#and then Knuckles runied it!

[multiisketch]

For boom revisited. Just how aware is Sonic (as in mentally) while he's roboticized?

I've answered this previously here, Redfire! To elaborate further for you, it's like he's experiencing an intense dream. He's vaguely aware of what's occurring and somewhat able to influence his actions (being clumsy). He knows the choices he's making in this "dream" aren't things he'd do consciously, but it's extremely difficult for him to decide to do something different. Especially with Eggman's influence over him.

Sonic' intelligence is suppressed and deferring to Eggman for instruction. His heart, however, fights strong.

[queen--kenobi]

Seven Sentence Sunday. Or, more accurately, short scene Sunday in my case

Thank you for the tag @selfproclaimedunicorn !

Have a little scene from my Warden of the West Elayna AU. I've only had Alaryc for about a week, but he's one of my favorite OCs already

"House Lefford swore an oath to House Reyne. Not to you. I follow Elayna. If she bends the knee to Aegon, I will. If she decides bend the knee to Rhaenyra, I will too." Alaryc looks Aemond in the eyes as he speaks. His voice stays measured and even. Somehow, despite his calm and almost placid demeanour, his words feel ominous.

Aemond tilts his head ever so slightly to the side.

"Are you threatening me?"

Alaryc shakes his head. "No. I'm letting you know where I stand." Alaryc stops. He eyes Aemond, inspects him. Aemond stares back at him. His knuckles turn white as his fingers dig into his forearms. Alaryc finishes his quiet assessment. He turns back to look out at the sea.

Tag list: @baba-fett @galacticgraffiti @writingbylee @ner-runi @wild-karrde

[obxismylife2]

Savior (Rafe Cameron x y/n)

You're probably wondering what my parents' reaction was when they got home. Rafe told them about the rape, but with my consent because I couldn't do it. Well, they were worried about me the whole time they were gone on their second honeymoon, so it's a wonder they didn't squeeze me when they got home.

Of course, they both thanked the Camerons for taking care of me, and they especially thanked Rafe for keeping an eye on me the whole 14 days. I thanked him too, of course, because sometimes it messed up his plans, but he protected me in spite of it. Basically, we spent almost all of our personal time together.

Except he's been avoiding me for the past 3 months because whenever I wanted to see him I was told he was out somewhere and whenever I ran into him and he saw me he'd walk away. I don't know why, did I do something to him? I'd like to talk to him, but I'm not having any luck reaching him at home.

Right now John and I are on a boat trip, we wanted some time to ourselves to talk like brother and sister. We're not siblings by the way, he's just the brother I've never had. We've been lying around talking for about two hours now.

"Wow, the sun's going down, you want a ride home?" John asked, getting up to stretch his back. "You'd better" I put on a t-shirt and shorts as we also took a swim and John drove me to his cabin. We got in the Twinkie and drove to my house. At home I said hello to my parents and went upstairs to my room to take a shower when I noticed the lights were on in Rafe's room. I didn't hesitate for a second and ran out of the house to the Cameron's where Wheezie answered the door.

"Hi y/n" she hugged me and I hugged her back. "Hey Wheezie, listen is your brother home?" I asked immediately, not wanting to waste a second. "Rafe? No he's not, but Sarah said he should be here any minute. Come in, you can wait for him in his room" she stepped aside so I could step inside.

"Thank you" I patted her head and walked towards the stairs. "Yeah and I'll be in the living room if anything happens" she managed to yell at me before I climbed the stairs and entered Rafe's room. He must have forgotten to turn off the light, no one was here. It didn't look like it always did because he always kept the place kind of tidy, but now it looked like no one had been here in a while.

Clothes, stationery, papers, all strewn all over the room. Even the lamp from his desk had been dropped on the floor. Only his credit card was on the desk. I picked it up and noticed there was a little white powder on one edge.

I noticed something running across the bathroom floor. I turned on the light and saw drops of blood leading up to the sink where most of it was, and then a broken mirror caught my attention. There was Rafe's fist print in the middle from which cracks wound their way to the edges of the mirror. It looked like someone had hit it with all their might and cut themselves from the shards left in their knuckles, hence the drops of blood.

This is not good.

I was a little sick of the blood. Suddenly my phone started vibrating in my pocket. Rafe. I immediately clicked on the accept icon.

"Rafe! Thank God you-" "Hi, little flower," I could tell who it was from the voice. Barry. The person who runied Rafe's life and also r&p€d me. "You're probably wondering why I have Rafe's phone, the answer is easy. He owes me for merchandise and he hasn't paid up. The poor guy is now lying here in a pool of blood waiting for your salvation" I was shaking all over and slid down the wall to the floor.

"Y/n?" I suddenly heard Rafe's voice, but it didn't sound like it usually did. It was like Rafe was beaten and barely got my name out. "Please don't do anything he tells you to do" I suddenly heard a thump, Barry probably punched him and the sound was made by Rafe.

"I want you to bring me $75,000 in an hour or I'll shoot him. I'll send you the address" he didn't wait for my answer and hung up.

What the hell is going on again? And why me? Relax, y/n, calm down. Rafe's in danger. I have to act fast!

Within seconds, I got a text from an unknown number with an address. I noticed Rafe's car keys on the table, so I grabbed them, took a deep breath, and went home. Normally, I'd borrow my parents' car, but it's in the repair shop. The whole engine needs to be replaced.

Luckily, I didn't meet Wheezie or my parents. Back in my room, I grabbed my credit card and headed to the bank. I pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and when I was in front of the bank, I ran out of the car and smashed the front door. I ran up to the counter all out of breath.

"I need to withdraw $75,000 right away" luckily I had money in my own account to pay for college, but in the end I didn't want to continue my education. I was saving it for a major event, like a new place to live or a car, but I'd have to wait for that. Right now, my friend is more important.

"And the name?" The lady behind the counter asked some more questions about my account, then handed it to me in an envelope. "Thank you, you are someone's rescue" the lady was very nice and gave me a smile before I ran off. I threw the envelope on the passenger seat, started the car and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. I used the car's navigation to find the place I needed to go and within 20 minutes I was there.

As I grabbed the envelope, all of a sudden the glove box opened and a gun fell out. Jesus, Rafe! But it'll come in handy. I tucked it into the back of my shorts belt, put the envelope in my pocket and got out of the car. I was standing in front of a large and probably abandoned building. It had no windows at all, either the glass was broken or there were none. I turned on the flashlight on my phone and walked inside.

There were cobwebs everywhere, cracked rotten wood almost falling on my head and one beam almost killed me. Luckily I jumped in time, but again I almost choked on the dust that rose from the ground when the beam hit the ground. There was nothing downstairs, it was covered with beams and everything, so I went upstairs.

I was in some huge hall, and at the far end was a room with lights in it. Rafe! I immediately ran out and when I entered the room I saw Rafe lying in a pool of blood that was dripping from his nose and eyebrows, he was unconscious.

"Rafe!" I screamed and tried to run to him, but Barry stopped me with a gun to my forehead. Suddenly, I was back to the fear I had when he r&p€d me. My knees started to shake, my palms were sweating and my throat was dry.

"Money first, little flower" with shaking hands I slowly pulled the envelope with the money out of my pocket and handed it to him. He accepted the envelope and started to open it, not taking his eyes off me. My hands were still raised to my head and when he miscalculated he smiled at me tucked the envelope into his back pocket and continued to point the gun at me.

"Good to see you again flower, how about a repeat of last time?" He stepped closer to me until I was almost on the wall. "Don't you dare touch her!" suddenly Rafe knocked Barry to the ground until he actually knocked the gun out of his hand. Barry was on the ground and Rafe was sitting on top of him, punching him a shard as he was able to.

Suddenly they rolled over and this time Barry was on top. He started punching Rafe with his fists, I couldn't watch it so I pushed Barry to get him to fall off Rafe.

Only he grabbed my arm, so I fell with him and ended up underneath him. He grabbed me below the neck and started choking me. I tried to get his hands off of me with both hands, but unfortunately for me he was stronger.

"You shouldn't have teased me flower" he gripped my neck even tighter and I could almost see the darkness. Luckily for me Rafe wasn't unconscious and threw Barry away from me. I took a deep breath and tried to catch my breath. I had to clear my throat and roll over onto my stomach so I could breathe normally again.

When I looked at the fight next to me, I saw Barry beating Rafe. I picked up Rafe's gun and fired it at the ceiling. Barry got scared and got off Rafe. He was unconscious. I knelt down next to him and tried to wake him up.

"Rafe? Rafe can you hear me? Rafe please wake up" Tears streamed down my cheeks as I tried to wake Rafe up with little slaps.

"Rafe please don't do this to me" still nothing. With every passing second that I failed to wake him up, I was losing hope of ever seeing him happy and full of life again. Or that we'd go out again, to the movies, to the beach, to Charleston. It was like a piece of me was dying before my very eyes.

"Rafe please, I need you" after those words, one slap was all it took to finally wake him up. He slowly opened his eyes and frowned when he saw me.

"Are you okay?" Rafe let out, rolling onto his side to clear his throat. Drops of blood appeared on the ground. He's bleeding internally. Suddenly, I heard police sirens in the distance.

"You bitch, you brought backup, huh?" Barry pointed his gun at me. I did the same thing which he didn't expect and I fired right next to him as a warning. "I'm not afraid of you anymore." "Then you're gonna pay for this." he unholstered his gun and pulled the trigger.

Well, that's the end of me. I didn't even get to say goodbye to my parents, the pogues, and Rafe. At least I can protect him like this. I closed my eyes and resigned myself to my fate. I felt Rafe grab my shoulders and pull me down. I opened my eyes and saw a growing red spot on his chest.

When I realized what had happened I laid him on his back and tried to stop his bleeding chest with my hand. "Y/n" he couldn't speak, the bullet had probably punctured his lung, a stream of blood was pouring from his mouth.

"Rafe hang in there you'll be okay, just please stay with me" Barry meanwhile ran downstairs where the cops caught him, I know because I heard them calling for him to get down on the ground.

"Go to this address, I have all my savings stored there. It's....all yours. And the house is in your name, so you can live in it" He handed me the note with the address, which was now covered in blood, and closed it in my palm. "What?" I was completely confused. What savings? What house? And written in my name?

"I love you y/n, I tried to tell you before but I didn't want to rush it" I couldn't even see anymore, tears filled my eyes so much my vision blurred. I pressed one hand against Rafe's chest to keep him from bleeding and stroked his hair with the other.

He lifted his hand and stroked my cheek. It took a lot of strength, but he did it anyway. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and smiled. Then his eyes closed and his hand fell back to the floor. That's when the police burst in.

"Stand back miss," one of the cops pushed me away and immediately two others rushed over and pushed him to the spot where Barry had shot him. The cop led me out of the building and put me in an ambulance that was parked a short distance from the building.

"Are you okay, miss? Are you all right?" The young paramedic spoke to me, checking my eyes. The other one took my blood pressure and then threw a blanket over me.

"We're going to take you to the hospital," one of the doctors in the ambulance said as he sat me down on a gurney. The other closed the door and got behind the wheel. "Please there's another person inside, you have to save him" I cried there and he grabbed my shoulders and looked intently into my eyes.

"Calm down miss, the paramedics are already with him" we arrived at the hospital within minutes and I was taken to the emergency room. "Miss (your full name), born in (the year of your birth), abrasions, hematomas in the neck area, probably in shock" the paramedic said, handing some paper to the doctor.

"Okay, thank you" the paramedics left and the doctor gave me the same examination as the paramedic. "You look fine, we'll just keep you here overnight for observation because of your shock" the doctor said and then the nurse took me to my room.

"Nurse, will you please inform me when a young boy with a gunshot wound to the chest is brought in?" "What is your relationship with him?" "He's my boyfriend" I said without thinking and she put an IV in my vein.

"That's so beautiful, young love. He's been transferred to the OR now so you'll have to wait" She put the little pin that monitors heart activity on my finger and then left.

I couldn't sleep at all. The other day went out of my room and into the corridor. I looked around to see what floor I was on. I went to the elevators and noticed a sign that said 5. Floor. I took the elevator down and went to the front desk.

"Hello, could you please tell me where Rafe Cameron is?" I blurted out to the receptionist. "You arrived just before him, are you his girlfriend?" A young pretty girl asked. About my age. "Yes, I am."

"Rafe Cameron, 5th floor, room 114" she replied. "Thank you so much" I ran back to the elevators and wanted to press the button with number 5 on it but the nurse, who took care of me spoke up. "Hello y/n y/l/n, are you going to see him?" I nodded and she walked over to me and put a four-leaf clover shaped key ring in my hand.

"It's always brought me happiness, it brought a wonderful man into my life and I have a family with him. All my dreams have come true, so hopefully it will bring you that happiness too" I looked at it. It just fit in my palm, it was silver, it had a hallmark on the other side and it was a beautiful green color, like well watered grass.

"Thank you" I hugged her with emotion and then pressed the button to call the elevator. I stepped inside and pressed the number 5 button.

"Yeah and he should wake up today" she managed to say before the door closed. Wake up? Today? I smiled with joy and ran out of the elevator. I found Rafe's room and opened the door. He was still asleep. I closed the door behind me and sat in the chair next to him. I held the four-leaf clover in one hand and Rafe's hand in the other.

Please God, I pray to you that Rafe is okay.

I let go of his hand and brushed away the strands of hair that had fallen from his face. When I looked at him, he suddenly looked so beautiful. I've never had that happen before.

I remembered finding him lying on the ground in a pool of blood. It hurt me inside, Rafe's not a bad person, he's just misunderstood and looking for comfort, that's why he's doing drugs. It makes him feel powerful, capable of anything, but I'm gonna help him out. I'm not gonna let him ruin his life like that.

I'll never meet another person as kind and selfless in my life. I can't lose him, and I'll take care of it. I'll take care of him.

Suddenly, it's like a light went on in my stomach. The damaged butterflies seem to have recovered from their breakup with JJ and have a new lease on life. Like wild horses running for freedom in the open spaces that are their home. They have a home where they feel happy and safe. That's how I feel about Rafe. God sent him to look after me and make me happy. He's my guardian angel.

I kept looking at him and admiring his beauty. Detail by detail, he was etched in my mind. The longer I looked at him, the more I remembered every part of his facial features.

Suddenly, someone squeezed my hand. I looked down at my wrist and saw Rafe's hand.

[terrific-togekiss]

2010s Sonic Fandom Things...

- Mixed reactions over the loss of the entire 4Kids voice cast except Mike Pollock.

- Sonic is dead.

- "Sonic hasn't had the BEST transition into 3D."

- "IGN is NOT biased towards Sonic The Hedgehog."

- Sonic Lost World reviews confirming they are indeed biased.

- Praising Sonic Colors as the best Sonic game in years.

- Wishing the Wisps only stayed in Sonic Colors.

- Blaming Sonic Unleashed for the cancelation of a new Jet Set Radio.

- Sonic 06 always being brought up when anything new comes out.

- Wondering when Sonic The Hedgehog 4: Episode 3 will come out.

- The immense joy out of Classic Sonic returning in Sonic Generations!

- Sonic Generations leading fans into thinking the franchise has a bright future.

- Crisis City in Sonic Generations... Does that make Sonic 06 canon?

- Two words: Homing Missile.

- Wondering why Adventure!Sonic isn't in Sonic Generations.

- Wondering why Steve Irkel isn't voicing Classic Sonic.

- Sega mandates.

- The Two Worlds.

- "HUMANS RUNIED SONIC THE HEDGEHOG!"

- Hatred for Ken Penders increasing.

- Saying goodbye to the Archie Sonic comics.

- RALLY4SALLY.

- Shadow being written as a one note jerk and no one liking it.

- Sonic 06 defenders.

- Sonic Lost World being revealed.

- No likes the Deadly Six.

- Tails' character getting worse.

- Seeing the first reveal trailer for Sonic Boom and immediately getting hyped. Especially over the dubstep music.

- Begging Sega to bring back song Sonic Boom from Sonic CD for Sonic Boom.

- "Why is everyone wearing sports tape? Why are Sonic's arms blue?"

- Sticks The Badger being compared to Marine The Raccoon and being mistaken as her.

- Knuckles getting the most blatant redesign and sticking out like a sore thumb.

- Fanart of every Sonic character not in Sonic Boom (yet).

- Wondering when Sonic Paradox will release Sega Shorts.

[flowers-of-io]

#1 Ghost Stories

It was a very unfair Crucible match, three against five, and Runi even suggested giving it away. But the Titan only cracked her knuckles, and the Warlock unsheathed a burning sword, and the game was on. They even won—barely, by a point or two, but Shaxx still yelled as if they’d beat the other team into the ground. Mórrigan shook some dust off her crimson spikes as the Warlock rose from a pile of broken metal.

“Your Guardian cheated,” Hsa Lai accused her, eye narrowed scoldingly.

“We won,” she tilted on her axis, and the gilded scar across her optic glittered in the sunlight. He huffed. They all went out for beer later, to celebrate the victory, and the Hunter even drank enough to start speaking.

That was the first time. Hsa Lai’s deep blue admonishment and Mórrigan’s red fervency, the edge to Runi’s tone that his round shell lacked. Their Guardians huddled together in camps and at tables, and they watched, vigilant, always a shadowed presence. Sometimes they talked, too.

A fireteam, Eris had said, is whom you are ready to give your life for when you fight side by side. Runi watched Shinon descend in a coat of flame, sword drawn and eyes burning, and Cyle cast a ward of dawn as the building came crashing down as a rain of fire and metal. They had come here only because Ór had asked. No one they despised was in this building, no blazing hatred or binding duty had led them to do this; she had only asked, and they trusted her, and came.

A battle, then. The cold and noise and Hive, roar of cannons and mortars like the Moon itself howling. Shinon kneeled behind a crate hissing at a broken arm, bullets flying close enough she could feel the wind on her face.

“This isn’t working,” she managed.

“Hold still.” Mórrigan emerged, and her shell expanded with Light, “They’re close, but Zavala—”

Something jammed into her and sent her crashing into the wall of the crate. A Knight’s sword came down right in the place she had just hovered in, cutting through the still shimmering cloud of Light.

“You’re suicidal,” Hsa Lai said, his blue shell disheveled. One of the spikes was cracked, and his eye blazed with angry relief.

Shinon raised the half-healed arm and aimed, fired, cried when the recoil shook her body. The Knight collapsed into smoke and bones. Mórrigan looked up, and her scar glittered again when she very gently bumped her shell into Hsa Lai’s.

[di-kut]

Baar Bal Runi Chapter Thirteen

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive!Reader

Words: 5K

Summary: (Body Swap AU) The journey to Barab I through hyperspace gives Din and the child time to heal from the attack on Oseon, and time for you to talk. 

Rating: T

A/N: We’re getting so close to the end now I can’t believe it. Thank you again to everyone who has been sending messages, or responding to any of the other chapters! I see you and I love you! And if I haven’t gotten around to responding to your lovely messages yet know I have seen them and I am getting there! I hope you are all happy and safe wherever you are in the world. 💕

At light speed Barab I is three weeks from the Oseon cluster. There is enough reward money for you to pay the woman who runs the dock on the small moon, and to restock with food and fuel and water. You leave quickly, and Din forces himself to rise and sit with you in the cockpit while you steer the Crest into the hyperlane. Sits pale faced and swaying in the co-pilot chair, bloodless knuckles gripping the console as you manoeuvre. You have to help him back the short distance to the captain’s quarters for him to rest next to the sleeping child. He moves more and more every day, but you feel the pulsing of his frustration in the air all around you – unable to stand without growing pale, unable to climb the ladder without growing breathless and weak. You change the bandages with him every day and the bacta helps the pinkness of the skin around the mangled scar to fade to a mottled white and purple, but it does not seem to help with much more.

You sit up in the cockpit at night with the child nestled in your lap, only the sound of his soft, sweet breathing against your stomach and his tiny weight. You flick through article after article on your holopad, away from Din so the light from the screen doesn’t disturb his sleep, looking for anything – any mention of green planets, of the child and his people, of souls. But there is nothing, nothing more solid than the Barabel and his stories. Beside you the ship computer shows the distance to Barab I and on the screen next to it the glowing light of the green planet, its coordinates getting further and further away. You watch the measure as it ticks over, eyes glassed and unseeing, until you reach out and snap the screen off. Turn back to your articles. But you can’t make yourself focus on that either, on anything. You are thinking about the endless blackness inside the barrel of Din’s blaster, pointed between your eyes. At the murky dust in the cave room on the green planet. Feel the panic begin to rise in your chest and fill your throat like bile, taste it on the back of your tongue.

And then it ends.

The lingering of the panic makes your hands shake, and the movement in your lap is so small you think it might be nerves. But the child coos and you feel the little hand which has slipped under your light undershirt curl against your warm skin. Two dark eyes blink up at you, reflect the rippling of hyperspace like molten silver. You almost miss the console when you push your holopad aside, nearly send it clattering to the floor. Bundle the child tightly in his blanket and lift him beneath your uncovered chin. Feel his hand find a grip in the scratching beard along your jaw. Feel the panic still there in that tiny touch, and the relief.

“Oh, my poor boy,” you murmur to his head. Close your eyes and breath in the familiar smell of him. Feel more things settle and begin to make sense. “It’s you. It’s you dreaming about that awful place.”

The child makes a little cry, and his feet kick against your arm. His hand tries to pull closer at your face and you lift him higher, so you can look at his eyes. So he can see you. The child’s chin is wobbling, his ears quivering. Even in the dim light you can see he’s pale, that his cheeks have none of their usual heat, and your heart breaks for him. His hands reach out, grabbing and imploring, and the emotion he shares with you is so needing and sore that you obey without thinking, lean your forehead against his and sigh when his little hands rest against either of your temples. Fill with bubbling, gentle warmth. You stay with him, hunched in your chair, feel the nubs of his forehead pressed against yours. Let everything finally fall into a place of contentment. Din is alive, and healing, and the child is awake. The thickness at the back of your throat now only from some overwhelming happiness, the press of the child against your forehead not lost on you. An acceptance which you had never thought to get.

The child coos quietly, eventually, and you lift your head from his. Know without him having to ask what he wants. You wrap him again in his warm blanket and let him curl against your chest and the crook of your elbow. Leave the cockpit and the rippling of hyperspace behind and slip quietly into the dark room where Din sleeps. Wait until the door is closed again and settle at the edge of the cot, stare at the faded shape of him beneath the covers, rolled onto his good side.

“Din,” you whisper.

The child begins to wriggle in your grasp, so you set him down on the cot. You rest a hand on Din’s leg and shake him very gently, mindful of his scar, mindful of how tired he is. Know he would not want to miss the child waking again. You say his name again when he doesn’t rouse, and this time he shifts, burrows himself deeper into the covers. Reaches for you – still half asleep. His hand grasping blindly at your fingers against his leg until he manages to tangle them together. Mutters your name and tugs at you. Tries to pull you with him into the bed as he begins to drift again. The child bounces himself along the mattress, slaps both of his hands down against your thigh impatiently when Din’s breathing becomes slow and heavy with sleep again.

“Din.” You tug at his hand, shuffle along the covers to sit closer. “The baby is awake.”

Din mumbles something into the pillow.

You smile, lift the child up from where he is climbing back into your lap to press a soft kiss to the top of his head and let his hands grip the collar of your shirt. Listen to the baby babble as the child squirms in your grip. And then you set him down again on the bed next to Din. He rolls and kicks and clambers to his feet. Waddles the distance to Din’s shoulder and sinks against it, catching the blanket in his fingers and tugging, kicking, trying to climb higher and only succeeding in slipping along his belly.

It’s the child’s giggling which finally wakes him. Din moves, his head turning and then slowly his shoulders, so he doesn’t roll onto the child. Chuckles weakly when the child finally hauls himself up and squirms up higher onto Din’s chest. You lift him a little from below his feet to help him, and to keep him away from the scar at Din’s side. But the child only giggles again and squeals as he slips down towards Din’s face, reaches for his hair and his jaw. Cooing louder when Din laughs with him and babbling more, turning back to look at you as well. Bounces in excitement when you tweak the end of his ear playfully and pat his back.

“Ad’ika,” Din sighs. Brushes his finger down the child’s round little cheek.

The child bounces again when Din speaks. You tighten your hold at his back. “Careful, little guy.”

“He’s okay.” Din lets out a watery laugh and lifts the child up, lifts his head from the pillow to press his forehead to the child’s as you had. He rests one hand heavy on the child’s back and the other seeks yours. Din holds your hand so tightly that your knuckles crack in his grip. “He’s not hurting me.”

You settle down against the bed with them when Din pulls your hand again, and you stretch yourself against his side. Tuck your head to his shoulder and listen to the babble of the child speaking. Feel Din unwind his fingers from yours only to brush them through your hair, along your scalp. Soothing and absent. Din murmurs back to the child sometimes when he pauses, sometimes in basic and sometimes in Mando’a, sometimes asking you what you think as well, laughing when you mumble against his shoulder.

“He let me do it, Din.” You fiddle with the edge of his shirt, yours eyes closed as his finger’s work gently at the crown of your head. “Kov���nynir.”

“Of course he did.”

You sigh. “He never used to.”

Din hums quietly and his hand stills behind your ear, resting against the nape of your neck. Wraps the hair there around his fingers and makes your skin rise in goosebumps over your back. “You’re his family,” he says quietly.

You say nothing, can’t think of anything. Only nod slowly and burrow closer against them both. Fist your hand into Din’s shirt as he starts to move his fingers against your scalp again. The thrum of the engine and the warmth of Din makes it easy to drift, listening to the nonsensical conversation between father and son. Heart full and warm and easy in your chest.

There is a peace in hyperspace. Everything moves a little strangely, a little sideways, but Din begins to heal. You roll away the ruined bedcovers and mattress in the hull, stained black with Din’s poisoned blood, and shove them into the bottom of an empty crate. But you do not try to find replacements, at the end of each day crawl in beside Din to sleep. In the darkness of the captain’s quarters there is an easiness that happens between you, in each other’s arms. An almost which hovers in the air and presses into the space around you, outside of you. Rises in the feeling which sinks from his skin into yours in the quiet moments before sleep, before properly waking, while his fingers trail the skin of your arm, from your wrist to your elbow. You ask him as his fingertips catch against the old scars, what they are, when they are from. And he tells you the ones he can remember, although there are many he can’t. And it begins to bleed through the walls into the rest of the ship. Easier to laugh, easier to talk. Even in Din’s body you start to feel more comfortable, find yourself lounging. Notice him lean against you, shove at your leg playfully if you stretch it too close to him, his eyes shining with laughter.

And Din begins to heal. Every day which passes he moves around the Crest with more ease and soon you stop bandaging his side. The scar is still pink and puckered but the bacta doesn’t seem to have much effect. He climbs the ladder without having to sit down as well, keeps out of his tiny quarters as much as he can, sick of the four walls caging him in. And the child shadows him everywhere, toddling behind his feet, and sitting in your lap when he tires, making games of clambering up your chest and tugging at your shirt. Barab I getting closer every day, a dark murky planet in the distance.

The planet is under constant rain, covering the surface in black clouds, and the surface of the planet crawling with a species deadly enough to snatch the Barabels and force them into underground caves, tunnelled beneath the surface. Din is well enough to walk, to stand and to fly when you are ready to drop out of hyperspace. He steers the ship through the space around Barab I and despite the spaceport hidden in a large cave system beneath the ground it is almost empty. Cavernous and echoing it must once have looked spectacular, shining and new. But the technology has long since been outdated, and there is no Barabel waiting to greet you, no droid scuttling the floors. The corners are filled with dark, murky water, creating a reflection of the decaying ceiling above. Din glances back at you as he lets the ship down to land. The thud of it echoes around and back like the sound of an Empire Freighter landing on Coruscant, impossibly loud.

“Where is everyone?” You lean forward over the console, peer out into the empty spaceport. Somewhere in the shadowed distance, a light flickers.

“I don’t know,” Din mutters. Flicks switches in the ship and the lights around you go out. There’s a moment of darkness and he switches on the ship’s external lights, flooding the port around you with bright, white light. “I can see lifeforms on the radar. Not far. They must be hiding in the tunnels.”

You stare up at the blackened ceiling, eroded with mould and dripping water. The floor, a grim reflection. Great pillars, easily ten times the Crest in height, seem to shift in the thickness of the air. Your stomach rolls, clenches. Something in the air, tight and familiar about the place. Din flicks the lights off again before you can place it and the sudden brightness inside the cockpit makes you squint. Flinch away from it.

“We should stay here tonight. We’ll have to trek through the tunnels.” He begins to lock the ship down, moves sharp and efficient. You notice he favours his left arm, sometimes pressing his right arm against the scar at his side. “We should rest tonight.”

“You need more rest before we go anywhere.”

He finishes, sits back low and deep in his chair and turns it to look at you. “It’s healed, Gotabor’ika.” You must look sceptical, untrusting, because his face softens, and he pushes out of the chair. Crosses the tiny space between you and crouches at your feet. Rests his hands against your knees, right before the dozing child in your lap. “I’m going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I promise, ner kar’ta.” You feel his thumbs dig in against the insides of your thighs.

