#imp comms a thing

[imperiuswrecked]

"I'm Nightcrawler -- super hero extraordinaire!"

Nightcrawler Week 2024 - Day 2 - Fangs or Fashion

Thank you to the Amazing @ecairnsart for creating this gorgeous art of Nightcrawler!!! I love his smile (and his fangs)!!! @amazing-nightcrawler

[von-eldritch]

“...maybe being an imp is changing more about me than I thought.”

[tagsecretsanta]

From @idontknowreallywhy

From @idontknowreallywhy to @womble1

My prompts were:

1. There's no such thing as a free lunch.

2. The sound of laughter.

3. Sirens blared, warning of the approaching...

Things went a little… bizarre 🤣 (Apologies in advance for the earworms)

A Refrigeration Situation

Sirens blared, warning of the approaching apocalypse.

Or at least that was the impression the sociopath who had chosen this frantic tri-tone screeching sound clearly wanted to inflict upon the eventual owner of their top of the range high tech appliance.

The very one Virgil was about to take a wrench to. A heavy wrench.

Except that doing so would mean he had to remove at least one of the hands he had clamped hard over his ears. And he was not ready for that yet.

His teeth vibrated at the frequency of unbearable and he yelled Brains’ name again. No way of knowing if there was a reply because he would likely never hear again.

Alright, deep breath. It was no worse than that time Gordo tried to learn the bagpipes.

He shuffled closer to the cursed thing and peered at the luminous green and yellow message flashing from the excessively complicated control panel.

TEMPERATURE WARNING!

Oopsie!!! Too toasty right now!

… what the?

Virgil prodded the “more info” button with his elbow and was rewarded with an error code and a string of screaming face emojis.

“EOS?!” He bellowed above the din “You have the manual for this thing? What is Error Code S1E11?”

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The first indication that everything had gone sideways was when MAX shot through the living room and out again bleeping frantically and waving his arms around. This didn’t cause much of a flickering of Tracy eyelids because it had happened so many times before when Brains had started musing about extreme upgrades to his mechanical assistant. As MAX’s personality developed, so it seemed did his sense of self and his attachment to his physical form. Brains did not share this attachment and thus MAX continued to evolve and generally came to enjoy the additions to his capabilities eventually. Virgil remained unconvinced that MAX’s new ability to hover 6cm above the floor was really worth the shrill daggers of noise produced by six tiny VTOL jets but most of Brains’ inventions came in handy in unexpected ways so he wasn’t about to argue.

What made today’s demonstration of those rockets weird though, was that MAX zoomed straight out of the glass doors, off the balcony and into the swimming pool.

Whereupon he sank like a stone.

And stayed there. His inflatable water wings remained inactive, which again was odd because the trigger was supposed to be automatic. They’d seen them in action on many sunny afternoons when Brains firmly refused all invitations to join the pool party but his robot assistant had attended in his stead.

Gordon promptly dived in to rescue him. MAX refused to be rescued.

There was no response on the internal comms so Virgil had volunteered to take the elevator down to Brains’ lab to let him know. And to check everything was… well… alright with their resident genius.

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The speaker by the ceiling crackled into life and Virgil’s digital niece appeared to be singing at him. Loudly. And just a fraction of a fraction off key:

“Why’d ya have to make things so complicateeeeeeeed?”

“EOS?”

“I see the way you’re acting like you’re someone else, gets me frustrateeeeeeeed!”

“Um… right.”

Virgil stood frozen in the confluence of two sonic hellscapes.

“We might have a situation!” EOS’s feed was suddenly cut and replaced with his brother’s shout.

John materialised with Brains at his heels.

“You don’t say.” Virgil yelled back.

“We have to shut it down.”

“Right! It’s painful!”

“Not the noise the whole…“ John waved his tablet at the fridge and continued at the top of his voice. “EOS is in defence mode - when she detects a hostile digital presence she sings at it and refuses to accept any incoming data. I suggested it as an improvement to the LALALALALALALA approach she took with me.”

“You suggested Avril Lavigne?!”

“She’s going through a… phase.”

“EOS is going through a pop punk phase?”

