#andromeda-nova-writing

[paimonial-rage]

“what part of ‘I want you, and only you’ do you not understand?” - aether

requested by @andromeda-nova-writing

“I’m just saying that there are better people than me,” you replied lightly. “It’s not like you need me on your team.”

And truly, you weren’t exaggerating. Aether had many friends, after all, many powerful ones. Some of them excelled in fighting, while others had the ability to heal. Some gave powerful shields, while others could make the team stronger. While you had your own utilities, you knew the truth. You paled in comparison to the rest. There was no point in keeping you around. 

Aether sighed. 

“And I’m saying I want you around anyway. You know, not everything about adventuring is having the best team.”

It was your turn to sigh. This wasn’t a topic you normally brought up. You didn’t want to be a downer on the team, after all. But after Paimon had gone off with Sucrose to check on the modified sunsiettas leaving you behind with Aether, the subject found itself coaxed to your lips. 

Did Aether realize how popular he was, you wondered. It seemed like everybody was vying to have just a moment of his time. Whenever he met up with a friend he hadn’t seen in a while, three out of four times they’d throw a party. And there you were, always awkwardly tagging along. Though nobody was ever jealous of you, you always felt bad. It felt as if you were coveting him all to yourself. 

Though you never asked, words could not describe how much you wished to know why he kept you near. Did he feel bad for you because you didn’t have a great number of friends? Or did he like your combat abilities, meager though they were? At one point, you thought it was due to how well you knew the terrain, but he took you to many different nations since then. 

“I know that,” you mumbled. “It’s just… There are many people that want to spend time with you. You don’t need to ask me to tag along all the time…”

Aether clutched his chest in mock hurt. 

“I didn’t know you hated spending time with me that much!” He exclaimed dramatically. 

You panicked.

“Hey! Don’t put words in my mouth!” You shot back. “I just– Gods, you just don’t get it!”

Turning up your nose, you pouted. Of course he had to joke about it. He didn’t understand your feelings at all. But when you peeked at him, a look of exasperation had taken hold of his face. 

“No, I don’t think you get it,” he began as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What part of ‘I want you, and only you’ do you not understand?”

Your heart stopped as you felt your face heat. 

“Wh-What– I– How can you say that so easily!?” You squeaked as you covered your face. 

He shrugged.

“It’s the truth. I’ll say it as many times as I need to. Accept it.”

You groaned. 

“I refuse.”

[whimsicalcotton]

apf 20 :O

20 - on a scar

so i ended up setting this somewhere vaguely in the polluted marrow-verse bc How Could I Not w that prompt combo <3

CW for some talk of self-harm

Max won't stop giving her this look.

Chloe's grown used to the weight of her wide-eyed stare — well, sort of — but this feels somehow different. Heavier, hesitant. 

It started midway through their trip. Rachel had called a little earlier in the evening, waxing poetic about her long day and asking if they wanted to pick her up and head out for a bit to de-stress. So Chloe hopped in the truck with Max in tow, and after rescuing Rachel from the dungeon known as Blackwell's dormitories, they’d decided that then was as good a time as any to introduce Max to their tradition of impromptu midnight picnics. One stop at the convenience store and several bags of sweets later, they’ve all settled down in the flatbed, half huddled together and watching the stars between bites. 

Rachel's hoarding a bag of skittles and spinning a tale of Andromeda’s chains when Max starts shivering. Chloe interrupts to ask if they want to head back and is shot down in short order by two different pouts and a dramatic whine of, “No way, I'm just getting to the good part.” So instead she squirms out of her jacket and insists on handing it off to Max, hoping it still carries a bit of residual heat. 

That's when Max starts looking. Bushy little brows upturned in quiet concern, moving to absentmindedly fidget with the jacket collar. It’s something Chloe has come to recognize as a mark of overthinking, a sign that Max is worrying far too much about something more than likely out of her control. 

“Yo, Mad Max,” Chloe calls over to her as Rachel finishes. “C’mere.” She shifts a bit and motions in invitation for Max to come snuggle up to her. Max wastes no time making good on the offer. “What’s with the sad puppy eyes? Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

Rachel moves a little closer too, leans into Chloe’s other side. “I think,” she murmurs, reaching down to run her fingertips over a patch of raised skin on the inside of Chloe’s forearm, feather-light. “She’s worried about these. Am I right?”

Max nods, timid and tentative.

Chloe forgets about her scars, sometimes. She’s used to them. Used to covering them up without a second thought, used to glancing them over, used to ignoring them for the sake of surviving a hot summer day. A good chunk of them are even hidden amidst her tattoo at this point, and she’s learned to ignore what few remain in the open. By now they’ve grown pale and thick with age, not having seen the returning glint of a sharp edge in a long while. Which is a good thing, she supposes; even if their discoloration and visible shift in texture make them almost as easy to spot as when they were fresh. 

“Oh.” She swallows hard, takes a sudden interest in examining the scuffs of her boots. “Don’t stress yourself out about it, Max. They’re getting pretty old. No worries, yeah?”

But Max remains unconvinced. She nestles herself further into Chloe, holds the girl's arm in both of hers and hides her face in the crook of her neck. “M’sorry,” she whispers, half lost to the dark.

Before Chloe can even think of an adequate reassurance, Rachel answers for her.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she offers with a soft smile. “I took care of them.” She turns up to Chloe again, donning a slightly more unimpressed expression. “Most of them. When you’d let me, anyways.”

“Oi, I don’t think now is the time for petty technicals.”

“What, like she doesn’t already know how stubborn you can be?” Rachel counters in a lighthearted scoff. She laces their fingers together, gives Chloe’s hand a gentle squeeze. “My point is, you weren’t dealing with it alone. You had me looking after you.” 

They're quiet, for a minute or two, before Max finds her voice. “G-Good,” she says, emerging from her hiding place just long enough to pull back and nuzzle into Chloe’s shoulder. She presses a soft, cottony kiss to one of the less visible scars lurking amongst curls of inky thorn and ribbon. Then another, then another. “Thank you.”

Chloe bites back a shiver of her own.

[thomine]

🎧 - Mimikyu

( from send a🎧 and i'll give you my favourite verse! requested by @andromeda-nova-writing )

favourite verse from this song is:

i don't know just yet who you take me to be / and i don't want to spoil your impression of me

things have gotten better over the years, but i do notice my tendency to "morph" and become someone who the other person wants me to be. i tend to avoid people i can't "read", and by "read" i mean i don't know how these people view me—what they want from me, what they see me as—so i have no "form" to take in front of them.

i feel these lyrics are quite fitting for a person like myself, lol.

[mimi-cee-genshin]

Straight Shooter - Tighnari x f!reader

Summary: First impressions aren't easy to overcome, but for someone like Tighnari, they're a piece of cake.

Additional info: cute and wholesome fluff, meet cute, enemies to lovers (for, like, two seconds lol), 1.1k words

(Thanks to @paimonial-rage and @andromeda-nova-writing for beta reading!)

*****

Sand got between your toes and rubbed against the soles of your feet as you hurried down the dirt road. Gandharva Ville was in sight – thirty minutes later than planned.

Collei waved at you in the distance with both arms stretched out wide. As you came near, someone else was beside her waiting at the entrance of a house. His ears were his most prominent feature, but his arms were crossed as he tapped his foot. He was irritated.

You stopped in front of Collei, out of breath and panting for air.

“You're finally here!” said Collei. “I was worried something horrible happened to you.”

“I'm so sorry. I–” You cut your own words short because you didn't have an acceptable explanation. You simply slept in and that was a weak excuse for the first day on the job.

The guy scoffs at you. “Seems like you're following in your father's footsteps, huh?”

At first, you blinked a couple of times, stunned at his words. A growing portion of both anger and embarrassment burned inside you. You gripped your bag, hands already sweating from the run to Gandharva Ville. This was an awful start to your day and this guy made it worse.

“I'll be around the back if you need anything,” he said to Collei. With that, he left the two of you alone.

“Collei, who was that?” you asked. You were somehow able to conceal the irritation in your voice.

“That was Master Tighnari. He can be a little harsh at times,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck, “but he's a really great guy.”

Her words didn't exactly quell the sensation in your gut. This Tighnari guy criticized both you and your dad in a single shot when he didn't even know you.

You put those thoughts aside to refocus on the job ahead. Once inside the house, you took out a textbook and a few sheets of paper and placed them on Collei’s desk. You instructed Collei to work through exercises to evaluate her current language skills. With excitement, she picked up her pencil and went straight to work. Fortunately, you could tell right away she'd be a good student. 

Despite your earlier encounter with Tighnari, you were glad your father had told you about this job. Your previous one was getting tiring and you could schedule tutoring around other tasks and errands more easily. If only you could forget what your dad added.

"Who knows? Maybe you can even find a guy you like at this job," he told you.

"And how old exactly are your coworkers?" you asked, rolling your eyes.

You scoffed at the thought. You knew your dad was just teasing but you were content with being single. However, if a good guy came along, you wouldn't complain.

“I think I'm done now,” said Collei as she handed you the sheet with a bashful smile.

“You don't need to be so nervous around me, Collei,” you said. “I'm not that much older than you.”

Her smile grew larger. “I'm just really glad I was able to find someone like you. Master Tighnari has been teaching me this whole time and it was taking a toll on him.”

“Really?” you said, raising a brow.

“Mmhmm. He has a lot of work as the lead forest watcher so I wanted to help him out by hiring a dedicated tutor,” she explained.

So this guy would go out of his way to help someone like Collei. Maybe he wasn't as bad as you initially thought, but you still had some reservations.

After completing the lesson for the day, you packed up your belongings and Collei thanked you for your work. She was even eager for your return tomorrow, bright-eyed and ready to learn.

You stretched and yawned as you exited the house, and at the edge of the trail, you saw Tighnari standing there as if he were waiting for the two of you to finish. 

You clutched your bag close to your chest as you walked towards the trail. You put some distance between yourself and Tighnari as you walked past him. Just as you thought you were about to successfully avoid him, he called out to you.

“Could I talk to you for a moment?” he asked.

You took a breath. “What is it?” you said, turning to him. 

“There's something I want to clear up, if that's alright with you.” 

You loosen the grip on your bag slightly.

“It seems that my comment earlier has caused some… undesirable effects. It wasn't my intention to be rude to you like that.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, raising a brow.

“You see, I'm quite sarcastic around your father. As my senior, he often pokes fun at me and I, in return, have my own way of responding to him. It's simply how we behave as coworkers.”

So that was what it was. You had thrown your own retorts to your father’s silly quips as well.

“I mistakenly assumed the two of you would have a similar temperament,” he continued, “which is why I behaved in that manner. When I realized there was a chance you might be more like Collei, I decided it would be best to clear this up with you. I didn't want to leave you with a bad impression of me. And so, I wanted to apologize to you.”

You relaxed your shoulders, and for the first time today, took a good look at him. An ear was slightly bent, showing that he was a bit ashamed of his assumptions of you, yet his eyes looked directly at you, sympathetic yet focused.

This was Tighnari. A straight shooter.

“Thank you,” you told him. “For clearing that up, I mean. Not just anyone would take the time to do that.”

“It's not a problem. It's the sensible solution. I'd do it for anyone,” he told you. He lifted his satchel and slung it over his shoulder. “Anyway, are you heading home now? I hope it's not too far of a journey for you.”

“I'm actually headed to the city to meet up with some friends.”