You scratch at the hair along your jaw in irritation, and again the feeling. Something unsettling and familiar. But it slides before you can catch it, slips and tilts and scrambles when Din taps against you knee. His eyes burning when you focus on them again, and his thumb lifts, pinches lightly against your jaw. Laughs when you make a light grunt.

“You were meant to remind me.”

.

“This is weird, isn’t it?”

Din wipes the razor off, rinses it in the sink. His hand stays on your jaw steadying you. He looks back to the task of grooming your facial hair. He is crouched in the narrow space of the ‘fresher of the Crest and you sit on the closed lid of the toilet, waiting as he readies himself.  

“Everything about this is weird,” he says.

“Yeah, but this is…”

He breaks and you finally meet his eyes. You’re getting used to looking back at yourself in moments like these, almost able to separate yourself from your own body. You can almost see Din behind them. You can certainly feel him in there, you think. More now than ever. Every day a little clearer.

“Weird,” you say together, neither of you barely above a whisper.

He sighs and his hold on your jaw tightens ever so slightly. A slight warning. “Don’t move,” he mutters. “No talking.”

“I think the real reason you suggested this was to get me to shut up.” That almost coaxes a smile out of him. You start to laugh, and he squeezes you. “Okay, okay! Being quiet now.”

He holds the razor up but you can see the glint in his eye which tells you it’s all play. You’re tempted to tease him again but he’s already resting the razor against the hollow of your cheek and scrape down the length of it. The feeling is alien and strange, one of many to adjust to. The coolness of the blade almost makes you jump. Din finishes his stroke, wipes, rinses, lifts the razor back to the spot next to it and repeats. You find yourself watching him as he works. His face contorts with each stroke, lifting his eyebrows, scrunching his nose as he follows his work. Sometimes pulling his top lip back slightly as he curves around a tighter spot on your jaw. You must make a face back at him because –

“What?” He looks up into your eyes.

You smile. “Nothing.”

“Then stop smiling.”

“Okay.”

He waits. “You’re still smiling.”

You try wrangling your expression into something neutral and the effort only makes you giggle. Din makes a face in response which just sets you off further until you are letting out full, hearty laughs straight from your belly. The deep sound of it shocks you into silence. You stare at him, crouched in front of you in the cramped room of the ‘fresher, almost accusingly because it was his deep full laugh which had just erupted from you. His laugh which you realise you’d never heard. He stares at you blankly and then his lip twitches. And he’s laughing too. And then you’re both laughing together. You have to lean a hand on his shoulder you’re laughing so hard. He’s barely making any noise he’s laughing so hard and drops his head down into your lap to hide the redness colouring his cheeks. You can feel tears pooling in your eyes, can feel the puffs of his laughter hitting your hand. You have to lay forward, press your forehead into the space between his shoulder blades, because you feel as if you can barely hold yourself up.

“I’m never going to finish shaving your stupid face.” Din’s voice is muffled against your thigh.

Your stomach hurts. Your cheeks hurt. “It’s your stupid face.”

“Shut up.” He chuckles again.

You untangle yourselves slowly. He nudges at you until your lift your head off his back and you have to extract your hand which is caught under his shoulder. You both giggle every time you catch eyes. He shoves at you gently with an elbow, but he’s still trying to fight off a smile. You wipe a track left from tears off your face.

“You better hurry up or the kid is gonna’ start crying.” It’s almost breathless. “And you’ll end up with half a beard.”

He mutters something under his breath in Mando’a.

“What was that?”

“Just let me work.”

He has to spread more shaving cream over the side of your face he hasn’t done. It takes some time, and his face stays just as expressive. You don’t have the heart to tell him, worried if you bring it to his attention, he’ll make some effort to stop. You think under the helmet he must make faces all the time. He seems so stoic and his tone is so even you always assumed he must look the same underneath it. Something subtle about the way you understand him shifts slightly, infinitesimally small and indescribably huge all at once. You feel a pulse in your chest, and you try to catch his eye. Calmness. Peace. His gentleness seeps through the air around you and fills you up until your fingers tingle.

“Din,” you whisper.

He finishes his final stroke and drops the razor onto the rag he’d been using to wipe it. Looks up and you can see it there in his eyes too. It shifts into curiosity, and you feel it in your chest too. You almost tell him, but at the last second drop your eyes to your hands folded in your lap.

“What?” He grabs your hand lightly. Squeezes once.

You look up at his eyes, look at the razor, at his hand on yours. Lick your lip. Feel the tickle of facial hair there, and you lose your nerve. “You have a moustache?”

He laughs softly and shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah I do.”

You go to touch it with your free hand but stop halfway there. “Oh, I – “

“It’s okay,” he’s whispering too now. “I… I-If you… want. Wanted to.”

Your eyes widen. “Really?”

He can’t look at you. His head drops to his chest but you can see the movement of a nod. You aren’t sure if you should, at first. Whether he really wants you to, whether he’s just let you because he feels obliged. You wait for him to change his mind. But he just keeps holding your hand in your lap and staring at a spot on the ground in front of his feet. So slowly you lift your hand, still suspended in the air until you reach your face. Din’s face.

It tingles slightly when your fingers meet your cheek, the skin sensitive from the shaving. You let your hand flatten out against his cheek, feeling the cheekbones and the firmness into the jaw. You drift back until you reach his hairline, and then forward, first over his cheekbones and nose and over his other cheekbone. Your breath catches. You trace his jaw, his browbone, the shape of his eyebrows. His moustache makes your grin and your fingertip slips against his tooth. You close your eyes and try to add the shape of them to the hazy map of his face you create of him in your mind. You find yourself trying to translate the pieces of him you’ve known outside of his body into this. The expressions you’d learned are his. How his face would move when he’s concentrating; following a razor; cleaning his Beskar; comforting his son. Laughing. Smiling. Sleeping. You must have wrapped your hand around his too. He’s holding it so tightly they’re shaking, clasped between your bodies. You squeeze him back.

“Din.” You aren’t embarrassed by the way your voice breaks. “It’s okay, Din. It’s okay.”

He nods, but he doesn’t lift his head to look at you, just continues to stare at the same spot on the ground, somewhere between your feet. “When we – If we… change back,” he starts. Haltingly, abruptly. The unfinished thought hangs between you, makes your heart thump hard against your chest.

“When we change back?” You ask. Soft. Squeeze his hand in yours again.

His swallow is so grating you hear it. “When we change back would you – ”

There’s a light thump from the hull, echoes into the ‘fresher through the open door. You both turn to look and see the child, woken from his nap and somehow made it from inside Din’s quarters upstairs to the hull. He has a wrench in his hand and it bangs against the grating of the floor as he walks, the rhythmic thunk thunk thunk breaking the rising feeling between you in the ‘fresher. And before Din sighs you feel for a brief moment some bright, shining thing from him, an emotion you have felt a few times before – on the dead desert planet, in your hotel room on Garel. Aches in your chest and lingers, but then he begins to pull his hands from yours and it starts to fade.

“Ad’ika, put the wrench down.” He pushes himself up and goes to the child, takes the heavy tool from his little hands and scoops him up. Sets the wrench back in the open tool box only a few feet away. “Gar ganar jate ca’nara.”

You stare at them both, feel the almost in the question Din hadn’t asked, feel it settle along the back of your shoulders and you sigh. Begin to pack away the razor and the cannister of shaving cream. Din bounces the child in his arms to distract him from his demanding cooing and reaching for the wrench again, and you feel the wave of impatience from the child, sense the temper tantrum starting and you call to Din to warn him. The Mandalorian only rolls his eyes and turns away from the tool box, ignoring the petulant cries of his son. You chuckle as you move things to clear the ‘fresher before you sleep. The next day you will travel into the settlement on Barab to search for the Old Ones. To ask them stories of the Jedi and of the Sith, and the child. But it seems far away from you now, wrapped in something soft and warm with Din in the Crest.

You clamber the ladder after Din, follow him to the bed you share. The child takes time to settle, clambering around and around in the room. Over your legs and between you both, restless and playful, but eventually he tires and crawls beneath the blankets under your arm, nestles against your chest. It’s easy to pretend there is nothing waiting for you when you wake, almost a month of empty space with Din and the child and no looming threat has made you easy against the covers, against the feeling of the rise and fall of Din’s chest near to yours. The occasional mumbled sounds from the child as he rolls in his sleep between you. But the morning does come, the same cold and dark and damp as it had been the night before. You dress in silence, don the armour grimly. Din settles the child into his crib, fills your packs with enough for three days, unsure of what waits outside. You hand him your warmest jacket as you stand with him in the hull and he slips it on, nods his thanks. And then there is no more reason to delay. Din lowers the ramp and you set out. Not as cold as you expect, but you see the way Din flinches back into his hood and you think outside of the amour the air must have a bite. At the bottom your feet splash through puddles, disturb a coating of dark matter resting on the surface of the puddle.

It’s not until you step into the tunnel, swing your torch around to check the ship behind you that you recognise the feeling. The pillars, and the dripping water. The thick smog of moisture hanging and clinging to the back of your throat.

It reminds you of the green planet.

. 

Kov’nynir: A Keldabe kiss, the action of pressing foreheads together in a headbutt action.

Gotabor’ika: lit: little engineer (’ika is used as a term of affection or endearment, and this is used as an intimate nickname)

Ad’ika: daughter, son, child. Used by parents to their children. 

Gar ganar jate ca’nara: You have good timing 

. 

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[the-great-lightwood-bane]

alliance bonds & communication

(chapter 3 of magicae bellantis in my semper bellantis ’verse)

Malec | Rated general | tw suffocation | Established Relationship, Asphyxiation, Claustrophobia, Telepathy, Telepathic Bond, Alliance Rune (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Alternate Universe – Canon Divergent

Summary: A warlock knocks Magnus and Alec out before dumping them in identical metal cells. There’s not much air and even less hope, but magical bonds are cool and they find a way out. 

A/N: Set after vitae bellantis. 

Read it on AO3 or below the cut.

Alec

The first thing that Alec noticed when he woke up was that Magnus wasn’t beside him. 

The second thing was that he was lying on a cold, metal floor, in the dark. That had him sitting up, a flick of his fingers trying to summon Magnus’s magic to light the space — only to find it blocked. Wards. 

Instinctively, he reached out for Magnus along the bond between them; to his relief, he could feel Magnus as clearly as ever. He was waking up, confusion mounting; presumably, he was in a similar situation. 

How had they ended up here? The memories washed over Alec as he cast his mind back: a sudden upswing of a particular species of flying demon in New York; portalling over with Magnus to lend a hand; a warlock, Runi Graves, trapping them and railing at Magnus for betraying warlocks everywhere by killing Lilith; Graves’ magic reaching out and knocking both of them unconscious. 

He didn’t have time to guess at where Graves had brought them. A Projection of the warlock appeared suddenly in front of Alec, providing enough light for him to make out metal walls boxing him in — the room seemed to be about one metre long, one and a half metres wide, and not quite tall enough for Alec to stand. A feeling of claustrophobia rose in his throat; it didn’t look like there were any gaps in the walls to let in air. 

“Hello there,” Graves said, smiling cheerily in direct contrast to his dreary surroundings and the rage that’d been on his face when he’d knocked Alec out. “I see you’ve both woken up and are getting accustomed to your accommodations. I hope you like them; they’ll be the last place you ever see.”

Magnus

“Where did you take us?” Magnus growled, getting to his feet in the small metal box. The surge of protectiveness and anger in his chest was only partially his own. “Where’s Alec?”

“Oh, you’re both asking about each other. How sweet.” Graves’ smile was more like a grimace now, his anger showing through. “Unfortunate that you’ll never see each other again. You see, I’ve warded your rooms to prevent sound from getting through, and the whole place is warded against magic. As I said before, you won’t be leaving this place.” The grimace was fading into a look of triumph. 

“Why?” Magnus bit out. He tried to send tendrils of magic out to test Graves’ wards, but nothing doing; his magic was completely cut off. An ingenious way to ward — he couldn’t break the wards if he couldn’t access any of his magic. He might’ve been impressed if the ward wasn’t keeping him and Alec trapped, if it wasn’t separating them — from what Graves had said, it sounded like Alec was in a box like his, right next to him, but impossible to reach. 

“Because of what you’re doing.” The anger was back full-force, twisting Graves’ features. “You killed Lilith, our Mother. You’re destroying the world, the two of you — you’re traitors, especially Bane—” An abrupt feeling of fury cascaded through the bond, followed by stinging knuckles, and Graves laughed. “You can’t hurt me, little Shadowhunter.” 

Alec, Magnus gathered, had tried to attack the Projection of Graves in his own room and — judging by the bleeding knuckles Magnus could feel — had ended up punching a wall. Anger was burning hot in Alec’s chest, but Magnus found himself smiling fondly. Alec always defended him, even when he could do little, even when it wasn’t necessary. 

The smile dropped from Magnus’s face as Graves went on. “Anyway, you won’t be much longer for this world, either of you. There’s no way out of there, so don’t bother trying. The box is airtight; assuming you don’t panic and start breathing too heavily, you’ll go unconscious from lack of oxygen in—” he made a show of glancing down at his watch “—fifteen minutes.” 

Then the Projection vanished, and the room was dark once more. Magnus felt his breath start to come faster — he felt like the lack of oxygen in the air was suffocating him already, and it was too much like water rising over his head, he needed air—

Alec pushed calmness through the bond, and Magnus grabbed hold of it with desperation, using Alec to ground himself and slow his breathing. Freak-outs aside, he probably still had those fifteen minutes of air; he wasn’t suffocating. (Yet, at least.)

Through the bond, Magnus felt Alec try to use his faerie magic, but the wards apparently worked on it as well as they did on Magnus’s magic. Then came a small burst of angelic power as Alec drew or activated a rune — and the walls of Magnus’s cell trembled slightly. 

Immediately, several bursts of angelic energy came through the bond as Alec drew the rune again, and the walls trembled more, but the wards didn’t fall and no cracks formed. But maybe if Magnus drew runes, too, from his side — he scrabbled in his pocket for the stele he’d taken to carrying around ever since the permanent Alliance rune had made it practicable—

He found the stele, and it lit up red in his grasp, but he didn’t know what rune it was Alec had drawn. He tried the regular open rune, but it did nothing; Alec was probably using one of Clary’s special runes, which Magnus hadn’t yet learned. 

Alec was still drawing runes, but nothing more was happening beyond the faintly trembling walls. He’d likely figured out that Magnus needed to be able to draw the rune, and that Magnus didn’t know the rune; helplessness rose in both of their chests. 

It was an ignominious way to die, Magnus thought, suffocating to death in a metal box. 

Alec

Despair was heavy in Alec’s throat. 

What was the point of being bonded to somebody if you couldn’t communicate beyond vague emotions? Admittedly, Magnus and Alec had learned to read each other well; sometimes it was almost like they shared thoughts, especially when they had the context to guess at the reasons behind the other’s emotions. But right now, that was useless; the metal was cold against his side, and Alec wished he were with Magnus. 

But no. One of the four walls of his room was separating them; Alec didn’t even know if Magnus was to the left or the right of him, but it didn’t change much. They were separated. 

Marshalling his determination, Alec focused on drawing Clary’s modified open rune again, and again, and again. Runic power depended on several things — the exactness of the rune and the intent behind it were important; parabatai could draw runes on each other that were stronger than most; Clary’s runes often had a power boost. But apparently all of Alec’s focus was insufficient, because the walls shook but didn’t break. 

The rune was similar to the open rune, only varying in a few places; Alec closed his eyes, visualising it, imagining pouring angelic power into every stroke. The image of it burned in his mind’s eye, the rune itself stood strong and bright on the metal — but it wasn’t enough. 

Without warning, a feeling of excitement, of discovery, came rushing through the bond — somehow, Alec knew, Magnus had figured out how to draw Clary’s rune. Before he could guess at the how, the walls of the metal box shook as Magnus drew the rune. 

The how didn’t matter, anyway; Alec reached for Magnus through the bond, and they drew the strokes of Clary’s rune together, steles moving in perfect tandem. It glowed brighter than it had before; Alec felt hope swell in his chest as metal screeched on metal, the wall beginning to break apart, the ceiling about to tear open—

And then, from the gap in the top of the box, water rushed in. 

Magnus

The water poured into Magnus’s box, and he tried to use his magic to keep it out, but the wards were still up — the box was filling rapidly, water sloshing already around Magnus’s arms, and he felt already like he couldn’t breathe—

A rune flashed into his mind through the bond, bright lines drawn in the gold of Alec’s angelic power, and Magnus didn’t bother trying to remember what it did before he scrawled it on his skin. The water reached his shoulders, lifting him off his feet and slamming his head against the top of the box; he finished drawing the rune as the water rose up above his nose and he couldn’t help drawing in a desperate breath—

And, somehow, he could breathe. 

Clear-headedness returned with air. Alec had sent him an image of the rune for breathing under duress; it wouldn’t last forever, but hopefully it would be long enough to get out of the box. 

(He tried not to think about the water piling up over his head. Panic would help precisely nobody.)

A hand reached down from the hole in the ceiling, a familiar gold ring on Alec’s finger, and Magnus reached up to pull himself out of the hole, a portal forming as soon as he was outside of Graves’ wards and dumping the two of them — along with a substantial amount of seawater, which Magnus vanished — onto the roof of the loft. 

Alec wrapped him up in his arms, and Magnus let out a breath as he relaxed into the familiar hold. For a moment in there, he’d thought he might never—

A warm feeling wrapped around him. Shh, it’s all right, he could practically hear Alec saying; he wasn’t sure if the words had somehow been sent through the bond like the runes had been, or if he’d simply imagined them based on the emotions Alec was sending, but he let their comfort soothe the aching places inside. 

I love you, Magnus whispered through the bond, unsure if Alec could hear him, but he didn’t want to pull away far enough to speak aloud. 

Alec did understand, if the warm love humming between them was any indication. I love you, too.

Reluctantly, Magnus began to pull away; the fear — of losing Alec, of suffocating in the dark, of the water pouring in over his head — had abated somewhat, and they needed to deal with Graves. 

“Graves can wait five more minutes,” Alec replied. Let me hold you a little longer.

[dumb-hat]

Prompt #07: “Nonagenarian” - FFXIV Write 2020

“We had to call it, man.” The gruff voice was heavy with the weight of sadness. It was like gravel. Like sad gravel.

“What? No. No! But I liked Runy!” The lighter voice had a breathy quality to it, threaded through with dismay.

“That’s not her name,” Sad Gravel responded. 

“C’mon, man, you know I can’t do that weird ‘yuh’ thing.”

“It’s not ‘a weird ‘yuh’ thing,’ it’s a part of her language. Her culture!” Sad Gravel sounded exasperated now, too. 

He also sounded like he was stepping out of the cabin, which meant it was safe for Evander to slip out of the coat closet he was hiding in. The lockbox was in hand, so once he was off this boat, he was free and clear, the job was done, and his debt was paid. All he had to do now was keep behind these awful, terrible guards, whose conversation he had listened to all night while they camped out in the cabin, ignoring their duties and trapping Evander in the closet. Luckily, they seemed pretty self-absorbed.

“Anyway, the point is, I’m sorry to hear it, buddy. I liked her. She was good for you, you were good for her.” Evander was somewhat surprised to see that the breathy-voiced guard was a Sea Wolf. “What happened?”

“She was older than I thought,” Sad Gravel, who was no_ a Roegadyn, but was in fact an especially and truly unfortunately lanky Elezen replied. “Like, a lot older.”

“So? That’s not that big a deal.” Breathy Broenfedar, as Evander had dubbed him seemed committed to his coworker’s relationship. No doubt, these two had been talking about this subject for weeks. The thought made Evander nauseous.

“No, like, a lot older, man. You don’t get it.” The Elezen sighed deeply. “She’s like… 90.”

There was a furtive pause from the Sea Wolf. The two men looked at each other for a long moment before he shrugged his massive shoulders and repeated his earlier question. “So?”

“You don’t get it, man. Think about it. How old are you?” Sad Gravel asked as they crossed the prow of the small ship. He leaned against the railing while he waited for his friend to respond. Evander cursed and ducked behind some crates. 

“I’m 30.” Breathy Broenfedar sounded skeptical of this line of inquiry. “Why? I don’t care that she’s three times older than me.”

“It’s not about the number, Grymaent.” Ah, so his name wasn’t Broenfedar. A shame, Evander liked it more.

“Okay, okay. So clue me in. What’s the big deal?” Grymaent also leaned against the railing. Evander heard a creek and the two men chuckled, then the larger man stepped away from the rail.

“It’s about experience—”

Grymaent guffawed. “Well hell, Nate, that don’t sound so bad either!”

Evander couldn’t see, but he could imagine the withering glare that Nate must have sent to his companion. “Think it through, you dullard. Five years ago, you were 25. Were you the same man you are today?”

Grymaent was quiet for a moment. “No, no I guess I wasn’t.”

“And five years before that?”

Evander could hear Grymaent take a deep breath. “I see your point.”

“Now consider that she’s three times your age. If you feel like a different person every five years or so... “ Nate trailed off.

Grymaent finished his sentence. “Then she’s done that, what? 18 times? She’s been 18 different people.”

“Yeah, I just… I couldn’t… Look, I know it’s shitty, but one day we were just sitting there, eating mashed popotoes and things were fine. The next day, it was like… I dunno, she grew two heads or something. I wish it weren’t the way it was, but well…” Nate coughed and sighed, and it sounded like someone wheezing through wet gravel. It sounded vaguely familiar, and Evander wondered whatever happened to his old friends, in much the same way that you wonder about what happened to an old stray dog’s leg when you see them limping down an alley. He felt compelled to try and get closer to this Nate, but they were already making their way away from the railing. 

He could stay. He could stick around, listen to more of their conversation, find out if this was indeed someone from his past… or he could slip right past them, right now. He could deliver this box, clear out another debt, sever another tie. One less obligation over his head.

The weight of a life unlived weighed on him. Countless answers to countless questions wondered over the years could be answered right here. He stared at the lockbox. His knuckles were white from the strain. Answers.

He stood from behind the crates and watched the men round another corner before creeping away. He thought about who he was five years ago, and five years before that, and wondered about who he’d be five years from now. 

Answers wouldn’t help him. One less obligation would.

The Nonagenarian is a stupid name for a boat anyway, he thought to himself as he stepped off the boat and onto the wharf. One less answer. One less obligation.

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[flightofaqrow]

‘getting to know you’ game

qrow x Lifa Hakon [incomplete]

Lifa looked around the room, before she inched over to her bunk and grabbed her rucksack from under it. “We could go, if you’re willing to hike for a bit and be ready for a scrap if there’s Grimm or wolves. Or bears. Or really, really angry owls. It’s worth the trip and it’s the perfect time of day to start the journey! It’ll be dark by the time we get to the lake and that’s the best time to be there.”

“i asked for adventure, didn’t i?” qrow opens his arms wide and excited. this could all go terribly, terribly wrong for him at any time, and probably will. it always does. but for once, he thinks just maybe it might be fun enough to be worth it.

just for one damn night let him not ruin it.

...

“Do you know this game? The goal is to trap the fox where it can’t escape or eat one of the birds. If there’s no space behind a bird, it can’t be eaten but if there is, the fox can jump over and gobble it up. I’ll play the fox?”

“…so better for the birds to work in pairs.” a universal truth in qrow’s life, “s’this mean i get t’call ya a fox now, since you said it first?”

“You can, but I’ll be calling you Scare-Qrow if you do.”

Lifa takes a sign of bad luck and changes it to something a bit silly, that hangs out in an open field, and is meant to protect… “kinda like that one actually.”

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“this is your dorm and i just came in and ruined everything, didn’t i?”

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Lifa stared at the scattered papers and folders that she had organized in a filing system all her own, now in chaos on the floor after a lanky fellow student burst inside and collided with her just as she was going to leave. Her fingers twitched in despair and irritation, before she slowly took a deep breath, turned to face Qrow and grabbed a fistful of his vest. Not violently, not too hard. Just enough to firmly get his attention. “I’ll hide you from whatever it is but you are helping me clean this up. Understood?”

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qrow ruins everything. he does. of course it’s just his luck he picks the room of the pretty girl from the roof to try and duck into.

and that there would be some sort of elaborate shelving unit that definitely didn’t seem standard. and that his awesome cape would get caught on the stupid doorknob, and send his gangly limbs flying into said shelves. and she’d be standing right there.

is it really so bad when he already gets to see her, faces nearly touching, yanking at his clothing…? ah, well. yeah. it is. when all her hard work is in chaos on the floor and he still looks a damn fool.

he faces away, ready for a scolding, ready to be passed off to Raven and the teacher she alerted. but none of it comes. seriously?

qrow nods in agreement. he’d be shuffling some papers together already if he weren’t, uh, otherwise restrained. “man, i knew you were cool.”

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“Damned right I’m cool!”

Lifa has lifted him ever so slightly off of his toes before she let him go, realizing she might be a little overzealous. Despite the circumstances, she was glad to see the nice boy from the roof again, even if he was going to see her messy desk…Oh, shit. Family pictures.

Lifa quickly gathered up some papers and threw them onto the desk, taking the moment to snap the frame face down before he got a glimpse of her and her father in full regalia, posing for her fifteenth birthday. All around it were tiny tools, clockwork parts, scraps of metal…

The papers were blueprints, for weapon and armor designs but also a few charcoal sketches of woodland scenes, marked with lines of simplistic colored pencil to represent the presence of evergreen needles and a broad frozen like and a crumbling cabin. Lifa turned to face the mess once more, tightening her jaw. “Ugh, they’re all out of order…what did you do that’s got you on the run, anyway? Hide a toad in someone’s boot?”

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qrow knows she’s hiding something. they’ve all done that frantic scatter at some point when suddenly intrude upon. however, he thinks little of it, lumping similar ultimately unimportant reasons in with those same memories. not that he isn’t curious, of course. but he’s not one to press when she’s already doing him a kindness.

not to mention, what he can see is fascinating enough in itself. landscapes… weapon and gadget ideas… not bad ones, either. the roughness of her hands make more sense if she’s a tinkerer on top of a fighter. really cool.

“heh. somethin’ like that. switched my sister’s tea with some of the weird grasses outside. but forget that. …is all this stuff for real?” he holds up some of the drawings he’s gathered, and points to one of the frozen forests in particular, “i mean, can we go here? is this what ya were talkin’ about last time?”

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“I’m going to wager a guess that you are the younger brother,” Lifa mused, since that sounded like something Runi would absolutely do, with perhaps a more devious twist. As she laid things out to survey and put them back in their place, she smiled softly. It took the edge off the need to laugh.

She glanced back at him, in the middle of lining two see through papers together so one layer of armor completed the other. A method that helped her better plan how to complete the final result. “You mean the lake?” She asked, rubbing the soft paper between her fingers and enjoying the pleasant smell of it and fresh ink. “I mean, yes. The lake is real but the plans are all theoretical, or at least all except the shield. I made that for the Vytal fight…it’s north east of the city, if you really want to go but it’s not exactly a stroll in the park to get there.”

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“by two minutes that she constantly holds over my head,” he says with equal amounts annoyance and affection. he crawls around on the floor, looking for anything that my have snuck beneath furniture while she starts arranging things back in proper order. it takes a second a second for it to click, but he got there. “…you got one too, then?”

stragglers collected, he stands next to her and looks over her work. it’s all very clever. he can see the thought process and enhancements. “okay, Lifa, you got me. i’m impressed.” he crosses arms over his chest and grins, as if he had any authority to be appraising. “most of the students stop after building their own weapon. this is certainly next level.” meaning, it looked like she enjoyed further improving her own equipment, and designing even beyond that. for other people too perhaps?

he shrugs, drums his fingers on his arms, “s’too bad about the lake, then. anythin’ interesting within reach? i do need to avoid Raven for awhile…”

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“A brother? Yes,” Lifa ran her fingers along one frame that she pushed over and lifted it upright again, since it had nothing incriminating to reveal. She missed the northern lights and smells of her home, but couldn’t not miss anything more than her family and her scruffy haired know-it-all little brother.A boy not more than ten, with lots of tawny brown messy hair seated in a wheel chair and seeming like he was about to lob the wrench in his hand at her. “His name is Runi. He’s ten.” Impressed? Suspicion lurked in her eyes but she had to remember he didn’t know who she was. Any respect he had, she had earned it by her own merit. She moved a lock of hair behind her ear, since most of the red locks were piled in a hastily woven bun at the back of her head out of her eyes so she could work. “Thank you, that’s– that means a lot…My brother and I’ve always made these sorts of things together. He’s the brain, I’m the hands.” Lifa looked around the room, before she inched over to her bunk and grabbed her rucksack from under it. “Don’t be disappointed, we could go, if you’re willing to hike for a bit and be ready for a scrap if there’s Grimm or wolves. Or bears. Or really, really angry owls. It’s worth the trip and it’s the perfect time of day to start the journey! It’ll be dark by the time we get to the lake and that’s the best time to be there.”

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one tidbit more of personal information reveals itself, then. her brother has wings of beautiful feathers, even if his body doesn’t seem like it can make very good use of them. that makes Lifa half faunus. which changes absolutely nothing of qrow’s opinion, but is interesting to know.