“Last week it was Irish boybands. There was… a discussion. My musical tastes were found lacking and I have deemed it prudent not to comment any further on the topic.”

Virgil was saved from working out how to tactfully respond by the remainder of his brothers thundering down the corridor.

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“Oh! It’s just Fridgey!” Gordon skipped up, confident he could save the day and double tapped the control panel in the top right, just like the saleswoman had shown him. The noise stopped. Virgil remained frozen in place, looking as though somebody had hit him with a spade.

Scott prised his brothers’ hands from his ears.

“Virgil, you with us?”

Scott patted the bear on the shoulder then shifted The Look at him.

“Gordon, did it come with a manual?”

“Pfft what comes with a manual these days? It’s all inbuilt…” he poked at the control panel again but the error code persisted. “Ok maybe we could Google it?”

John hissed.

“Or any search engine or hacking method of your preference, Johnny boy”

“Don’t call me Johnny. What’s the model number?”

“Ooh no idea err….” Gordon swept his eyes over the front face of the refrigeration unit until his eyes alighted on the embossed text on the bottom left.

“It’s called FRIDGLER 4000”

Scott’s head snapped up.

“YOU BOUGHT A FRIDGE FROM FISCHLER???!!!”

There was a silence.

“LANGSTROM FISCHLER???!!!”

Oh crap.

“I didn’t know it was him!!! I thought he just made weather stuff!! And stupid rockets! I just thought it was a cute name for a fridge! I… I was more focussed on the Features.”

“What feature could possibly be more important than it being made by that… by that…” Scott, aware of Grandma’s approach from the elevator, reached for an appropriate word but floundered.

“Rat-faced weasel?” Alan ventured and then blushed as he received his eldest brother’s finger guns of approval.

Gordon didn’t need those. He didn’t. But he did desperately need to justify himself.

“It was the biggest I could get for the budget you gave me! It was internet-linked to make the grocery run easier - Grandma liked that! And it had cool features like the snow cone maker, everyone has enjoyed those! And… and the instafreeze Virg and Brains have used that loads for their espresso cubes this summer… and there was that special humidity-controlled section to stop your pie crusts getting soggy, Scooter! You weren’t complaining about that!!!”

Gordon looked around at a full house of angry Tracy eyebrows.

“I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS GONNA GET SENTIENT AND START FIGHTING EOS.”

John pointed one shaking finger at the sickeningly cute animation of a bubbling conical flask beaming happily at them all from the control panel.

“None of you noticed it either…” that may have been whinier than Gordon was proud of.

Maybe it was the reminder that his little brother appreciated the importance of a reasonably firm crust that softened the big brotherly heart. Maybe it was just the realisation that said crusts were unchilling… and fast. Either way? Scott intervened just as Alan opened his mouth to add his verbal interpretation of John’s silent scorn.

“Alright. This isn’t getting us anywhere. What we need to focus on is how to fix the situation. Our first priority has to be saving the food else it’s gonna be a lean, lean Christmas.”

Vehement agreement filled the air.

“What are our options? The kitchen fridge has limited free space. Hmmm. Brains, can we use your cold storage in the lab?”

“Ah w-well there are a f-f-few p-p-p-projects whose g-gaseous em-missions m-might interact p-p-p-p-problematically w-with items intended f-for human c-c-c-c-consumption…”

“You’ve been making new engine coolants again.” John stated with a sigh.

“Y-yes. Incredibly t-t-toxic.”

“We can’t risk a toxic turkey.” Virgil mused.

“Or a noxious nut roast?” Alan added tentatively.

“Or lethal lebkuchen dough!” Gordon accepted Alan’s high five.

“Or fatal figgy pudding” John added in a disarmingly perfect British accent.

“Or soggy crusts.” Scott added distractedly, poking cautiously at the twinkling control panel

Gordon was shook. His facepalm echoed down the corridor. “BRO… you wound me deeply! “Poisoned pie” was right there for the taking. RIGHT THERE.”

Scott was spared the shame of acknowledging this failure by a sickeningly cheery voice blaring out from a hidden speaker.