“I see,” he said with a hand on his chin. “In that case, I'll leave you to it. I'm heading to Pardis Dhyai in a bit. I'll see you tomorrow then.”

You lifted your hand to give a subtle wave as he walked back to the house. Collei left the building after hearing his call, and she retold her day to him with a skip in her step as the two of them went to look for a fellow forest watcher.

You spun on your heel and made your way to the city. Your feet were clear of dirt and sand. Perhaps your dad was right. The guys here didn't seem so bad after all.

*****

I hope you liked it! I might add a part two some day, but for now, it'll remain as a one-shot. :) (You can also check out my other fics as well.)

[starryeyeddreamer21]

It's me and my insane amount of Hazbin Hotel OCs against the world

I can't draw and will probably never write about them but they're living rent free in my head at all times

I'm not even joking when I say an insane amount either like here's the list of names

Nova

Dove/Addie

Scarlett

Azaren

Abbadon

Anansi

Rowan

Andromeda

Morgana

Anna Jane

Violet

Caine (this is literally my take on THE Caine for the Hazbin Hotel universe so I don't know if it counts but still)

Omen

Ask me about them I dare you. Say one of their names and I'll tell you everything. I have an actual problem. They exist in my head, I'm the only one that knows about them and it's driving me crazy.

[amiedala]

SOMETHING HOLY

CHAPTER 6: Pulse

WARNINGS: angst, explicit content

SUMMARY: “If you’re trying to get me to hurt you,” Din grits out, “you’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.” 

Her heartbeat, her pulse—both skyrocket. “Why would I want you to hurt me?” But Nova does. She wants to be annihilated by her Mandalorian. She wants pain from him, pain that drowns out the ghosts inside of her, deep enough that she could rise from the depths anointed. Reborn. Renewed. She needs something holy to cling to, to carve her true self out of.

“You need to come back to me.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HAPPY SOMETHING HOLY SATURDAY!!! me posting the next chapter within a two week span? WILD! i hope you love this one... it was equally fun and painful to write <3

If you're new here, Something More & Something Deeper are the first installments in this series, available on here & ao3!

It’s not morning. It’s never morning. Not out here, in the crush of space. 

They are in a windowless room. They are in transit, in limbo. 

Din’s going stir-crazy. He watches Novalise, steady, eternal. He doesn’t need the mask, not in here, not at all, really, not anymore—the woman sleeping by his side is something so much holier than his Creed. But his fingers are still clutched around it. He’s not sure if that still qualifies as religion. If he can pray to the helmet like he used to. If he can truly pray at all. 

When Din does pray, it’s not to the Maker. It’s not a vow to the Mandalorian Creed. It’s to the stars around him, above him, the ones that surround him now, that Novalise’s head will be safely returned to her body. That she won’t slip away. Not into the ether. Not into the pinpricks of light she’s so devoted to. She shines in the dark, his Nova. His locus, his temple, his fixed luminous point. 

He wants to believe in her the way she does in goodness—steadfastly. Without question. But right now, she’s… altered. Made darker. Flickering around the edges. 

He doesn’t think anyone else has noticed. Wedge probably would’ve, at this point, if he were here. He knew Nova before she was Nova at all, and there’s an inextricable thread that loops them together, that is woven as tight as family. Bo-Katan probably knows, from thousands and thousands of miles away, that something is off. Her sharp eyes are always trained on Nova. Her bloodhound nose picks up signals almost immediately. And Grogu, sweet, eternal Grogu—with his father’s steadiness, with his mother’s heart—touches those little fingers to Nova’s collarbone and can feel it in words that none of them can name. 

Din takes stock of all of this. The room is still pitch-dark. He can see Nova’s outline, shimmering. He’s not sure if he actually can, or if he’s just memorized her shape, but the semantics don’t matter. She’s sound asleep, a tiny whistling noise coming from her nose. And his heart, how it aches in his chest. 

“Nova’s different,” he imagines himself saying. He can’t figure out who. He needs someone like her to take a look, inspect her, interrogate her in a way he can’t. He doesn’t know what the warning signs look like for a Jedi—when they’ve tipped over into another world entirely. But that’s the problem, and that’s why Din can’t ever picture who he’s saying those damning, strange words to—Nova’s always lived in a different world than he has. She’s made of more—of starlight and shine and magic, magic he has never touched, a kind of divinity he used to thrash for, fight for, kill for, and yet—

She’s haunted. But more than that, she’s taken something out of the dark and transfigured it, transfixed it. She’s made it her own. 

And yet, there’s nothing in this galaxy or the next that could keep him from this kind of holiness. Din Djarin has spent this lifetime bringing people to their knees. Cutting off heads of hydras, slashing through blood and flesh and bone, and he’d beg for forgiveness over and over and over and over if it meant he could worship at the altar of Novalise Andromeda Maluev Djarin—savior of worlds, star in the sky, and the holiest thing he’s ever held in his filthy fucking hands. 

There’s something off about her. Something different. 

And yet. 

Din presses his hand into his tired eyes. He’s weary. Beaten-down. He wants to shake something, to take it in his hands and make meaning out of it. To grab the thing haunting Nova by the throat and force it out of her. To cut it down to size, into piecemeal. But whatever it is inside of her, and he doesn’t know if this ghost that’s chasing her around is a Jedi thing, or a Nova thing, and he cannot hurt her or he will blame himself forever. 

A tiny, terrible part of him whispers: Ezra would be able to fix it. The earlier version of that sentence is Luke would be able to fix it, but Din knows Luke, trusts him, knows what he lacks in subtlety he makes up for in flamboyance and kindness in equal measure. Luke Skywalker, according to Nova, according to everyone else in these circles—well, he’s kind of a big deal. Luke is to the galaxy publicly what Nova is to Din privately, and he knows enough about the man to trust him with his kid’s training and his wife’s heart. 

But Ezra Bridger—Din doesn’t know him. Nothing past visions and reverence; mystery and intrigue. He is a man who exists but doesn’t, and he lives in Nova’s head. And as much as Din knows Ezra is the key to fixing so many things, that he’s good, selfishly, irretrievably, he is jealous. It festers inside of him like rusted steel. Like an open wound. He is not proud of it, this enormous, awful feeling, but he cannot tamp it down. 

Din wants to be the only man who lives in Nova’s head. And he is certainly not good. Not pure. Not made out of the light. He is a bullet made of beskar, a steel-sharpened blade. It festers inside of him, an open wound. He wants to be good, to be worthy. 

To be deserving of the prayers that leak out of his covered mouth.

And yet, this impossible quest is now close to home, to something Nova considers holy—the remainder of the Rebel Alliance, her legacy, her roots, and he cannot let this feeling rear its ugly head. Can’t let it out of the cell he keeps it in. He is both jailer and prisoner, and it haunts him. 

Everyone on the Ghost is carrying their own ghosts. And he’s here again, at the intersection of ghosts and religion, of haunting and the Creed. And Novalise, in the middle of it all, in the middle of everything.

Circles. Din’s thinking in circles. 

He needs to get off this fucking ship. 

Nova inhales—sharply—once, twice, and then she jackknifes upwards, waking up like she’s fighting a war. One she’s losing. 

Din is on her in a heartbeat.

*

“Did I wake you?”

In the dark, Din shakes his head. Nova can feel it. She could even without any part of their bodies overlapping, even though they are right now, entangled like roots. She moves in closer, trying to shake the dreams from her head. To come back down to earth. Pressing her hand to the metal above her head, reassuring herself she’s safe, she’s okay, she’s herself— 

“What?” 

That word—it’s so soft. Nova closes her eyes, pressing the heel of her hand to her heart like that can manually stop the racing. She wills it to quiet, for everything to sink back down to normal, but panic is still leaking from her like a sieve, running like adrenaline through her veins. “What?” she repeats back at Din, deflecting. 

“What were you dreaming about?” 

Nova shifts in the vantablack. “That’s always the question, isn’t it.” 

A beat. “Novalise.” His voice is delicate, knowing. 

It makes her want to kiss him on the mouth and shove him away in equal measure. It shocks her, the violence of that—the intensity. In the quiet secrecy of their hideaway, she digs her fingernails into her palm, enough to draw blood, to gore the rest of the darkness out. Nova takes a steadying, stuttered breath. 

“Teeth,” she whispers. “So many teeth.” 

Din is quiet. “Is that a metaphor?” 

Nova manages a mirthless, tired smile, even though he can’t see her. “Most nights, I hope it is. This one? I don’t think so.” 

“Nova,” he says, so quiet. 

Nova sighs, squeezing her eyes shut tight. “It comes in flashes.”

“The teeth?”

The sickening thrash of all of it. That’s her answer. But Nova doesn’t know how to vocalize that—that she, child of the light, has been bathed in darkness, swaddled in it. It’s started to become familiar, and she hates it, but she is so tired of fighting an upward battle. 

“Yeah,” she mumbles, unceremoniously, praying that’ll be the end of it. She shifts closer to him, burying her nose in Din’s neck. He smells like metal and cinnamon, like always, but there’s something else on his skin—mint, maybe? It smells foreign, like the interior of this ship, and decidedly not the Crest, and not Kicker, and that makes her heart ache even worse. 

Din’s quiet. Pondering. Nova wrestles with wanting to tell him everything—Sparmau leaking back into her dreams like poison; Thrawn’s deep, unsettling voice. The ones where she’s fighting the unnamed villains that slice through her head. And the worst ones, the ones that feel so dangerous and raw that it makes her want to claw her eyes out—where she hurts Din. Where she hurts Grogu. Where Nova is not Novalise at all. 

“I can’t… speak it aloud,” she whispers slowly, so quietly it’s just a breath. “I can’t even put words to it. It’s just… darkness.” It’s both the truth, and not, and obfuscating it makes Nova feel sick, but she puts a hand over her stomach and presses hard, forcing herself to swallow it down. “I don’t know what to do, Din.” 

Seven small words; the weight of the world. They settle around Din and Nova’s entwined bodies, settling in like snow. Lethal and cold and dangerous, blanketing them in it. 

Din’s quiet. Observant. Nova can sense it, the feeling of his brown eyes on the side of her face, tracing it from memory. She swallows, trying to keep the tears at bay. She feels—off-kilter. Sideways. Like the version of herself she used to be able to wear like a shield—unbreakable, indomitable Novalise, rebel girl and starchild—was left behind on Mandalore. Like she’s wearing the version of that Nova’s skin, but the second she embarked on this journey, she left her behind. Like she’s possessing herself. 

And Nova can’t undo it. She feels wrong.

“You do what you’ve always done,” Din says, finally, and the words that she used to live and die by feel like a knife now. “You fight back.” 

“I am,” Nova manages, heavily, angrily, “so tired of fighting.” 

Din doesn’t speak, but she can feel his soft exhale in the dark. He moves closer, always closer. Something in Nova flares. She can’t tell if it’s want or anger, and the blurring of that line terrifies her.

“I need you,” Nova whispers, needing the words to be true. She reaches for Din, tracing down the line of his torso, reaching to cup him between his legs.

A hand shoots out to stop her. Lightning-quick. His grip is unyielding. It cuts so deep. Nova sucks in a wounded gasp. “No,” Din says, and there’s no warmth to it at all. “You don’t.” 

Nova recoils, blinking back sudden tears. “Din—?” 

“You are using this,” he whispers, stroking a thumb over her cheekbone, “me, as a bandage for what you’re feeling. I want you in every way but this, cyar’ika. Something is wrong, and you cannot use me to drown out that feeling. It won’t make it go away.” 