“heh, that makes sense. i remember your hands,” qrow winks, waits just a beat. “Runi looks just s’cool as you,” now he’s intentionally laying it on thick, but the undertone of appreciation for family weaves into the flattery anyway. he’d die for Raven, kill for Raven, almost and has, respectively, and he trusts the same from her. they acquired their weapons separately, but have gone through many a process side by side. he can’t imagine ever not having her there. he opens his mouth to ask if it’s hard for her to be here without him, but stops, and only nods in acknowledgement. maybe that’s too personal. maybe he’s wrong when she’s moved on from the subject so quickly. maybe he shouldn’t make her think of that kind of thing and ruin the mood for basically attempting to ask her on a date.

…or she could make the offer and already be grabbing her things. honestly, she’s adorable. “i asked for adventure, didn’t i?” he opens his arms wide and excited, “gimme a tick to grab Harbinger and let my team lead know i’ll be out again. i’ll meet you in the courtyard.”

this could all go terribly, terribly wrong for him at any time, and probably will. it always does. but for once, he thinks just maybe it might be fun enough to be worth it.

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“My hands?” She blinked and looked down at them, noticing the scars around knuckles that nicked edges and hot surfaces when she was too in the moment to be careful and didn’t notice her injury until much later. By the time she looked back up at him, some of her freckles had faded under a new blush. Is he…? No. No way. But at the mention of adventure, she smiled the tiniest bit and began pulling her blanket off the bed, rolling the handmade quilt up tight and shoving it into her pack along with a few snacks she pulled from her desk drawer. “Harbinger? That’s very fitting, for a boy named for the crow. I’ll get Forsvarer and Utholdnet. See you there!” By the time she got to the courtyard, she had redone her hair in a more casual style, braided around the top in a pretty manner but tied off loosely at the bottom so it trailed down her back. Snow was slowly falling and Lifa was just making sure her oil lantern was secure to her pack side, her eyes darting around for Qrow’s presence.

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he sneaks in the shadows, in all the darkness of his namesake and skills, just for fun. he sees Lifa, notices the charm in literally letting her hair down, and also suddenly feels severely under-packed with only Harbinger and a blanket roll strapped to his back for the occasion, but he’s always traveled light. qrow is used to finding what he needs where he goes, or simply going without. …or losing things, or having them be more trouble than they’re worth… he doesn’t give himself time to dwell, pursues further in his game of how close he can get before she senses him, eventually stepping into the light slightly to the side and behind her.

“ready to go?”

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Lifa turns towards him and with her lopsided grin, she pulls her deer skin hood up, lined with white fur, and nods. “Ready and eager.” And seeming none too surprised at his sudden presence. Things lurking in the shadows? Child’s play for her. Lifa leads him through busy city streets, knowing the way to her destination easily as she had been there frequently enough to have it memorized. It was quite a trek through civilization alone, so she passed the time on their way to the border with the only chatter she could think of. “So what sort of weapon is Harbinger? A sword? You seem like a swordsman.” Weapons. The first subject that came to mind. “One handed, if I had to guess.”

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well, he tried. good practice, anyway. at least she doesn’t rub the lack of surprise terribly in his face. admittedly, he’d be disappointed if other students were as easy targets as any old passerby.

and he has one more piece of information about her skills for the tournament. qrow plans to hold onto his secrets as long as he can. this is almost immediately tested, even in the middle of qrow’s wide red eyes trying to take in the city of atlas. everything is steely and it feels like rain-washed glare even on a sunny day. it’s not the most comfortable or familiar of environments, sterile, almost, but it has its own beauty.

he lets his head lull to the side, smirking, lifting an accusatory brow, “Sunshine, you’re really just gonna straight up ask a guy how he handles his sword?” a crude twist of implication, but he’s a teenage boy with adventuring and a pretty redhead on his mind. he turns to start walking sideways, and flips up his cape to reveal the longsword in its entirety. he lets that answer for itself, and even though the small rig of gears could easily suggest to someone with Lifa’s engineering skills that there’s more going on, he says nothing else further. they can geek out after the fights. “…mostly one-handed. buuuut there’s also a lotta things i like using two for.”

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Was the architecture impressive? Yes. Did Lifa like it? No. It lacked something personal and homey for her, no personal connection or familiarity for her to appreciate other than the engineering perspective. When they finally passed the city into the snowy fields, she breathed a deep breath of relief and took it all in, the open horizon caressing something in her soul and reminding it that it was alright. “Well– yes. How else would I learn about your method of combat?” Lifa looked at him quizzically, even tilted her head to the side in a manner so innocent that it was hard to tell if she was messing with him or really didn’t get it.

At his show of weaponry, Lifa her flexed arm in the sleeve of plate that covered from the shoulder to the fingers in a gauntlet and all at once, it showered down to knit into plate sections and spiraled out around the back of her hand to form a heavy circle shield, meaning the sleeve couldn’t be light either. “Interesting you forgo a shield. I was always taught if you have to choose between a blade or shield, take the shield. Did you fight before the academy?”

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a grin returns all the wider when he looks to Lifa again. qrow has seen and done enough playing dumb to know pure innocence at face value. faking it lacked the curiosity clearly on display. oh boy, what is he getting into. trying to get into.

… calm down, qrow. when leading flirtations fall flat anyway, it’s time to simply join the conversation. he lets his cape fall to drape along his back once more, but keeps his hands at the back of his head and laces fingers together, elbows happily raised while he walks and thinks.

“well, mosta the time i find that nothin’ ‘learns’ ya better’n actually trading a few blows instead’a talkin’ about it. but your team made it t’the next round too, right? so we got more of that comin’ up.”

he watches the deployment of her equipment, more impressed by how smoothly it executed in both inner workings and user experience than by the piece itself. his gaze follows along up her arm for eye contact once more, offering a serious expression, “been fightin’ all my life in one way or another. …an’ i was taught if you need a shield, ya ain’t fast or clever enough.”

well, and Harbinger is wide enough to block shots as well as any shield if positioned right, but again, she can find that out for herself. “… so the people who taught ya were more the defensive type, huh?”

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“Indeed. We fight well together, but that’s about all we do together.” Was that bitterness in her voice? Maybe. Scorned by those she was chosen to lead for all her time spent away from home, for the first time in her young life, was something that she couldn’t help but stew over. Lifa lifted her shield slightly to look over the runes she had painstakingly engraved around its rim and took comfort in its familiar presence, like an old mentor showing her the way. “That may be true, but words still have their merit…The shield is a symbolic choice. Almost all of our warriors use them.” The crunch of snow was the only noise for a moment, as Lifa absently rubbed the shoulder of her shield arm, recalling one of many scars she wasn’t quick enough to avoid.

“Ever since I can remember, Grimm clawed at our gates. I didn’t want to hide behind the barricade and hope someone else kept my family safe. I wanted to be one of the shields protecting them. Hence…” and she lifted it with a tired smile, feeling her point was made, as she gestured her fingers around the runes and translated them. “ ‘Fight because you love what is behind you, not for the hatred of the enemy before you.’ If you’re using a shield to hide, you’re dead or worse; useless. But fret not, I also have an ax to take the limbs off any Beowulf too bold for its own good.”

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finally, all the scenery hits qrow. trees stand taller than he’s ever seen sprawling in more packed patterns. the air freshens, the sounds quiet, save for their footsteps and Lifa telling her story. he realizes quickly that his boots are not made for this kind of snow, but at least he has steady feet, most of the time. Lifa acts confident in the direction they are headed, and he’s glad.

lips scrunch into a pout at her obvious resentment, but he doesn’t push it. they differ there, too. everything the tribe did, they did together. even when physically separated, each group was a cog in the wheel of the same goal. survival. and survival when they had no gates.

she has his full attention when she starts talking about being a protector. “that’s… all very noble.”

he’s staring at her, nearly in wonder, while lost in his own head at the same time. another difference. he and Raven came not with hatred nor love in their hearts. simply to learn to kill. because that was their place. their job. maybe it could fall into the category of loving the ‘family’ that would be behind him, but. did he? did he really love any of them besides Raven, who would always be by side? he shakes his head, covers the gesture with a chuckle at her last comment.

“i bet you would. much as i’d like to, i hope i don’t have t’see that today. …so where is all the ‘we’ and ‘our’, anyway? besides ‘not atlas city’, i mean. sounds like the kinda place that’d have a name.”

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“I’m grateful you think so,” Lifa turned her face towards his and smiled warmly, her eyes lighting up with it. He was a good listener or perhaps he was just waiting for her to stop talking…No, she believed the first thought. He had that sharpness to his gaze that said he didn’t give his attention to anything he didn’t want to and that was something she quite liked about him already. Lifa walked strangely in the snow. Toe heel, toe heel, toe heel. Piercing the icy surface carefully with the point of her boot so her foot slid into the powder almost silently. But as she noticed the way her was looking at her, with all that garnet intensity, Lifa for once felt compelled to turn her own gaze away and that was not something she did lightly. With her free hand, she reached above to run her fingers along the lush green needles above. “Of course it has a name, it’s just not one people in Atlas respect much. As for if we’ll meet any Grimm…Hush for a few minutes and I’ll be able to tell you.” Was she purposely dodging the question? Perhaps. As they ventured deeper into the wood, she slowed down and turned her face up to the treetops before lifting her hands to her mouth and emitting a high, pure series of sung notes. It echoed high into the air and Lifa gestured for him to wait. Distantly, there was the flutter of wings and chatter of birds in response. Some even emerged from the branches to investigate them with curious dark eyes and Lifa smiled and pointed to them, “See? No Grimm close by.”

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when she stops holding the connection of their smiles, he does too. he’s nothing if not observant, watching her feet instead. an attempt at walking the same way shifts balance, and he has to continue looking down. the snow gets thicker and thicker as told by how much the rocks and underbrush becomes buried. she wasn’t kidding about it being a hike.

if not observant, then call him too curious for his own good. he looks back at her with a quizzical lift to his features. had Lifa just answered the question, qrow could have been satisfied. skirting around it made it a far, far more interesting topic. he’ll drop it, but now he’d have to dig and find out not only what the name is, but why she wouldn’t want to say. surely someone around the school would know.

speaking of dropping, somewhere between the new footwork, the shifted attention, trying to bring up an argument about being hushed when he was already quiet, and likely his damn curse, his carefully stepping feet slip right out from under him when she holds her hand out for a halt; he falls right to his ass with a grunt.

which, maybe, is a good thing, because he’s rather glad to already be floored while trying to process the sound she makes. Somewhere between singing and an animal call, a captivating, otherworldly sound that’s of such a pitch it almost hurts his ears, and then echoes back softly from every surface for what seems like miles. the animals nearby even respond.

his jaw hangs open, and his eyes fill with disbelief, and his hands hold himself upright in the snow, clutching as if he might just fall through the ground because everything suddenly became a crazy dream. he had no idea humans were even capable of making such beautiful noises with nothing but their raw voice.

and then she turns to him like what she’d just done was part and parcel of any other day. the grimm are currently the least of his worries. she keeps getting more beautiful and magical by the minute, and he might just be getting in over his head, but for better or worse that’s never really stopped him. but he really does hope she’s going to offer some sort of explanation for all that.

seriously, who is this girl and where did she come from?

“………”

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“Qrow!” Lifa exclaimed when she found him up to his waist in snow, like a fawn that had misjudged its next few steps and was waiting for its better-knowing mother to come dig him out. She didn’t mean to laugh at his expense, truly, but his looked so dumbfounded by the circumstances, wide eyed and mouth agape, she had to let a tiny giggle win. “Comfortable down there?” She reached down and grabbed him by the back of his jacket with a firm grip. One good pull and she lifted him straight out of the snow, his feet cleared the ground and she gave him a slight shake to dust him off (or perhaps to be comical) before she set him back down on his feet. She hardly grunted with the effort. “Joke as I may, you should really step carefully. It would dampen the mood if you break an ankle and I have to piggy-back you all the way home.” Lifa didn’t give him much time to recover but she was certain he could shake off the astonishment and fall into step. She smirked to herself as she continued forward, taking smug satisfaction before she brought her hand up to her mouth again and without warning, belted out that call once more, reverberating from her throat with a rich vibrato. It was like the forest swallowed it up and breathed it bigger into what should be possible for a small girl to make. She didn’t stop walking or even look at him, as she gestured vaguely in the air with one hand and tapped a branch so snow showered down on them both. “It’s called kulning, if you’re wondering.” On their horizon, the sky was growing a dark indigo color and the first pinpricks of starlight were making themselves known and with the glare of sunset, Lifa could see far ahead the blinding line of white as it reflected on a large body of ice.

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no. no qrow is not comfortable stuffed into the snow, but at least the chill along his back matches the chill down the inside of his spine that her voice had just given him. she’s laughing, and that’s better than the alternative.

he pouts when she plucks him from the snow. she’s strong - he knew that from the way she tugged on him the other day. and earlier today. she really did like the lifting and the tugging, huh? but even though she’s strong, his legs and arms pull in like he’s some kitten lifted by the scruff, as if consolidating his mass might make it easier to hold.

it really couldn’t get more embarrassing.

and he really shouldn’t have thought that, because then it did. she’s not laughing anymore.

“yeah, i know,” he says in a harsh mutter. he knows it would dampen the mood. it always does. he always does. he’s been afraid this whole time, trying to convince himself it would be okay, but now she fully admits it. and it all has nothing to do with his steps.

he almost feels better, letting him self sink into that singing sound again, to let it carry him away maybe to come back more spirited, but then face and shoulders scrunch as more snow invades his space and melts into his clothes. rude. he loves snow on a landscape, but finds it’s not as pleasant all caught in the entirety of his clothes now, and slowly seeping into his person.

“kulning,” he repeats, making the effort to show he’s still listening, but unable to hide the quickly waning amusement. his head hangs too low to enjoy the sunset.

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He had sombered as quickly as a cloud’s shadow passed over a plain and Lifa wondered if it was her doing. Something she did? Said? Had she made a terrible social misstep again and spoiled everything? Maybe he didn’t like her singing. That had to be it. Why did she ever sing in front of people? Stupid, she thought as she twisted the end of her braid around her fingers and muttered, “Kind of annoying, I know.” more at herself than anything. But she wouldn’t let him see her affected. She urged her steps to have purpose and to carry her steadily forward to their goal again, her back straight and eyes pointed forward attentively. Expression set to be impenetrable, as so well trained it was to be. She was looking for something, anything to change the subject to something he felt comfortable with and then she spotted it. As they neared the frozen lake in sight, Lifa reached to her pack and slid out her hatchet. She hefted it once in the air and when it landed in her palm again, she hurled it off to their right.

The blade sank deep into a fallen tree that was leaned sadly over a snowdrift and some stones. Lifa jogged up and hammed the back of the blade once with her shield edge to drive it deeper, before she levered the handle and the wood splintered loudly to reveal the core. A few more solid whacks and Lifa pried a chunk loose and held it up to him victoriously. “I’m sure you know, but a dead tree’s middle is the best dry wood you can find in snow and rain. Help me harvest it? We’ll need a fire to last. If you don’t want to dull your sword blade, I have a hatchet you can borrow.”

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he is still paying attention. he hears Lifa, and watches her lips move. “the safety lectures? yeah a little, tch.” blunt, but honest. as if to prove a point to himself, her, and the whole world, he pumps out a little kick at the next snow drift they pass, even shaking the scooped up chunks free from his boot, all while keeping his footing just fine. tonight, it’s Raven he hears in his head, calling him a moody broody little brother.

that cloud lingers and settles over them both. Lifa trains her gaze forward and with a purpose, so qrow hangs back by a few steps in silent follow, taking and offering some space. although, voicing his complaint, and letting loose his mini tantrum, he does feel a little better. he distracts himself the rest of the way studying those soft reddish braids again. the weave looks familiar, but the patterns are new. he could figure it out. probably. now he can’t get rid of the urge to play with her hair.

he’s supposed to be sight seeing but between his own misery and her, he can’t seem to stay focused on more than immediate surroundings. they stop moving again, and this time he’s prepared for… anything. the wield and throw of a hatchet only makes his shoulders square for a second, because he assumes there’s some sort of enemy target.

and when he figures out it’s only a log, he’s unsure if she’s just having fun or showing off. quickly getting to work and requesting he do the same doesn’t really clarify. well, at least chopping away at some stuff would blow off the rest of all his internalized steam. “yeah, okay.” hands remove from pockets, “i’ll take the hatchet. best to use the tool intended for the job, right?”

for now, he takes the first log and sets to the side to start a pile. finally, he finds a smile once more, “got any work songs to sing t’go with that forest call? i can pay it back once we get the fire goin’.” is that how it went for her too? trading entertainment for entertainment and hospitality. but qrow always had an easier time of it along with the rhythm of flames.

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“No, I meant my…” Lifa swiveled around sharply to stare at him, surprised he had missed her meaning and her hair swung over her shoulder as she did. But she saw the expression on his face and left it alone. Maybe it’s just wounded male pride after all. Thirty second cycle and he’ll be over it. She took the twin and tossed it gently in his direction, trusting he could catch it by the handle but she didn’t look to see if he did. If he didn’t, it would fall short just in front of his toes into the snow. Lifa set to work prying more wood free, intending to go in silence and just hope once she showed him the lake, she could make things better but then he asked. Lifa rested her fingers against the engravings of the blade, remembering the time she carved them with her own hand and the tune she hummed with the grind of metal. “Only if you pay it back,” she relented. So she chopped, stacked and wrapped the bundle in time to a gentle but comforting melody. “I know a place we can go, No one has been there and no one will know, There it is quiet, forget all the violence We’ve tried so hard to endure…” Lifa took a cord from the outside pocket of her bag and fastened her dense firewood bundle to it before she swung it onto her back and passed him a second one to wrap his own, finding a small smile again as she blinked snowflakes from her eyelashes. “So come with me dear, The bright city hum hurts my ears. Sigh with the trees We could be free. Oh, I know a place we could go.” With the last note on her tongue, she turned and began to walk. Over snow. And then onto the ice. “I’m tired of fear. Grasping for safe, familiar. You are like me, oh, could we leave?”

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qrow catches it easily. not that she’d have any reason whatsoever to trust his reflexes at this point. and she didn’t even watch when it worked. oh well. he already knows he’s missed some things, because he always manages to in his sour moods. he spins the hatchet in his hand, feeling the weight and balance of it, appreciating the design and craftsmanship. it is clearly a weapon, but he’s allowed to use it as a tool. to him, that is quite the sign of trust.  

he takes comfort in knowing this has still been an adventure and it isn’t over. and that there will soon be a fire. a warm, dry fire. (he tries to ignore all the ways he could further screw it up.)

what she sings is not a burly, rhythmic work song as he thought, with a pounding beat to chop to, but instead something as lovely as the kulning, but softer. soothing. and he doesn’t wonder if the lyrics are intentionally chosen. between the song given, and Lifa’s own patterns, he finds a timing to work alongside, but almost feels guilty to interrupt with hatchet hacks and wood splitting.

he pretends the pieces are grimm. fears. doubts. he keeps controlled, skilled, and absolutely decimates them in perfect little chunks. he can even smile back when he proudly carries his own stack and accepts the cord.

but when he tries to tie everything up, one hunk wriggles out and drops into snow. he sighs and slumps his head once more, but she’s still singing, and somehow even though she’s turned away and walking forward he can picture her turning her head and singing that last bit right at him, and now he knows it’s intentional, and he’s not going to ruin it. she is like him. and qrow likes her.

just for one damn night let him not ruin it.

he swallows hard as she steps out onto a slippery surface. but she is so sweet to spend time with him, sing for him, put up with him at all. he will try not to be afraid for her. he follows. he lifts his head and ignores the ice and finally takes in more than immediate surroundings. everything looks just like the picture, more or less. it has a solemn magnificence in the dusk, but he bet it’s looks absolutely breathtaking when the sunlight hits just right.

he looks gazes through a few more trees, “hey, that’s the cabin up ahead, huh?”

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Night had come. There was the last faded violet tones at the bottom of the sky between tree trunks and shadows, and then the day was finally asleep and the stars were making themselves known. Lifa walked with even, short steps on the slick ice, covered here and there with thin patches of snow blown across the surface by the wind. Luckily, the thick treeline kept the worst of it at bay. Lifa followed his eyes, as she steadily headed towards the middle of the ice and now that it was truly dark, she took a small lantern from her pack’s side and sparked it aflame to give them a small circle of amber light to travel by. “Sure is. It was just two and a half walls when I started at the academy. I cut some new logs and packed in some sod to make it a little homier…Sometimes I just come out here and stay the night. Then I climb back through my dorm window before daylight. Y’know, normal girl stuff.” She flashed him another crooked smile, strained and self deprecating. The lake didn’t take all that long to cross, but by the time they did, it was pitch black except for tiny pricks of stars and Lifa’s lantern. The night of a new moon gave very little light to be refracted by the ice crystals. She wants to get him to the cabin quickly, to a warm hearth and show him all the things she had brought to try to create a lovely night, to show him the otherworldly beauty she adored about her homeland. She wanted to have someone see why she was doing all of this. It was for no gesture of power or attempt to be noticed, no whimsical notion of a naive princess acted upon because no one could tell her no. Was it so hard to see she loved this world? And that was something to fight for? That was where her royalty, if such a thing could be defined, derived from? Not entitlement, but being honored with the chance to help that which she governed. No naïve princess am I, but you don’t even know that. Lifa took a chain from under her coat collar, produced a key and stopped at the cabin door to unlock it and let him inside. Every wall was covered in intricate wooden carvings, although there were empty patches or patterns still in the process of being finished. There was a bed of animal furs, some equipment to fish, hunt or cook, but otherwise it was quite simplistic. But best of all, there was a functional fireplace and chimney.

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qrow more or less scuffles across the ice, but it works. forever used to slipping up and catching himself up, he is. if he tries not to think about it too hard or care too much, his feet find themselves more naturally.

“you built it? …scratch that, ya snuck out to build it?” Lifa would only find the beadiest of little red rascal eyes with matching crookedness when she turned to look. (even besides the fact that her freckled face is even prettier in the lantern glow and star-studded snowlight).

“man, i got no idea what normal girl stuff really is, but tha’s what it should be, if ya ask me. i c’n pitch a tent pretty good, but we were never’n one spot long enough for anything like a real cabin.”

freedom. that’s what he’s here for. he doesn’t know any better, and doesn’t want much better either. there’s too much world to stay all cooped up or tied down. he loves the world too. more and more the notion of protecting it for true as a huntsman grows on him. and going home to the tribe seems so - small.

although four walls sounds pretty good right about now, for a bit, to warm up and refresh.

…and apparently be wowed by a whole new landscape that has nothing to do with land. a quick scan of the room takes in all the cozy furnishings. a bed covered in animal furs seems just a little too perfect and has his mind spiraling in far more pleasant directions than all the prior self-derision.

but ultimately all the little carvings on the door frame distract tactile desires and attention. fingers trace dips and ridges and grooves, eyes follow patterns. none of her drawings could have prepared him for this, not even the engineering ones had this much detail. connecting the two, he’s not terribly surprised, but still finds himself repeating with wide eyes and a slack jaw. “damn! you. built. this…? …in not even two years?”

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“Like I said, it was already partially there, probably used to be an ice fisher’s hut but it was abandoned for a bit. I just built over the old foundation, cut new logs and all.” Lifa brushed off the effort as if it wasn’t weeks of work, maybe a little flustered by his evident astonishment. Was it that impressive to him? The girl dropped her pack near the hearth, where a moderate stack of birch wood rested and set to work on getting a fire going. She knelt down close to the stack of tinder and kindling, taking the blade of her hatchet and striking the flint on the metal at a steady pace to shower sparks of it. It took a few tries, while he explored the images of stars, trees, elk and more she had created over her time at the academy. But the three largest were birds of different kinds. An eagle, an owl and a raven. The sparks caught and Lifa ducked her head down to blow gently on the curls of smoke. A flame sprung up and she sat back with a grin of pride, quickly feeding it before it ate through the starter. “Yes, Qrow, I built it.” She confirmed again, but with much more confidence. Maybe it was feeding her ego a bit. Lifa dragged her pack onto her lap and opened it, starting to set the contents on the floor. A tin of food, a bottle of something, a board game, a small cooking pot. “A small cabin is maybe a month of work with fair weather but how about to take off your shoes and get your toes warm again before I get into the logistics of it? And bring the furs over, we can get comfy while we wait.”

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he had no concept of time for such a thing. especially a thing filled with so much art. time passes slowly when he reaches the birds. big, beautiful ones, and regal looking. it seemed even art and atlesian legends favored ravens over crows. they’re still all three beautiful.

he hears the logs stack into place and the sharp burst of metal on flint. he knew how to start a fire, but just as well she handled it. he wouldn’t want to burn this lovely place down after Lifa worked so hard on it. when the flames reach a dull roar and Lifa’s sounding more pleased, he makes his way over.

“i knew you were cool,” he says for the second time that day, with a wink.

sweet stars a warm fire, yes!

his shoes are already kicked off by the time she says so. in short order, followed by socks, and pants and… once she’s set up her supplies, he’s stripped down to burgundy boxers, hung his clothes from the mantle to dry, and laid down on his back, basking like a cat - a lithe, sinewy cat with very taut and toned abs and legs - in the fire’s glow and warmth of the wood beneath him - dry and pulling away moisture from clammy skin.

“oh furs?” a gruff mutter considers it, “…okay, inna minute.”

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“You haven’t even begun to find out, pretty boy.” Lifa was occupied with opening the tin of food for them, full of shortbread cookies, small chopped pieces of some sort of smoked sausage, apple pieces dipped in caramel and a few other odds and ends like candied pecans and dried pieces of fruit. As she set the pot in place over the fire and uncorked the bottle with a pop! Lifa put a little packet of spices in with a golden liquid and left it to slowly warm. She turned back around to ask, “Do you like venis– ancestors above me!” He’s practically naked. How did he get so undressed so quickly? How did she not notice? Why couldn’t she stop staring? Her eyes, round as coins, were just wandering over the planes of his shoulders and collar bones, how the firelight pooled in shadows or ivory glows on his skin, turning him into something of an intricate oil painting. She kind of wondered if– No! You are not wondering anything! You are a sovereign and huntress! All at once, Lifa resurrected her melted brain and stood up, marched across to the bed and grabbed a reindeer skin. Without an ounce of grace, she tossed it over him. “You won’t warm up like that.” she said quickly, completely unaware that all of the freckles on her cheeks were almost invisible under how red they were.

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he’s blissfully letting the cold seep away from his bones, watching Lifa unpack more goodies than he thought could possibly fit in one tin. his mouth waters in a way it hasn’t since the best cook at the bandit camp had her rotation. this took some serious planning, which Lifa must have done all in one afternoon, because he’d only just picked a destination earlier in the day. no wonder she’s a team leader.

for all indecent thoughts which had crossed qrow’s mind on the way here, and indecent hopes still drifting in his head, the fact that baring so much skin could itself cross the lines of decency never even occurred to him. he had found not everyone in the kingdoms had the same openness he grew up with, but that’s why he left the boxers on! but then Lifa stares, and flushes, and he remembers his earlier considerations of how innocent she must be.

and all of a sudden he’s frowning from beneath a fur hide, decidedly colder from its spot in the cold air cabin than the heat coming from the hearth. not to mention the sight of beautiful blooming rosy cheeks having been stolen away and replaced with dead animal. momentarily.

“whaaat?” qrow digs his hands around until he finds an edge, and plunks his head out from beneath the cover, but respects her wishes of keeping the rest in place over his body. not an ounce of shame sits upon his features, but rather, quite a silly grin.

“never seen human skin before, Lifa? not even a communal bath or anythin’ back home?”

maybe people in colder climates weren’t so inclined to be naked to the elements all that often. well, he’s dug himself this deep. he might as well keep going. if he’s going to ruin things, at least he can start doing it fabulously. although, having traveled all the way out here now, she’s kinda stuck with him.

even more of his teeth start to show, “so. …am i still pretty?”

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Lifa groaned loudly and sat down by the fire, burying her face in her hands before dragging them down her cheeks and giving him a scathing look. Not truly hostile, just irritated that he was poking her buttons. “Baths? No. We have public saunas but I don’t participate. It would be improper for me and in fact, most of the time they’re restricted to men and women being separ– why am I even answering this question?” she tossed her hands in the air and set back to setting up the game board. It looked like a checker board, except more in a cross fashion, forming four avenues and there were a great deal many pieces. Smooth stones painted with a white goose on top and one painted with an amber fox. It was getting warmer with her layers on, so Lifa undid the clasps of her fur wrap and laid it aside, relieved with it gone. The fire was steadily heating the cabin’s interior and her sleeved tunic was plenty warm, considering it was such fine wool. Lifa toyed the end of her braid in her fingers with a pouty expression, her brows furrowed and jaw clenched. Her own form of bashfulness. “I am thinking of a word for you right now and it is not pretty. Do you know this game? she demanded the last question and held up the fox piece to show him.

Her entire right side was bathed in the fire light, now that it had begun to consume whole logs and her hair seemed to draw the light in and emanate it on its own, like the glow of a candle. The other side of her was shadowed, as though she were still standing on the ice.