“Good Evening Insert-User-Name-Here! You have activated Voice Control, you clever sausage. Please speak your command loudly and cheerfully!”

Scott swore under his breath as his siblings chorused their disapproval.

“W-well it m-might work.”

Even as the words left his mouth Brains rolled his eyes at his own optimism. Gordon felt compelled to defend the indefensible.

“It might! He’s got to get lucky sometimes, right?”

Brains snorted.

“Well what choice do we have?” Virgil gestured at Scott to give it a go.

Scott nodded and visibly steeled himself as if about to leap into an abyss. He cleared his throat and used his clearest most commanding voice:

“Set refrigeration temperature to 2 degrees Celsius.”

“Oooh someone’s a grumpy pants. Give it another go.”

“What?!!”

“I don’t think it was cheerful enough bro.”

“You gotta be kidding me.” Scott rolled his eyes and tried again.

“Oooh someone’s a grumpy pants. Give it another go.”

“I’M PERFECTLY CHEERFUL! I AM A RAY OF SUNSHINE!”

“Scotty Scotty Scotty…” Gordon inserted himself between the control panel and the man who appeared ready to break it with his face. “Allow me.”

“Hey hey fridgey buddy! It would be awesome if you could maintain a steady refrigeration temperature of two degrees Celsius. Thanks a million!”

There was a slight pause.

“Hmm your accent’s a bit funny isn’t it but I think I got it. Switching to proving drawer mode. Target temperature 38 degrees Celsius. Your rise is going to be GLORIOUS!”

Ah.

“NONONONONOOOOOOOO!!” Scott howled and yanked on the handle which refused to budge.

“Uh uh! No peeking! Patience is the most important ingredient in bread making. I’ve cleverly applied the locks so you won’t be tempted!”

“You’re a fridge!!! Make it cold! Make it COLD!! Don’t ruin my crusts!” He sank to his knees and hammered on the door as if his beloved pastry might hear and open it from the inside.

Gordon, detecting a dangerous deterioration in his elder brother’s grip on sanity, shuffled hurriedly backwards. Virgil growled and ran from the room.

John stabbed at his tablet “Unbelievable! This thing is unhackable. The code is completely illogical. I think this part is the dna sequence of a banana…”

Alan nodded seriously as if he too could recognise the genome of any given fruit on sight. John sighed.

“EOS? It’s me. Please engage? This is an emergency situation.”

The AI passionately informed him that he was a skater boy.

Alan edged himself towards the control panel and peered at it thoughtfully. Perhaps it was something Game Theory could help with.

The happy conical flask bubbled innocently at him as if to say “Press me! Go on! What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I w-would advise against…”

Brains advice was interrupted by the sound of the door at the end of the corridor flying off its hinges and the familiar hiss-whine of an exo-suit powered by angry eyebrows. NOTHING and NOBODY would make Scott beg and remain in one piece.

Alan pressed the button. A twangy guitar riff was followed by the cheery voice crooning “oooh, baby”.

Alan took personal offence and punched it. The track increased in speed:

“OohbabyoohbabyIt'smakingmecrazyit'smakingmecrazyEverytimeIlookaroundlookaroundEverytimeIlookaroundeverytimeIlookaroundit’sinmyfacehowvbizarrehowbizarrehowbizarrehowbizzzzz”

Virgil emitted something akin to a war cry and tried to reach around his sobbing elder brother to rip the door from the cursed appliance when suddenly everything went quiet.

Kayo walked around the side of the fridge holding a cable with a plug dangling limply from the end.

Grandma gasped. Alan blinked. Brains’ jaw dropped. Scott sniffled. Virgil’s exo-suit wheezed as he sagged in relief. John head butted his tablet.

Gordon sat on the floor and laughed hysterically.

Kayo handed the plug to Virgil who crushed it with his pincers.

Scott scrambled to his feet and dragged the door open and the family feasted their eyes upon their festive bounty.

“Well, we’d better get all this upstairs to the other fridge then? hadn’t we?” Grandma decided to take charge.

“But there isn’t enough space in the upstairs fridge.” Alan whispered.

“We’ll have to prioritise.” Grandma’s tone shifted to that of a doctor giving bad news.