Nova feels a knife somewhere through her heart. It surges into her, white-hot panic. “Please—” 

“Novalise.” Her name feels distant, like it’s echoing from faraway, a place that isn’t this ship, a place that maybe isn’t even out in space at all. “Stop.” 

She sucks in a breath, shattered. “Din,” Nova breathes, ragged, heartbeat thumping off something wild. “Please touch me—” 

“No.” 

She pulls away from him. Violently. Nova digs her nails back into her bloodied palm, shaking when she realizes this is real, very much not a nightmare, and the glitter and snap of the jaws of darkness begin crooning at her. She is wrong. Something is definitely, decidedly wrong, and she is teetering on the edge of losing it, and she is exhausted, bone-weary, and there’s flames licking down her throat, between her legs, and she wants to be voracious, to feed, to drown everything else out with the thrush of Din inside of her—

Something snaps. From deep inside of her. A low, keening noise, the one she was making—it dissipates, suddenly. Nova feels—strange. She stands up, stick-straight, sweaty, freezing. 

“Novalise.” 

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. There’s a low scratching sound, coming from inside of her, gnawing. 

“Nova, you need to tell me what was in your dream.” 

She doesn’t move. She feels feverish, but this is a different kind of fever than the one she felt when she was slick with need, wanton, heavy. Nova feels—unhinged. 

“Me.” 

But her tongue—her tongue is not her own. The snarl that rips out of it is something else. Nova can feel it, the taste of it, and it’s wrong and bloodied and so awful that she puts her palm to her hand and screams into it. 

Din is on her in a second. “Baby—?” 

That word—it is not theirs. Not without danger preceding it. Nova thrashes, once, twice—she is undone and desecrated. Her body is not her own, it is a channel, a conduit, and the Not-Nova, the ones from all of her darkest dreams—she is slithering around inside of her, whispering, crooning, seductive, and Nova cannot grab herself, hold the evil at bay. Bring herself back into the light. 

Din surges forward, catching her body, holding her, cradling her. 

“Novalise.” 

She surges back into her body like a crescendo. A wave. An electric thrum exploding. Nova shudders, and Din flips the lights on, and she looks at him in confusion, because they were not on this ship, her soul was on a different plane, like she was caught between worlds, and Din’s holding her in his arms, his bare hands. He is not a Mandalorian, not protected from her in beskar and bullets, not behind a shield. He is a man, and, Nova realizes, sweat-slick and freezing, he is breakable. 

He’s looking at her like she’s—a ghost. 

Nova can feel the tears welling up in her eyes. She’s thankful for them, this proof that she is herself. She is emotional and undone, yes, but she’s not unhinged. She does not belong to the darkness. Din wipes the pad of his thumb across her mouth and it comes back bloody. 

“What,” he repeats slowly, softly, so gently it aches, “happened in your nightmare?” 

“I wasn’t myself,” Nova whispers, “and when I woke up, it stayed.” 

Din blinks. Fear is so foreign in his eyes. She looks up at him, half-lidded, through wet lashes. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she repeats. 

This time, he doesn’t tell her to fight. He doesn’t tell her anything. He just stares, and Nova can tell how scared he is. Unshakable, unbreakable Din Djarin—she’s terrified that she will become his undoing. 

“Nova,” he whispers.

Something else snaps. Thunders. Strikes like lightning. She stands up, stick-straight—like she’s just been blinked back into reality. “What just happened?” 

His eyes, barely recognizable in the dark, widen at her. “You woke up screaming. I asked what you dreamed about. Then you… Leaped out of bed. Onto the floor.” 

Nova stares. “What happened in between?” 

He goes to reach for her, and Nova flinches. Flinches. Not because she doesn’t trust Din’s hands on her—because it’s the only thing she trusts right now, the only thing that’ll keep her anchored. “I didn’t—I didn’t touch you?” Something flares low in her stomach. She thinks, this time, that it’s danger beckoning. 

Din rears back like he’s been slapped. Nova can’t tell if it’s from her flinch—so loud, so bright, even in the darkness—or if it’s from her words. 

“You woke up,” he whispers, “and got out of the bed like it was made of fire.” 

Nova swallows. She can’t get a grip on reality. It’s seismic, kaleidoscopic—she can’t make out what’s real and what isn’t, and she clenches her fingers harder down on her hand. “What happened in between?” She’s repeating herself. She’s not making sense. 

“You told me you dreamed of teeth. That you were scared of yourself. And then you leapt out of bed, away from me.” His voice is low, strained with something. Anger,  Nova realizes, anger, and probably confusion, but he’s schooling his tone to be as neutral as possible. 

“Away,” she repeats, “from you.” 

Din nods. She can’t see much, but if she could, Nova would be watching his jaw clench, the muscle jumping as Din grits his teeth together. 

“And you’re mad at me for that?” She can feel the sick swell of anger taking over her own body, and Nova tries to fight it, shut it out, but it feels—good. Alive. More alive than she’s felt in weeks. Since defeating Sparmau. No—since Din chased her down like prey on Naator. “You’re mad?” Her voice is breathy, low. 

“No.” 

“I don’t believe you.” Nova’s hand reaches out, flicking on the dim light. Din is silhouetted by the bulb behind him, and his face is contorted—with anger, maybe, but also fear. She can smell it on him. She wants to slam herself into him, to have it burn her down, to drown out all of the noise. But she doesn’t move. She just watches him. “I don’t think,” Nova whispers, even-keeled, all ice, “this counts as running from you.” 

It’s not fair. That word carries such a weight. She wants to take it back the second she says it. Nova swallows, blinking, that anger de-crescendoing out of her faster than it spreads. She feels sick. 

“Din—” 

“You want to play it like that?” 

“No.” Nova takes a step backward, clenching her nails back into her palm, feeling fresh blood whisper across the new cuts. “No, I don’t want to play at all. I’m sorry—” 

“I followed you into the darkness,” Din says, and there’s nothing there, no emotion, and somehow that sluices through her even deeper. The blade of his words is so sharp. “You cannot go anywhere I couldn’t find you. That place doesn’t exist.” 

But it does, that monstrous, traitor inside of her whispers, because I belong to something more, and there are places I go that Din cannot follow. 

“Din—” 

“If you’re trying to get me to hurt you,” Din grits out, “you’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.” 

Her heartbeat, her pulse—both skyrocket. “Why would I want you to hurt me?” But Nova does. She wants to be annihilated by her Mandalorian. She wants pain from him, pain that drowns out the ghosts inside of her, deep enough that she could rise from the depths anointed. Reborn. Renewed. She needs something holy to cling to, to carve her true self out of.

“You need to come back to me.” 

She blinks. That cuts, but not with sweet silver blades. With something serrated. Dulled. She steps back as Din steps forward. 

“I haven’t gone anywhere—” 

“We both know,” Din whispers, “that’s not the truth.” 

“Something,” Nova says, “is wrong with me.” 

It’s like those words wake him right up—startled out of a dream. Not the one of her sick reflection in the mirror—something that’s held Din equally as captive. 

“Nova—”

But her name and haunted look in Din’s eyes is interrupted by three sharp knocks at their door. 

*

The door unlatches with a cold hiss. Hera stares at both of them. Din can feel her gaze hanging heavy on Nova, her sweat-slicked skin, her bloodied lips, her hair raging like a wildfire around her face. She is barely clothed and he is helmeted, half-armored, and he knows what this looks like, and it makes him feel sick. 

But Hera just blinks once, twice, then rights herself. She carries herself like both a mother and a soldier. It reminds Din so much of Nova. “I’m sorry,” she says, both crisp and genuine. “I didn’t want to wake you, but we have a problem.” 

Din squares his shoulder. Nova wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. She snaps back into herself—Mand’alor, Jedi, Rebel, all in equal measure. Now that it’s back, written into the code of her DNA, it makes it even more obvious that the Nova he was just interacting with was… wrong. 

“What?” 

Hera swallows, digging her hands into the pockets of her bomber jacket. “You need to come to the cockpit.” They file after her, Din feeling naked and undone without the rest of his armor. He watches Nova as she follows Hera up to the front of the Ghost. She plucks Grogu—asleep—off the copilot’s chair and settles down into it, eyebrows knitted down the middle. 

“Before I play this,” Hera says, “I need you to know that I trust Wedge Antilles with my life at this point.” 

Nova recoils. Din can feel his heart sink. 

“Me too,” she offers up. Din nods once. Sharply, in assent. 

“Great,” Hera says, “but I am also not listening to the warning he explicitly gave me. So.” A pause. She’s watching Nova closely. “And if you want to heed it, you are allowed to. I will walk into this fire alone. I would prefer not to, but I will.”

Din’s frustrated. But Nova—Nova offers Hera a tiny smile, a spark of something he hasn’t seen in days, and he cocks his head to the side, ready to follow her into the flames. All over again. “I,” Nova says, gently, evenly, “have explicitly ignored many warnings Wedge Antilles has given me for the sake of doing something stupid yet necessary. And the last thing I am going to let you do,” she continues, leaning forward to clutch Hera’s hand, which Din just now clocks as trembling, “is jump into that stupid yet necessary thing alone.” She pauses, squeezing down. “What happened, Hera?” 

Hera inhales, exhales. It’s shaky. Din watches her, carefully, through the silent safety of the visor. She leans forward, pressing a button on the screen. Din hears what Bo-Katan and Wedge are saying. He understands the situation—Thrawn’s massive Star Destroyer hanging over Bespin and Hoth like a bad omen—but he doesn’t register how dark it is, how deep. All he can think about is that Bo-Katan—Bo-Katan—is shaking in the blue light, Hera’s hand is cinched so tightly over his wife’s that it’s about to snap, Wedge is telling them it’s a lost cause, and Nova—

Nova’s face is not what he expected. Tears, Din would have predicted—lots of them, silently streaming down her beautiful cheeks. An expression of well-earned grief. For the destruction of a planet she’s considered like home, for the last true active Alliance base, for the people that she’s protected her entire life. But Nova’s face has hardened into resolve—true, unadulterated determination. 

It’s the one she wore when she fought Sparmau. It’s the one she’s worn in every act of Rebellion, every time she’s been a savior. She is a warrior at her core, and the face she is wearing is nothing but fight and glory. She looks like that version of Novalise—her true self—is slowly waking up.

There she is. Then, quieter: Thank the Maker. 

“I know Wedge said—”

“We’re going to Hoth.” Nova lifts her chin. “We’re going to fight.” 

Hera looks at her with fear and relief. Din can’t tell which one is winning. “We need fuel.” 

Nova nods. “Then let’s get it quickly.” 

“I should mention,” Hera says, slamming her finger down on the hyperdrive button, letting the Ghost thud out of warp, “we’re refueling on Corellia.” All of them lurch in the sudden drop, but they’re braced for impact, fortified with the muscle memory of living out in open space. 

Quietly, Din speaks through the modulator: “That’s convenient.” 

A smile glitters across Nova’s face. A true one. 

“I hope you’re prepared to fight Wedge on his warning,” Hera says, lowering the thrusters as they slowly start to sink onto the cesspit named Corellia. “Because when we land, you’re both going to find him and Bo-Katan.” 

Din shifts, refusing to display any of what he’s feeling. He is strong and stoic, a bullet made of beskar. He’s a Mandalorian warrior, and he is not afraid. Except the first time he and Nova were on Corellia, he killed a rogue bounty who would have made shrapnel out of her. And the last time he and Nova were on Corellia, he almost lost her to visions of Sparmau and herself. Death, Din has concluded, is in the air on this stars-forsaken planet. 