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riling people up always made information slip. improper - for her specifically. qrow definitely tucks that little note away. she answers because he’s genuinely interested on top of being a smart ass, but Lifa seems set on changing the subject, so he lets her. he also knows better than to press too many buttons of someone who just laid out a bunch of delicious looking food.

now that he is dry and the air is warm, and they are both safe as it gets, and he can even relax a little - his stomach lets loose a loud growl beneath fur cover. but he dutifully tries to keep his attention on everything she’s setting out next, rather than the smells from the snacks, or what that word she’s thinking of might be, or the adorable expression he finally earns in reaction to his flirting - glowing in the firelight. teasing him in so many ways, this girl…

“uh…” he sits up, pulling arms loose from his hide blanket, and using them to tuck the rest into something of a tartan sash by sitting on ends or letting them drape over one shoulder. curious eyes glance over the board and pieces, and while he can find elements of many things he’s played in the past, the general combination doesn’t look familiar. a hint of anxiety spikes again.

“can’t say i do. t’be honest, looks like the kinda thing i wouldn’t be allowed near. me and, um, stuff with a lotta little pieces don’t really get along.”

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Lifa popped a piece of apple between her teeth and savored the tart and sweet on her tongue, as she settled down crosslegged and comfortable by the fire. As she chewed, she wiped a bit of melted caramel off her bottom lip and ran her tongue over her thumb, stopping to nibble on her nail in thought while she moved some of Qrow’s gear a little closer to the fire so the toes of his shoes would dry through. “You can’t be worse than me, I’ll flip the board if I get too upset about losing and spend all night angry I have to pick it all up again.” she smirked at him, although she was completely honest. She would do it. “So let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. It’s an easy enough game, Qrow, I brought it from home to try to get my team mates to play it but, uh…anyway. One of us controls the birds, the other is the fox.” She moved a few bird pieces around the fox to demonstrate, “The goal is to trap the fox where it can’t escape or eat one of the birds. If there’s no space behind a bird, it can’t be eaten but if there is, the fox can jump over and gobble it up. If there’s not enough birds left to trap it, fox wins. I just thought it would be a fun way to pass the time while we wait for the show. I’ll play the fox?” Lifa rolled the game piece over her fingers smoothly, back and forth, like a coin or card. The last roll, she bounced it off her thumb and caught it in her palm deftly, waiting for his answer with an expression akin to hopefulness. A hope that he wouldn’t turn her down flat like her team did.

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waiting until someone else started on the food is about all the etiquette qrow could actually pull from what had been crammed in his head so far, so he’s grateful to be surrounded by a picnic of familiar finger foods. he shoves a whole sausage and a few pieces of the dried fruit into his mouth and manages to chew with his mouth closed as Lifa fusses with more tasty smelling things on the fire.

yet again, she helps distract and settle over-stimulated nerves in demonstrating her own brand of messy eating and managing to make burnt sugar spilling over somehow attractive, but maybe his head just runs away with him again. she admits to making a mess of the game, too, and that definitely must have resulted in a losing some pieces in the past. well, as long as none of this is too important to her…

she speaks with the same dismissive disappointment Summer had when trying to convince Raven to spar with her their first few months. team leaders have it hard, huh?

he had come here for adventure, not games, but with his clothes still drying, food to eat, and all that same spark of light in her eyes emphasized by the fire’s glow, he figures there are worse ways to kill time.

“sure. i’ll try a round.” less secrets of strategy need be kept with minor pastimes. he mutters aloud, “…so better for the birds to work in pairs.” a universal truth in his life.

focused red gaze moves from the board to her face, back to grinning and apparently emboldened by warmth and the idea that she seriously has no issue moving along in all these planned intricacies with him in little but a blanket, “so’s this mean i get t’call ya a fox now, since you said it first?”

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“Seems you’ve already caught on to one of the many lessons this game has to teach,” Lifa set her piece down on the board with a sharp clack, leaning forward with her chin in one palm and her brow furrowed in focus. They followed every position on the board, calculating routes of both evasion and attack. Oh yes, it has a great deal of hidden meaning…she didn’t catch on to the one he was insinuating or at least not to it’s true theme.

Lifa rolled her eyes, jumping her game piece over one of his and claiming the devoured bird for her side. “Red hair, red fox. I haven’t heard that one before.” Sarcasm, of course. She had heard all manner of nicknames and jokes about her vibrant locks and that didn’t even cover the silly superstitions her own people insisted it meant. Favored by the gods, born to shed blood, born to die young. Shit like that. But all in all, his veiled flirting was a hit and miss. “You can but I’ll be calling you Scare-Qrow if you do.”

The fire spat and she leaned over to look inside the pot, which was now generating a very enticing, mouth watering aroma. Thank gods, it’s ready. Lifa took the two cups she had pulled from her pack and lifted the hot handle with her gloved hand, pouring the drink into each like molten translucent gold. Hot spiced mead; the real taste of home. The first sip ran like slow, gentle fire down her throat and seemed to set her aglow from inside with its taste, hot honey tickling her mouth delightfully.

Lifa closed her eyes for a moment to savor it and all the memories with it. “You know, it’s traditional for my homelands huntsmen in training to play this game. It teaches team work and sacrifice. I mostly ended up getting the pieces chucked at my head by my brother or smacked with the board by my mentor for being a brat…It’s nice to play it again, though, so— thank you. You’re pretty nice to a girl you’ve known less than a day. Nicer than most people at this Academy.”

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any strategies specific to this game elude him, but he makes his own assessment of the board. he projects his own experiences on top of it, mixed with the training from school. he focuses on moving the front line of birds towards their rear partners while fanning out. pairs, then small groups so pairs could cover for each other, in as many directions as the number of pieces allowed.

“nah, just foxy,” he states plainly without even looking up from the board to impress flirtation or explain what is perhaps cultural connotation, he seeks only to clarify any lack of allusion to color, to diffuse insult. “an’ i’ve been called worse. heh,” now he looks up, amusement rounding and raising his cheeks.

he grew up with his own share of superstitions thrust upon him. but here Lifa takes a sign of bad luck and changes it to something a bit silly that hangs out in an open field and is meant to protect… “kinda like that one actually.”

he hears and smells the pot too, had been wondering what treat she had for him next as he downs a few more of the nibbles laid out. recognition of the scent almost finds him, but the thought that a pot likely held soup distracted from the truth. he takes the cup and it reminds him of the cider, and his mind inches ever so closer to an answer. ultimately, the first sip finally reveals it. a brand new spice mix hits the front and sides of his tongue, while the honey hits the back, and the alcohol burns in a slow, syrup motion down the back of his throat. mead!

sugar crystals melt and prickle along inner linings and he smiles even wider, recalling their conversation on the roof, “you remembered! damn… this puts my two tiny whiskey bottles t’shame. might’s’well be muddy rain water in comparison.” forget even pulling them from his pouch now. something from his own stash is all he could manage without buyer covers here in atlas. no need for lesser when a whole pot of mead between them would be more than enough for a good time.

he listens, sipping often at the cup. it’s way too hot, but equally way too delicious to care. it’s good to know playing games seems to go about the same way for most teachers and siblings. he moves another of his pieces, fingers lingering and rocking it in hesitant thought at her last words.

“yeah, well. thanks f’bringin’ me t’such a cool place.” qrow remembers himself and lets go before it cracks or pushes through the board, or something else stupid. his voice shrinks, “most people don’t ev’n want me around this long. an’… t’be honest i’m still gettin’ usedta nice bein’ a compliment.” he puffs up his chest, willing some manner of pride back through humor - in letting out derisive air through a crooked and scrunched expression, “though i guess i shouldn’t be su’prised t’hear that when y’live with alla these atlas stuffies. …what about your team? y’get along with them alright?”

he kinda figured all the teams worked it out to work together one way or another, but, he looks down at all these birds and one lone fox piece, and he wonders.

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“I thought you might,” His subtle bashfulness and smile drew her eye to his features again magnetically. He had a sharp wit, a cold edge but there was a softness there that made her feel like she was being shown something precious, like this secluded and protected place of her own. She became distracted watching his long fingers move across the board and in a moment, she realized he was rapidly approaching victory. Lifa tried to snap out of it by taking a drink but it didn’t do anything whatsoever to pull her out of the warm ease she’d found. Complacency was eroding at her competitiveness, which was a very new situation for her. Lifa looked up at him in a snap motion, her eyes flashing in the same manner an animal might whip their head around and perk their ears when alerted of something. She washed questions down with another drink and gestured to him with her cup, “Well, I’m not most people. I’ll have you know I’m enjoying my time with you. It’s straight up jovial in this creepy cabin in the woods.” Lone fox indeed. Lifa, in all her boldness and liberty taking ways, found that fluttering wisp of shyness again and wrapped herself in it like a gossamer curtain. She gazed around the carvings, pretending for a moment it was the walls of somewhere back home, walls of no kind like these in Atlas. “They are professional, if they absolutely have to be. But I’ll always be the mountain savage in their eyes. Simple. Barbaric. Always deserving less, me and all my people.” Lifa skipped her piece over one of Qrow’s, promptly claiming another avian life. “But it’s alright. They can reduce me in their eyes until they go blind with the effort…I won’t grant their scorn any governance over myself. I know my worth.” I know my worth. She repeated it to herself, even as she fought to believe it.

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qrow feels it. he feels it all when he drops his guard like this. his mind engaged, throat tingling with alcohol, belly full, a pretty someone happy in his company, means he eases into uncommon happiness right with Lifa, she’s not wrong. short-lived. rare, so rare that it doesn’t surprise him at all when the sunny girl suddenly turns to shotgun fire and his eyes blast open too. his gaze flits around to follow, over both shoulders and behind him, those bangs she so liked to tease over flying in all directions, blanket bunching coming loose to fall lower on his frame. what had he done now?

he expects to see something in flames, a carving collapsing, the cauldron bubbling over, but nothing. nothing so far. no, his semblance didn’t spark it, something he said must have hit a nerve. another gulp of mead attempts to calm his own.

he doesn’t even look back to the board yet; still listening instead. the least he can do.

it doesn’t hurt how much she has a way with words when she’s upset, apparently. it almost sounds like she’s giving a speech from some high and mighty ledge.

…all her people? that seemed an odd way to phrase it. something more tucked away for later.

he knows the look of someone pulling themselves together by thin threads. qrow and Raven so practiced at the art they could practically weave a tapestry of false security between them. Lifa’s pride glows like gold from the stern set jaw of her face. all the wildest images of undressing her that still simmer in his head couldn’t match the layers which peel away and leave her bare right now.

bird pieces on the same side of the board as the fox fall back in tactical retreat to regroup. it may look cowardly, but qrow doesn’t like loosing so many pieces. a belief in minimizing casualties never gained him much favor in the tribe, but he can play this game his own way. meanwhile, qrow himself scooches closer to Lifa once finished with his move, lying a gentle hand on her closest knee.

“hey,” rugged voice itself shrugs. what can he possibly say to that? to someone he barely knows? “…if you’re a mountain savage in atlas, then i’m a forest one in vale.”

not how to compliment someone. not even close to the best expression of himself, finding words and courage to do so remains a weak point. a shallow attempt at cheer his best bid to offer.

“speakin’ of,” touch removes as quickly as placed. clothes most certainly dry by now, he slides himself back towards the fire and pulls his pants back on beneath the blanket. (and a button catches, and the inner lining of hide tears, because there it is now, but he’s just not going to mention it and make sure the frustrated growl he lets out sounds like it’s from the awkwardness of tugging trousers on while sitting on the floor), “…ahem. don’t i still owe ya a song?”

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His small but meaningful efforts to reach her were noticed. His words draw a smile of a girl remembering that yes, there is someone here who likes her, who doesn’t look down his nose at her and wish her gone as quickly as possible. She’s seen. And what a terrifying strategy of war that was, sliding off pieces of armor and lowering her weapon baring hand to stand close to a fire that only burns when disrespected. His hand startles her smile. Lifa didn’t know how to interpret it, the gesture was so utterly audacious of him that she had to remind herself that it could be just barely defined as treason, if facts were stretched. All her life, she was raised on a pedestal whilst kneeling in pious servitude, having to always walk the line between an acolyte and an idol. But in a single gently red hot touch, he reminded her that none of those things were in this cabin now. This boy was all equal parts mysterious, smart mouthed and utterly tender. What a way to make her head foggy and her cheeks flush for a few moments when she realized her leg felt cold now that his palm was away and she wanted it back. Was her heart going to jump out and do a dance it was clearly gearing to do? Lifa’s lips split into her lopsided grin and she promptly made herself comfortable among their blankets, stretching out on her stomach and propping her chin in one hand to peer at him expectantly through her eyelashes, feet raised lazily in the air. A rather flattering view of certain…curves. “You most certainly do and I am all ears.” she declared, eager for him to keep his end of the bargain.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

good. great. fantastic. maybe he could complete this while outrunning his next slip up of semblance. he downs the last dregs of his drink and pushes it all to the back of his mind, pulling forward instead the memories of bonfire revelry he grew up with at least weekly.

even if qrow had any idea of the standard which Lifa carries in her head, he holds little affection for authority, and far less regard for its rules - demonstrated in no greater way than how he decides for himself that pants make him decent enough, and finally lets furs fall to move around freely.

anyway, for his people, putting too many barriers between one’s body and the flames carrying tribute to the sky is what’s nearly blasphemous.

he finds a sturdy wooden footstool and sets it before the hearth. usual seating would place him looking into the fire to watch a flickering dance and let it focus and guide his beat, but tonight a far hotter view demands his attention on the opposite side. he chooses to cross legs and sit between burning logs and a makeshift drum with his back to the glow. shadows shift along his skin, and likewise darkened eyes openly drag over Lifa’s form; one brow raises in appreciation of long, thick layers draping in more revealing ways, wildfire locks flowing loose around her shoulders, and posture so eager and attentive.

with a head toss to rustle hair in her direction for some hype of what’s about to come, he’ll count it success if he can half match the show she gives him just lying there.

the song demands something of a primal nature, and she makes it too easy for him to call forth.

with no accompaniment or other instruments available, he’ll have to make do with keeping it simple. open palms strike the edge of the stool to make sharp sounds. after that, one hand forms a fist to summon a richer, deeper sound from the center. then, both.

♫ ♫

pat, pat pat, pat

bam, bam, bam, bam, bam

bam, pat, bam, pat, bam, pat, bam, pat…

to keep up with the rhythm of drumming, his body begins to rock, throwing controlled energy into the force of each beat. qrow tightens his belly taut like a drum itself to let foreign lyrics follow in gruff, gutteral chants bouncing from deep in his chest to vibrate in his throat and release with huffed air and hisses. the closest to singing the fry of his voice lets him get.

qrow’s heard it enough times to repeat, though clueless of any translation.

Нэг л хун их л гунигтай Ижлээ хайн тэмүүлэв гэнэ Эргэн тойронд хэрэн хэсэж Хайртай хосоо олов гэнэ Оройтож олдсон тэр л хайранд Умбан наадан жаргав гэнэ Орчлон дэлхийг мартан дурлаж Олон хоногийг элээв гэнэ Үртэй болсноо ижилдээ дуулган Үүрд хамт байхаа амлав гэнэ Өсөж торнисон нуурандаа гэрлэж…

♫ ♫

[lae-kes]

Unnerved

Laerys stumbles into her bedroom. She tosses aside all her belongings; her staff, her messenger bag, her cloak. Runi, her little pet snake, slithers from the bag she discarded. “Danger.” He whispers.

“Sh!” Laerys snaps, her breath ragged and hollow. She paces her room, her right hand tightly around her coin purse. Her knuckles are white from her grip.

Dark circles make her eyes look sunken and dead. Laerys’ hair lies flat against her face, weighed down by oil and sweat that had accumulated over the night. Her skin is sullen and pale, having lost most of the color due to the exhausting night.

“Agh!” Laerys rips the coin purse from her belt, chucking it onto her desk. It hits with a soft clinking sound and slides across the wooden surface. It stops against the wall with a soft “chlink”.

Laerys turns her back to the pouch. She presses her hand over her eyes, taking several deep breaths. She feels her form nearly drained of all her mana. Taking a deep breath, she turns to face the pouch.

It looks innocent enough; the blue silk pouch slouches atop itself. Still, she approaches it with caution. Loosening the drawstring, Laerys peers inside.

Despite the bag’s size, inside it held a plethora of items: cloth, bobbin and thread, enchanting reagents. Unable to immediately locate the object of desire, Laerys opens the bag as much as it could. She steps back. The sound of her shoes scuffing the stone floors is the only sound within the room.

Laerys holds out her left hand before her. She spreads her fingers before taking a deep breath. “Invenietic calvem,” she whispers as she pulls her arm back, forming a fist with her hand. The movement brings with is an object  the size of a skull. In fact, it is a skull.

A human skull, sitting before her atop her desk. The sight of it churns Laerys’ stomach. She feels a knot in her throat, and she closes her eyes. With several deep breaths, she opens them once more.

The skull had been engraved with glowing runes that are completely alien to her. Laerys clears her throat as she rolls her shoulders back. Once more, she holds out her left hand and begins to mutter an incantation below her breath. Her eyes are trained on the skull despite the ache in her stomach and the bile in her throat.

Her eyes begin to glow faintly with arcane energy; her red irises drown beneath the distinctive blue of the arcane. Her mouth continues to move incoherently, the incantation barely audible. She focuses on finding the nature of the skull, finding inconsistencies that will give her a way into what the damned thing is.

But her mind begins to wander. Unsure if it is the forcing her thoughts elsewhere, or simply Laerys’ poor divination skills, her mind falls to earlier in the night.

She heard a voice and felt a breath against her ear. Keep this safe, do not tell Alranon. Her bag weighed heavier in a second. The invisible figure ran its fingers across her shoulder, and the sensation lingered.

Laerys squirms, shutting her eyes. Her hand closes, and she digs her fingernails into her palm. She shakes it off before she opens her eyes once more. She repeats the incantation, louder this time.

Immediately, Laerys’ head begins to ache terribly, the pain resonating deep from within. Her hands fly to her head. She entangles her fingers in her hair as she grips  her skull. Her fingernails dig into the skin of her scalp.

Laerys falls to the stone floors. She barely considers the strike of pain against her knees. Laerys cries out in pain.

And the ache dissipated. Her fingers relax as the tension melts from her shoulders. She looks up, breathing heavily. The skull sits atop her desk, the empty sockets meeting her gaze.

She continues to stare. A knot in her stomach tells her to look away, but Laerys ignores it. The room feels as though it’s moving. The objects and around it shift and wobble. Her skin is painted with sweat, clammy and cold. Her head spins; Laerys feels her mana reserves near empty. She takes several steadying breaths.

She pushes herself to her feet carefully. Her eyes do not leave the skull. Laerys keeps her breathing steady, but the thought hits her; a skull, a human skull, sits before her. The room begins to move again. The object in question tilts and shifts in a fixed manner, never moving.

Laerys shuts her eyes to block out the dizzying room. She tries desperately to take in deep, slow breaths. The pit of her stomach drifts in her abdomen, and she holds her middle. Her grip does nothing to halt the agitation.

Opening her eyes once more, the vertigo has not let up. She looks into the sockets of the tilting skull. A fleeting memory comes to her; a skull painted with rotting flesh rolling towards her dirtied, purple robes, empty sockets where eyes should be. The stench of undead rising in her nostrils.

The nausea wins. Laerys doubles over, retching up bile and water. The vomit splashes on the floor. The smell does nothing to help her already nauseated state.

With her stomach completely empty, Laerys spits the residual saliva and vomit into the mess. She tries to steady her breathing between each expulsion. Once more, she looks to the skull. It sits unwavering, like an omen.

Another wave of nausea hits her.

[di-kut]

Baar Bal Runi: Chapter Eight

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive!Reader

Words: 5K

Summary: (Body Swap AU) You can’t sleep and so you show the Mandalorian how to braid hair. 

Rating: T (with some vague mentions of death) 

A/N: Yet again I am here telling you that most of what happened in this chapter was accidental. This concept was meant to be a short aside but instead I am at 5k. S/o to the anon who literally guessed the deepest secrets of my brain and a huge thank you to everyone who has been going through the masterlist. I see you, you make me smile. 💕💕💕

You are exhausted. Dizzy and slightly nauseous from the wave of tiredness which had overcome you before laying down. And the sound of the water hitting the walls and floor of the ‘fresher makes you skittish. Makes your stomach churn. Knowing the Mandalorian is inside, in your body, keeps you from sleeping. You wish you had spoken to him first, suddenly. Asked him not to look, or – or –

Something.

You roll to face the wall, but the rushing of the water behind you is worse and so you roll to face the ‘fresher door. Only feel slightly better at watching it. Every turn makes your head spin, but it is hard to tell what is nerves and what is the exhaustion taking hold. You trust him, trust him not to explore what is not his, the same way he has trusted you. Know it is silly to be so nervous when he has had to trust you with so much more – with the foundations of his beliefs. And you are worried he will see you naked. Because you are embarrassed. Because a part of you wants him not to see at all, and another part of you wants him to approve. The feeling is stupid, but you cannot stop it. Cannot stop yourself from trying to imagine what he must be thinking, how much he must be feeling beneath his hands. Feels strange to imagine that his hands must be able to touch you and you cannot feel it. It makes the dizzy feeling worse, chasing around and around in your head. You have to close your eyes against it all.

It is an eternity later when you hear the water finally stop. You can’t hear anything else for several minutes, almost five, you know because you count the seconds, and lift a finger for each minute you reach. To distract yourself from the inescapable thoughts. And then the door opens in a wave of steam and the smell of soap. You are bright red, burning all along your neck and face. Watch the way his – your – long hair hangs damp down his back, makes a patch against the light cotton underclothes. His cheeks are flushed from the heat. The shape of your body more obvious in the night things than it had been in your thick protective gear.

He isn’t looking at you on purpose. He has your dirty things folded in his arms and sets them down carefully next to his pack at the foot of his bed. Has your boots placed neatly next to them. You realise the careful way he treated his armour was not only because of his respect for the craft of his people, and his creed, but simply because that was the care with which he treats all things. You feel bad, suddenly, for the way you had stuffed his dirty underthings back in with everything else in the pack. He has quiet footsteps as he walks back towards the head of the bed. Pads so softly across the floor that even straining you almost can’t hear the sounds of his foot fall. In his own body he moves quietly, fully geared and armoured, but without the hinderance of those things and in your much smaller form he is nearly soundless. He sits right at the edge of the mattress, looks at ease, except for where his knuckles are white and fisted into the sheet.

The flush on his face is probably not just from steam.

He says nothing, stares at a spot on the floor in front of your bed with a vacant expression. And you stare at him, try to glean something. Anything, from the way he looks, and sits. You fidget against the bed and roll onto your back. Stare at a crack in the ceiling.

“Are you – ” You start but Din is also speaking, “I didn’t – ”

You both break off. You turn to look at him and he finally meets your gaze. You both go a darker shade of pink, and you can’t stop the nervous chuckle. But it makes him crack the smallest of smiles, and it is worth the embarrassment suddenly. Because when you start to laugh in earnest he is laughing with you, quietly and haltingly, but laughing nonetheless. And it’s like the final brick of the wall which has separated you is removed, falls away, and you are lighter. Breathe easier. It doesn’t seem to matter what you were going to say. You feel better now he is here again, not hidden beneath the sounds of the shower, and you are no longer worried for what he might have seen or felt. Knows he respects your body as much as you do his.

“It – ah – it takes longer.” He says. “Your hair, does. I mean.”

You give another nervous laugh. “Yeah. It does.”

He nods slowly. You press your lips together and turn towards him again, roll onto your side so you can face him. He is studying his own face, frowning slightly, and following the contours of it with his eyes. Your damp hair against the pillow, along your brow and your eyes and down the sweep of your nose. Along where you can feel the itch of facial hair – irritating in its unfamiliarity over the bottom half of your face. His frown deepens.

“What are you thinking?” You ask. Ask it without thinking.

His eyes flit back up to yours.

“You’re frowning.” You explain. “You look…”

You aren’t sure how he looks. You feel very senseless for asking him at all, realise he is probably just unused to the sight of his face and to see it staring back at him. All the time you have had to grow familiar with your own he has spent looking at the helmet. You can’t figure out exactly how he does look, what the expression on his face means.

“It’s weird.” He says and you start. Had not expected him to answer you. “I don’t normally see – me.”

You stare at your own face. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t realise – there’s a scar on my nose. I didn’t think it was so big.”

You lift your hand to your face without thinking, reach to feel the scar which must be there. Realise only the briefest of moments before your fingers come into contact with your face what you are about to do and drop them back against the mattress.

“Sorry.”

He smiles wryly. “It’s fine.”

“Don’t you see it in the mirror?” You ask suddenly. “The scar, I mean.”

“I guess.” He frowns again, thoughtful this time. “I don’t – I don’t look in the mirror a lot. Not unless I have to.”

“Why?”

He stares at you, and you see on his face he knows why. He knows very well why he avoids the mirror, but he is not going to tell you. You can see that as well. So, when he tilts his head and gives the smallest of shrugs, so small that if you had not known him half a cycle you might not have seen it. But you do, and you know not to press him. You wonder if it has something to do with the Creed, or if it is simply him. Din.

“My voice sounds weird. It’s different to what I thought.” You say, to show him you will not make him talk about it if he does not want to. “I don’t like it.”

He is very still, frowning deeper again. “You have a nice voice.”

You choke on air. Sputter over nothing and the blush which had finally subsided flares back over your whole body, heats your chest as well as your neck and face and burns. You sit up abruptly and the room spins when you do, a wave of dizziness so intense you have to brace both palms against the covers. It passes quickly. But the blush burning against your skin does not. Grows worse with the frank way he meets your gaze, as if he was just stating universal facts, as if he is not complimenting you but instead has told you the colour of your hair or your eyes. And maybe it is how he thinks of the world, that someone’s voice is nice is just an unchanging fact. It still makes you fidget against the bed.

“Thank you,” you somehow manage to say.

He just nods.

The silence which settles around you is comfortable, despite your lingering blush. You move slowly, sling both your legs over the edge of the bedside so your bare feet touch against the cool floor. Watch as Din stretches out slightly and begins to pull absently at the ends of your hair, tug at it and brush it away from his face, only for more strands to slip forward from somewhere else and fall over his shoulders. He grunts quietly and pushes both hands through the hair, right at your scalp, runs his palms the width of your head and back, capturing the length of your hair in his hands and pushing it over his shoulders and out of his way. But the dampness of your hair makes it heavy, and it falls forward again all too quickly.

You chuckle at his struggle. He gives you a look of dry frustration. “It would be much more practical short,” he says.

“I’m not cutting it.”

“I’m not saying that,” he mutters.  

“If you braided it, it wouldn’t bother you.”

As soon as you say it you realise that of course he doesn’t braid it. That he has been tucking it into the collar of your shirt every day since the swap because he hadn’t known how else to deal with it. His own is cropped short enough that the ends only just curl around the tops of your ears, and he was raised by Mandalorians, their heads all covered, their hair concealed. He would have no reason or way to know how to braid hair, or to manage its length. The look he gives you confirms it.

You bite against your lip. “I – I could braid it for you. If that would make it easier.”

He shifts. You think he will refuse but you are surprised when he nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“I – okay.” You push yourself right forward to the edge of the bed. Have to think for a moment, and then realise you are being silly again. That you know how to braid hair, and that overthinking this will only lead to strife. You so shuffle your feet apart and spread your knees to make enough room for him. Gesture to the space between them. “Sit.”

He moves cautiously, slowly. Pushes himself up from the bed and pads lightly over the floor to stand in front of you. Hovers for a few moments, staring between the floor and your face. Before finally turning and sinking onto the floor just in front of the tips of your toes, and just too far to reach. You wait for him to shuffle back but he does not, he stays just far enough away that you have to lean down to gently lay a hand over his shoulder. Your body feels so much smaller under his large touch. You tug lightly.

“Move back. I can’t reach.”

He is stiff under your touch, but he does as you say. Pushes himself back until his shoulders are wedged between your knees and you squeeze his shoulder to tell him stop. He stills and goes completely rigid.

“I’m gonna’ touch your hair.”

A warning. He feels skittish, nervous beneath your touch. You gather the damp hair in your hands, have to tug in some places where it is caught between you, or on the bed or in his clothes. Try to be as gentle as you can and lift the ends up into your lap. Realise he must have been combing it because it is not as tangled as you had thought it would be, only tangled from vigorous cleaning and not from a month of neglect. Your heart kicks quietly in your chest at the thought, at the image of Din sitting alone in the captain’s quarters or in the cockpit, pulling the knots from your hair.

You start at the bottom. Run your bare hands through the ends of the hair, reach quickly to the end of your bed where the absorbent cloth you had used to towel yourself down with is drying over the top of your pack, and press it around the length of his hair to capture some of the moisture. And then resume detangling. Get caught up in admiring the length of the Mandalorian’s fingers as your work them, the flex of his forearms where you have rolled up the sleeves, before you realise what you are doing and thinking and remind yourself sharply of his Creed. That everything you have seen is not because he has allowed it, but because he has no other choice. It makes it easier to focus on the task at hand, makes your mouth taste sour. Your hands reach the base of his skull, and you pause to work your fingers into the skin there.

“Din?” You warm at his name on your tongue. And the knowledge of him which he had willing given you, something which he wanted for you to have, not something you had taken from him.