With a yelp, the Commander of International Rescue leaped forward, grabbed three boxes of pies and sprinted for the stairwell.

The others watched him leave.

“Shall we take the rest in the elevator?”

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True to his role as the resident genius, Brains’ suggestion that the best way to avoid waste was to eat most of it today had cheered the family up no end. Scott, John and MAX (who had finally emerged from the pool) cooked up a storm in the kitchen and created the largest and most eclectic Christmas Dinner Tracy Island had ever seen.

John had persuaded EOS to restore contact and she was providing a soundtrack of Christmas hits interspersed with her favourite festive jokes. Gordon and Kayo were competitively decorating a lebkuchen penguin army. Gradually the basement fridge was emptied.

Virgil and Alan did the last run which turned out to be armfuls of cheeses of indeterminate vintage. Trying not to breathe too deeply, Virgil kicked the door closed and Alan stuck his tongue out at the errant fridge before they turned their backs and walked companionably towards the elevator.

The control panel flickered.

Very faintly, at the very limit of human hearing, there was the sound of laughter.

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[kilfeur]

Je suis vraiment curieuse de voir comment Stolas et les autres vont évoluer. Vu que Blitzo est célèbre par ses pairs pour avoir tenu tête à Satan. Ça va probablement inspiré d'autres imps à sortir du moule. Surtout vu le nombre de messages voulant travailler pour eux. Peut être même que ça inspira Fizzarolli. Bien que je pense qu'il viendra plus aux nouvelles concernant à son ami. Je pense que Millie verra ce changement comme une bonne chose. Moxxie pas sûr, je pense qu'il serait inquiet des conséquences que va apporter de ce changement. Mais je le vois mal quitter le groupe pour autant.

Quand à Loona, là pour le coup je ne sais pas, vu qu'on sait qu'elle est bien plus capable qu'on le pense. Et que le fait que de la mettre qu'en tant que secrétaire serait du gâchis. Donc j'espère que sa position aux bureaux I.M.P va changer. Quand à Stolas, ouais, même si il a sauvé Blitzo, il a laissé sans le vouloir Octavia derrière lui. Sans compter que veiller sur les étoiles était justement quelque chose qu'il aimait. Et maintenant il a plus rien, il a même plus ses médicaments ! Y a des chances qu'il ne soit pas raisonnable voir même instable émotionnellement parlant. Sans compter que sa relation avec Blitzo n'est toujours pas résolu, les problèmes sont toujours présents. Et ce même si Stolas n'est plus un prince. Et je pense pas que Stolas serait d'humeur à en parler.

I'm really curious to see how Stolas and the others will evolve. Given that Blitzo is famous among his peers for standing up to Satan. It'll probably inspire other imps to break out of the mold. Especially given the number of messages wanting to work for them. Maybe it'll even inspire Fizzarolli. Although I think he'll come more to the news about his friend. I think Millie will see this change as a good thing. Moxxie not sure, I think he'd be worried about the consequences this change would bring. But I can't see him leaving the group for that.

As for Loona, I don't know, since we know she's much more capable than we think. And it would be a waste to have her as secretary only. So I hope her position at the I.M.P. offices will change. As for Stolas, yeah, even though he saved Blitzo, he unwillingly left Octavia behind. Not to mention that watching over the stars was just something he loved. And now he has nothing, he doesn't even have his medicine! It's likely that he'll be unreasonable or even emotionally unstable. Not to mention the fact that his relationship with Blitzo is still unresolved and the problems are still there. Even if Stolas is no longer a prince. And I don't think Stolas would be in the mood to talk about it.

[burnwater13]

Din Djarin, Boba Fett, Fennec Shand, Cara Dune, and Migs Mayfeld standing on Morak looking at the Imp base there (out of frame). Image from The Mandalorian, Season 2, Episode 7, The Believer. Calendar by DateWorks.

Name that Band!

“What do you mean, ‘Name that Band’? That’s just a vid of me and the people who helped rescue you.”

Grogu sighed at his dad. Din Djarin was so literal at times. 