Corellia and Din Djarin are, decidedly, not friends. 

He sighs. Nova gleams. She looks over at him—full of knowing, that look, and something else he can’t entirely place—and extricates herself from the chair with the giddy grace only she has ever possessed, slipping back into their room to don more clothes than secondhand baggy trousers and a barely-there tank top. When he turns back around, Hera’s eyes are on his, dead-on, through the visor and all. She doesn’t miss much, Hera Syndulla. Against his permission, Din shrinks and shifts under her gaze. 

“Convenient,” he echoes, finally. “That fuel and the Mon Cala vessel are both down on Corellia.” 

She blinks slowly. “I wanted this reunion to be in less dire circumstances. But, for better or for worse, these are the lives that we’ve chosen to lead.” She sighs. 

Din observes her. Hera carries herself with the same precision, the same rigidity, that he does. What they lack in magic is made up for in skill. “Do you think this is a good idea?” He can’t tell if he means Corellia, or Hoth, or fighting at all, but the sentiment is the same regardless. Wary, murky. 

Hera lifts her chin. “I think this is war, and we can’t play it safe.”

Din nods. “I agree.” Hera holds his gaze, uncanny, those blue, discerning eyes, and he turns away, to go after Nova, to right the wrongness that they both held earlier—but Hera’s soft hand lands on his unarmored arm. He jerks away, like he’s been burned, instantaneously, and she rescinds her touch. Nearly as immediately. Din’s respected Hera from the second she rescued them, but even more so now. 

But her eyes—they burn with grief and loss and it hurts him to look at her head-on. He knows his own eyes burn with the same demons. It’s part of the reason he keeps his helmet on for the most part now. Din doesn’t know how to school his expression in the way non-Mandalorians do. But, he realizes, it doesn’t matter, because everyone in his life seems to see right through the visor anyway. 

“Din,” Hera says softly, “I loved a Jedi, too. It’s…difficult. I know what their world is like, and it’s full of horror and wonder that we cannot understand.” 

He stiffens. “Ezra?” 

A small, sad smile dances across Hera’s mouth. “Yeah. Ezra, too.” 

He pauses, turning back around to fully face her. “What happened?” His question is low, urgent. Probing. He feels like he’s betraying Nova, but he needs to know. “To your…other Jedi?”

Hera swallows. Her face is written with sadness. That’s not something Din normally notices, but it’s like a beacon, like—like the way Nova feels. Full to the brim of emotion, so big that it overflows. “He fancied himself a martyr, too.” A flash of her eyes on his. “Don’t,” she whispers, “let Nova give into that sentiment. The rebellion will live on without her, but it will never be the same.”

“Hera—”

“You love her?” With the weight of this galaxy and the next, he loves her. But Din can’t speak that aloud. He just manages one terse, fervent nod, and knows she understands. “Good,” Hera says, “then you keep that light alive.” 

And with that, she releases him, and the spores of terror that have been festering in Din’s stomach spread and spread. 

*

Nova doesn’t have armor. Doesn’t have anything, really, anything other than her own tank top and the pants Hera lent her, which must not have been Hera’s at all, because Hera’s got curves, but not like Nova’s hips and thighs, and these are belted tight around her waist. Her hair is hanging down her back, braided halfway, the rest of her rogue curls hanging loose out of the elastic. Her skin looks sallow, typical from spending so much time in the vantablack of space. Her lips are puffy, her eyelashes long and tangled, her torso wrapped in a shawl and one of the extra jackets hanging on the back of the Ghost. She smooths her hands over the front of the ill-fitting jacket—cropped above her waist, the sleeves too long—and wishes, for one of the only times in her life, that she did have armor. That she was just a Mandalorian, just the Mand’alor. That her biggest responsibility was uniting a people that had been razed and divided, not given to them in fragments—not this leader that was equal part Jedi and Rebel, with Mandalorian sprinkled in. 

Her reflection—it looks like her. Nova hitches in a breath, afraid to peer too close, afraid to see the Not-Nova looking back. In her dream, she had teeth that snapped and glittered, a gaping maw of horror and half-ness. But the only thing reflected is her face, her body, her eyes. Nova smiles, and it’s soft—echoing glories and morning, sunlight filtering through the cracks. No razors. No darkness. She feels relief spark up in her heart like an old friend, and she touches her fingers up to her reflection, willing it to stay. 

“Good enough,” Nova murmurs, and then she’s out the door. She presses her lips to Grogu’s wrinkled forehead on her way by, squeezes Hera’s hand with a silent promise, and looks up at Din—obscured, always, but she knows his eyes are locked tight on her like a tractor beam, like a place of worship, like… he’s watching her. Carefully. Steadily. Two things she doesn’t feel. “Ready?” For a minute, before he nods, she’s caught in it, suspended, the way he’s holding her hostage, captive. Safe.

“This goes without saying,” Hera murmurs, and Nova’s reverie is broken, “but please don’t take any risks down there. Get out, find the rest of the crew, and get back here.” She swallows. “We don’t have time to waste.” 

Nova nods. “Be safe. Getting the fuel. Corellia is…” 

“This place,” Hera says heavily, slamming her fist to disengage the hiss of the ramp, “is the least of my fears.” And the gangplank lowers, revealing the gray slush of Corellia’s crime-ridden, grimy surface. Nova inhales, exhales, grabs onto Din’s gloved hand, and walks down the ramp. 

Din has the tracking chip in his hand. Nova walks behind him, out into the abyss. His body is tensed, a steel bullet, a weapon of mass destruction. She keeps her face low, obscured from the light, but she can feel the seedy, dangerous gaze of the people that pass by her. She’s got nothing of worth, no pockets to pick, but her sabers are loud and vibrant on her belt. One light, one dark. There’s a metaphor in that, somewhere, but Nova is too busy watching Din as he dances through the low light of Corellia, powerful and precise as a lothcat. 

Once upon a time, she tried to barter with him. Back when he was just the Mandalorian and she was still Andromeda, lifetimes ago, ages back, what feels like years and years. To leave her here. On Corellia. Because she felt guilty—guilty that she wasn’t able to fend for herself, that he picked her up in the Crest, that they were strangers. It feels impossible now. To look at the man in front of her and see anything other than the love of her life, her locus, her true star. 

“What?” His voice is low, throaty. It filters through the modulator, slipping off into somewhere deeper, and Nova shivers. They step through an alley, a slice through two walls, puddles and brick littering the ground around them. “I can hear you.” 

Her eyebrows furrow. Nova takes one step, two, and then Din’s whirled back around, hooking a gloved hand under her chin. It’s bold and determined and vital, and Nova sinks into the black hole of his grasp. Slowly, Din cocks his head to the right and Nova thrills. 

“Hear what?” It’s barely a whisper. 

Din sighs, an exhalation, coming out low through the vocoder. Nova bites down on her lower lip, blinking up at him through half-lidded eyes. “Your thoughts,” he grits out, “are so damn loud.” 

Nova licks out a line over her split lip, and Din sags. Just for a second. Then his arms snap out, bracketing her on either side. She sinks back against the wall, body slamming into the wall with a sick, satisfying thud. “What am I thinking, then?” 

Din doesn’t move. “No.” 

Nova blinks. “No, what?”

Din blows out a breath, again, low and languid like a smoker. Nova’s heart clenches, then something lower, wetter. “You’re being,” he grits out, low, almost angry, “a fucking distraction.” His words cut through, like a knife. Nova loves the way it sings through her. “We have a job to do, Novalise. And we need to talk about what happened earlier. We have other things to finish first.” 

Nova knows. She knows. But frustration and want are pouring free from her, sluicing through her body, desperate and wanton. Din is the only thing that has ever silenced that panic—that’s ever made her quiet. “I know.” 

“People to save.” 

Reality floods back in. Just a little. Nova doesn’t put words to it, because it’s awful, it’s horrible, it’s venomous, the thought. That she’s so tired, tired of always being the savior, tired of chasing an impossible reality. That she wants to be selfish, to feel Din’s hands on her like a salve, like a resurrection. Like she could open her mouth and let him whistle in, dirty, filthy things exhaled, sweat dripping down to the steel floor. Like it could make the visions disappear, like it could flood out all of the weight hanging over her head. 

“I know,” she repeats, dully, but Din’s gaze is still on her, locked-in, seizing her closer and closer. 

“I’m not touching you.” 

Nova’s gaze flickers over him, to the arms that are clenched hard against the wall. “Not even a little?” 

“A little,” Din hisses, “with you, is everything. I can’t stop once I’ve started. And we have a mission to do. I’ll ask you again, Novalise. What do you want?” 

Nova bites down on her swollen bottom lip. Reality is running currents through her. She needs to get her head on straight. To remember what she’s here for—there is a planet at stake, there are people to save, and she is being selfish, so selfish, but the monster inside of her head is purring, and Din’s body is like an oil slick, and she is undone and starving. 

She knows—in the back of her mind, where rationality still lives, she is whispering to herself—Din will not touch her. Din will not drown her like she’s begging to be drowned. Novalise is starving. Emaciated—deprived of touch, touch she had hours ago, because Din’s body is both her heaven and her hell, and she is addicted to it. Addicted to the fix that is her husband, her Mandalorian, her weapon, the love of her life—she has a mission to do, she has the fate of the galaxy on her shoulders, and she’s hungry like an addict, and all she wants to do is feel Din sinking inside of her, rhythmic, seismic, pushing her down, deep enough where the only pain that exists is him, the only salvation is his hands, his mouth, his letting her breathe—

“Novalise.” 

She blinks. “What I want and what I need,” Nova whispers, shaking and undone, “are two very different things.” 

She hears the way Din’s breath catches in the modulator. “Nova—” 

“You know what I mean. We’ve been through this already.” She leans in closer. Her breath fogs up his visor. With the strength of a thousand stars, she wrenches herself free, ducking under Din’s arm and moving out into the maw of Corellia, needing to put distance between their bodies before she does something rash, before she gets on her knees, before she loses sight of her mission— 

“Nova,” Din calls behind her, his voice sharp and heady—needy—and Nova keeps moving, clutching the tracker in one hand, silently blinking out the correct path to Bo and Wedge, away from that dangerous, razor-sharp desire, because she will slit her throat with it if she stays here. She will give into it, into the plunge, and she will not be able to extricate herself. “Hey—” 

His hand closes around her wrist. It’s sweet, sweet relief. She snaps back around, so fast that they almost crash into each other, yanked back into the alleyway. “Don’t hide. Don’t run from me.” 

“I am not running,” she whispers, everything faint against the feeling of his touch against her skin, “I am losing.” 

Losing time, she means. But losing—grip. On herself. On reality. Like she’s been—drugged. Or like she’s living across different timelines, almost identical, but not close enough to match. She blinks, once, twice, and then Din’s surrounding her again, even as she tries to move forward. 

“What is going on?” 

Nova stops—almost letting Din collide with her, beskar and all—but she looks at him over her shoulder, sirenlike, dangerous—and catches exactly where she knows his brown, deep eyes are locked on her, laser-sharp. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know, and it terrifies her, because she is muddied and violet, pitch-dark with desire and shame, and Nova has never felt indecision like this before, this terrible seam ripped open inside of her stomach. She doesn’t know. 