He’s quiet. And then lowly hums.

“Is this okay?”

You knead the tense muscles at the place where his head meets his neck, know how nice it feels from experience, and slowly draw your hands away, back to slowly working through the any knots you find.

“Yeah,” his voice is soft, breathy almost. “Yeah, feels good.”

You smile. “Good.”

By the time your hands have reached the top of his head, occasionally pausing in your mission to press your fingers into his scalp, to rub firm circles against the skin of his temples as well, Din is soft against your legs, leaning back against you in an almost slump. Hums softly when your hands pass over somewhere particularly tense.

“Din?”

You can hear sleepy amusement in his voice. “Yes?”

“Can… can no one ever see?” You ask quietly. Nervous. “Ever?”

You know he knows you mean the helmet. Don’t have to explain it to him. He sighs, a tired sigh, but it is not directed at you, you think. He leans his weight more to the right. “I can show the family I choose.”

“The family you choose?”

“If I had a child,” he says gently. Hesitates and then, “Or married.”

Married. You had never thought of such a thing. Never imagined the Mandalorian pledging his life to someone, although – you supposed he already had. Your head turns towards the cot where the child is sleeping, gently snoring under his blankets. Still asleep after his brief waking earlier.

“Has the kid – ?”

“Of course.”

“Oh.”

He hums and sinks further against your leg. Your hands work absently through his hair, knot free now and much closer to dry, but you pull your fingers through its length almost compulsively. Feel ashamed at the sudden well of jealously which you know is irrational – which is unfair. You had always assumed the child was the same as you, had never seen his father without his helmet, that when he reached his tiny three fingered hand beneath the edge of its helm he was reaching blindly at something he had never seen. But the child had seen the Mandalorian, had seen Din, the man beneath. You are alone in their trio, an odd one out, and not a part of his family. The realisation burns harsher than you ever thought it would because you had no right to his family. To his face. You had given every effort to prevent yourself from seeing it, and now –

If he married, his partner would see him.

You are too overwhelmed by everything you feel to be able to understand them. And you are tired and still feel unwell. The sting of unjustified rejection is quickly anger is quickly hurt again. Shifts over to something sadder and stronger and then back to rejection again. You think of them, father and son, locked away from you in the Crest. Of the way Din gently butts his helmet against the child’s head, of the way the baby had cried when you tried to mimic the action. Even in Din’s body he did not want that from you. You are sure it must be the exhaustion making you feel so vulnerable, so sad. But this does not offer you much reassurance.

“In the shower,” you say. Immediately Din sits straighter, his back stiffens again. Your voice drops to a whisper, remembering the shape of his body under your hands. “You have so many scars.”

He stays taut and then slowly sits back again. Allows your hands to continue soothing through his hair. “Bounty hunting is… not an easy job.”

“I know, but.” You don’t know how to tell him what you’re trying to say. To put into words the way you feel. You sigh. “I know. I mean. I didn’t look, I closed my eyes, and I swear it Din, I would never. But I – I felt. All of that. I had to wash your face, and I – ”

You don’t know what he looks like. You could not imagine him from the shape of him beneath your hands. You think he must have a prominent nose, and a sharp jaw. But the rest you could make no guess at. Don’t know how to tell him that this already feels like a betrayal, that this was already more than you should have. You are not his wife. His family. He has given you his name but the rest has been taken from him. Is not your fault, and yet you feel guilty.

“Technically,” he says. “You are only not allowed to see me.”

“What do you mean?”

He rolls his shoulders slightly back, a shrug. “Touching my face does not break my Creed.”

Was he allowing you to, was he giving you permission? Your head spins. “I – I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I have spent so long terrified I am going to mess up! And accidentally see you! I can’t just – just – ”

“You won’t mess up.” He is so sure. Sounds so much like himself, even with the words in your voice, coming from your mouth. “You have protected my Creed better than I could ever ask you to.”

Your heart swells in your chest. Prideful, happy. The approval you had briefly hoped for from him, when he was in the shower, is much better here. Not directed at your body at all but at your ability to protect the thing he holds nearest. Your hands come to rest around his shoulders, half tangled in the hair between you. He shifts like he will move towards you, but he does not. Sinks slightly further back against your legs.

“And besides,” he murmurs. “I am a Mandalorian. Not a monk. There are ways within my Creed for me to be human.”

You do not have to think long to decode what he has told you, and when you do you grip your hands tightly against him. More shocked than embarrassed. You had never thought about the Mandalorian marrying, or having a family, but you had certainly never thought about – about that. That he would seek out other people, the company of their flesh. The logistics of it all cloud your mind, try to piece together what you know of his Creed and the act of sex. But it only serves the raise images in your mind which had not been there before, images which are made clearer by merely being able to look down and see for yourself and imagine. But, his Creed. His armour. His helmet.

“But – ” You cut yourself off. Din does turn this time, leans forward and looks over his shoulder, his face as expressive as it always is, always has been you now know. Looks at you expectantly with a question. Do you actually want to know? He will tell you, if you ask him to. And you flush deeply. “I thought…”

“No one can see me beneath my helmet.”

His helmet. Just his helmet. “Oh.”

He turns to face the front again, conceals his face from you so you cannot know what he is thinking. Are left to silently grapple with this new piece of knowledge on your own. You take a deep breath and release the clench you have on his hair. Smooth it over again gently. It is simply too much to think about. Opens up a whole new part of how you see him. Can’t help but wonder if many times aboard the Crest, while you had watched the ship and the kid, if while he was out seeking work, he had pursued the company of others. The answer seems so blatantly obvious it makes your stomach flop. Of course he had.

You must be quiet for too long because he pulls away from you slightly. “Did I make you uncomfortable?” He asks, not angry or defensive. Sounds almost sorry.

You shudder a breath. “No. No, I just. I never thought about it before.”

He half turns and then stops. Turns back to the front. You feel him start to say something but stop before the words are out. You want to ask him what he means to say but you aren’t sure if you want to know. If you can fit learning anything else into this night. Your head buzzes with everything and spins.

So instead you begin to work your hands forward towards the front of his hair, gently detangling any knots made by your nervous hands. And then you begin to braid. You pick up a piece of the hair at the top of his head, two beside it, and fold them together. Add another piece and another. Quietly explain each step to him as you go. Slowly along the top of his head, over the crown, down along the back of your scalp. And then you plait the ends. Work your hands quickly through the lengths of his hair until you reach the bottom. You don’t bother tying it off, but pass it forward to show him. Wait until he slowly takes it from you, gingerly, like he might break it. Turns his head to the side to look at it, runs his fingers along it.

“Try undoing it,” you say. “Just a bit. Slowly.”

He hesitates, but releases the ends and holds them in an unturned palm. Watches as it braid starts to spring apart and then picks at the pieces slightly, undoing it a few inches. Your hands move over his shoulder.

“Watch. You always hold one piece, here. Right comes over, left comes over. And now they’re swapped. And you hold the middle. Right over, left over.” Your hands mimic the actions as you say them, all the way down to the bottom of the braid. And then you unravel it again and hold it up for him to try. “Try it.”

His hands are clumsy at first, fingers struggle to work around the hair and keep his motions even. He grunts. Undoes everything again and starts from where you pinch the braid to keep the whole thing from falling apart.

“It takes time to learn.”

He sighs. “You are fast.”

“I’ve been doing it my whole life. At the academy – ”

You bite your tongue in shock. You do not talk about your life on Coruscant in front of Din, had not before you told him of the rebel agent, of the weapons plans you stole for them. And had never before then. Feels insensitive to talk about your life in the machine which had destroyed his people. Selfish and spoiled. You pull the braid back over his shoulder and unravel the whole thing, like the strands fall loose around his shoulders and stroke it gently. Frown down at it, as though it was somehow anyone else’s fault that you had forgotten yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you say. Quiet.

“Why?”

“I…” You fidget. “I didn’t mean to – to talk about it.”

He’s silent. Stares straight ahead. “About the Empire?”

“Yeah.”

He’s silent again. But when he speaks you realise what he has been doing. Quietly choosing his words, thinking them through in his mind. Maybe translating them, you think. “You don’t have to hide it.” He says. “You don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“But the Empire – ”

“Do you think they should have won?” He asks bluntly. So straightforward. So typical of him. You cast your eyes up to the ceiling and back down.

“Of course not.”

“Then it doesn’t matter.”

“But – ”

“Kelir bic am te ryuot?” He says, almost harshly. “No. It won’t change it. Ni ganar kyrayc adate. Te aliit ni kar'taylir darasuum ganar kyrayc adate.” He shifts forward and seems to get frustrated with himself, with his words. He hunches over and sighs. “My family… they kill people too. It’s what we do. I am – I am not always proud.”

You do not reach for him, although you want to. You let him have his space, allow him enough room to breathe. Wait until he slumps slightly, the frustration leaving his shoulders before you slowly run a hand lightly over the loose hair at the back of his head. Gather the ends slowly together and idly work at it. Let him move back towards you in his own time. And he does, slowly, shuffles back into the space between your legs and you make room for him. Begin slowly to braid his hair again, not explaining it this time, simply moving your fingers through the familiar motions. It calms you. Seems to calm him as well.

“I don’t judge you for what you were born to.” He says eventually.

You nod although he cannot see it. “I understand.” You pause, brush your fingers just lightly over his neck and he shivers. “Thank you.”

He nods and you undo the braid. Start it over again and explain as you do. Feel Din relax further into your right leg as you do. Your explanations are absent minded, almost without thought because you are caught up in the feeling of finally knowing that Din does not hate you at all. Doesn’t judge you for your life on Coruscant, for having precious memories of a place which has brought so much of the Galaxy so much pain. You had known in the desert, when you had told him of the rebel agent, that he did not hate you. But you were still worried, worried that to him you might represent all that was responsible for the deaths of his people. But you do not. He sees you for what you are now, accepts you for the past you have, and does not ask you to edit or change it. Or conceal it in front of him. You think it must be part exhaustion, how deeply you feel the relief. How suddenly you feel slack with it, like all the tension which had been holding you together and keeping you awake was gone now. You have reached the end of the braid, moved so slowly that it is too loose.

“It’s probably silly to do this before bed,” you say. “I never like sleeping with my hair tied.”

He doesn’t answer. You almost say his name to call his attention, but he is slumped so deeply against your leg, and his breathing is so even. Has fallen asleep. You stare at him in shock, the sliver of his face you can see slack, eyelashes resting against his cheek. And then you chuckle, softly so as not to wake him. He must be as tired as you. You almost reach for his shoulder to wake him before you stop.

You stand slowly, try to jostle him as little as you can and extract your legs from around him. Lean his back against the frame of the bed and his head lolls backwards onto the mattress. It makes you chuckle when the action does not wake him. His arms slip, one to the ground and the other cradled across his lap. You crouch beside him, tuck the fallen arm up into his lap as well and begin to slowly move your arms around him. Beneath his back his easy but under his knees requires more manoeuvring. But you get there. Move slowly so you can account for your own body’s weight as you lift. Be careful with his head where it falls further to the side.

The lift is easier than you would have thought possible. You sway a bit, countering the pull forwards, but once you get off the ground it is not hard. Remember suddenly the ease with which you had lifted the heavy cargo crate in the hull of the Crest. Realise how strong the Mandalorian must be to be able to move another human so easily. You cradle him inwards against your chest so that he is not slack and falling out of your arms. Carry him across the room to his own bed and lay him in it gently. Stare down at your own sleeping face and try to see yourself inside your body, try to remember what you had looked like in the mirror, in holograms. But the person in front of you now is too much Din to be the woman you remember. Feels so strangely floating between realities that you have to look away. You tuck the covers in around him gently, try not to jostle him. Push back a strand of hair which has come loose and fall again into his face. He murmurs softly in his sleep, but he does not wake.

. 

Kelir bic am te ryuot?: Will that change the past?

Ni ganar kyrayc adate. Te aliit ni kar'taylir darasuum ganar kyrayc adate: I have killed people. The family I love most have killed people. 

. 

Tags: @btillys​​ @vercopaanir​​ @absurdthirst​​ @sistasarah-sallysaidso​​ @adikaofmandalore​​ @babyomen​​ @purpleeeslurpppp​​ @fleurdemiel145​​ @hdlynn​​ @starwarsiscooliguess​​ @thedarkwitchling​​ @no-droids-allowed​​ @dartheldur​​ @toilet-keeper @sinnamon-bunn​ @br0ther-s​ @that-one-weird-one​ @oloreaa​ @nellyneko​ @damndamer0n​ @space-floozy @hopplessdreamer​ 

[di-kut]

Baar Bal Runi: Chapter 7

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive!Reader

Words: 7K

Summary: (Body Swap AU) You and the Mandalorian deal with the fight he started on the streets of Garel, and afterwards everything is talked out between you. Mando gives you something very close to him. And you finally shower.

Rating: M (Descriptions of canon typical violence and non explicit nudity)

A/N: This is so long and such an unintentional roller coaster. Half the things that happen in this chapter were not planned to happen here, but here we are. There’s just a lot going on for our poor babies, but hopefully it’s good goings on. We shall see. Also there is a LOT of Mando’a in this chapter, translations are at the end, but it should make sense without them! Mando is just a very emotional man in this one. 

There’s a cool blade pressed through the fabric at your throat before you can blink.

The Mandalorian’s eyes are wide. Shocked. The rest of his face is contorted into an ugly snarl, your face. It doesn’t look like your face, not in the way you know it. It looks like a face capable of sinking the blade which is pressed against your throat in, through skin and muscle, killing you in the street on an unfamiliar planet. He had been about to. The pressure of the blade cannot be as intense as it feels, like the whole world has narrowed to a pinpoint. You stare down at him, more still than you knew you were capable of being, barely even breathing. His wide eyes are looking into the visor, or looking at his own reflection in it, you don’t know. And then the pressure slowly lifts and he inches his hand away from your throat, lowers it to his side.

He doesn’t step away, and you suck in a deep breath. Feel his chest brush against yours. Neither of you step away. His face falls slack in surprise, or maybe fear. You look to the darkening spot over his eyes, a spot that will soon be a dark bruise, the smallest of cuts from the blow slicing through the tail of end of his eyebrow. Down to where his open mouth is panting close enough to the helmet to fog the visor. You can feel it hot and damp where the fabric at your neck is thinnest. Where there had been a blade only moments ago. You shudder and watch as Mando looks down to your neck. The moment feels as though it lasts forever, and no time at all.

The Barabel behind Mando roars at you both, spittle flying from its open jaw. It beats a meaty fist against its chest. You jump at the sound, feel your whole body jerk, into Mando and then away again. He grabs your arm and twists back around to face his opponent. The hand he has wrapped around your arm stays there, tightens. His other hand still has his unsheathed blade and he brings it up in front of you both, flips it over his knuckles so the blade faces away from his thumb. It makes the air around it throb with the vibration.

“This isn’t over.” The Barabel hisses its words, lisps between its glistening teeth. “Tell your pretty metal friend to go away.”

Mando’s breathing is harsh. “We’re done here.”

The Barabel laughs. Or you think it does, the sound is somewhere between a laugh and a bark. Makes its wide jaw snap. You start to move, start to step forward, but Mando’s hand drops to your wrist. You feel his fingers work at the spot where your glove and your sleeve meet, slide beneath it to the bare skin. Rests them over the spot where your pulse thunders within. The contact makes you still completely again. The Barabel steps forward. Mando’s hand tightens around the blade.

“You owe me a fight, little lady. You hit me.”

“You swung first.”

Another grating laugh. “And I’ll swing last.”

You think you are going to break. You are going to snap. It’s all too much. You can’t breathe in the helmet, can’t think, feel your dirty skin crawl beneath the armour. The Mandalorian’s words are still chasing each other around and around in your head, have been since the docking bay. The feeling of the viroblade at your throat has not gone away. There are too many people all around you, the hot press of bodies everywhere. You can feel them. The thundering, boiling of their desire. The need to see bloodshed. Feel the Barabel across from you, the anger, the anticipation. And the Mandalorian. All of them, all at once.

You scream. Deep and raw and loud, ripping out of the Mandalorian’s chest. It’s a terrifying sound. “Enough!”

The hush which falls over the crowd is complete. You are shaking in Mando’s hand, shaking everywhere. You feel him jump, see his head snap around to face you at the sound. The Barabel stills and then slowly grins, rolls its huge shoulders back. The crowd murmurs, adjusts to a new fight. A Barabel and a Mandalorian. Mando’s hand tightens more, impossibly more, at your wrist, nails digging into skin. You snatch your hand away from his with a snarl and reach down, pull your blaster from its holster and swing it up. Step around him and point the blaster right between the Barabel’s eyes. Your hand is steady.

“We’re done here.” You say. Quiet voice echoes around the circle of silent onlookers. The Barabel shifts, just slightly, and you press closer. “Try me.”

“This is not your fight, Mandalorian,” the Barabel hisses at you.

“Gotab – ”

“Shut up!”  

Press your eyes closed, just quickly, just for a second. But the blaster slips, just slightly. And the Barabel lunges forward, you realise almost too late, hear Mando yelling behind you. You duck more out of instinct than anything else and the weight of the Barabel’s swing just misses you, glances off the top of the helmet. You hadn’t ducked low enough, underestimated your height and then underestimate your weight and you stumble. You’re still wearing the pack, you realise too late and the fist, which makes the helmet ring, catches it and pulls you forward. And then the huge hands of the Barabel are on either side of the helmet and yanking. You feel it start to lift, feel the air swim into the space around your face, the fabric over your jaw exposed.

Then the zing of blaster fire rings through the air. The Barabel grunts, releases you, stumbles backwards. You lift your hands to the helmet as you trip over your feet to get away from the huge alien, hold it in place and fit it back over where it had lifted, only slightly. The crowd is screaming, but you feel the clamour in your breast thousands of times worse than you can hear them. Are suffocated by it. Consumed by it, feel red start to fade into the corners of your vision, rage, bloodlust seeping into your thoughts.

Mando has his blaster up, still pointed at the Barabel. But you are stalking forward, blaster raised again, cross the space between you and the crouched body of the Barabel in three long steps and press the barrel against its head. You want to kill it, want to shoot right through its thick hide and its skull and watch it die. You don’t, you think you don’t, but the feelings of the crowd around you are so full with death that you are full with it too. But then Mando is there, resting his hand in the crook of your elbow and you feel him, his confusion, the familiarity of his soul. You lower the blaster, just slightly, loosen your finger around the trigger.

“If you ever,” you lean down, “touch this helmet again I will kill you.”

Mando is watching you, staring at you. You don’t look to see the expression on his face. Chest heaving from the fight, from the simmering want to spill the blood of the Barabel over the dirty ground beneath you. The alien says nothing, watches you with wide yellow eyes.

You hit the blaster barrel so hard against its head, right between its eyes, that it jerks away. “Tell me you understand!”

“Gotabor.” Mando tightens his hand again. “Gotabor.”

A shuddering breath. “Mando. It’s – it’s too much. I can feel all of them. They – they want me to kill him.” You say it quietly, not quietly enough. The Barabel goes stiff, you watch the reptilian slits of its eyes narrow. You press the blaster closer again. “He tried to take off the helmet.”

“You – you can feel them?”

“Jedi,” the Barabel says. True terror on its face. “Jedi!”

You jerk, and Mando steps closer. His blaster lifts while yours lowers. You say it together, you feel the blood draining from your face and Mando sounds the same. “What?”

“I did not know,” the Barabel says. “I did now know they were real!”

“You know about Jedi?” Mando nudge the Barabel’s arm with his blaster. When it doesn’t answer, Mando grunts and shoves at him with his elbow. “What do you know about the Jedi?”

Mando’s other hand still clutches your elbow. Holds you steady. The crowd is losing interest and bit by bit the completeness of the collective rage begins to fade away as people trickle back into their night. The fight was over, and no one was going to die. With every person that walks away you regain clarity, feel yourself return beneath the haze of bloodlust. Feel your own terror for how close you had been to taking a life, how much you had wanted to do it. You shudder and tuck the blaster quickly into your holster. Wish you were somewhere safe so you could get rid of them completely, feel the weapons strapped all over your body and the weight of them is suddenly heavier.

The Barabel is answering Mando. “Only legends! A race of great warriors who freed the clans of war, from beyond the clouds. They have great power!” It’s eyes slide to you and then down. “The old gods can feel everything, you cannot hide your true intentions from a Jedi.”

Mando drops his hand from your arm abruptly, like it sears him through your thick armour. He curls it at his side. And suddenly you are cut off from him, swaying and cold and on your own. The crowd peters out to nothing, the bustling around you closing in and away, and becoming just a crowd. The Barabel is clutching a blaster wound on its left arm, hisses in pain when it lifts its hand to check to blackened scorch left of the top of its sleeve.

“What else?” Mando prompts.

“They are legends!”

“Where did you hear them?” He asks.

“They are from my home planet. Barab I, in the Albanin sector. There are others the beyond the Albanin sector who remember more legends. They tell the children these to scare them from telling lies.” The Barabel’s tongue hisses through its teeth again. “Most of us do not believe in them.”

Mando waits, and then slowly lowers his blaster. The Barabel watches you both, skittish eyes slipping through the crowd. Mando tilts just his jaw in your direction, does not let his eyes leave the Barabel until you step away. It lifts itself from the ground and scurries, disappearing into the ebb of the crowd around you. You move back, scoop up the pack which has been kicked and trodden on, left in the middle of the market. You hold it out. Mando does not move at first, and when he does its halting and unsure, takes the bag from you and slings it back over his shoulders. You move back towards the hotel.

.

You stare at the reflection of the helmet in the mirror. Gloved hands gripped around the durasteel sink. You try to see through the visor, try to see your eyes beneath, but there is nothing, just more of the reflection of your reflection, an endless maze of bouncing light and shapes. You stare at them so long and hard the helmet in the mirror no longer feels real, no longer feels attached to you. Even though you can feel the pressure of it pushing down around your head. The Mandalorian has killed many people before, the hands beneath you have taken money to end lives. He has told you this, it has never scared you before. It scares you now. You had been ready to kill the Barabel for touching the helmet, the roar of the crowd filling you. You don’t know if it was because there were so many of them, all feeling the same thing, or if it was because you wanted it too.

Jedi. You hadn’t heard that word since your mother died.

Mando had told you of the Jedi, of the brief knowledge he had of the history of his people. But he spoke of the Jedi in terms of the child, searched for them because of him. But finding the Jedi was like chasing smoke, like chasing the reflection of your reflection of the helmet in the mirror, a trick of the light was all they seemed to be. Forgotten, or those who had heard of them knew nothing more than the Barabel. Legends.

When you emerge from the bathroom it is morning. Outside, Garel is the same purple as it had been hours before, in the dead of night. The constant cloud cover only slightly lightened by the distant sun. Mando is awake, pacing the length of the room. Has stopped completely at the sound of the ‘fresher door hissing open. He watches the path you make to your bed and as you sit heavily into the mattress. The creak of the frame grating in the quiet room. You are in a different world to the one outside, the one which you can see and hear, floating in through the window. The child still sleeps, had woken only briefly when you had returned, and quickly slept again when Mando had rubbed his hairy little head. You want to take off the gloves and the helmet. Don’t know if you can anymore. Don’t know if he trusts you to do it on your own again.

“Gota – ”

“Why did you start that fight?” You cut him off.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “The Barabel threw the first punch.”

“Don’t give me that Kriff.” You want to sound angry, but you are just tired. “What happened?”

He turns and starts to pace again, crosses the room twice before he stops. “I bumped it, and it started – it was rude. So, I was rude back. And then it tried to grab me.”

You sigh and slump back against the wall. Close your eyes. Mando starts to pace again, you listen to the scuffing sounds of his boots along the floor and try to concentrate on something else. You count, focus on forming the numbers in your mind, solid enough that you can visualise them.

“What if something had happened to you? What about the kid?” You keep your eyes closed, hold the number four in your mind. “What would he do without you?”

“I’m no good to him like this, anyway.” He snaps. “He’d have you.”

You pull in another deep breath. You move on to the number five, imagine how it looks, form a space around it so that your thoughts and your anger are at the fringes of your mind. “Not if that Barabel had its way.”

“You weren’t meant to be there.”

Six. “A lot of good that would have done the kid.” Seven.

He stops and you open your eyes finally to look at him. He’s staring at the crib, arms limp at his sides. He looks so full, like he has a thousand things welled just beneath the surface, and you are glad in that moment that you can’t feel him. You are barely able to allow yourself to feel your own pain and cannot bear to feel anyone else’s. Eight.

“What if I don’t want the kid?” You ask him. “What if I don’t want him without you?”

He jerks away from you. “You would l-leave him?”

“No. Never.” Nine. “But you don’t get to make decisions like that for me. For either of us. You’re his father. He knows that, remember? Even like this. He wouldn’t want to be without you.”

Mando sags completely, manages to drag his feet over to the bed opposite you and sink into it. Drops his elbows against his knees and his head to his chest. Like a galaxy collapsing into a star. He shudders.

“I wasn’t… thinking.”

“Obviously.” You immediately regret how harsh the word sounds. Sigh deeply. “Sorry, that was…” You rub the helmet. “You were thinking something. You don’t just fight for – ”

“A Mandalorian does.” He sounds so bitter, so angry.

You stare at him, at his crumpled body. “Mando…”

“I don’t think I’m a Mandalorian anymore.” He lifts his head to look at you, not at you, at the armour. His eyes follow the shape of the helmet, around the chest plate and his pauldrons and gauntlets. All the way over you to the boots and then to the corner where you had placed the weapons with the pack you had carried. “I d-don’t think I’m a Mandalorian anymore. I-I can’t be. I have no armour, no h-helmet, no creed. I’m…” He stops, pulls his hands through his hair in frustration, but it makes it worse when the strands get caught around his fingers, tangle. He yanks even more of it out from where he’s tucked it into his collar. “Ni cuy’ dar’manda.”

You feel helpless, stars apart from him and alone in the room of the hotel. You want to ask him what he means, what he has spoken in his language, but you don’t know how. Don’t want to upset him further.

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. I just – I’m just. I don’t have – ” He churns with his thoughts. Sits up and then leans back down. “Maybe you can – you can… maybe you can feel what I do for a reason. I don’t know how to – ”

He doesn’t continue. You feel the emptiness in the pit of your stomach open back up, the fear eating a hole through you. Ready yourself for his rejection again. “I can’t feel you now.”

“You felt all those people. In the market – you said – ”

You remember. You wish you did not, but you think you will never forget. You hope you never feel it again, so many people, so much lust for death and for blood. “It’s never been like that before. Not so bad. I couldn’t even… I couldn’t even feel myself anymore. Just them, and then – then you.” You stare at your hands. “You didn’t want me to kill it.”

“No.” He shifts. “I didn’t. At kyr’amur ures suvarirar cuyiror at ijaat oyay.”

“I can’t turn it off, Mando.” You say. Your voice small and quiet and scared. “I don’t know how. I couldn’t ever feel anything before all this, not from you, and now it’s – it’s happening more. I don’t know how to control it. I don’t even know when it’s going to happen it just is. And I can’t stop it.”

He looks up again. You lift your hands to the helmet, slowly, allow him time to tell you to stop. But he doesn’t, he watches as you lift it away and place it carefully on the bed beside you. Don’t about the lights above you which are still on, not until you pull the gloves away and look down at the Mandalorian’s smooth skin, thick, long fingers. He is staring at his own face, studying it. It must be strange for him, not so used to seeing his exposed face at all, let alone being worn by another. Seeing himself properly for the first time since you had changed, not hidden in the dark of the ship or behind a helmet.

“I don’t want this either,” you say. There is something different about hearing his voice without the helmet on, with the light on, knowing if you stood and moved to the ‘fresher you would be able to look into the mirror again and see his face. Take his creed from him completely. You hold his future in your hands, and he has no choice but to let you. “I don’t want… I don’t want you to hate me.”

“Nu draar.” He pushes himself to the edge of his bed. “Nu draar, I don’t… I would never hate you.”

“I know you wish I was different.” His head jerks up. “But I’m – I’m not. And I don’t know how to stop this. I don’t want any of this. I don’t want to do this. To you.”

“Ni gotal gar aalar ibic?” He sits down hard on the bed.

“I… I don’t – ”

“Gotabor’ika. I d-don’t wish you were different.” He says. “I don’t. I never… I would never. I’m sorry. I should never have made you feel…” He gets frustrated with the words again. Tugs at the collar of your jacket. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You move forward, drawn into him. Push yourself off the bed and cross the space between you. Feel a spot in your heart heal as you get closer to him, the fear his rejection sated, for now at least. Kneel on the ground before him and it makes him groan, shake his head. You start to reel backwards but he puts his hands out to steady you. You almost take his hands in yours and then think the better of it. Fold them in your lap. “I never wanted to lie to you, Mando. But I was so scared. You’re… the first person. The only person I’ve told, since my mother.”

“Bal Ni kadala gar.” He’s looking into your eyes, through them, right beneath the skin you wear of him and through to the soul which belongs to you. “If anyone should kneel before anyone it should be me kneeling before you. Gotabor’ika, ni ceta. Ni ceta.”