Grogu knew exactly who was in the vid he was showing his dad. He didn’t need his dad to tell them that some of these people helped him when Moff Gideon had sent the special battle droids after him on Ossus. He’d seen Fennec and Daimyo Fett two days earlier when they had vid night and he introduced them to the ‘Best of Diggle and Daggle’. That had been a lot of fun. The look on Fennec’s face when the giant sand fish crawled out of it’s cave… priceless.

“Grogu, where do you get these things? Did you sign up for some new comms site again? I’ve told you to stay off those things. They’re nothing but bantha scat.”

Wow. Someone was cranky.

“Peli.”

“Uff! I should have known. I asked her to show you how to perform basic maintenance on R-5. What did you two do with that time?”

Grogu wondered if he could fake his dad out with a non-answer answer and then thought better of it. Din Djarin was already cranky about something. His dad normally didn’t care about the stuff Peli and Grogu talked about while she was demonstrating cleaning or data collection techniques. They had actually discussed sensors and ranges and calibrations before they started down a rather fun and funny tauntaun trail.

“Sing.”

“Singing?! The two of you wasted valuable time singing all those old songs she knows? Did she even look at R-5 while you were goofing off?”

Yikes. His dad was really mad now and Grogu hadn’t meant for that to happen. He and Peli had been talking about certain sensors being too sensitive and Peli commented ‘Ya mean like when yer dad gets called on at a sing-a-long?’ 

Grogu had nodded and then he had begun to laugh. Din Djarin hated singing on a good day, although he did it all the time when he was in the privy or the ‘fresher. He hated it twice as much when it happened in public and was a special request as part of someone’s naming day celebration. Everyone knew that but they liked watching him get worked up and then stumble through the song with them. It was nice to know that even the hyper competent Mandalorian Bounty Hunter had something he couldn’t do as well as the average galactic citizen.

“Sensors.”

Again, the truth was the best Grogu could do. He didn’t think his dad was going to patiently listen to the whole story of how they started with a very deep technical discussion of sensors and how their settings made a big difference in how the complex tracking systems on the N-1 worked. Too sensitive and you were tracking scurrier fleas across the desert. Too dull and a bantha could step right in your path and you’d only notice when you were covered in fur. You wanted something in the middle. 

That’s when Peli had offered that how sensitive a device was depended on a lot of factors, like components, packaging, and price. Grogu commented that sounded a lot like people. That’s when Peli made her statement about his dad and Grogu had laughed. Peli had laughed too and said, ‘Just think of it kid, if he was in a band they’d call it Mando and the Wailers!” 

Grogu shook his head and signed to Peli, largely because he couldn’t stop giggling, that the band’s name would have been, “Din Djarin and the Drones”. Grogu had fallen over when he finally got that one out. Peli had loved it and started making up a song that they would have been known for. It had started out ‘I’ll bring you in cold, so cold, so cold, I’ll bring you cold, ice cold, froze cold’. Grogu had loved it and they spent the rest of their time singing songs that were based on things his dad had said and they made no sense whatsoever. It had been a lot of fun. 

When his dad came to get him later that day Grogu was so tired he ate his flash frozen frogs and fell right to sleep. The Mandalorian didn’t have a chance to ask him all about sensors and Grogu hadn’t told him about the song that started, ‘I like those odds, Dank Farrik, I like those odds…”

The next day they had traveled to Freetown to visit Cobb Vanth. His dad and the Marshal had so much to talk about that Grogu had gone to the cantina and spent time with Tanti and Jo. They’d listened to a lot of music and Grogu had taught them some songs he’d learned from Peli. 

Oops. He’d forgotten all about that. Was that why his dad was so annoyed? Grogu looked up the Mandalorian and coo’d thoughtfully.

“Cobb Vanth told me you have a very nice singing voice and I should really ask you to give me lessons. Now, what I want to know is why you’re so comfortable singing in Gal Basic with other people and I just get one word if I’m lucky?”

Dank Farrik!

To be continued…

[bearboyboy]

PLS MENTION ME IN THE AUTHORS NOTE IF YOU USE THIS PROMPT!! <3

I want a fic where Ezra gets stuck in a crate.