She doesn’t know anything except the basics. She doesn’t want to fight—not anymore. She wants to win. She wants a quiet life with the man she loves, and she wants this galaxy out of turmoil, but the dark thing leaching inside of her stomach wants to be selfish, and it’s terrifying, and she has no idea how to put this into words—to be Novalise, just Novalise, the girl the Mandalorian picked up on Nevarro. Everything flashes before her eyes, lightning-quick, the beats of her life—from sacred touches to low breaths, to commlink calls to tender kisses, to sweat-slick sex to awful rainstorms of tears, to death, to life, to this moment. Can we start over? Nova thinks, reality cold and crisp in Corellia’s mangled air, and then— I feel…wrong—

“I can’t tell what’s real—”

“Wait.” Din steps closer, but the visor is pointed down at the blinking tracker in Nova’s hand, suddenly gone silent. “They’ve dropped off.” He puts his hand to his helmet, and Nova watches him, dazed, shaking, like she’s woken up from a dream, guilt running like ice through her veins. “Bo-Katan? Can you hear me?” 

No answer. Static. Silence. Then—Nova hears it, faintly, the incredulous, frigid voice of Bo-Katan Kryze. It’s one of the best sounds in the universe. “Din?” 

Din’s body sags, just a little, and Nova feels the same sweet relief coursing through her, overriding the sick sense of awfulness she feels—at letting want overtake need, at wanting something selfish rather than something more—and she swallows it down. This is not the place for want. This is the place for fighting. 

Din projects the frequency outward, grabbing Nova and dragging her in close, close enough that the two of them can hear it, but the quickening dark of the heart of Corellia around them doesn’t. “We’re in the middle of the city,” Bo-Katan says, “hiding the best we can. Din, this place is crawling with—” 

“I know.” His voice, low through the modulator, vibrates against Nova’s ribcage with her body pressed almost flush against his. “Don’t move, okay? Stay where you are.” 

“Not an option,” Wedge cuts in, “there’s troopers and bounty hunters everywhere, and the Mon Cala we were with sold us out.” A blaster fires. “Look, we’ll hotwire a ship and come meet you. Where are you located? Still in hyperspace?” 

“No,” Nova says, and there’s yelling and fire through the comm, and panic replaces relief and guilt in equal measure, “we’re on Corellia, we’ll come to you. What’s your coordinates?” 

Silence. 

“Wedge?” 

“You,” he says, sourly, “are a terrible listener.” Someone shouts, and Wedge curses under his breath. “We’re in the middle of Coronet Center. Do not come here—” 

It’s too late. Din clicks the radio off, stifling Wedge’s voice, and then he’s grabbing Nova’s hand in his. She looks over at him, silently resolving to figure it all out later, to pull herself together. His hand clenches in hers, and he nods, and then they’re running, entwined, into the heart of the storm. 

*

Din’s thoughts on Corellia hold fast. This place is crawling with unfriendlies—from the stormtroopers armed up to the nines with blasters and weapons to the bounty hunters with blades of steel to the men who keep looking at Nova sideways. The deeper and deeper they crawl, sinking into the pit of Coronet Center, Corellia’s capital city—it becomes clearer and clearer that no one here has good intentions.

His eyes slide over to her. Too much. Enough to take his eyes off the prize. Navigating this city is a hellscape on a normal day, but with their friends trapped in the belly of the beast and his wife unsure, unsteady—Din doesn’t feel in control.

He’s felt like that a lot lately. Out of control. He can’t figure out why. He wants, and that want pulses low inside of him. The desire to get the hell out of here whispers to him, wheedles, croons. It lives under his skin like a parasite. Back on Mandalore, before they left to go find Ezra, before they left for the Unknown Regions, Din told Nova he wanted to just go back to Naator. But that wasn’t possible. That’s not in her nature. She doesn’t abandon things. She doesn’t give into the same selfish haunts. She’s stronger than that. Than anything, really, even while she’s seeping through the cracks. If a woman could be forged from beskar, it would be Novalise. 

She’s walking like she’s injured something. Din watches her out of the corner of his eyes as Nova steps—gingerly, carefully—across the grayscale streets, littered with scrap metal and trash and terrible things. Needles. Bones. Corellia is a grifter’s paradise, and she does not belong here. Her hip, he thinks, something’s wrong with her hip. Probably still injured from the starfighter crash, and him sinking to the hilt inside of her hours ago probably didn’t help. 

“Stop looking at me with those eyes,” Nova whispers, but it’s playful. Lighter. 

Din shoots her a sideways look. “I’m not—”

She lifts her chin, swinging her head around to check the alleys behind her. It’s getting darker, and on Corellia, that means more dangerous. Nova’s hand finds her belt, where her yellow lightsaber and the Darksaber hang. She palms her own, then the Darksaber. Din watches this too. “I know where your eyes are at all times, Mandalorian.” Nova smiles, and, Maker, Din’s stomach lights up with butterflies. “Even under that helmet.” 

“You’re hurt.” 

Her face shutters. Just a little, but Din’s an expert in Nova’s micro-expressions. “Nothing I can’t handle.” 

He tilts his head to the side. “Can you please tell me what your dream was about?” 

Her face contorts. “It’s not related.” 

“Novalise,” Din sighs, “you are the worst liar I have ever met.” 

She narrows her eyes. “Me. Okay? Like I told you. I was myself, and then I wasn’t, and I keep hallucinating things, and the reason I need you to keep touching me is because it’s the only real thing I can hold onto.” Nova licks over her lip, tongue lingering over where it split back in the crash. Din wants out. He wants to gather Nova in his arms, jet out of here with the pack strapped to his back, shoot his way to Bo and Wedge from the air. He can feel eyes on them from the shadows, though, and anger flares in his chest. 

No. Not anger. Something worse.

Fear. 

“Nova—”

“No,” she whispers, but she grabs his hand for a second, squeezing down, “not here. We’ll talk about it all later, I promise—” 

He hears it before he sees it. A blaster, drawn out of his holster. Din ducks and yanks Nova down to the ground alongside him, razor-sharp and quicker than breathing. She doesn’t yell—in fact, she goes quieter, and when the shot ricochets off his armor, Din’s already got his own blaster out to return the fire. He doesn’t have his vibroblade, but he wishes for it; to sink between the notches of armor and sear into the trooper’s skin. 

They weren’t shooting at him. They were going for Nova. 

Her hand is already at her waist, but Din moves faster. He cuts forward, steel toes light against the Corellian ground, and he’s on the trooper before another shot can even hit the barrel of the enemy’s gun. He fires, once, twice, then kicks the dead trooper to the ground. Nova’s watching him, wide-eyed. 

“There’s more.” 

He whips back around, ready to fire. He doesn’t need to, though. 

Nova’s hand pulses over the sabers hanging on her wrist, and without a second’s hesitation, she’s ignited the blade.

Corellia doesn’t glow yellow. 

No. It flickers with the angry, pulsing energy of the Darksaber.

*

The Darksaber used to be heavy. Like it was resisting her. Not anymore, Nova realizes, as stormtroopers pour out of alleyways like ants, storming across the ground around them. Din’s quicker, a soldier—but she has a weapon in her hands that’s meant to be wielded. Once upon a time, killing was a haunting, awful thing. She still aims to stun, to disarm—not to cut down. But she could. With this blade in her hands, Novalise could bring an entire city to its knees. She moves like a Jedi and fights like a Rebel, and she cuts forward like Mandalorian. Simply. Like it’s written into her DNA. 

Din, in her periphery, is dropping trooper after trooper. But there’s… there’s more, coming out of the cracks, incessant. Nova knows that something is amiss. She can taste it in the air, heavy and metallic, the tang like blood. Corellia is crime-ridden, yes, but this is different. And then there’s other people, not troopers. 

Bounty hunters. 

“Din,” she calls, and he turns to look at her, and Nova can feel the panic flash, white-hot through her veins. They’re surrounded. Completely. She feels like she lost time—she was just cutting them down, cleaving through the air like it was nothing, leaving the troopers’ forces scattered. But she blinks, just once, and she’s surrounded, but white masks and evil eyes alike, and Nova feels adrenaline and fear slice her clean through. 

“Nova!”

But he’s choked out by the thrush of troopers, hundreds of them. Nova loses sight of him. She tries to cut through, and then a bounty hunter flashes his teeth at her, and she stumbles, the blade of the Darksaber snarling as Nova falters. 

“I thought you looked familiar.” 

Nova clenches her jaw. “I don’t think we’ve met.” But he looks familiar. His expression does, at least—darkness gathering there. 

He laughs, an evil smile curling across his face. She can feel the ranks closing in behind her. Nova lifts her chin, holding the weapon higher in her hand. “Oh, we’ve met,” he says, cocking his head to the side, a sick glint emanating from his eyes. “You’ve done a good job transforming yourself—Novalise, is it now? Come a long way since you were tied up like a prize on that ship.” 

Nova’s stomach clenches. “You—” 

“Shame Jacterr didn’t like his things to be touched.” He surges forward, hand outstretched to caress her body. “But he’s not here now, is he?” And Novalise explodes.

Fury swings forward, flooding everything else out. Nova screams out, cutting, cleaving, using the Darksaber as it was intended. A weapon fit for a king—in the hands of something more than that. Something stronger. Nova slices and knifes with the blade until there is blood on the ground and pink mist of a man in front of her, and she feels nothing. Just anger, red-hot, pulsating like lava, and she cuts through stormtrooper after stormtrooper, until she can see Din again, surrounded by bounty hunters.

“Hey!” Nova screams, loud enough to echo across the surrounding buildings, “Mandalorian!” 

Din’s head doesn’t fully turn—he’s blasting with one hand and choking out another trooper with the other—but the side of the helmet flashes her way. 

She holds up the Darksaber, blade still ignited, transfiguring everything into greyscale, and shouts again. “Catch.” She tosses it through the air, high above everyone’s heads. Din’s gloved hand snaps out to catch it. Perfectly. Like it has been his all along, like it belongs to him. Like it’s craved his touch, like it’s breathing a sigh of relief to be reunited with his hand. Nova offers him one radiant, glowing smile, and then she’s ignited her own lightsaber, turning everything to yellow, then to ash. 

Together, slowly, Din and Nova clear a path through the thrush of troopers and hunters, cutting fast and hard and away, and then—

Something happens.

She can’t see it. But she can feel it. Nova stutters—like her body stops working. She can’t describe it—this feeling. A shuddering. It rips through her like fire and shutters her defenses, and even with the saber in her hand, she feels—depleted, suddenly. Hair’s standing up on the back of her neck. 

And a second later, she knows why. Din cries out, a noise that she’s only ever heard him make when he’s wounded, a soldier cut down in battle. There’s a bounty hunter trying to pull his helmet off, another one gripping his neck, exposed, now, his tan skin a beacon in the dark. And even though Din is allowed to be Din now, Nova’s anger roars through her, the weight of an exploding star. She surges toward him, troopers crawling over her like vermin, like bugs, but she will not let anyone in this world take Din’s autonomy away from him, not again, not ever— 

“Novalise.” 

It’s her own voice. 

She turns. “Not now,” Nova whispers, cutting through white armor with her golden blade, trying to let everything drip out of her, trying to tap into that sense of magic that runs like a current through her bloodstream. 

“Novalise.” 

She turns. It’s not the version of herself from the nightmares. It’s the version of herself from the future, the one gilded and saintlike, untouchable—holy. 

“Help me,” she whispers. Bring me back, she means to say, and this version of herself smiles, reaching out to touch her face. “Get me closer, help me—” 

“Novalise.”

Exasperated, exhausted: “What?”

“You have all the weapons you need.” A beat. “Call it by name.” 