You don’t know the words in Mando’a but you understand the apology within them. His hands move to the pauldrons and he pulls you up off the ground. Relies on your help to move your weight around, still not used to being so much smaller than you. He pushes you to sit on the bed beside him and you do. His hands linger on the Beskar for a moment and then he pulls them away, haltingly. Unsure of himself.

“I-I don’t want you – want you to feel – unwelcome. I trust you. I trust you with my armour. And – and my creed. And the kid.” He swallows thickly. “If I had known it was you, before, with the knife. I would never. I would have never… done that. I’m sorry that all I’ve done is… is be mad at you. I’m not mad at you I just – I just don’t know what I am anymore. And it’s not fair that I took it out on you.”

You reach slowly and place your bare hand over where his are clenched in his lap. Close your large fingers around his and rest. His hand turns, one of the them twists upwards so that your palms are together, his fingers finding your pulse again, like they had in the market. And this time you see his sigh of relief when he presses lightly against the singing blood. He did not want you to kill the Barabel. He did not hate you for what you could not control. He was checking for something to show you were alive beside him. So much of his life was surrounded by death. You squeeze your hand tighter around his and realise you want to hug him closer, want to feel someone. Haven’t touched anyone since the change.

A soft cooing from the crib draws your attention. The sounds of the child near his wakening. Not quite up yet. The Mandalorian does not look away from your hands, you feel the gentle circle his fingers begin to make over your pulse. Shiver without meaning to.

“Who built the child’s crib?” You ask him.

Mando continues drawing against your skin. He turns his head and shoulders to look at it, hovering a few feet away from you near the wall. He is quiet for so long you think he won’t answer you. “An old friend,” he says eventually.

“It’s incredible work.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

He turns away from the crib. His fingers still and press back into your pulse. “His name was Kuiil.”

You look away. “I’m sorry.”

“He was an engineer too. Like you. Before I knew him. He was a moisture farmer when I met him.”

You remember his flight through the desert, it feels like a lifetime ago. Really only a week. Remember his silence during your stay at the moisture farm, and then his stubborn ride through the desert which had almost killed him. Remember the grief you had felt from him that night around your campfire, suffocating and dreadful. The day suddenly makes sense, missing pieces of the puzzle finally in their place. “Oh,” you say softly.

He nods, turns again to stare vacantly at the crib. “Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.” His voice is so quiet you can barely hear him. “You are meant to say their names to remember them, those who are gone.”

“What are their names?”

“There are too many dead,” his voice cracks. He says it like a terrible confession. “I can’t remember them all.”

Your hand tightens around his so much it must hurt him. But he doesn’t complain, only holds you tighter as well. You shuffle forward slowly, until your leg is pressed to his. He stays looking at the crib, looking inside it at his child.

“Teach me how to say it.”

His face pinches. “Teach you?”

You watch his face, watch the child in his crib. “I’m scared, sometimes. When you go out. When you leave that you’ll go and it will be the last time I see you. That I’ll be alone, and I’ll have to live knowing I won’t ever see you again. I’m scared of looking after the kid by myself. I would never leave him, but I don’t think… I don’t know if I could do it. I was scared just now, with the Barabel.”

Finally, he turns and faces you. His eyes are red, but they are dry. He studies you, chasing the features of your face and searching for something there.

“What would I have to remember you by?” You whisper. “What words would I say when you’re gone?”

“Be an te adate at ganar ner runi ni cuy’ briikase bic cuyir gar.” His voice is softer than yours. Without the helmet on the feeling shared through his eyes is stronger. You feel it push up inside your ribcage, spread through your arms. Its slow and gentle and quiet. His heart once again open to you. It does not hurt like sharing yourself with the people in the market. Does not make you scared.

You wait for him to say first the words again, so you can repeat them. He is patient with you, sounds them out piece by piece so that you can form your mouth around them. Until finally you can say them, haltingly and slowly, but you can form the sentence. You can still feel him, feel a softness you could not put a name to. He explains the words to you. “It means that even though you are dead, I am here to remember you. So, you are eternal.”

“Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.” You say to him.

His smile is bittersweet. “Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.” He repeats. “There, you have it.”

“I hope I never have to use it.” The words are fierce, fiercer than you’d intended them to be. The Mandalorian’s face softens. “I won’t forget them.”

You feel the lump forming in the back of your throat, but you refuse to look away from him. Think it might be better to let him see it. He pulls on of his hands from beneath yours and lays it over yours, threads his fingers with yours and squeezes. His palms on either side of your hand. Almost used to the feeling of your own smaller hands in his, of the strangeness becoming normal. You feel him shaking. All you can do is rest your other hand over his, hope your presence will be enough. He drops your gaze and stares at your entwined hands. Your heart dips in your chest.

“Din.”

You frown. “What?”

“You need a name to say, afterwards.” He looks back up, seeks your eyes again. He looks raw, like someone has stripped away everything outside and left only something small and – scared. You heart had dipped and now thunders, beating so loudly you can hear it in your ears and feel it behind your eyes. You feel your intake of breath, rather than mean to do it. Feel dizzy. “My name is Din.”

Your mouth opens and closes. You mouth it before you can speak it, and when you do you can’t manage to bring your voice above a whisper. Hold his name close to you as you can. “Din.”

He nods.

“Din.” Only just louder, just to taste it on your tongue. You feel your whole chest aching. Full of your own feelings, and still of the lingering of him as well. Mando. Din. “Thank you.”

“I won’t… I will try. Not to leave you.” He looks into your eyes, glances at the cot. “Either of you.”

You nod at him, slowly. You know you can’t ask him to do more, you wish you weren’t already asking so much of him, that the world was not asking so much of both of you. You cannot ask him not to fight – it is a part of who he is. But he will try not to leave you, and it is enough. You close your eyes. Realise you are exhausted, that the time difference of your travel is finally catching up to you now that Garel is in the early hours of its morning. You realise the lingering whisper of his emotions are still brushing against you, so soft and quiet you almost do not notice them. And he is tired too. You both need sleep, a long, long sleep. And time where there are no secrets or tensions or fears tearing you apart. You tug his hands gently, still clasped in yours. Feel the last remnants of the feel of him fade from within you.

“Help me with the armour.”

He is slow to move, but he does, his hands rest against the chest plate and begin to quickly detach it from the magnetic plating beneath. You work on one gauntlet first, and then the other. Mando’s – Din’s – hands are light and fast, and yet somehow feel heavy anywhere they rest against you. Your heart is pounding, and you know your ears are burning hot. The back of your neck where he’s reached to start working on the thick fabric of the under armour is bright red. You shiver when he pulls it up over your head and you are wearing the much thinner undergarments. He has helped you out of the armour before, you have taken it off the sleep on the Crest every night, but now, with nothing left between you.

Your hands jitter at your shin guards.

When you get them free he takes them from you, places them reverently with the rest of the removed pieces. You unlace your boots, too. And then he helps you to stand, pulls you off the bed. Only in your – his – thinner layers. You can feel the coolness of the air around you, feel a waft of a breeze against you neck and down your spine. Feel the warmth in the air from his body in front of you. The cold ground beneath your feet.

“Can you cover the mirror?” You ask softly, get wrapped up in the sound of it coming out your mouth. It rubbles differently, more chest.

He turns from you, his warmth leaves a waft of cold in his wake. He riffles through the closest pack until he finds it, one of the thermal capes from the desert. Pulls it loose and disappears into the ‘fresher. You dig through the pack as well, pull out a fresh set of clothes to take in with you, and a small drying cloth. You have to squeeze your eyes close to brace yourself. Try to remember what number you were up to. Eight, you think. Or maybe nine.

He emerges again, holds his hands loosely before him, sitting into one hip. “Now?”

“Yeah,” you sound as shaky as you feel. “If that’s okay.”

He nods. “I’ll go after you.”

When you pass him on the way in he does not look at you, and yet you still feel the raise of hair along your arms. The ‘fresher is small, but not so tight as the one aboard the Crest. You let the door hiss shut behind you, left in the humming white light. It seals away the outside world completely so you can’t hear it even, can’t strain to make out the sounds of Mando moving around outside of it. You have the small square you use as a towel, hang it in the corner. Stare at the dark fabric covering the mirror. The only thing between you and the Mandalorian’s face. On the other side of it the man would be looking back at you. Din. You wish there was some way to remove the mirror altogether.

You turn the shower on, cold water splashes against the ground and onto your feet. There is no screen to protect the rest of the small room from the water, so instead you watch as it sprays a fine mist over everything while you wait for it to heat. And then keep waiting while the room fogs around you, so thick it’s hard to breath without the feeling of wet clinging in the back of your throat, so thick your arm is clouded from your sight when you hold it out in front of you. Only then do you lower the temperature and force yourself to undress. Keep your head facing the white ceiling as much as you can, and when you can’t, squeeze your eyes so tightly closed you can feel the press of the skin against them. You don’t know how much of his Creed you have already violated by seeing his hands, so the rest you are determined not to see.

The feeling of the steam clings to your skin, thick and hot. The water is too hot at first, and then only just bearable. You know it must be making your skin pink when you finally step under it. The relief of water, of a shower, for the first time in almost a month is a greater relief than you have ever known.

You forget everything except the beating of it against you, eyes closed, and chin tilted up. Duck your head beneath the stream and let the water soak through your hair. Try not to think about how long it takes to reach your scalp, how thick his hair must be. Concentrate again on what you know of the Creed to keep your thoughts from wandering. It’s easy enough, easy enough to press a forearm against the coolness of the wall and lean into it, fade all thoughts away into just the stream of water over you.

There’s a bar of soap you lather between your hands when you can’t put it off any longer, had noticed it while you waited for the water to heat, and now felt for it blindly. You rub the soap into your hair and rinse it away, twice, until you feel so clean the strands pull against your fingertips. His face, scrub at it with both palms, feel the shape of his noise against them and his brow bone, and the scratch of facial hair. And then his shoulders. You had thought of equations to recycle through your mind, ones you had learnt while at the academy on Coruscant, to stop you from thinking. To stop you from trying to imagining a map of the shape of him beneath your hands. But you do not need them. Because beneath the bubbles of the soap you can feel the jaggedness of his skin, riddled with scars. It shocks you into stillness. But of course he is. Of course he is covered with scars, some long and straight from blades, others mottled and burned, like blaster fire. You run the soap along his arms, under them, around the back of his neck. Plotting a path over him which is filled with wounds and pain. A life of fighting. You rinse it away, close your eyes and step back under the stream, feel soap pool and bubble around your feet. The imprint of his mottled skin under your hands remains.

Just a man, beneath everything. A man marked by all the ways his life has built him.

Din.

You lean against a wall before you feel confident enough to attempt his legs and feet with your eyes closed. Rub your fingers thoroughly between every crease, behind his knees and between every toe. Wash the grit and grime away. His is covered with scars there as well, not so much as his arms. And then you move back to his torso, moving faster now. There is a scar beneath his left ribs, large. So terrifyingly jagged you can’t imagine a person living through the injury which must have caused it. He has another on the right side of his stomach, definitely blaster fire. Hit him through a gap in the Beskar and burned straight through to the flesh. His back is littered in them, in all the places you can reach.

You feel some mixture of invasion and resignation at washing his groin. Have at least had to cope with this already from the human act of having to relieve yourself. You tilt your head away and close your eyes as you work your hands through the motions of washing him, feel the heat burn not only in your cheeks and your ears but along your chest and up your back as well. Made worse by the unbidden image of him having to do the same in your body rising behind your closed lids. So hot that the temperature of the water begins to feel cool. The feeling of your hands is too strange, too bizarre, that much has not changed. To feel him at your fingertips, and feel your hands against the unfamiliar appendage, is like to watch a holodrama and be a part of it at the same time. You go as quickly as you possibly can, recite one of your equations, and finally replace the soap in its holder.

You don’t linger any longer. Dry yourself off as quickly as you can and dress. The clean clothes are damp from the steam and the light spray of water, but they smell fresh. You pull them on with relish. Step from the ‘fresher in a billow of steam which clouds the room. Din is outside, pacing, with the kid in his arms. He glances over when you open the door and then quickly away. In the hotel room the smell of steam and soap and freshly washed skin waft between you, fill up the tiny space. You can feel, suddenly, every place that the clean clothes cling to your damp skin, feel the drip from your hair which falls and gathers and slips around your neck. You tuck your dirty things back into the top of your pack and then pad to where Din avoids your gaze. Hold your hands out for the kid.

“Din,” you whisper.

He jumps slightly at the sound of his name. The kid is up, grins at you with a wide smile and all of his teeth. Nuzzles his cheek against Din’s jaw and holds a hand out for you. You hold up your fingers, let the child grab at them with a coo. Step slightly closer. You watch the way Din stiffens and holds his gaze firmly ahead, cheeks burning, watch the way he fights his eyes trailing towards you. His cheeks warm. The child still has his head tucked against Din’s neck, begins to chew gently on your fingers, babbling around them. The kid closes his eyes, squeezes them tightly shut, his jaw closes slightly firmer around you. His tiny hand grabs onto your pinky, his other on Din’s jaw.

The world pulses.

Your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Have to close your eyes to fight off the intensity of the wave of dizziness that follows. And then it happens again, like there is a band of pressure running the width of your skull and it lifts and lift and then snaps back around you. You have your eyes open, don’t remember doing it, the room is different, warped, you can see the window. Your eyes hurt, water, and your ears are ringing. And then it stops.

Your stomach is rolling, threatening to heave. You can feel the spot where the kid is holding your hand, resting against Din’s shoulder. Scared to open your eyes, in case everything around you spins, but you do anyway. The kid is cooing, his face smoothed over again, slumped with your hand caught beneath his head. He looks like he is falling asleep again. The Mandalorian is staring at you now, face pale and specked with sweat. He looks as ill as you feel. Neither of you dare to move.

“What…” He croaks.

You can feel the floor beneath your feet, but it does not feel steady. “You too?”

He nods.

“We’re,” you lick you lips, your mouth prickles with dryness. “We’re probably just tired. I think… I think we should sleep.”

He lets out a shaking breath. Nods. “Here.”

You take the kid from him and walk him to his cot, not trusting your legs to hold you up. While you tuck him in you hear the hiss of the ‘fresher door open and close. Your bed feels miles away, and when you finally collapse into it you are ready to sleep. Head throbbing, weakness settling into your limbs. You roll onto your back and stare at the white ceiling, listening to the dim sounds of the shower running. Even as tired as you are, you smile in the empty room. You mouth the Mandalorian’s name, and then speak it aloud.

“Din.”

.

Gotabor: Engineer

Gotabor’ika: The ‘ika suffix turns the word into an affectionate nickname. (lit: little engineer)

Ni cuy’ dar’manda: I am no longer a Mandalorian (dar’manda is someone who has lost their Mandalorian heritage, and as such their identity and their soul. This is feared by most traditional Mandalorians)

At kyr’amur ures suvarirar cuyiror at ijaat oyay: To kill without understanding is not to respect life. There is honour in fighting but not in mindless murder.

Nu draar: No! (A very strong disagreement)

Ni gotal gar aalar ibic?: I made you feel this way?

Bal Ni kadala gar: And I hurt you

Ni ceta: I’m sorry (lit: I kneel) This is the strongest way a Mandalorian has to apologise. Extremely rare.

Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum: I am alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal. (Said to honour fallen comrades, friends and family).

Be an te adate at ganar ner runi ni cuy’ briikase bic cuyir gar: Of all the people to have my soul I am happy it is you

.

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[di-kut]

Baar Bal Runi: Chapter Two

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader

Words: 4k

Summary: (Body Swap AU) You wake after a terrible few days on the mysterious green planet, disoriented and confused. At first you can’t make sense of what is happening, but when you do, reality is worse than what you could have imagined.

Rating: T (I believe?) 

Tags: body swap, force sensitivity

A/N: Welp here it is. The moment we’ve all been waiting. This is just chaos and I make no apologies for it. Enjoy. 

I’m trying to find a planet.

Pieces. Fragments. Jagged shards of memories and thoughts. 

You feel like you’re being crushed.

I’m trying to find a planet. 

Your head is throbbing, your back aches. One of your arms is beginning to tingle and you realise you are lying on it. It’s too hot. Too cold. All at once. There are storm troopers which patrol outside your window, you’re sure you see the flash of their helmet lights as they pass. A helmeted face looks down at you against a blue sky. There’s shooting nearby. Dust everywhere. The blinking lights of a control panel. The smell of rich spices. The chanting of a thousand voices.

Maker, your head hurts. Your bed feels strange, too hard, and the room is so dark even behind closed lids. Pieces slip and tumble, chase each other around in your mind. Memories which must be dreams, you realise. Faces of people you have never known. Places you have never been. The sounds of the other children in the bunks around you. The smell of melting metal. A man and a woman, their memory filled with fear and aching. The eyes of the kid. Hundreds of people, the dead piled at your feet. It’s hard to differentiate the ones which are real and the phantoms of a forgotten dream. You realise you aren’t in your bed on Coruscant at all. Or in your quarters Batuu.

Maybe you should try a map.

Slowly, painfully. Things sharpen. The fog, the giant trees; larger than the petrified ones on Batuu. The darkness, never ending. The taste of fear in the back of your throat like bile. These are solid, more real.

The planet I’m looking for isn’t on any map.

 You jolt. The floor of the Razor Crest clangs beneath you. At first you think you must still be sick because the effort of trying to get off the ground is like fighting against the tide. And then you realise you are beneath something heavy. A crate in the hull must have fallen, you think dazedly. You can feel your left side throb, your ribs hurt like they’d taken a hit bad enough to break them. Your breathing is impossibly loud, echoing back at you, warm air condensing around your mouth.

 You open your eyes, but your peripheries are blacked out, and what you can see is hazy, like looking at static. You taste panic again, not some confused memory, but real and tangible. You manage to swing an arm up above your head and you suddenly know there is no crate holding you against the ground. As the world starts to grow clearer you realise you aren’t in the hull anymore. You can see the back of the co-pilot chair, the blinking dials of the controls. The darkness outside the ship. Did the Mandalorian move you to the cockpit? He was sick too. A hazy memory, his voice in your ear, asking you for help. I can’t lift you. You’re awake enough to know the feeling of his lips brushing against your ear is an illusion you must have created later. But you can’t place the scene in the jumbled mess of the last two days. Everything feels like it is swimming right at the edge of your grasp.

 You manage to roll over. “Kriff, what…”

 Something is wrong with your voice, or maybe your ears. It comes out so deep, it reverberates around your head and chest and echoes. Almost familiar. You lift your hands to try and touch your ears, touch anything, ground yourself from the strange floating feeling of being separate to the world around you.

 Gloves, you notice. The Mandalorian, he’s here. Your heart kicks up, until you realise it isn’t the Mandalorian’s hands reaching for you in the darkness of the cockpit, they’re your own. Wearing the Mandalorian’s gloves. And then your heart leaps into your mouth and you’re scrambling, the scraping sound of metal on metal, you slip, push yourself onto your hands and shuffle backwards. Something yanks at your neck and you swing, thinking someone has caught you by the collar, someone was here with you in the ship. But your hand closes around air and your head clangs hard against the wall of the cockpit. It rings, like a mallet on durasteel, but the sound is lighter, clearer. Except it’s all around you and your breath is fogging against your mouth and nose and you can see your peripheries but you’re wearing the Mandalorian’s helmet.

 “Mando!” You yell, hoarse and thick and deep. If your stomach weren’t empty you would heave again, just like outside that Maker cursed cave. “Mando!”

 You get up. You don’t know how. You don’t look – can’t look – at the gloves or the boots or the holster on your hip. It just doesn’t – your brain cuts out thought. You almost slip twice coming down the ladder to the hull. The gloves make you clumsy. The space feels too small, too tight. You slam your head on the way down, overestimating the height of the guard at the bottom. Part of you is glad for it, thinks it might wake you out of this nightmare.

 The crib is in the corner, still sealed. The child is crying inside it. You wonder how long he’s been in there. How long you have been lying unconscious on the floor of the cockpit. In the corner, by the door, there’s another shape. You want to look away. Feel like you might vibrate out of your skin. Maybe you already have. You want to run, go back to the cockpit, close your eyes. Hope it all goes away. But you know it won’t. So instead you edge forward, shuffling your feet sideways. You find yourself with a hand outstretched, ready to repel some sort of attack. You aren’t sure if you expect it to come from the slumped body in the corner or somewhere else. Hysteria is beginning to tinge the edges of your thoughts.

You aren’t sure what makes you ask, exactly. It’s an impossibility but – the arms stretched in front of you are not yours, and ceiling was never this close before, and your footsteps never this heavy. And there is a body slumped in the corner of the hull, head to the floor where you had fallen getting back to the ship. You are close enough now to see the sickly pallor of her skin, the shallow breathing, the sunken eyes. The braid of her hair has come mostly undone. A braid you know, and braid you remember tying nights before. A face you know, although it looks different, not facing it in the mirror. Abstract somehow. And even though the question is impossible. You don’t know why you ask, but you do.

 “M-Mando?”

 It doesn’t move – she. She doesn’t move.

 You inch closer, lean down. The knee pads you can now feel protect your knees from the worst of the hard flooring digging into you. The armour clangs as you move. You get close enough that you could touch her. You reach out, pull your arm back again. Your breath is fogging up the inside of the helmet. You can hear it in your ears and hissing through the modulator in the hull around you. Finally, you settle for a gentle nudge of the shoulder.

 “Mando?” You ask. Your voice is deep. It crackles through the Modulator. “Mando?”

 Suddenly her eyes are open. They stare blankly, misted with sleep, and then her face contorts into a snarl. Before you can get out of the way her hand strikes out, but its slow, groggy. Misses you completely. She shoves against your chest plate with her other hand. You try and grapple with her, grab her hands and stop her from hitting you, but you’re shaking too much to really stop her. She lets out a sound, something between a growl and a yell.

 “Mando!” You yell, and it comes out too harsh. Too loud. You sound angry, threatening, but you realise it too late. The woman in front of you is already reacting. “No, wait – “

 She swings hard. She doesn’t miss this time. Her hand hits the helmet with a splintering crack. You stumble backwards and get to your feet, dazed from the metallic ringing but otherwise unhurt. You almost trip on the cape around your shoulders. The woman is cradling her fist, the knuckles already beginning to swell and darken. But she doesn’t make a sound, she’s rolling, pushing herself up to stand. Her eyes slide across the room wildly until they land on the sealed crib. And then she looks back you. She looks almost feral now; lip curled, eyes wide. Still terribly silent. Quiet even when she had broken her hand on your helmet. She moves towards the crib, towards the weapons compartment you’d left open before you went out to search for the Mandalorian. You move back a couple of steps.

 “Just…” You don’t know what you’re meant to say. How you’re meant to put the pieces together. Say out loud what you know. Staring down at your own face staring back at you.

“Who are you?” She asks. Her voice is grating in its familiarity and you wince.

“I…”

“What did you do?” She snarls. Her eyes dart to the crib and back to you. Listens to the baby crying in the silence of the ship. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing! Nothing I swear by the Maker. Please, Mando, listen – “ 

“Who. Are. You.”

“I…” Nothing comes. Just blankness. Emptiness. It occurs to you that like this you probably don’t need to fear so much if the Mandalorian decides to settle this in a fight. This thought is chased quickly by the knowledge that he, she, would probably still win anyway. All the Beskar on you would amount to nothing anyway. “Mando, just trust me. Please. For – for five minutes.”

“No,” she, he, growls. 

“Your son –!” And she stops the step he had been about to take, straight at you. “You’re looking for his home! For his people. They… they… you don’t know where they are, or who they are. We…” Your voice drops to almost a whisper. Watch his reaction. “We’ve been looking for them for months. After… After Batuu.”

He goes completely still. So still you think he might have gone into shock. And then he ducks, snatches something from the edge of the weapons compartment he can reach. He lifts it in his good hand, the blade catches the light along its sharpened edge. His broken fist curls over the spot on his thigh where his blaster should be. Where it’s strapped to your thigh. You stay rooted to the spot and try and lift your hands slowly as you can, palms forward. He looks like he’s gone over the other side of furious, tipped into an eerie calm. He’s going slow, off to the side, and you realise he’s cutting you off from the child. You start to shake your head and he tenses. You stop moving again.

His voice is so calm. The knife is Beskar, the same colour as the armour you wear. “If you have hurt either of them – “

 You choke. “Mando, just stop! Stop! It’s me! Me! I don’t know what’s happening, okay? I can’t – I don’t – the cave, I can’t remember, I don’t know, just… but then I woke up in the cockpit, okay? I don’t get it either but something’s happened to us. We’re – we’re – “ You can’t get the words out. You swallow around them. “It’s me.”

 “Where did you get that armour from?” He moves around, cages the crib with his body. The crying quietens. “Tion meg be’aliit gar? Tion gar gai?”

 It takes several panicked moments for the change of language to filter through. He’s never spoken to you directly in Mando’a before, except – gotabor. You know it well enough from the soft sounds of him speaking to the child, swearing under his breath, muttering it as he works. It takes longer than it should to realise what’s happening. What he must be thinking.

 “What?” You almost trip. “No! No, I’m not a Mandalorian! It’s me!”

 His voice gets dark. You would never think your throat was capable of making such a threatening sound. “Ne shab’rud’niÖ.” He surges forward.

 “You smell like lemon after you shower!”

 He stops dead.

 “You never talk to me, you just go straight back to your quarters, but you pass my bed from the ‘fresher and I… I always notice.” You aren’t sure how you manage to find the space in your chest to feel the burn of embarrassment, admitting that guarded secret to him as he is about to gut you. Somehow the hot feeling of shame creeps up your cheeks. But he isn’t moving, so, “The little guy, he… he sleeps better. When you’re gone, I mean. He sleeps better if he can smell it. So sometimes I give him the bottle while you’re away and I put it back before you… before you come ho – back. Before you come back.”

 He stares at you like you’ve kicked him in the stomach. His calm, even face crumples into something like pain and he sucks in an uneven breath. Mutters a quiet word. “Me’ven?” You aren’t even sure you’re meant to hear it.

 “You don’t like the sweet flavoured rations bars, but I do. And you always give them to me.” Your heart is beating so hard against your chest you think you can feel it against the Beskar. Head spinning. “It annoys you when I forget to switch off the extra lights before I go to bed, but you never say anything. I try, I promise I do, but I just… don’t like the dark. And – And – And you – “

 “Stop.” Now he sounds like he’s been kicked in the stomach as well. “Stop!”

 So, you do. You keep your hands up, wait for him to move. You see everything play out over his bare face. Your face. You watch the same realisations which had occurred to you as they happen to him. The confusion, anger, abject horror. He looks down at the hands which are now his, but used to be yours, and drops the knife to the floor with a clatter. You think for a moment he’s going to keel over, so you jump forward. It only makes it worse. He throws up a hand between your bodies, makes a raw sound in the back of his throat. For the first time you watch him notice that the voice coming out of his throat is wrong. That everything is wrong. He stares at his empty hands, one swollen and blooming purple. Down at your body which he us now inhabiting, and then looks up at you. You know very well what he sees, so used to the sight of your dark, blurred reflection staring back at you in the Beskar. Your stomach lurches at the feeling of yourself looking back at you, the body you should be in being worn by a different soul.

 “How?”

 You deflate. The helmet drops to your chest plate. You think you might fall over yourself. The Beskar is just so heavy. Your voice cracks. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

 He stares at you, looking as sick as you feel. Then abruptly turns. He reaches for the controls on his armour, lets out a shuddering breath when they aren’t there, and ducks under the child’s crib to unlock the crib manually. He’s scooping the child out before its even fully opened, holding him up to his chest. The child grabs at his face and the collar of the jacket your body was still wearing, at the tangled mess of hair long since fallen out of its braid. You feel your legs buckle and manage to lower yourself onto a crate. The Mandalorian keeps his back to you, stares down at his son in his arms, making soft noises to the snuffling child. Your eyes are burning. Being knocked unconscious certainly didn’t make up for the three days before. You want nothing more than to curl up in your own bunk and close your eyes. Be somewhere that wasn’t here, stuck with the Mandalorian in his body, and him in yours. You want to say something, anything. Need to speak to him. But you have no words. All you can do is stare at the back of your own head.

 “H-How long…” He stumbles with the words.

 Yours hands are shaking. “I don’t know,” you whisper. You brace them against your helmet, try to hold yourself together. “I don’t know.”

 “My armour – my helmet – “ But he cuts himself off. He turns finally, walks blindly until he finds a crate to sit on as well. The child turns his head towards you and makes a noise. You lift your head and smile at him and then it drops immediately. He can’t see you. The Mandalorian’s voice sounds strangled. “The Way.”

 Of course, you think. The implications slam into you, close around your lungs. You have to wrap your arms around yourself to keep the sudden wave of distress at bay. A Mandalorian without his armour. He’s staring at you – not quite at you exactly. At a spot on his helmet. You can see the flurry behind his eyes, feel a flash of such distinct fear through your system which you know does not belong to you. It makes your shudder. The child shared his emotions with you willingly, but the Mandalorian was as impenetrable as his armour. But this – this was his. It makes you nauseous, the strength of it.

 “Mando…” His eyes – your eyes – dart down to the visor. “I won’t take it off,” you offer quietly. “I know what it means to you. I – I promise.”