(This all started bc I read a Batman fic where Robin was buried alive)

On a mission (if it takes place on Lothal Ezra would know what street he was on idk if that’s good or bad here) he hides in a crate as imps march by and is now stuck/being taken somewhere/is trapped,

maybe the magnetic lock activated, and he comms Kanan, too panicked to use the force properly

Kanan tries his best to help ground Ezra and to reach out/find him/soothe him through the force, but after a minute of Ezra’s panic getting worse, it makes it painful/dizzying for Kanan to reach out to him

Kallus cuts in, telling him the hard truths, and giving him strategies for staying calm in this scenario ((methods he learned while doing ISB torture training, and used when interrogated by Thrawn and Pryce)) while trying to track his location. Asking Ezra things like what he remembers of the alley/part of the market or town he remembers walking through before the crate. How long ago he heard the marching (hoping if he could find the empire’s scheduled rounds at this time he can find their path and then Ezra.) If he hears anything, if he feels the crate moving, if it felt like it got magnetically locked to something (a ship??) etc.

[millersdjarin]

in these trying times

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: G (all audiences, but my blog is always 18+)

Word Count: 2.7k

Tags/Warnings: diabetes, hypoglycaemia, almost-fainting, protective!din, secrets, food

Masterlist & Request Info

Based on this request! ❤️

It’s reckless, and you know it. Din would be furious if he knew what you were keeping from him; you’d be furious with him if he kept something so important about his health from you. Something that, as his partner, you should definitely know.

But it’s for the best. It was hard enough for Din to open himself up to the possibility of having a partner, both romantically and in the field, and he doesn’t need a reason to worry about you, not after he’s finally gotten over his anxieties. You’ve had this for years, and it’s under control; it has been for a long time. There’s no need to worry him unnecessarily. It doesn’t get in the way or change how you work, how well you fight. 

Life has been busy. There are always people after Din; people who haven’t got the memo yet that the kid is no longer wanted by the Empire. And, on top of that, you’re working for the New Republic, and there are always jobs that need done. 

Meals get skipped. Snacks are the last thing on Din’s mind. Not on yours; you sneak ration bars to missions and munch them down whenever you get chance. 

Din catches you eating one when you’re rushing down an alleyway back towards the ship, Imperials on your heels. 

He looks at you and almost stops in his tracks, confusion evident in his body language even though you can’t see his face. “Where did you get that?” He asks. “Why are you eating it now?” 

You shove the last mouthful in your mouth and grimace at the feeling of your partially-full stomach jostling around as you run. It’s better than the feeling of a low blood sugar, but still, not exactly pleasant. A needs must, you suppose. “I’m hungry,” you say to him, like that should be enough of an excuse. 

It’s not. “We don’t have time to have a picnic right now,” Din protests gruffly. The two of you reach the end of the alleyway, and as you stop at the opening to the street, Din turns back, shoots the two Imps on your tail in two quick blasts, sending them to the floor. “We can eat later.” 

You’re five klicks from the ship. You won’t make it ’til later. He doesn’t need to know that. 

Shoving the wrapper into your pants pocket, you shoot him a confident grin. “It’s not like these Imps are making it difficult,” you say with a shrug of a shoulder, “they’re making it a picnic for us.” 

More footsteps approach from behind you. Three stormtroopers are rushing forwards, lifting their blasters. 

So, not so much of a picnic. 

But it’s fine. Din drops it; maybe because he’s too busy fighting off the enemies dropping down from the surrounding roofs to question why you felt the need for a little snack mid-fight. 

-

It happens again when you’re trying to lay low in a market town as you hunt for your target. Din is on a nearby roof, watching you through his rifle scope. You’re trying to sift through the crowd unnoticed, a piece of beige fabric covering your head, helping you blend in with the residents, when you notice your hands start to shake. 

It’s been a few hours since you last ate. There wasn’t time on the way here to stop and grab something. 

You don’t have to test your blood to know you’re getting low; you need some sugar right kriffing now or this is going to go South pretty fast. 

There are some credits in your pocket and a fruit stand across the street. Casually, you head over, reaching for the credits and handing them over as you approach the vendor. 