Nova closes her eyes, and when she reopens them, it’s like lightning has surged through her veins. Back when she was fighting Sparmau, all the Jedi had told her don’t throw it away. This was an echo chamber of that, a repeated cycle, an endless paradigm—call it by name. 

It’s one word. Her name. “Novay’lain.” It’s a whisper with the force of a scream. And all the light floods back into Nova’s body. Everything that was dimmed, covered in gasoline, or nightmared into reality—it stands no chance. To radiate. To shine. 

She tears through the rest of the troopers and hunters like an asteroid. She is singular, Rebel girl with the Force aerating through her bloodstream. She’s on Din faster than any of the rest of them can, and she’s swinging and cutting her blade through the air, white-hot and gilded. All of the darkness settles into her bones, the light shooting to the surface. She could wield the weight of the sun if she needed to, to get to him. The hunter prying Din’s helmet off is cut through the middle. Sawed off. Torso in two pieces. Nova doesn’t even blink. 

“Come on,” she whispers, dropping to her knees beside him. “Let’s get out of here.” 

Din spits something out onto the ground, splattering over the armor of the dead trooper at his feet. Blood. It looks like blood. He yanks his helmet back down, the illusion of the untouchable snapped back into place, and then he shakes his head at Nova, sighing. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

Electric, white-hot—that’s how she feels. Illuminated, yes. But on fire. Nova is moving with adrenaline that doesn’t feel borrowed. Not anymore. She is supercharged, a yellow blade, surrounded by silver and nettle, divinity and blood. 

They’re firing like bullets down alleyways. Din doesn’t have the tracker out anymore. She doesn’t have a hard and fast map of where Bo-Katan and Wedge are, but Nova doesn’t need it. She feels them, can hear their heartbeats, can sense their wounds. She turns, frantic, down another alleyway, and then Din’s hand slips out of hers. 

She stumbles, catching herself on either side of the alley’s walls. “Come on,” she whispers, gently, turning around to face him. “We have a mission to complete, remember?” 

“Nova—” 

“They’re right on our tail, Din,” she says, blinking rapidly, heart hammering a brutal rhythm out against her ribs. “Come on.” 

“Wait, no—” 

“Din,” Nova says, out of breath—why is she suddenly out of breath? She sags back against the wall, the light inside of her chest rapidly dwindling. Her vision is flickering. “Din—?” 

“Cyar’ika,” he whispers, “stop.” 

Nova does. She looks down. 

Impaled in her stomach is a blade. “Oh,” she whispers. Her vision blurs further, and then her knees are buckling, collapsing—

“Novalise—” Panic flashes through Din’s voice. “No, don’t you dare—” 

And then, like a dying star, everything goes pitch-black. 

*

TAGLIST: @myheartisaconstellation | @fuuckyeahdad | @pedrodaddypascal | @misslexilouwho | @theoddcafe | @roxypeanut | @lousyventriloquist | @ilikethoseodds | @strawberryflavourss | @fanomando | @cosmicsierra | @misssilencewritewell | @rainbowfantasyxo |  @thatonedindjarinfan | @theflightytemptressadventure | @tiny-angry-redhead | @cjtopete86 | @chikachika-nahnah | @corvueros | @venusandromedadjarin | @jandra5075 | @berkeleybo | @solonapoleonsolo | @wild-mads | @charmedthoughts | @dindjarinswh0re | @altarsw |  @weirdowithnobeardo | @cosmicsierra | @geannad | @th3gl1tt3rgam3roff1c1al |@burrshottfirstt | @va-guardianhathaway | @starspangledwidow | @casssiopeia | @niiight-dreamerrrr | @ubri812 | @persie33 | @happyxdayxbitch | @sofithewitch | @hxnnsvxns |  @thisshipwillsail316 | @spideysimpossiblegirl | @dobbyjen | @tanzthompson | @tuskens-mando | @pedrosmustache | @goldielocks2004 | @fireghost-x@the-mandalorian-066 | @ka-x-in as always, reply here or send me a message to be added to the taglist!!!

AHHHH I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!! this was such a headrush to write. i am SO excited to share this one, and i hope you're ready for the next chapter. i've already started writing it and man… i cannot wait to share it!!

thank you, as always and eternally, for reading, for being here, and for sticking with me <3

CHAPTER 7 COMING SOON!!! for day-to-day updates, follow me on tiktok @ padmeamydala :)

xoxo, amelie

[emi-nova-music]

—*♪,» WELCOME ONE AND ALL ——•°.

hiii! i’m a 19yo college kid making magic however i can! i’m non-binary (they/nova pronouns), queer, neurodivergent, and i adore my strangely specific process and unique set of influences that lead to some cool ass shit! when i’m not jamming, i’m drawing, designing characters, building websites, and playing games 🫶 don’t hesitate to reach out

my main blog is @emerystellar as a general hub for all my creative stuff, and my crazy tumblr hermit spam all goes on @andromeda-absurdity !

—*♪,» LINKS ——•°.

Spotify || Bandcamp || Youtube || Apple Music

music carrd !! — main website !!

—*♪,» GENRE/INFLUENCES ——•°.

i’m pretty broad and experimental so it’s hard to narrow myself down, but i’d say i fall somewhere between jangle pop, psychedelic rock, shoegaze, and indie jazz! some of my biggest influences are louie zong, mild high club, miracle musical, buried beds, vince guaraldi, toby fox, koji kondo, the avalanches, and temporex :]

for extra reference, here’s my giant playlist of all the music i listen to, and a really big list of weirdly specific genres i like! you can also ask me about influences/inspirations for certain songs, associations you make, Anything, i’d love to hear and conversate about it!

—*♪,» RIGHTS AND USAGE ——•°.

feel free to use my music in any personal projects, youtube videos, animations, character playlists, anything, as long as you do two things:

1. credit me however applicable (link to the song, my website/bandcamp, just listing the song title and artist name, etc)

2. show me what you made!! i absolutely ADORE interacting with the creative works others make and i wanna see what ways you use my creations!! 🩵

the only other thing of note is that if you want to remix/make a cover of my song, keep it non-monetary (i.e. keep it to soundcloud and/or youtube)!

addendum that i’m not great at transcription but if you need stems of any songs/sheet music/garageband soundfont titles, etc, i’ll do my very very best to provide!

i’m very very open to collabs, but i am extremely bad with deadlines “- forcing inspiration never really works for me, but if you’re okay with my weird process and want to hmu, please do so!!

—*♪,» GENERAL FAQ ——•°.

• i use garageband on my phone to write most of the time (sometimes bandlab or acoustic instruments, usually various pianos or organs)

• i use distrokid for platform distribution and i seriously recommend it it’s ridiculously easy and super cheap too

• my process is usually pretty linear, starting with a melodic idea and moving from start to finish with the song, then going back and buffing it out making it meatier and tweaking things as i see fit! then i’ll usually adjust the pitch/speed at the end simply bc the analog sound is a lot more pleasing garageband can get a little sterile after listening to it for so long :]

• writing a single song will usually take me anywhere from 2-6 hours depending on the complexity, spanning however many days (i have drafts that have been sitting in my phone for MONTHS bc i’ll often switch between them so none of them get too stale) -> however, some of my live songs work a little differently, seeing as a lot of them (especially on what never left the nebula) are actually almost completely improvised… you'll never guess which ones >:)

• i’ve been playing piano and singing since i was a toddler, but i started formally making music and being serious about it in 2017! i’ve come a long long long way, don’t look for my old soundcloud /hj

—*♪,» THANK YOU!!! ——•°.

if you’ve got any other curiosities or comments please don’t hesitate to send an ask!! i love when ppl engage with my music so please please by all means feel free to :] thank you so much for sticking around this long and have a stellar day!!!

[isekyaaa]

Hello!List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who reblogged something from you. learn to know your mutuals and followers. I hope you're having an amazing day/night!! this is a current ask game going around and I hope you’re okay with me picking you. 💜💜💜 I’ve personally sent this out to you if recently liked or reblogged a post from me - @andromeda-nova-writing

Thank you for the ask game, @andromeda-nova-writing & @milkstore I hope you guys are having a great day/night too!!

Making things - I love making random things. Computers, mechanical keyboards, scrapbooks, repairing things, furniture, etc. Making things is just fun. Watching how things are made gives me much joy too. LOL

Online Window shopping - Okay I know it's materialistic to put this up, but like I love getting email ads and seeing ads on my feed. I just like knowing what there is out there to buy. Sometimes I go on Aliexpress to see the weirdest things I can theoretically get my hands on. It's fun uvu

Spending Time With Friends - Self-explanatory

Trying New Food - I am a foodie and I will readily and willingly spend more money than usual to try something new. It's bad because 7-11s here have so many different bentos to try. Recently they started selling Tonkotsu and Tantan Ramen. Kimchi Fried Rice, etc. My wallet... orz

Plotting Out Stories - I love planning out stories. I love flipping things and going the opposite of popular routes. I love seeing how different scenarios will work out. It's fun to me. Granted, I haven't done this in a good while, but I should try picking it up again.

I hope you don't mind me not sending this to other people. The people I would send it to already received the ask. And as for followers, I am really shy. orz If anyone would like to do this, feel free!

[maximuswolf]

[No DAV Spoilers] Im Incredibly Indifferent About DAV

[No DAV Spoilers] I’m Incredibly Indifferent About DAV… [No DAV Spoilers] I’m Incredibly Indifferent about DAV…Ok no spoilers, but I’m 15 hours into DAV. Now I’m a huge BioWare fan, and have been since KOTOR.Of their games Mass Effect is what I’d consider their magnum opus, and is the epitome of what I believe their games should resemble in terms of writing, decisions, characters, etc…That said, I’ve always enjoyed the DA series but was never in love with it the same way some fans are. I think it’s a cooler high fantasy universe, with some interesting takes on existing fantasy tropes. Regardless I always considered DA to have the same level of passion and quality put into it by BioWare as they did with Mass Effect.My expectations for DAV were incredibly low, given the last two BioWare entires fell flat for me (Anthem, ME: Andromeda). So no, I wasn’t expecting them to really deliver anything great. Now DAV isn’t an outright “bad” game on paper. I think the combat is satisfying despite the lack of any true enemy variety. This lack of variety is also why I think it’s already starting to feel incredibly repetitive only 15 hours in. The loot while aesthetically nice to look at, feels like it’s very mobile game in design, especially with how you level up certain pieces of loot.The worlds are beautiful unsurprisingly, since I’ve always felt that one of BioWares strongest aspects have been its art direction for environments. But I’d argue out of all of DAV’s design aspects its levels and “open spaces” feel unapologetically like asset flips from their original DA service title. That said, they do at least attempt to make these spaces interesting after you complete main missions. But when running through these levels, it’s painfully clear how much of the DA service game makes up DAV’s bones/DNA.However to me those things aren’t the biggest issue I have, b/c ultimately I don’t mind a lot of the systems & mechanics I’ve already mentioned, mainly b/c there not overly egregious. I say that, b/c in RPGs I can push through a lot of bad systems, combat, etc… if the writing and characters are great.So far, DAV feels almost identical in its tone, writing, and characters as ME: Andromeda did, which for myself personally, is a huge disappointment. Whenever I’ve talked about Andromedas writing in comparison to the original trilogy, the example I always use is, if the original trilogy’s writing was Star Trek NG, meaning it’s well thought out, nuanced, layered, and able to balance the serious themes with moments of genuine levity. ME Andromeda is the equivalent of FOX’s Terra Nova show. Meaning it’s bland, basic, surface level, lacking all of the interesting depth the original trilogy had.As it stands, this is exactly how DAV’s writing feels. I thought ppl were joking at launch when talking about how cookie cutter the writing was. But after 15 hours that has been proven multiple times over now.The dialogue feels so stiff and sterile. It completely lacks any different voices or perspective, and feels like a CW, YA show for a lot of the conversations. It’s almost like you can tell the writers aren’t passionate about this games script in the slightest.It’s been so jarring just hearing these characters speak to one another, since most of the conversations don’t make these characters feel real or immersive in anyway.This aspect is ultimately having me questioning if I’m going to complete DAV right now. I’ve also been playing Metaphor which narratively is leagues above DAV in almost every single way. I’ve heard some of the narratively is greatly improved towards the end, but idk, I’m having such a hard time buying into these characters, but like the combat enough to keep playing for the moment. Submitted November 04, 2024 at 07:11AM by Hungry-Sir6349 https://ift.tt/HyxYINQ via /r/gaming

[daydreamsonacloudyday]

About Me

Hello! I'm a 30+ former teacher who obsesses over fictional characters. I like to make gifs/edits, write, draw, craft, and do other creative things.