 His face twists. “Does it matter? I’m not wearing it – I’m not – “

 “I haven’t seen you. That’s the rules, right? I haven’t seen you. And – and I won’t. I’ll never look. I swear by the Maker, Mando, I won’t I’ll – “

 “You have to eat. To sleep.”

“I don’t know, I can’t think, but I would never…” Yours hands are shaking so badly now its sending tremors up your arms. “Never do that. To you.”

“What does that matter?” He snaps. “W-What does any of that matter?”

There are tears burning the backs of your eyes. “What else do you want me to say?”

 He clenches his jaw. Stares at you. You feel a hot tear slid down your face. The Mandalorian doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring. A myriad of emotions chase each other across his face. You want to apologise; you want him to apologise. You are just so tired. The panic bleeds away into numbness, bleeds out through your shaking hands. You stand, you might say something, but you can’t remember what it is. You must cross the hull to your bed, climb into it. You hear the Mandalorian moving but you can’t bring yourself to care. You don’t remember falling asleep. It’s dreamless.

Mando wakes you, forces you up to eat. The hull is in complete darkness all around you, only the flashing emergency light above the carbonite chamber still on. The blinking orange allows you to see ghosts of movement, the shape of your own body walking through the ship, so unsettling you feel as though you can’t hold on to the reality of it. Mando helps you take the helmet off in the darkness, his hands brush over the spot on your neck where your pulse throbs through the skin, around the edges of the Beskar. When it comes off its like coming up for air. He hands you rations bars and lets the child sit in your lap, cooing quietly. Tells you it had been too long since you had eaten.

“We’re moving today,” he says when you finish.

“Where?” Your voice is coarse from disuse, burns your throat on the way out. You wonder how long he let you sleep.

“Away from here.”

He helps you back into the helmet and leaves you. Climbs back into the cockpit and takes the child with him. The engine powers up not long after. The further you get from the planet’s surface the easier it is to breathe. The tight twisted lump which had become so permanent under your ribcage finally loosens, dissipates when the hyperdrive whirs to life and the Crest is swallowed in a tunnel of light.

The planet you land on is uninhabited as well. The surface is grey, and a continuous rocky plane in every direction. He powers the engine down again as soon as you touch down. A dead planet, home only to the three of you. The galaxy feels so quiet, quieter and more lonely than you have ever known it. The Mandalorian moves around in the tiny upper deck, you hear footsteps between the cockpit and the captain’s quarters. Some occasional metallic clanging and scrapping. Just above you and yet untouchable. Wearing your skin. Living in your body. 

You know you are hiding from him. You cower in the hull, drift from your cot to the other side of the small space and back. Unable to face him. Unable to look at your own face looking back at you. The weight of the Beskar slowly becomes familiar, but never comfortable. You sleep often, never fully, always drifting in some in-between limbo. Mando reappears eventually, before you go to seek him out. He turns the lights out again and takes off the helmet and you eat in darkness. The third time you sit together in the blackness of the hull you hear him eat with you. A small tendril of relief works its way through you. The silence slowly eases into something – not companionable – but no longer harsh. It makes it better. Easier. In all the time you had known him never once had your relationship with the Mandalorian been a difficult one. The feeling of constant tension was a new one. Days slip by.

“We must be getting low,” you say. His voice without the helmet is different. It’s not deeper exactly but richer, fuller. Feels strange rumbling through your chest when you speak.

You can’t see him, but you can hear the rustling of his movement not far from you. “In what?” 

“Everything.” You hold the bar you’re eating up and then remember he can’t see it. Drop you hand into your lap again. “Food. Fuel. How much water do we have left?”

He doesn’t say anything, and you sigh. Lean back against the wall behind your crate. The horrible question has lingered between you, unsaid for days, but always on the tip of your tongue. So, you talk around it. Barely. The Mandalorian tries not to talk at all and you wonder if he hates the sound of your voice coming from his mouth, if it disturbs him as much as it does you. You talk about the child, about the planet outside, and now about the inevitable need to restock and refuel the Crest. Don’t ask what you will do if whatever has been done to you is irreversible. Don’t talk about how to fix it. 

“How long do we have before we need to leave?” You ask.

There’s rustling from his spot in the darkness. “A week. Maybe.”

“Where will we go?”

“Somewhere close. We don’t have enough to fuel to do another jump to hyperspace.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth. You hear Mando stand and move around the hull. He’s quicker on his feet now, getting used to moving through the darkness without his helmet. It makes you feel even more useless. You finish your paltry meal and pick up the helmet, suck in one last deep breath before you pull it back on. The weight of it on your neck and the pressure around your skull is immediate and suffocating. You have to close your eyes and count backwards from ten, clench your hands around the crate so tight it hurts. The light switches back on. 

For the first time he doesn’t disappear straight away, doesn’t immediately clamber up the ladder and back to his own separate world. He stands in front of the control panel, arms folded across his chest. Stares at you, eyes finding yours through the visor. You stare back. The longer you do, the less the woman’s face across from you feels like yours. Mando is still wearing the jacket you were in the cave, the same boots and trousers. The braid had long come undone. He looks tired. Your eyes caught the wrapping of bandage around the purpling fingers of his right hand. You need to shower; you need to talk to him. Relieving yourself was a problem you tried to put off for as long as you could, dealt with it only when you had to. Everything feels like an awful invasion of privacy, even just living. You hate that you are taking something away from him, hate that he’s taking it away from you. Hate that for the first time since you’d met him you felt as though you were disconnected from him. You feel something shift, an opportunity maybe, rise between you.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. The moment passes. The Mandalorian turns and climbs up the ladder and is gone.

Tion meg be’aliit gar? Which clan are you from?

Tion gar gai? Who are you?

Ne shab’rud’niÖ Lit: Don’t mess with me, extremely strong warning, usually followed by violence

Me’ven? Expression of disbelief (Huh?) 

Gotabor Engineer 

Tag List: @btillys​ @vercopaanir​ @sistasarah-sallysaidso​ @adikaofmandalore​

[di-kut]

Baar Bal Runi: Chapter Four

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader

Words: 5.5k

Summary: (Body Swap AU) With fuel, water and food running dangerously low, you have to stop the Crest on an unnamed planet in the outer rim to stock up. You and the Mandalorian have to interact with other people for the first time since the swap. 

Rating: T (I believe?)

Tags: body swap, force sensitivity

A/N: This is kind of a part one, because this chapter was originally one long part which got to nearly 12k. So it is now split into two. I honestly don’t know how I feel about this chapter though hopefully it’s good, it was a bit of a struggle to get out. 

The planet is small and an angry red in the distance, floating amongst the stars. Visible, finally, after a long thirty-two standard hours. The ship’s clock blinks at you in the dimness of the cockpit, your only measure of time in the emptiness of space. Without enough fuel for another jump it had felt a lifetime away. But it was still only a dot, a tiny promise in the distance. It would be hours before you reach it. Your datapad sits abandoned on the edge of the console, the meagre collection of articles you had downloaded to it were had proved useless in answering any of your questions. The Mandalorian had stopped asking. He idly flicked controls from the pilot’s chair, occasionally easing the ship left or right. The autopilot was off, you suspected he was enjoying a distraction. The lights of the panel were hazy with sleep. You hadn’t slept since you’d left the grey planet, but neither had the Mandalorian.

Instead you watch the planet. Different to the stars around it. Planets are always brighter than you imagine them to be, but unlike the glow of the thousands of stars around it the planet glows warm. It captivates you, even after half a cycle travelling from planet to planet with the Mandalorian. You know it means nothing to him, he has seen more planets appear and disappear in his wake than you ever will in your lifetime. But it is a gentle kind of mystery to you, life against all odds. Even though your eyes itch and burn from lack of rest you cannot look away. Imagine you can see it growing larger as you watch.

“You should sleep.”

You sigh. Pick up your datapad and wave it slightly in the air above you. He doesn’t turn but you know he sees the action. “I’m reading.”

He scoffs, tilts his jaw in your direction. You wait for an argument, but there is none.

He had woken you in the early hours of the day before, a hand on your shoulder. His knees were still pressed to yours in the middle of the cot. The child was asleep so deeply between you he didn’t move even as the Mandalorian jostled you awake. You had been having a nightmare. You were screaming, he told you. You hadn’t even meant to fall asleep.

“We have nine hours,” Mando says. You think he is working up to something, some argument to send you to your cot downstairs. He doesn’t. He ticks the radar over again, adjusts the ships trajectory. “He’s been asleep too long.”

The child. The Mandalorian had moved him to his cot, kept it at the back of the cockpit with you both. He hadn’t woken when your nightmare had startled the Mandalorian from his sleep, or afterwards.

“He’s probably exhausted, poor little guy.”

“It’s been too long,” he muttered again.

You look over. The kid’s eyes are closed, his gentle breathing quiet and even. You reach your hand in, pinch the tip of his ear gently. The child doesn’t respond, doesn’t even shift in his sleep. You flatten your hand over his tummy, slip a gloved finger between his hands. You can feel the rise and fall of his breaths, feel the warmth through the glove and from beneath the blankets.

“Are – “

The Mandalorian bites down the rest of his question. When you look up, he is watching you. Has swivelled the pilot’s chair around to face you. His eyes move to the kid and then back to the helmet. Choosing his words. At first you think the creasing around his eyes is from annoyance, but you realise it isn’t very quickly. He shifts in the chair. He’s uncomfortable.

“Can you…” He works his jaw as he thinks. “What you said, last night, about talking to him. Can you… right now?”

You swallow thickly and remove your hand from the child’s crib. Embarrassed. Mando’s unease suddenly makes sense. You curl your gloved hands tightly in your lap, so tightly your knuckles creak from the strain of it. You can feel the burning spot on the helmet where Mando stares, burning all the way to your skull. He sounds so – you aren’t sure how he sounds. Like he is holding something sour in his mouth. It makes your stomach curdle. You remind yourself of the story of the mudhorn. Remind yourself the Mandalorian is an enemy of the Empire. You should not feel nervous he will reject you for what you have revealed to him. And yet.

“No,” you admit. “Not with the gloves on.”

He continues to stare. Drops his eyes to your hands. “But you could? If you took them off.”

“I – I might.” You pick at the leather. “I’m not sure. Normally I can’t just… well, sometimes. I don’t know what everyone around me is feeling. Not very clearly, anyway. Maybe if someone was really angry, or – or – “

You aren’t sure what you are trying to say. What you are trying to assure him of. Mando is quiet.

“Have you… Have you ever – with me?” His tone his calm. Had you known him less you wouldn’t have noticed the way his pitch fell slightly.

He lifts his eyes from your hands, catches yours. The lie slips out before you can stop it, can’t bear to tell him the only piece of his soul you had ever felt. His horrible, consuming fear after the change was something he didn’t need to be subjected to again. Something he wouldn’t want you to know. “No. Not you.”

He doesn’t bother to hide the way he slumps in relief.

You make the excuse of sleep to escape the cockpit. You see on his face that Mando doesn’t believe you, but he says nothing. Doesn’t accuse you of lying. You almost drop your datapad when you collect it. He watches your stumbling without judgement or comment. You are grateful for that at least. The child doesn’t move at your clanging either, sleeps on, oblivious and peaceful in the crib. You envy him. Think it will be worth even pretending to sleep just to take the helmet off, to breathe properly.

“What did you dream about?”

You are almost out the door and have to catch the edge of it from sliding closed behind you. Mando is watching you again, has moved closer so he can rest his hand in the crib with the child. You think about lying again but can’t really find a reason to.

“You were scared,” he says when you don’t answer.

“It was a nightmare. I dreamt,” you fiddle with the ends of the cape. “I dreamt of that place. The cave.” You don’t tell him the rest. Don’t tell him you haven’t slept again because you are scared you will go back.

He nods. “Are… Are you like him?”

You both look into the cot where the child continues to sleep. “I don’t know.”

Down the ladder, your cot is lumpy and cold now you are alone. You must drift, although you don’t intend to, because when you wake you feel heavy and disorientated. There are no sounds but the quiet humming of the engine. You blink at nothing in the dark, roll over so you can watch the light of the freezer. Your eyelids are still heavy, you can’t tell how much time has passed, like you slept and slipped through hyperspace. You had slept deep and dreamless. No memories of the cave had haunted you. You had fallen asleep with the gloves on, but you slip them off now. Think of Mando’s soft voice before you had both fallen asleep in the dark, telling you if it was ever too much you could take them off. Take the helmet off. Just turn the lights out.

You land not long afterwards. By the time Mando clambers down the ladder you have the gloves and the helmet back on, the lights on as well. There are few settlements on the planets, and only one with docking bays for the ship. Bays where you can get fuel and supplies. And despite everything the familiarity of landing on an unfamiliar planet, only you and Mando and the kid against whoever is outside waiting for you, brings with it an old routine. You work on getting the kid and his cot maneuvered into the hull, check the temperature and climate of the planet, prepare for the day ahead. The local time on the planet is midmorning. You adjust the ships clocks. The planet is small and far from its system’s central sun. The days and nights are short. Mando is outside, talking to the dock’s mechanic, paying for the space.

The kid wakes while you tuck an extra blanket in around him. Blinks his huge dark eyes up at you, glassy and unfocused. Your heart dips in relief. The Mandalorian’s worry had been eating away at you guiltily, paranoid you had been reassuring him when there had been no reassurance to give. But the child is fine. He yawns and clicks his tongue in his mouth. Reaches his hands up towards you. You coo sympathetically at him and lift him into the crook of your shoulder and neck. He tangles his tiny hands in the thick cape, tucks his head under the edge of the helmet and into your neck. You hold him tight. He’s quiet and warm.

When the Mandalorian stomps back up the ramp the child is fully awake. He extracts himself from the armour and the cape and leans around you towards Mando, cooing loudly and grabbing at the air. You see the tension in Mando’s face drain, go slack when he sees the kid up. You set the child down so he can waddle to his father, already waiting for him on one knee. Mando scoops him up, presses his bare forehead to the child’s and you have to look away, cheeks and neck burning. Remember the sound of laughter in the edges of the Mandalorian’s voice when you had told him you had tried it. Kov’nynir. Still jealous the child won’t allow you to do it with him as well.

“He’s charging us for a service.” Mando tells you when he puts the kid in the crib.

“Did you tell him I do the servicing?”

“Yeah. Said it doesn’t matter. We use the dock; we pay for the service.”

The mechanic had at least given Mando directions to a cantina, the best place to ask for the right people to see for any supplies the dock didn’t carry. Water was one of them. The Mandalorian hands you his calf holsters and bandolier, shows you how to strap them on. You feel too large and too stupid wearing them. Feel lumbering and awkward again at having to face the world outside the Crest. You bump your head against the edge of the weapons compartment with a clang which echoes around the hull. You catch Mando wincing at the sound from the corner of your eye. He brushes off your apology. Continues to strap on extra weapons to the holster you normally wear at your belt. Stuff ammunition rounds into the calf holster he’s tightened to fit your smaller leg. You almost ask him if he thinks you will need all of it. The question is a stupid one, one that you swallow before you can ask. Mando is always prepared for a fight. Even if the planet is some outer rim backwash.

The crib hovers by Mando as you descend the ramp. The baby watches the opening world around him with unrestrained wonder. The sky is bright blue, and the red dust which coated the planet’s surface had made a haze over everything in sight so that even the grey walls of the docking bay were a sort of dull orange. Mando has on the thick jacket again, an old rag of the same wool as his cape wrapped around his neck and chin. The mechanic is waiting for you at the side of the ship, a dirty rag in hand. He’s wiping it on the side of this thick coveralls, his nose and cheeks ruddy from the frigid air. He’s got the side covering for the engine open.

“There’s some tuning I can do, and you’d do well from a fuel rinse. You’ve got scorching around some of the fittings too.” The mechanic isn’t looking up. He’s a large man; tall and wide. There’s straw coloured hair sticking out from beneath the fleece lined hat he’s got shoved far enough down to cover his ears. “I could replace them, if you wanted.”

“We don’t need a service,” Mando says.

“This ship is old. It needs all the help it can get.”

You step off the ramp after Mando and watch the mechanic stick the rag into the engine, wiping at something. “The scorching is all superficial,” you say. “We’re not paying for replacements we don’t need.”

The mechanic jumps at the third voice, hauls himself out of the engine compartment to look at you. You see the recognition when his eyes lock on the helmet, the look of sudden fear. Had seen it happen around the Mandalorian dozens of times. Never had it extended to you. The mechanic is taking stock of your armour, your riffle, the blaster at your hip. He comes back to the visor, but his eyes don’t find yours, hover somewhere just to the left of eye contact.

“Kark!” He moves towards you both. “Mandalorian, sir, sorry I didn’t see you there.”

You tilt the helmet towards him. Next to you, in your body, Mando twists his head up to look at you. The mechanic is wiping his gloves on the rag and shoving it in his back pocket, nearly tripping as he moves to get out from the side of the ship.

“I didn’t realise – I mean I didn’t know this was your ship.”

Mando bristles beside you. “We don’t need any servicing,” You say.

“But – but – “ The mechanic hits boot on a crate of poorly cared for tool. He flinches away, step around it. “The engine – “

“I do my own servicing.”

The mechanic looks towards Mando next to you, seeing your body, back to you. For the first time he notices the crib, but he doesn’t pay it much mind. He never looks away from the helmet for very long. His tongue comes out to wet his lip over and over, he’s ringing his hands together. “Sir, it’s… I mean, I don’t mean any disrespect,” his voice cracks when you tilt your head slightly. He stumbles to get back on track. “I don’t, and I won’t replace anything. But it really could do with a good clean. Run some fluid through the engine.”

“And how much are you gonna’ charge us for that?” Mando asks.

The mechanic doesn’t look away from you. You can see the shifting out of the corner of your eye, know Mando is losing patience and his temper. You know how he feels, too often being lost in the shadow of his imposing presence, of all the Beskar. It makes you angry as well, angry on your own behalf for all the times you’d been ignored, angry for Mando now.

“How much?” You have to repeat.

The mechanic opens and closes his mouth. “I’ll do it for the price of the docking!”

Mando grunts beside you and turns. You stare at the nervous mechanic for a few moments longer before following him out. Mando has the spare remote for the crib, you’d managed to temporarily disable the one built onto the vembrance in his armour. So, it hovers just ahead of you, disappears just after the Mandalorian does out of the docking bay and into the wide streetway outside. You follow Mando through the streets without question, let him work through the anger you can see in every step. It isn’t a busy planet, and the market around you is mostly quiet. The lifeforms there are, though, stop and watch as your mismatched trio passes by.

He stops when the market does. Stops dead in the middle of the street. He stands there and stares at the flat lay of desert ahead, wobbling through the brightness of the light so that in the distance it fades to become a haze of orange and blue. There are no clouds. No hills. You can see his shoulders heaving even from where you stand some distance away. Giving him time, giving him space.

He turns eventually. His eyes find yours through the visor straight away. You nod slowly so that he knows. You understand. He doesn’t have to explain. His frustration is one you have experienced first-hand. And you know he is struggling to watch you through the armour, think he must be feeling the loss acutely in that moment. His eyes linger on the butt of his rifle you had strapped over you back and then down to the chest plate and the sling of explosives over your chest. You feel silly wearing it all, big and stupid and aching at the look on Mando’s face. You shift your boots against the dirt and have to look away from him.

.

Before you step into the cantina Mando pulls you to the side. A Twi’lek watches you from her spot against the wall, her curious eyes bright in the dim. You let Mando draw you back against the wall. You turn to the Twi’lek and on noticing your gaze she scuttles off, disappearing down the alleyway between the mud walled buildings. You sigh and turn back to Mando. The child is chewing absently in his crib, some small local stall had traded you a spare part for the snack. You had some credits between you, some from the Mandalorian, the stockpile you had been sequestering into hidden accounts since before you fled Coruscant. But yours were Galactic credits, useless now on many of the outer rim planets. From planet to planet you could go from riches to rags and back again. You were currently in rags, and you needed a trade.

“Be careful inside.”

“I will.” You nod, do your best to try and appear solemn through all your coverings.

Mando catches your arm. “Don’t let anyone get too close. I don’t know how this will go if it comes to a fight.” He lets you go and rests his hand over his gun. The bandage was still wrapped around it, although the bruising in the fingers had finally dimmed to a mottled yellow-green. You were running low in Bacta as well, Mando had applied the last of it to his swollen hand earlier that morning.

“Do you think this will end in a fight?”

“Maybe.” He taps the handle of the blaster. “Mandalorians don’t usually get around without someone trying to test their strength, or their skills. It’s the helmet, I guess. Everyone always wants to take it off.”

You grimace. “Okay. Keep my distance. Don’t let people touch the helmet.”

“Have your blaster ready.”

“Okay.” You don’t feel okay at all. Any sort of bravado was fading away in the face of a real fight. You were confident with a blaster, but your general fighting tactic was to avoid them at all costs. Your trust in the Mandalorian was unfaltering, but without his strength and without his armour – thoughts you couldn’t afford to have. You hover your hand over the blaster at your thigh to show him you are ready.

The cantina is dimly lit and sparsely occupied. Most of the patrons look away quickly when you follow Mando inside. You can see the dull light slipping over the Beskar, so that you are only a glinting shadow. Your hand flexes over the spot where you gun is holstered. There are tables towards the back of the cantina which stare openly, eyes flickering between Mando and yourself. You feel a pit form in your stomach, realise you hadn’t thought of an alternative where someone decides your body is their target, and not the Mandalorian. You feel stupid. Blind. Try to remember Mando’s words when he’d shown you the planet’s specs two days before. No Guild presence. No friends of the Empire.

No friends of the resistance either, you think.

No one moves as you find a table. The crib hovers at the end of it, within arm’s reach of both you and Mando sitting on opposite sides, facing each other, but both watching the space around you. The child has gone quiet, mostly buried himself beneath his blankets, only his huge dark eyes peering out at you. You can see the sidelong glances around you, the dimness in the cantina oddly brightened through the helmet filters. The hot plate of food nearby almost glows, although that might be mostly your wish for a full meal, something which isn’t rations bars.

The server isn’t a droid, like the two behind the counter. He’s human, with cautious eyes and cautious hands. Mando orders milk – yes, whatever one you have – for the kid and two drinks. He doesn’t see the incredulous look you shoot him. He asks about supplies, food, medical. Water. Your skin itches at the promise of a shower. You shift around in the seat and both pairs of eyes move to you. The server had been studiously ignoring your presence, and that of the kid, but you can see the wariness in his eyes when he looks over the helmet. He looks away quickly.

“Water is more expensive than fuel round these parts,” he says to Mando. “They don’t have it at the docking bays with the fuel. You have to go to the farmers, good day and a half out from here on a bike.”

Mando’s eyes slid across to yours. A silent question. You shrug slightly, not sure what else you can do. You have barely enough filtered water left to drink, the engine can run on recycled water, but you’ll be out of that before long as well.

“There bikes around here we can hire?” Mando asks.

The server nods. “Up the market, there’s a parts shop. The Kitonak who runs it owns some. He’ll rent them to you,” he glances over at you, “for a good price.”

“Thanks.”

The server doesn’t linger. You both watch him go, watch everyone around you watch you in turn. There’s a brief tense moment which catches and lingers in the air, like the cantina holds its breath. Then Mando reaches into the crib, tweaks the kids’ ear, and sits back into his chair and it dissipates. He presses his shoulders into the back of the booth, sprawls slightly. His knees almost knocking yours under the table. You brace your elbows on the table and lean in towards him.

“What are we gonna’ trade for the bikes? And the water.” You do a quick mental inventory. “We have some spare parts, but I don’t think we should give them all up. Most of them are so outdated they’ll be worth next to nothing.”

He watches you, still and seemingly at ease. But his lips are pressed together and jaw tense. “We’ll figure something out. We need the water.”

“Yeah,” you rub absently the spot on the helmet where your temple would be. “Yeah.”

“There’s always something.”

Your drinks arrive, brought by a protocol droid. It lowers the tray onto your table and unloads the drinks in a neat arrangement. It lifts the tray and leaves again without a word. You spot the restraining bolt drilled into its neck socket as it leaves. Mando passes the child the cup of Bantha milk, pulls down his blankets enough that the kid can sit up properly. You stare blankly down at the two cups on the table and then up at Mando expectantly. He glances you from the corner of his eye and looks sheepish. Let’s the kid handle the milk and moves the two drinks away from you both.

“Habit,” he says. He must sense your scepticism because he says, “Ordering for you, not me.”

“You may as well,” you say. Try not to sound as put-out as you feel.

He regards you warily for a few moments before he gives in. Takes a slow sip and then chugs the rest down so quickly you would be impressed if you weren’t so jealous.

“I’m starting to feel bad for every time I’ve eaten or drunk in front of you.”

Mando’s eyebrows shoot up over the rim of the cup. An abrupt bark of a laugh follows, descends into quiet chuckles. It startles you enough that you jump at the sound. He doesn’t stop, keeps quietly laughing until the corners of his eyes are wet. It’s almost silent, just like everything else about him. You can’t stop the grin which spreads under the helmet.

“You get used to it.” His voice still slightly winded.

.

The Kitonak is a huge slow creature. It lumps in the corner of a shop which looks more like an Ewok scavenging vehicle than anything else. When you got close enough it’s crepe-like skin gave off a soft, sweet smell. It jarred with the grease and metallic tang in the air around it. The huge Kitonak moves slow and languid, like it was moving through water. But it cuts you a good deal and accepts Imperial credits. You buy more spare parts to trade for water and fuel for the ship. The speeder bikes are old but well serviced, sitting in the back yard of the shop. The Kitonak offers its droids to help you wrangle them out of the yard, but Mando waves them off. The Kitonak shows you the range locks on the bike, warns you good naturedly about stealing them.

You are worried he will be upset when you offer to deal with the bikes and send him back to the ship to collect the last of your food and water reserves and packs for the trip into the desert. He isn’t, but he is quiet when he leaves. The settlement is small, and by the time you have both bikes ready to leave Mando has returned. Has bought more food, salted meats and hard breads. A feast after weeks of rations bars.

You set your radars and start out. Agree to ride until the sun begins to dip. The alien who had sold Mando the food warned him of the fast setting sun. When a planet is too far out from it’s galaxy’s centre the days are cold and bright, but the nights are sudden and deadly. Mando packed extra sleeping rolls in both of your packs and old thermal capes. He admits they don’t work as well as they should, but he’s given the best of the ones he has to the child. The next best are at the top of your packs. The desert will be cold and unforgiving once the sun sets.

The ride is long. Dull. So flat and empty you catch yourself almost drifting atop your bike. You are glad for your radars, know if they break or aren’t properly calibrated you will die wandering the empty planes, an endless stretch of red and blue. The same everywhere you look. You are glad for Mando less than a league ahead, a break in the landscape, dark and solid. The crib hovers along at pace with his bike, closed against the whipping of the cold air. Mando has pulled a spare coarseweave clock from the trunks as well, has it wrapped around his face and head, tucked under the edges of his goggles to protect him as well. You are grateful for the helmet, for the thickness of the Mandalorian’s clothing. You feel none of the cold.

The sky is bright blue for hours, so bright it is almost painful to look at. The sun had been high in the sky when you had set off from the small settlement, you watch it dip slowly towards the horizon, until suddenly it seemed huge, glowing white, disappearing behind the dust. The sky changes from blue to a blooming purple, bleeding across everything above you. The sand is orange, then grey, then black. It happens in minutes. Constellations wink out of the darkness above you, droplets on water, ripples across the surface. Even before the purple fades completely they appear. You see Mando raise one hand in the distance. Begin to slow the bike.

You ache when you dismount. Sore and stiff from stillness. Your arms ache. Your thighs are burning. You think the rush of blood to your toes hurts more than anything else. But you don’t have time to dwell on the pain, night is falling quickly, Mando is digging a pit for a fire, and you are rolling out your bed packs as close to it as you can get. The cold is starting to bite even through the Mandalorian’s protective clothing. When you look over to him, Mando’s teeth are chattering together. You move faster, get out Mando’s thermal cape and drape it over his shoulders as he works. He nods his thanks at you, hands shaking. The pieces of woodbrick light just as the last of the purple fades from the sky and the world around you is plunged completely into darkness.

The fire glows bright and orange around you. You have your bedrolls laying around them lengthwise to try and take advantage of the heat. The crib floats just further away – the inside is temperature controlled, a true marvel of engineering. You think, on a night when it isn’t so dark and so cold, that you will ask the Mandalorian where he acquired it. You think it must be built specially for the child. Doubt it was the work of the Imps.

Under your blanket and tucked into the thermal cape the cold is bearable. Mando seems to have stopped shaking, his bedroll lying near enough to yours than you can see the glow of the flames on his face, casting it into deep shadow. The wavering light makes it almost impossible to recognise the face he wears as your own, so distorted orange and black it is the face of a stranger. Your heads are near each other, near the crib. You find yourself unable to look away from Mando in the bright firelight, watch the rise and fall of the blankets around him as he breathes. He just stares into the flames, eyes seeing something which is no longer there, some memory or nightmare which haunts him.

