Mandalorian that there were people you couldn’t negotiate with and sometimes you had to identify who should be brought in cold for the sake of all the other people being able to remain warm.

Which meant that Grogu couldn’t just settle down on Nevarro or Tatooine and pretend that everything was settled. He had to carry on with the work of the Jedi and if he had to do that, a Mandalorian made for an excellent, if unwitting, ally. They would find a way to work together. 

They both had to pay attention to what they saw, and felt, and learned. They couldn’t take anything for granted. They couldn’t assume and they couldn’t ignore. They had to put aside their own feelings and continue to do the work. It wasn’t easy and Grogu knew that he needed to the Force to be with him as much as the Mandalorian needed the strength of his Creed so they could both go the right way. The people of the galaxy were depending on them, whether they knew it or not.

[425599167]

When discussing Barriss, I think moral injury is very important to understanding her character. The feeling that you have done something morally wrong, and it was completely unjustifiable and unnecessary.

One frequent criticism of how she was developed is that her violent actions make no sense for such a compassionate character, but that is the point. Barriss has done things, or seen other Jedi do things, which completely go against what she believes in. Attacking the Jedi wasn't her first betrayal, it followed from Barriss feeling she's betrayed herself by fighting in this war.

Jedi are not strict pacifists, but they seek nonviolent paths which won't cost life and therefore harm the Force. Barriss, both in her specialization as a healer and judging from her contemplative personality, would be even more inclined towards nonviolence. That's not an option for her. She was given the rank of commander and told to lead soldiers into battle. Then she has to use her healing powers to patch up the same soldiers who were injured while following her orders, if they survived at all.

Like this clone from Ahsoka's memories, wounded and appreciative of some small amount of contact received from a friend. Ahsoka has the traumatizing task of leaving that clone behind and then moving on to the next battle. Barriss got the contrasting but also traumatizing task of remaining with such clones and tending to their wounds. And then moving on to the next battle.

Ironically, tragically, Barriss's compassion is working against her. She isn't acting like a compassionate healer anymore because she can't believe she still is one.

[chaioticcoffee]

A/N: what no I'm not cringing at this

listen idk what this is I'm sorry if its wonky I made it on a whim I'm 💀💀💀 also I KNOW that I'm gonna be back to edit this like at least 10 times BUT SHHH

we dont talk abt the fact that I wrote this even tho I convinced myself that Tech isnt dead

on another note, I'll go back to ignoring canon now

again, sorry if there are any english mistakes hhhhh

Reunited in Death

Tech x Jedi!Reader (gender not specified)

_______________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

He didn't know where he was, really. It seemed like a void, but bright.

The last thing he remembered, he had collided with the hard ground after severing the connection hinge. It was painful, but the agony also went away swiftly, leaving behind a faint phantom pain.

His only logical conclusion was that perhaps he was alive, but most likely in some sort of coma and his mind has trapped him in here.

"Hello, my love." His thoughts were interrupted once he heard an all too familiar voice from behind him and he turned around swiftly to assess whether he should be concerned about the issue or not.

You could see his eyes widen behind his goggles when his eyes finally caught yours, those same eyes he hasn't seen ever since Order 66 came through.

"(Y/N)?" Now he was convinced that his mind was playing tricks on him.

The calculating and searching for an answer to this situation was very visible on his face and you couldn't help but let out a chuckle. He's still the same, even if he looked more tired. "The Force works in mysterious ways, do you remember that?"

"I... do.. However, I am.. not force-sensitive, as are you and the rest of the Jedis." Stars, hearing just how lost Tech seemed at that moment, it truly broke your heart.

"The statement still stands, cyare." You take a couple steps towards him.

"So... I am truly dead, then?"

A breath.

"Yes."

His eyes shift to his feet first, before slowly moving to look behind him, as if he could still see his squad behind him, Hunter's hand on his shoulder and his brothers and his sister looking at him with the same smile they had once they found that peaceful place of Pabu and saw Omega finally having fun.

He is once again brought back from his racing mind when he feels you take both of his hands in yours, your body in front of him, facing him.

"Tech, you did wonderful, okay? There's nothing you could have done otherwise. They're going to be okay, I know it. Now it's time for you to finally rest, and calm your mind."

Your arms circle around his waist, and Tech is unsure how to react. Is this real? Why was this happening? Was this really you? How was he supposed to believe this? How was he supposed to rest, when he knew the empire still have Crosshair, when he left his family behind? Everything was just so much to process at once, even for someone like Tech.

So Tech focused on the only for he did know. And that one thing, was that you were here with him, holding him and speaking to him after all this time apart. He will think about rest when his mind is clearer, no matter if you're real or not, because right now, you were the only thing grounding him.

So he returns your embrace, buries his face in into your shoulder, and finally allows himself to breathe.