This blog is just an archive of the random things I like and enjoy. A bunch of stuff I reblog will probably be used as inspiration for the many OCs that I've created over the years.

(My current hyperfixation is Hogwarts Legacy)

My Writing

Archive of Our Own

My OCs

Helena Thompson - Hogwarts Legacy

Vira Volkova (V) - Cyberpunk 2077

Charlie Shepard - Mass Effect Trilogy

Nova Ryder - Mass Effect Andromeda

Isabel Cousland - Dragon Age: Origins

Olivia Hawke - Dragon Age 2

Madelyn Trevelyan - Dragon Age: Inquisition

Althea Clayton - TES V: Skyrim

Other Resources

Hogwarts Legacy Resources

Cyberpunk 2077 Resources

[sagzwrld]

I am in love with a woman. I love her dearly. She reminds me of misty mountain tops and her eyes of the glistening pristine water upon those mountain tops.

She makes me laugh like no one can. Even without trying and when I shouldn’t or when my laughter makes her angry with me. I can’t help but laugh and smile when I am with her. Her smile makes me smile, her eyes make me smile, her presence makes me smile. As I write this abstract I can’t help but smile. God how good it feels to be in love with someone and for them to love you back.

I would do anything for this girl. Things I would be ashamed of but if she asked she would receive.

She reminds me of the cosmos. So beautiful just like super novas and galaxies forming. Maybe she reminds me of these because my love for her is as vast as andromeda.

I want to do everything with her. Celebrate, suffer, experience, grow, live, and die.

This may not be poetry but no poem could suffice what this woman means to me.

Jan 13, 2024

[paimonial-rage]

symbiosis - ayato

[random writing event] | requested by @andromeda-nova-writing

“My lord,” you began, “With all due respect, this is exactly why the new interns never last long.”

Ayato hummed in thought as he made his way down the halls of Tenshukaku. Upon his face was his usual smiling expression, a mask he learned early on in his career as Yashiro Commissioner. And there you were a few steps behind him as was proper for retainers.

“Is that so?” He replied with mock curiosity. “I can’t say I saw anything wrong with how the meeting went. Such is normal for the course of the commission, after all.”

He didn’t have to turn around to know you were shaking your head in exasperation.

“With all due respect, supporting you through seven financial meetings, four meetings with the branch families, thirteen inspections, and eight financial reports due by the end of the week would make even a competent worker cry.”

He nodded with a hand against his chin in thought.

“Yes, not even I expected they would break out into tears.”

“Excuse my forwardness, but any normal person would have learned to expect it by now. Perhaps it would be prudent to schedule a visit with the doctor to check your memory, my lord.”

He chuckled.

“The way you find such things to say is fascinating. Perhaps I should assign more work to devote more of your creative mind to.”

There was silence for a few seconds.

“My apologies, my lord. Unfortunately, my schedule is completely full. Perhaps another time.”

As he continued to his next engagement, Ayato couldn’t help but find it amusing the back and forth you both often had. You were a spy, after all, and not one of his. That being said, you were not anyone else’s either, much less one of his enemies’. You infiltrated the Yashiro Commission and worked your way up to his side based purely on personal motives.

Though it was well known he placed loyalty and trust above all else, you were a bit of a special case. A bit of research into you revealed you were from a fallen family subordinate to the Hiiragi clan. Through corruption and intimidation, your father was framed for bribery and theft and was thus executed by the Shogun herself. It would make sense that you, as the only child of the family, wanted revenge.

Thus, it was a smart move on your part to align yourself with the Yashiro Commission. As Ayato had connections and leads from all over Inazuma, as long as you remained by his side, you gained access to all the information you could ever need. As to why he didn’t expel you the moment he learned of your difference in loyalty? Your enemies were the same as his, but ones he couldn’t touch. It served him just as well that you would get rid of them.

Besides, he had to admit your company was much appreciated. You performed your duties effectively and efficiently without room for complaint. And though you had a tongue on you, it gave a reprieve from all the false smiles and niceties he had to endure on a daily basis. Dare he say it, he enjoyed being around you. It made him wonder…

“And once that time comes that you’re finally free, what will you do then?”

Would you leave, finally able to live your life for yourself?

He didn’t have to wait long for your response.

“I’ll devote my everything to you, my lord.”

He couldn’t stop the smile that came to his lips.

“Then I shall hold you to it.”

—

[[Sequel/Prequel? ((idk))]]

[andromeda-nova-writing]

what is the fic about? :33 — @milkstore

Its actually this one that we've already talked about before

im trying to add some more foreshadowing and make the overall plot flow smoother. the rough draft of the fic is at 2,372 words at the moment. I'm having a feeling its gonna end somewhere in the 4,000 to 5,000 word mark

[thomine]

🐬 & 🦈 - mimikyu (ps. Can I point out the shark emoji is super cute)

dealer's choice — any quote from any published work

— 🐬, from show off some published works! requested by @andromeda-nova-writing

this got long so i'm placing it UTC!

« the laughter dies down as the slimy fingers of fear chokes you. briefly, the myth of tantalus strikes your mind. forced to reach for the thing he desires but never touching—this is like his moment before his death.

it’s a chance to eat and drink before his knowing fate arrives. you don’t want it to end. you bite and chew and swallow and gulp to remember.

yet to remember only worsens the punishment. »

— reaching out (tighnari)

ohhhh. OHHHH. this was so tempting to quote something from one of my thoma works, but the thing that popped in my mind was these paragraph from reaching out. i guess because i really like this analogy. the knowing that you'll be receiving a punishment so you delight in the joys of what you're given, grasping at anything. but the more you do, the greater the pain of the punishment... it's such a great concept i hope to expand in the future!

recommend a complete fic!

— 🦈, from show off some published works!

you're... not going to like it.... but i might recommend you to read duet of one heart (alhaitham), hehe. it's not my best, but i do quite like the ending. and for a moment, i was a little obsessed about continuing this fic, lol.

[mimi-cee-genshin]

Denial is Futile: Wanderer x f!reader - Chapter 7

Read on AO3 | Series Masterlist | Taglist

« Chapter 1 | < Chapter 6

Summary:

What would you do if you were stuck with Wanderer indefinitely?

The cute and sweet guy from the bazaar was brought to your place while unconscious. But when he woke up, you were appalled by the amount of snark he had. Was he even the same person? And now you were stuck with him because he could literally die if he stopped holding your hand. You weren't sure if you could tolerate him any longer. Little did you know he was exactly the type of person you needed in your life.

Other info: Fluff, humor, sfw, enemies to lovers, some hurt/comfort and angst later, character growth, occurs after the version 3.3 Archon quest and Tighnari's story quest, female reader

Words: 2.6k

(Thanks to @paimonial-rage and @andromeda-nova-writing for beta reading!)

*****

You were in Wangshu Inn with a table set on the patio and the chatter of locals surrounded you. There were three people, bright and youthful, and yet there was unease surrounding them.

It was your fault.

Your head was heavy as if it had been immersed in water, weighing you down, powerless to lift itself off the table. A hand laid upon your forehead to check your condition and voices slurred around you as you sank deeper into the ocean. The clatter of dishes and muffled exclamations were heard from under the water as the distorted hues blurred in front of you.

Ah.

This was a dream.

You took a breath out of the water. Your legs were exhausted from treading water.

“Here,” Chongyun said. “This tea will help calm your nerves.”

It didn't work.

“You simply need to take a break,” Xingqiu said. “This book will be sure to help you relax.”

It didn't help.

“Hey,” Xiangling said. “Stop beating yourself up over something that wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong.”

A large and weighty burden was chained to your leg. You struggled to stay afloat.

“Yeah. I didn't do anything wrong,” you told yourself as you gasped for air.

Their voices blurred in a cacophony of incoherent advice. Learn a new skill, practice meditation, enjoy various forms of entertainment… all these echoed through your mind like a drum thumping a monotonous beat, perpetuating with no end, with no relief.

You tried. You really did. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe you could regain some purpose now. You could help so many people with your line of research, such as a cure that could help millions.

The water was gone.

Were you finally free?

A dark, hollow domain surrounded you, a domain void of all life. Your heartbeat began to increase and thumped harder and harder.

You ran.

You ran, yet there was none pursuing you. Your legs quickened their pace, fleeing as fast as they could. You had to escape. You had to leave now!

A petrifying shriek pierced through your flesh and bone and you covered your ears at the sound. The wails of a baby rang in your ears and sweat dripped from your brow as you ran as fast as you could, shielding yourself from its cries. The scent of smoke clung to your clothes, its smell filled your nostrils.

“It's not my fault,” you told yourself. “It's not my fault.”

Your eyes shot open as you clutched your thumping chest. Your legs lay in front of you on a sage green couch. A gentle blue and green-stained window filtered the sun's light onto your body. Your breaths were short but your eyes gradually regained their focus.

“Are you trying to determine how much pain I can tolerate?” said Wanderer.

Your left hand had gone numb due to the strength of your grip. You raised your eyes to see an indifferent man, completely unfazed by your inner turmoil. Your heartbeat had slightly decreased in intensity, but the effects of adrenaline remained in the rest of your body.

“Well? Have you finally snapped out of it?” he asked.

Your heart pounded against your chest. You tried to slow its pace as you took in small breaths of air.

“So you had a nightmare,” said Wanderer. “It's not like it was real or anything.”

Your eyes lost focus and glazed over. Yes, it wasn't real, you told yourself. It wasn't real. You laughed to yourself. “You're right, it's not real.”

Yes. Yes, it was that Archon's fault. If the war never started then all of this would've never–

Wanderer raised an eyebrow at you. You widened your eyes and quickly looked away. Yes, it wasn't your fault. It's just like what they said when you were in Liyue. You couldn't help it.

“Oh. Are you awake?” Nahida said as she entered through the door behind you. “Did you like the chazuke?”

Nahida's presence helped you slightly relax. You searched the room but didn't find any chazuke anywhere. Wanderer groaned as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Throw it out,” he told her. Behind him on the coffee table lay a bowl with some brown-colored mush inside.

“Hold on a moment. Let me fix it for you,” she said, approaching the dish.

“You really had the audacity to use biryani for this dish?” said Wanderer.

“It was the only leftover rice I had.”

“So you soaked it in green tea?”