You blink and when you open your eyes, he is looking at you. Eyes catching the light and glowing, otherworldly. It unsettles you. The feeling is a slippery thing, shifting between many feelings. Guilt, anger, fear. A hundred others, a spectrum of restlessness which moves and changes and fills you up. His gaze is so sharp and direct. So, used to the covering of his helmet. You know now why you feel his eyes so intensely, if he looks at the world like he is looking at you in the firelight in the frozen desert. Like he can see beneath your blankets and your flesh at the soul beneath.

“Are you warm?” He asks. His voice puffs into a small cloud of air in front of his mouth and disappears into the air.

“Are you? Whatever this cloth is – it’s incredible. I couldn’t feel anything until the sun went down.”

“I’m fine. I’m warm.”

“Okay. Good.”

You spend some time getting warm enough to brave the cold. Wait until your stomach is twisted with hunger until you push back your covers to retrieve your pack. You go as fast as you can, pull apart the bread and some meat for the child and enough for Mando. Hand them both food, check on the child, and scuttle back beneath your covers. You aren’t tempted to take off the helmet that night, the burning of the cold even through the Mandalorian’s armour leaves you in no doubt. You huddle under your blankets and thermal cape and stare at the fire until your eyes slip closed. Your sleep is deep and quiet and when you wake in the morning the sky is pale lavender and the endless flat planes around you are grey. The air is bearable at last when you push back the covers. The Mandalorian is nestled so deeply into his blankets you can only see the shape of him rise and fall as he breathes. There is one star left in the sky, the glow of the sun on the horizon. You check the radar. The moisture farm is still most of the days ride away.

. 

Tag List: @btillys​ @vercopaanir​ @absurdthirst​ @sistasarah-sallysaidso​ @adikaofmandalore​ @babyomen​ @purpleeeslurpppp​ @fleurdemiel145​

[di-kut]

Baar Bal Runi: Chapter 6

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive!Reader

Words: 4K

Summary: (Body Swap AU) You and the Mandalorian have stopped on Garel, a huge urbanised centre, in order to refuel and restock again. Fears of lurking bounty hunters, your looming shower, and the things you have kept from Mando are making you skittish and jumpy. 

Rating: T 

A/N: I am so sorry this has taken me SO LONG to do!! Thank you to everyone for being very patient and lovely with me while the chapter whooped my ass. I am going to hell for teasing this shower scene again and not delivering I know. Also guys @adikaofmandalore has made an absolutely gorgeous moodboard for this series here!

Garel reminds you too much of Coruscant.

You stare out the small window, arms folded over the chest plate of the Beskar, watching the speeders curve in layers like winding snakes up into the sky, black shadows against a rich purple sky. Beneath you there’s the yelling of stalls and sounds of droids just off the alley in front of the hotel. The streets are crowded, the walls around you leak with waste from machinery. Distant rock formations loom with the towering of the buildings around you. Everything is tinged purple, or red and blue from the bright artificial lights lining the streets. Beneath you, two floors down on street level, a garbage shoot opens and empties cubes of compressed plastic into a dumpster. You pull the window closed.

Mando watches you from his bed, hit feet crossed at the ankles. Scarf finally removed, in only your tunic and trousers and boots. Hair unbraided, but tucked into his collar to keep the loose strands from getting into his way. The bed is a narrow creaking thing, but the mattress has springs and is stuffed, and feels like heaven after months on the Crest. Your bed is identical, pushed against the opposite wall of the small room. You move to it, decide suddenly against sitting, and pace back to the window.

“It’ll be fine.” Mando’s eyes track your progress across the room.

“There are so many people.”

“Exactly. No one will pick you out in a crowd. Or – or – pick me out.” He frowns. “We just need a refuel, and water. And they accept Imperial credits since – ”

I can’t work. You sigh and pause in your track across the room. You haven’t talked about it, not exactly. Haven’t talked about what will happen when the credits run out, but you can’t live forever without one of you picking up a job. You resist the urge to take the helmet off, know you still have to make your way back through the crowds to the ship, collect your packs for the nights you had rented rooms, had access to facilities to mend and wash your things. It had been months since you had anything other than just the inside of the Crest or a tiny trading dock on some backwash planet. You should be excited, but –

“What’s wrong?” Mando says.

“It’s… nothing.”

He can’t see your eyes, but unnervingly seems to sense where they have drifted, and his line of sight follows yours to the closed door of the ‘fresher. You hadn’t been able to rent the cheapest rooms, as you had originally intended, because it would have meant communal showers. Which was not an option. And you were glad, not just for the Creed, but also because you would not have to discover the Mandalorian’s body in a room full of strangers. And he would not have to do the same for you. Your face is so hot you can feel sweat starting to form at your hairline. You should not be worrying about washing, on a planet so bustling and full you have far more to keep your mind occupied. The threat of Bounty Hunters was very real on a planet like Garel, and it was not only you but the kid you should have been worried for. But.

“Are you okay with this?” He asks.

You pull at your glove. Catch the thick seams of the leather between your fingertips. “Yes. No. Not really but… I need to wash. We can’t just not wash.” You admit in a small voice. “Is… is it okay for you? The armour…”

He deflates in a puff of air, sinks into the bed. “I don’t know. But like you said. We can’t not wash.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” He echoes. Stares down at his hand – your hand – laying flat over his stomach. “Is there… anything we can do? To make it easier.”

You shrug. Feel your leg begin to jump against the ground so you pace again. And Mando watches you carefully from the bed in the corner, letting his eyes drift to follow you about the room.

“Gotabor.” He waits till the helmet turns to look at him. “Whatever I can do, just tell me. I will do it.”

You sigh and finally let yourself sink into your own bed. “I don’t know. Just – just – ” You scratch the your neck under its covering and then the underside of your jaw. Its growing itchy with facial hair, beginning to catch on the fabric and rub at the helmet on the sides of your cheeks. “Nothing. I don’t know.”

“We don’t have to – ”

“No. We need to wash.”

You and the Mandalorian stare at each other, mirrors on your identical beds at opposite ends of the rooms. His face is pinched again, but he otherwise looks so relaxed you would never have guessed he was bothered at all, shoulders propped on the pillow, chest sunken back half against the wall. Completely at odds with his expression. He nods eventually.

There’s a soft, sleepy coo from the cot. It’s hovered in the corner, unsealed, but the child is asleep inside. Rolls over slightly and one of his large ears pokes out of his blankets. But he does not wake, tucks his ear back against his side and makes another quiet noise of contentment. You both stare at the kid, glad to have something to think about that isn’t your impending showers, or each other’s bodies. You needed to get your things before you can shower – can’t bear the thought of having to put the same dirty clothes back on afterwards. The delay is a relief, but also makes the twisting anxious knot in your stomach worse. You aren’t sure what’s worse; knowing you will have the Mandalorian’s body completely exposed to you or knowing yours will be exposed to him.

Mando makes some noise, like he’s clearing his throat. You look over to him, the hand which had been spread over your stomach is curled into a fist. “It’s been almost a month,” he says. “Since – since this.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there… do we need to…” He sighs. “Do you need anything – from a medcenter or…”

“Oh. Oh.” You sit up a little straighter on the bed, glance down at the Mandalorian’s body beneath you before you can stop yourself. Rest your hands against your lower stomach. “No, no I’m – I’m on cycle suppressants, so. So, no.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

.

You agree to leave the child sealed in his crib, and with the door locked behind you. Better than dragging him through the crowded street again. The ship is docked at the nearest bay, not five minutes from the hotel. Your trip will be a quick one. It’s late, by local time, weaning into the early hours of the morning, but the market strip is still as busy as it had been when you’d landed some hours ago. It should take longer than it does to weave through the crowd, but the people melt away from before you when the glint of the Beskar catches their eyes. You walk ahead of the Mandalorian, feel him close in your wake to avoid the bustle of people. Feel the sudden overwhelming frustration and panic which does not belong to you.

You stop dead, feel him slam into your back. He swears in Mando’a and is rubbing his forehead where it had hit your pauldron. Instead of breaking off, you feel his frustration spike, and then melt very quickly into something sharp and calm. He looks around you, the Viroblade he had strapped onto his own belt, somehow appearing in his hand.

“What is it?”

You stare at him. The feeling shifts again, changes quickly, the sharpness fades and melts into concern. A tugging, warm feeling. You see it reflected on his face. See his eyebrows pull up into worry, his eyes searching the visor of the helmet.

“Gotabor?”

“It’s nothing.” Your voice is quiet. Half the syllables too low for the vodocor to pick up and are lost in the sounds of the street around you. You clear your throat. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

You feel it. He does not believe you. The worry becomes warped, powerful. Fills up your chest and throat. And then it cuts out and you stumble slightly, the sensation of the Mandalorian’s emotions leaving like having the floor yanked from beneath your feet. He catches your arm, but you find your footing before you can fall. Steady your weight against his shoulder. He keeps his hand against the gauntlet, tightens his fingers until you see the knuckles turn white. Stares at you with the same piercing look which makes the hair at the back of your neck stand on end.

“Something’s wrong,” he says.

You shake your head.

“You’re – ”

“Not here.” You say. “Not here, Mando.”

He starts to tug on your arm, steps in towards you like he is going to push you himself. “We’re going back to the hotel.”

“We’re almost at the ship.” You feel fine now, strong and solid again. All except for the strangeness of a leftover aching which does not belong to you. Slightly winded. “Let’s just get the packs and go back.”

He is going to fight you on this, you think. He is going to drag you through the market back to the hotel room. He stares at you hard and you watch as the debate he is having with himself plays out behind his eyes. So open and honest. His whole face is, lets every thought flicker across it, hasn’t had it exposed to the world since he was a child. His hand tightens its hold on you and then he sighs and releases your arm. Steps away from you just enough that there is a breath of space between you. He jerks his chin in the direction you had been walking, sheaths the Viroblade again as he does.

The docking bays on Garel are locked with codes, distributed by automated machines which charge a nightly fee. You punch in the code and the door slides open with a quiet hiss. The bay has a fuel station, water tanks, powered down droids in the corner for maintenance. It’s a clean, durasteel and plastoid, slick and sterile and lit in white fluroscent lights which flicker on as you arrive. There’s a space on the wall which is slightly brighter, a familiar sight to you, the removal of Imperial insignia has left the faded spot exposed to the world. Above you the traffic of speeders continues on a steady pace, slicing against the purple clouds. The Crest looks even older amongst the sleek surfaces, rougher and dirtier than it usually does. Calms you against what you know you must do, the familiar sight of home.

The packs are huge, too heavy for just one of you to carry. Empty medkits to fill, clothes to wash and mend, your holopad to connect to a larger terminal, download articles, books, news, anything which will shed light on your predicament. You had prepared them before departing the ship, left them stacked inside the ramp just in case you could not find anywhere to stay.

The ramp lowers slowly and you stand by it, foot jumping against the ground again. Try to formulate the words in your head before you start. Try to run through everything you know he will ask you in return. Think very briefly about continuing to conceal it from him but you know you can’t. Know that you had already lied to him once. Mando is watching you openly, and you can’t feel him anymore, but you can see his concern still painted over his features and feel worse because of it. Know that concealing that you have felt his heart four times now is becoming a breach of the trust you have won with him. It doesn’t make you feel less sick.

“Mando,” you say as he lifts his heavy pack onto his shoulder. “Mando. I have to talk to you.”

He looks to you expectantly.

“It’s about – it’s – ” Your foot is still jumping, echoing around the hull in the Mandalorian’s heavy boots. You breath in as deeply as you can through the helmet. “You remember when we talked about how I could… how I could feel things?”

He frowns. You are growing more skittish, fight the urge to turn away from him.

“Well I – I said I couldn’t… that I’d never with you but, but…”

His face smooths over. “But what?” He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds perfectly calm and you know him well enough to prefer his temper to this. You shift backwards slightly, away from him.

“Just then… when I stopped.” You think about not admitting the rest, about letting him believe this had only just developed, but the guilt gnaws away at your stomach. You twist your gloved hands together. “And in the desert. I felt what you were feeling.”

“You said you couldn’t do that to me.”

Your heart feels like its pounding in all your limbs at once. You squeeze your hands together to stop you from fidgeting them. “I… I know.”

“When you told me you couldn’t do that to me, had you already… had you ever…”

You bite into your lip, drop your head to the chest plate. It’s all the answer he needs. “Only once,” the vodocor cracks through your quiet tone.

He is still so calm, so still. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t want you to be upset.”

He snaps. You see it, the split second it happens. The calm breaks away and his face pulls into a snarl. He hoists the huge pack up his back and shoves past you and down the ramp, footsteps echoing through the empty dock. You stare at the space where he had been and then swing around and scrabble after him, leave your own pack laying against the floor of the Crest as you struggle down the ramp, feet unsteady.

“Mando, wait, please – ”

“You have everything that belongs to me!” He yells, swinging around to face you. “You have my body, you have my Beskar, you have my Creed! And now you tell me even m-my feelings? You have taken everything away from me!”

You flinch away from him again. The Mandalorian is shaking, vibrating almost, his jaw so tight you think he will break his teeth on it, his eyes burning red and shining. The wetness in them grows and he swipes a hand across his face, so harsh you can hear the sound of the back of It hit against his cheek. Catches a tear before it falls. You stomach lurches. He is breathing in short, angry gulps. Looks at you like you have betrayed him. And you have.

“I’m sorry.” You say. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you but… I’m not doing it on purpose. If I could make it stop I would. I promise, I don’t want – ”

“How many times?” His voice is ragged. Eyes search yours through the visor. “How much?”

“I…” You trail off. Drop your gaze from his, can’t take it. Can’t take the way he is looking at you. The guilt is worse, so much worse, makes you feel sick. “Four. Four times.”

He opens his mouth to say something, a mean, ugly expression on his face. But he closes it again, his eyes searching the helmet frantically. You want to call to him again, reach for him, say something, anything. But you do nothing, you stand there silent and still and he shudders. Closes himself off. And then he is turning, passing the powered down droids, and hitting the control panel at the door so hard you jump. Worry it will break. He is outside before it finishes opening and disappears into the throng beyond it. Leaves you standing alone, listening to the hiss of the door as it closes again, the sounds of the outside world entering and then becoming sealed away. The docking bay is unbearably silent.

You feel strangely mechanical when you turn and walk back up the ramp, lift the heavier of the packs onto your shoulders. The pack which should have been his but isn’t. His words echo around and around with the sounds of your footsteps as you tidy the hull of the Crest with the lights from the docking bay. And he is right, you realise. He is right because you have taken everything that is his, and you still hold everything about yourself in which you take pride. Your hands have fixed the ship and rewired the engine and adjusted the child’s crib to take controls from an external remote instead of the gauntlet strapped to your forearm. Your hands are still capable of all that they were before, even though they are not your hands, they are his. But he is left with nothing. No Creed. No Beskar. Everything which holds him together now makes a part of you. A Mandalorian without a helmet.

You close the ship in a daze, descend the ramp again and stand by the manual control as you watch it fold back into the belly of the ship, sealing it off from the outside world. Feel a buzzing start to settle into your fingertips as you stand still, and you almost reach for the controls to open the ramp again. Think your lumpy cot in the dark of the hull would be better than having to go back and face him again. You rest your hand over it before you drop it slowly back to your side. You wish you were different; wish you were not able to feel anything of the souls of the people around you. Close your eyes tightly and try to hold all the shaking pieces of yourself together against the trembling you feel growing from inside you.

The market feels more crowded even now. The press of the heat and noise all around you unbearable, but you do not move fast. Can’t make yourself hurry back to the room where you know you will have to face Mando again. You even stop, more than once, let yourself be moved by the crowd and blankly inspect goods hanging in stalls ramshackled to the sides of the towering buildings all around you. Let sellers talk to you eagerly, show you food and weapons and tinkering little bits of jewellery you have no intention of buying. Shake your head at every one of them when you can no longer bear standing still and drift on, a part of the crowd. Ignore the way people jump when they notice the armour, trip over themselves to move from your way. The blaster at your back presses under the weight of the pack. Makes you wider, even, than you already are. You happily let it slow you down.

You are so caught in your own head that you don’t hear the yelling or the scuffling until you are nearly in it. A wall of people, taking up half the pathway, raising cheers and yelling. You hit into someone’s back and step away again. They turn, ready to shove you away until they see the Beskar. The man throws both hands up and steps to the side, and the ebb of the crowd behind you pushes you forward into the circle.

You sigh and start to shuffle sideways along the back edge of the gathering, trying to slip between people harder with the added bulk of the pack behind you. And there are people all around you, human and alien, trying to get a closer look. Even with the intimidation of the Beskar you are pushed along, moved further forward. You realise the crowd isn’t just cheering, there are a chorus of language and swearing being thrown around, someone yelling about credits and another answering in Huttese. Bets. A fight, you realise, and try harder to move. Push back harder against the people at behind you. Someone shoves into your side, another shoulders in front of you, trying to get closer to the action. You shoulder them back with a grunt, feel the swing of your pack connect with another body. A cry raises up through the crowd as you see the massive head of a Barabel pass over the rest of the crowd, circling the centre of the group, the dulled lumps of horns on its skin like massive rivets against green leather. As it passes closest to you the people ahead of you shudder and part, moving back from the enraged alien’s path and allows you a glimpse into the makeshift ring.

And Mando, fist curled back around his viroblade, circling opposite the Barabel.

The crowd closes back in as you blink. Stunned. The Barabel charges forward and you hear another deafening scream raise up around you as the crowd roars in response. You move before you realise what you are doing, shove your shoulders at the people ahead to try and break the crowd.

“Move!” You yell and it’s thundering. Around you everyone jumps, scatters and you push to the front of the circle.

The Barabel has circled further away now, scaly fists curled into tight balls and held up. Tongue hissing between its teeth and snarling. Sunken yellow eyes trained in on Mando. Opposite the Barabel he looks tiny, hair pulled half out from where it is tucked into his collar and falling around his face, flushed and sweating, a red blotch where he has taken a grazing hit near his temple. His pack lying on the ground near your feet. You feel the pounding of blood behind your eyes. Search Mando for any other injuries. Realise his gun is still strapped into his holster at his hip. He wants to fight.

And before you can think they charge at each other. The Barabel swings but Mando ducks low and twists and evades it completely, moves back out of the huge alien’s range. The knife is throbbing in the air, shivering so that you can’t focus on it. And then the Barabel is reaching again, roaring and swinging but Mando stays away, keeps himself far enough out of reach that it can’t find purchase. Weaving along the edge of the circle, further and further from the Barabel, but closer to you. You watch, mind blank, as the Barabel charges again. Mando twists but he isn’t quite fast enough. You see the misjudge, see the size of his step and swing of his arm, and realise he is fighting in your body, trying to manipulate a completely different person into a victory. The Barabel gets a fistful of his tunic but the viroblade is already at its arm, looks like it glides along the scaled surface, but there is a singing burst of blood beneath the sharpness of the blade and the Barabel screams and releases him.

Mando stumbles back, right in front of you.

You lunge forward, grab a handful of his collar and yank him back before the Barabel reaches him again. Haul him with you half into the scattering crowd. There’s shouting everywhere, all around you, the clamouring of tens of people rearing for a fight. Screaming filling up the helmet. And Mando is twisting, yanking against your grip, surprisingly strong. His collar stays bunched in your hand, his hair whips against the chest plate of the Beskar.

There’s a cool blade pressed through the fabric at your throat before you can blink.  

. 

Gotabor: Engineer

. 

Tags:@btillys​ @vercopaanir​ @absurdthirst​ @sistasarah-sallysaidso​ @adikaofmandalore​ @babyomen​ @purpleeeslurpppp​ @fleurdemiel145​ @hdlynn​ @starwarsiscooliguess​ @thedarkwitchling​ @no-droids-allowed​ @dartheldur​ @toilet-keeper @sinnamon-bunn​​ 

[greennightspider]

Fated Instinct Chapter 9: Penance and Reverance

A/N: Honeeeeeeys I apologize to those of you who were not aware of my sudden hiatus. But I am BACK with a VENGANCE *growls and laughs maniacally* There are some insinuations, some double meanings, some **Smut warning for this chapter!**

Summary: Sequel to Cabin in the Snow. Akari finds herself in a predicament after an accidental overnight stay in a cabin grants her the title of fiance to the chieftain-to-be M’Baku himself.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7 Chapter 8, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14,  Chapter 15,  Chapter 16,  Chapter 17,  Chapter 18, Chapter 19,  Chapter 19(2),  Chapter 20,  Chapter 20(2),  Chapter 21, Chapter 22 , Chapter 23,  Chapter 24

M’Baku x Akari (OC) 

“As the moon waxes and wanes, so do those of ritual bond feel the waves of instinct emerge stronger and stronger with every moon. The carnality within cannot be suppressed, neither can it be controlled. It can only be... indulged.” 

Before Akari could process what just happened she heard Runi call out from the hallway. “Akariiiiiii do you want the rest of your breakfast or can I eat it?”

Her eyes quickly went back to M’Baku who retreated from her and sighed. “Well I guess I better get going and let you finish.” M’Baku smirked as Akari understood the double meaning of his words, almost glowering at the fact he knew he got her all riled up knowing the instinct was stronger with every passing day. “But I mean, if you would like to... take up where we left off... you are more than welcome to visit my room during your visit to the palace.” He smirked devilishly. “My mother really did want you there, it seems that you are owed an apology by the high priest who wanted to meddle in our love life, the one who consequently slipped you a love potion last night.” Akari saw M’Baku stiffen slightly as the next words sat uncomfortably on his tongue. “Seems he thought I was not… paying you the attention you deserved.”

“Uh-huuuh..” Akari did remember seeing N’Ceba on M’Baku’s arm, and even though she knew M’Baku would not betray her like that, she did want to bring it up later, when her head wasn’t as hazy.

Akari furrowed her brow. “And you believed that was all this priest was trying to do?”

“Yes, he is best friends with Grandmamma Nobomi, and there is no way he would try and incur her wrath willingly by trying to harm me or my betrothed.”

Akari would be lying if she said she didn’t feel her heart skip a little when he referred to her as his. But going back to the topic at hand, she didn’t know if she completely could trust the word of a priest who so easily managed to drug her. However M’Baku saw the worry in her eyes and tilted her head towards him.

“I am sure. Trust me. Although… he did make me realize how we do need to start trying for a baby now.”

“...Uh, say what now?”

“I’m joking I’m joking, I just wanted to see the look on your face.” M’Baku erupted with laughter at Akari’s frantic expression.

“I mean well… it’s not that I am totally unopposed to it..” Akari mumbled, not knowing what possessed her to open up to her fiance. “I mean in the far FAR off future, maybe…”  Akari gulped, her nerves taking over her speech as she put her hand behind her neck, not meeting M’Baku’s gaze. Oh Hanuman what am I even trying to say?! 

M’Baku’s teasing expression turned to wonder as he realized this was a rare moment, and M’Baku felt this heart swell with pride at his betrothed talking openly about their future, even just a little. He clasped her hands together within his and kissed the top of her knuckles, looking into her nervous eyes. “Not now, but someday.”

Akari smiled gratefully as he pressed his forehead on hers. She couldn’t deny she was getting fonder and fonder of him by the day. Akari had to admit she liked his affections, the way his hand gently wrapped around her back…slowly…. going lower….and… lower… and…

“M’BAKU!” Akari shrieked as she felt both of M’Baku’s hands squeeze her ass so hard she jumped. “WOW way to ruin the moment!” She berated him, hitting him off of her as he laughed.

“Oh, we were having a moment were we?” M’Baku smirked, he found it funny as well as cute that Akari could go from angry to shy in half a moment. “Well, Kari, after you have your nap, and finish the breakfast that your dearest fiancé prepared so lovingly,” M’Baku tried to stifle a laugh when he saw her mouth start to water at the thought of his cooking, “and once you’ve seen the high priest… maybe we can have many, many more moments with each other….” Trailing off as he took her lips once more in a farewell kiss.

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After having to listen to a very lengthy and profuse apology from a very apologetic high priest, (who also ended up trying to offer Akari child-inducing potions, to which Akari politely refused and accepted the normal healing ones instead), she boldly headed in the direction of her fiance’s room.

Even though it wasn’t the first time her and M’Baku had been… well, intimate, for some reason she felt slightly nervous. The last time was impulsive, at night, in the dark, and in secret. And while she had accepted she did have feelings for M’Baku, she couldn’t help the bundle of butterflies in her stomach. She’d never felt this nervous for any past dates or encounters with boys or men, but with M’Baku… everything was different.

Of course it didn’t help that she could feel a slight change within his demeanor that morning. It was the first time he had been so forward, and she could see in his eyes the change in his affections. His dominance seeping through his gentle actions, and Akari could feel a change in herself too, wanting to succumb to him. She could only hope that they would both be able to manage these changes.

Akari only had to knock once before M’Baku swung the door open, almost as if he had been waiting intently by the door. She walked in and placed her satchel on the ground next to the bed before turning around to face M’Baku, whose eyes were now dark with lust. Akari’s breath hitched as he cradled the back of her neck, bringing the other hand around her waist while her hands rested on his chest. “Akari…” M’Baku breathed.

“Let me give you the attention you deserve.”

M’Baku quickly devoured Akari’s plump lips with his own, Akari returning the kiss on instinct. “Let me show you that there is no other for me.” Akari knew what he meant, and with a sharp tinge of possessiveness of her own she lifted his head with her fingers sharply. “Say it again.”

Akari watched M’Baku’s eyes peer down at her, already glazed over with need. “Akari, there is no one else for me but you. Only you.” He breathed, before claiming her lips yet again.

Akari could feel it in her veins, there was something different about M’Baku. Even though he was being gentle, she could tell he was trying to restrain himself. However Akari felt something inside herself manifest too, as she grew bolder, turning M’Baku’s face so that she could trail kisses down his neck, earning her a growl from his dark lips.

Her little ministrations felt like fire to M’Baku. Staring to breathe heavier he almost pleaded with her. “Akari, can I undress you?”

Akari stopped her kisses so that she could shift so that M’Baku could take her furs off as well as her shirt, leaving her only in her bra. Akari then removed her pants, but as she rose M’Baku raise his eyebrow with a lustful smile as Akari ran her fingers up his torso, pulling his black v-neck off of him. “Fair is fair.” She chucked, throwing the shirt behind her.

M’Baku bit his lip as he took in the sight before him. “Lay down.”

Akari lay down on the bed, propping herself up against the pillows as M’Baku moved to crawl onto the bed over her, meeting her lips before trailing kisses down her neck, her chest, her stomach, and finally to her little black panties. 

M’Baku slowly pulled them down her thighs as the scent of her arousal hit him,  his eyes dark as the instinct pulsed within him, feeling the urge to take his mate. But before he could begin he heard Akari’s sweet voice above him. “Baku I... I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be, sithwanda sam.” He hummed lowly, pressing butterfly kisses against Akari’s thighs. “Just relax…” He purred, as he took in the sight of her wetness inviting him into her. “And let me worship you.”

Akari’s eyes had momentarily closed as she enjoyed M’Baku’s thigh kisses, but they instantly snapped open when she felt M’Baku’s warm mouth on her pussy, his tongue revelling in her innermost parts. She moaned and almost fully sat up at the sensation before M’Baku almost slammed her down into the pillows, keeping a hand on her plush stomach to keep her in position. Akari instantly started mewling at the feeling M’Baku was bestowing upon her. M’Baku’s tongue was doing wonders down there and she swore under her breath as he nudged her clit with his nose.

Akari’s cries of pleasure fuelled M’Baku’s lust as he dove again and again into Akari’s warmth, loving the way she would writhe underneath his hold. He knew that no other man had ever touched her like this, or given her such pleasures, and so he held nothing back, swirling his tongue before darting it back and forth between her folds, earning him curses mixed in with moanings of his own name.

Akari was drowning in sensual ecstasy, and as she rose her head to try and catch a glimpse of M’Baku, she threw her head back and moaned at the sight of his lustful eyes watching her as he devoured her pussy. M’Baku watched her fall apart as her moans grew higher and higher, and as he grabbed one of her full mounds with his hand, pinching the nipple between his fingers, she came undone, cumming on M’Baku’s face to the approving growl of her intended, who eagerly lapped up her sweet juices.

“Akari, the instinct has been driving me crazy.” M’Baku said in a low moan, still cradled between her thighs. “I have craved you ever since last night.” Slowly he crawled back up to her again. “Ever since you seduced me at the banquet, walking in with that absolutely sexy dress, and the way you pressed up against me with these.” M’Baku took a breast in each hand as he pecked each full mound, “You made me want to take you as a woman right then and there in the light of the full moon, so that everyone would know who you belonged to.”

Akari felt her body respond to the dominant tone in M’Baku’s voice, and her bones ached with longing as he trailed his way further up her body towards her face. Akari’s want for M’Baku was just as present, as she locked eyes with the hulk of a man that towered over her. With a shy, tentative hand that gently made its way up M’Baku’s torso. “Baku wait.”

M’Baku let the beautiful vixen beneath him trail the faint lines of his abs that hid themselves beneath the soft body fat of his stomach with her other hand, and growled in approval as he felt her daring hand wrap around his hardened member, simultaneously pushing him on his back with her other hand. Letting his mate take the lead he watched as she settled on his legs, and lowered her mouth towards his pelvis, not missing the sparks of lustful anticipation in her eyes.

“Now it’s my turn.”

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