You peered at the bowl on the table. He was right. The biryani, with all of its meat, vegetables, and spices, was soaked in green tea. It looked gross.

“This would've worked out better if I had made it myself,” Wanderer said.

“Ah. I'm sorry,” said Nahida. “I'm not very familiar with Inazuman cuisine.”

“Hmph,” said Wanderer as he switched from holding your arm to your hand. “Come on,” he told you, tugging you up off the couch. “I've had to sit here long enough because of you.”

He led you to the next room which had a small, but comfortable kitchen. The counters were clear of any clutter and Wanderer opened a cupboard to get the materials to cook rice.

Without a word, you held onto his elbow as he worked in the kitchen. You were exhausted and felt an oncoming headache. Wanderer took the cooked rice and made some proper chazuke in a large soup bowl.

He handed you a spoon and you blinked a couple of times. “Is this for me?” you asked.

“If you don't want it, just say so,” he chided.

He set the bowl on a small table for two and sat on the chair across from you. When you remained standing, he pulled on your arm, directing you to sit. “Look, you're going to need your energy if we're both going to survive.”

Yes. Survive. He needed you to survive.

You dipped the spoon in the bowl and lifted it to your lips. Your brother used to make chazuke for you too. You rubbed your eyes and continued to eat your meal.

“Thank you,” you told Wanderer.

“Ha,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I didn't do it for your thanks.”

*****

Wanderer took you down from the Sanctuary of Surasthana and along the winding road. It had taken a while for you to regain your energy, which was concerning. Yet the only solution the two of you had was one you were adamantly against.

As the two of you passed the notice board on Treasures Street with your hand in his, he, strangely enough, paused to take a look. A poster had caught his eye, a poster for a future performance at the Zubayr Theater.

“Ha. I didn't expect them to actually do that story,” he said to himself.

“Hmm?” You raised an eyebrow at him. “Which story?”

He shook his head. “It's nothing. Just some old fairy tale that was told to me when I was young. Forget about it.”

“What is it about?”

“Didn't I just tell you to forget about it?”

“But that only makes me want to know more about it,” you said.

He sighed. “Fine. I'll tell you only because I don't trust them to get all the details right. Who knows how badly they'll butcher this story.”

“C’mon,” you said. “You know how hard Nilou and the rest of them work on their performances.”

“It'll still be different,” he said. “See this?” He lifted his wrist. “The little dove on the charm bracelets Nilou gave us is actually based on the story, but it's the wrong shape. Its wings are together when they're supposed to be stretched out.”

“Alright. I get it,” you said. “So, what is it even about?”

“It's about a man…” he started off, but he began to be lost in thought.

“And…?” you nudged.

“His name was…” Wanderer clicked his tongue. “Do you want the Sumeru version or the Inazuman one?”

“The one you heard when you were young.”

“Alright. His name was Shinja. It was said that he had a cursed heart. He carried on with life like everyone else and behaved in the same way as the rest of his city.

“One day, he came across a messenger from another land. He gave him a pouch, stating it would save his life. Although Shinja was skeptical, he took it anyway. Weeks passed and he completely forgot about it. When he did open the pouch, a small, round mirror dropped into the palm of his hand.”

“Wait, this is a horror story?” you asked.

“No, it's not. Why? You scared?” he chuckled.

“No,” you rolled your eyes. “I just don't find them entertaining.”

He let out a snort. He continued the story.

“Shinja saw his reflection. His face twisted in horror but he kept examining it because he couldn't believe what he saw.”

“What did he see?”

“Could you just let me finish?” he said with a glare. And with that, you finally kept your mouth closed.

“So,” he continued, “he lost the strength to keep looking and dropped the mirror. The mirror lay on the ground emitting the brightest light he had ever seen. He clutched his chest, trying to make sense of it all.

“In his reflection, thick, black chains were wrapped around his heart, squeezing the life out of it. Then, he heard a voice from the mirror. ‘Flee from this town, for all the people are under a curse. Leave, or else these chains will end your life.’”

As Wanderer continued the story, your full attention was on him. Was he like this when Katsuragi first told him the tale, full of curiosity in his eyes? No wonder they brought him to watch the play. He had learned much of the human world through it, but he couldn't recall the rest of the story, only how he felt about it. Because there was a time when he tried to forget his ring at Tatarasuna, some parts of the story had left with those memories.

You and Wanderer made your way through the city while discussing the story. As you walked by Puspa Café, there was some light chatter, but Wanderer paid no mind to it. Yet, he did recognize a couple of faces. They were part of the group of fools who had given him a birthday cake the other year. If it weren't for their craning necks, alternating between staring and whispering, you could've ignored them too.

“Who are they?” you asked him.

“Nuisances,” he said.

They continued their whispering, saying something like how they never expected him to be interested in someone. Their so-called whispers weren't very quiet. “I would've tried harder to get his attention if I knew,” said the one.

You tugged on his hand to get his attention. “Are you okay with that?” you asked.

“With what?”

You lifted up your joined hands. “If you're so popular, we're going to be the center of Akademiya gossip. “

“Let the fools talk. I don't have the patience to deal with them,” he said.

“So you are popular, huh?”

He rolled his eyes.

“I guess you're not so bad,” you said. “As long as you're not talking.”

“Ha. You're barely tolerable yourself.”

“I was kidding,” you said. “You're actually not that–”

Your knees buckled from under you and you lost your balance, falling onto him. Despite the sudden pull, he was able to hold his ground and keep you stable as well.

“Tch, what the heck just happened?” he asked.

“I…” you stared down at your leg. “I… suddenly lost feeling in my leg.”

“Are you serious now?” he complained. “I'm not carrying you all the way to Gandharva Ville. Bringing you to Nahida's was enough.”

“Was that really your first thought?” you said. “I almost got hurt!”

“Losing your energy in the morning… losing the feeling in your leg… Ugh, you're only getting worse,” he said.

Why were humans so fragile?

“It's fine,” you told him, turning away from him.

He checked your leg. Your knee was bleeding after getting scratched on the nearby rock. He pressed on the injured area before examining at your expression. You showed no response.

“You don't feel that?” he asked.

“Feel what?”

“That doesn't hurt?”

You finally looked at your knee. The bruise next to the bloody trail on your leg was becoming more visible as well. “What? Why is it–”

“We're going to Inazuma,” he stated.

“What?” Your shoulders tensed. “But I thought… I thought you didn't want to go as well?”

“Look. It's not going to be the most pleasant experience for me either. But at this rate, I'm going to keep draining your life as if I were a delusion.”

Your face changed color, just like it did after your nightmare.

“I can't…” you muttered, the wind carrying the rest of your words.

“What?” he asked.

“I can't go back.”

He sighed. “You're getting weaker and weaker. Do you think I want to keep draining the energy out of you? And you even lost the feeling in your leg.”

“No,” you said. “I can't go.”

“Are you seriously going to keep being stubborn? Don't you see what this is doing to you?”

“No! Stop it!”

He grabbed your chin. “Look at me! You can't keep–”

“Let go of me!”

*****

Wanderer's eyelids were heavy as he strained to open them. Everything was blurry in front of him. The road was hard on his back and cold to the touch as he lay in the middle of Treasure Street. You clutched his hand as you sobbed over him, frequently lifting a hand to wipe tears from both your eyes.

“I'm sorry,” you cried, sniffing your snot back up your nose as tears soaked your cheeks. “I'm sorry. I'll go to Inazuma,” you pleaded with a tremble in your voice. “Please just wake up.”

From the corner of his eye, people had stopped to stare and there was a quiet murmur in the area. The sun was still in the same position, but from your panic, he wondered for how long he had been unconscious. It could've only been ten minutes.

“Please.” Your voice cracked. “This can't be happening. Not again. Please.”

Again? Ha. This was the first time he had been unconscious while you were holding him.

“I'll go to Inazuma, okay?” you continued, not realizing he was awake. “Please. Please just wake up. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

His finger twitched. He could move again. “What's with your excessive crying?” he said, getting his back off of the road. Just why were you so traumatised by this? “I'm fine–”

Your arms clung around him. “You're alive! Thank goodness you're alive.” Yet your tears didn't stop and only continued to flow.

Wanderer clicked his tongue after being stunned from your sudden embrace. What was he supposed to do with… this? But it was fine, he told himself. You weren't like family as the guys at Tatarasuna were. You weren't at the same level as them.

A hug didn't matter.

Yet he didn't lift his arms to comfort you. It wasn't because the idea appalled him; no, you were simply a woman who'd be here one moment and gone the next if you weren't stuck together.

You wiped your eyes once more and tried to fix the look on your face. Those tears enforced his belief all along, one that he carried for centuries.

It was better to remain alone and to keep it that way.

*****

Thanks for reading and if you take the time to leave a comment, I appreciate them so much!

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[nickwithashotgun]

just because I feel like it, here's a breakdown of how I beat the Mass Effect Trilogy with only 6 instances of needing to use my guns as anything other than baseball bats

I'm only gonna go over the times where I had to shoot to progress and it's not many, also my memory might be rusty because I did this a while ago.

I believe the ideal class is Vanguard, mainly for the melee combat and Charge/Nova combo in 3, plus a Secret Weapon to avoid shooting in a few cases. Also since I treat my challenge runs more like experiments, I did it on the easy difficulty, don't get mad

So ME1 has just one moment of needing to shoot stuff, which is the Thorian fight, entirely because a) your squad will just blast everything you can't run up to and punch in the face and b) the things holding the Thorian up are not one of those things they will shoot for you. At least as a Vanguard, you have to shoot the Thorian, but that's the only time. Just keep the crew healed and they can handle just about everything else

ME2 expands the list of things your squad won't shoot for you, but again there's only one instance of needing to shoot and it's not what you might think. With Shepard's new ability to Combo Punches it's pretty easy to get through, and tbh this game is where Pull (the Secret Weapon) was incredibly effective. So effective, you can literally kill the final boss with just a steady stream of Pull and pull his ass apart. Yeah, you can destroy the Human REAPER with a few hundred biotic yanks.

And yet the single thing you can't chip your way through is the Reaper IFF mission, right at the end, with the reactor. You can destroy an in construction Reaper with Pull, but not a dead one. Apparently.

ME3 is where things get really, really shooty. 4 times as much. Which is lame because Charge/Nova combo is fun.

Instance 1 is a bit of a technicality, since it's the mission where you go into the weird data space area with Legion and shoot code or something. Technically not a gun, but you are firing a projectile (which does mean the final part of Priority Rannoch where you put a targeting laser on a Reaper does not count as you shooting anything, just politely asking someone else to shoot for you).

Instance 2, Thessia. Immediately. You have to protect an Asari holding up a barrier from a bunch of husks, and like 5 brutes. I tried to ignore the turret and just pull things to death and there was no chance. Your squad conveniently decides not to shoot either and it's instant Critical Mission Failure if the barrier goes down.

Instance 3. Marauder Shields.

Instance 4 is technically skippable since you only have to shoot if you go Destroy ending, which I did, so.

There you go, the only six times you have to shoot in a sci-fi shooting game. I haven't tried this in Andromeda, but from playing it and beating it already, there's no reason you can't beat that one completely gunless. Maybe I'll try it.

i know this was completely unasked for but it was on my mind and I just had to write it down so I could sleep.

some gamers get really good at games with their skill. some get really good by grinding for hours

i get good at games by forcing myself into really dumb self imposed challenges that nobody I've seen has done before that seem impossible on the surface but aren't really that bad