“What are you doing?” Din’s voice in your ear asks, doubly modulated through the comms. 

You don’t answer him; you can’t without blowing your cover. Instead you just select some produce—a handful of berries that you know are good for sudden lows, and a bottle of pure juice—and offer the vendor a friendly smile. You open the bottle straight away, take several gulps before starting on the berries, holding them out in the palm of your hand.

“Is this part of your cover?” Din asks. He knows you can’t answer him. “You’re supposed to be blending in.” 

Stop asking me fucking questions and maybe I will, you think to yourself as you drink up half the bottle of juice in ten seconds. 

“The target’s here for limited time,” Din reminds you, sounding impatient and confused as to your sudden interest in snacking in the midst of a hunt. “We have to move.” 

It’s fine, you want to tell him. I’m still headed in the right direction. 

You get the target just fine despite your close brush with a low. Din doesn’t ask you about it later. 

So, it’s never really got in the way.

Except, now it is.

Dank fucking farrik, now it is. 

Despite the fact that you’ve gotten pretty good at sneaking in extra shots or ration bars in the midst of battles, today, you haven’t had chance to stop for even a second. 

And now your vision is blurring, your head is spinning, and your legs are starting to give out beneath you. 

Right when a bunch of syndicate soldiers are closing in on both of you in the middle of a forest clearing. Right when Din needs you to be on your shit, to be there for him; right when he puts the most trust in you. 

The last thing you remember thinking before falling to your knees is that you’ve let him down. 

He calls your name from across the clearing, concern and confusion evident in his voice. There’s a mercenary headed straight for you; you can only just see through the black, blurry tunnel around your vision, can barely focus on anything other than the racing of your heart and the cold sweat beading on your forehead. Din is fighting off his own group of enemies and you can’t lift your arms, can’t reach for your blaster. You can barely hear anything, but you vaguely register the shot of a blaster headed your way, the bright shine of a Beskar-covered man diving in front of you, a blaster bolt hitting the metal with a loud clang. 

Din’s saying your name once all the bodies have dropped. There’s no more threat from enemies, but he sounds more worried than ever, breathing fast through his modulator as he pulls you into his lap. He’s asking what’s wrong, if you can hear him, if you’re hurt. 

You try to pull yourself up, but the weakness is too much. 

“Sugar,” you say breathily, feeling like your throat is shaking with your hands. “I need—food. It’s—blood sugar.” 

“What?” Din questions, sounding more confused. He presses something on his vambrace, then holds it up to scan your body. Something shines red on your vitals. “I don’t—we don’t have any rations. The ship is a few klicks away, can you walk—?” 

You shake your head. “I—I need it faster, if we walk back…”

Din’s concern is only growing as he nods with understanding. He puts his arm under your leg, the other around your back, and lifts you up. “Can you hold on?” 

“I’m—” Lifting your arms around his neck, you manage to grasp your hands together over his back, just barely hanging on with trembling fingers. “So weak, Din…” 

“It’s alright. I’ve got you. I’m gonna fly us back, just hold on as much as you can.” 

You’re too tired and breathless to respond. All you can do is hold on and close your weak eyes as Din’s jetpack activates and the two of you are lifting off the ground and into the sky. 

He gets you back to the ship in a minute. The weakness is going to your very core, down to your bones, and it’s been a long fucking time since you’ve had a low this bad. But, then again, it’s been a long time since you’ve gone without food for this long, too.

“Fast sugar,” Din says as he hands you a bar of chocolate and pours a packet of juice into a glass. You reach out for them, but your hands are shaking so much that it’s hard to hold the glass without the juice just spilling everywhere. “Here,” Din offers, lifting the glass up to your mouth and helping you take a sip. Once you’ve had a little, he puts it down and gets to work breaking the chocolate into little bite-sized pieces. 

“Under my bunk, I’ve got a blood sugar monitor,” you tell him after your fifth piece. “In my medpack.” The symptoms aren’t fading yet, but it’s not usually long until you start to feel the sugar kick in. 

Din hesitates, probably confused as to why you have that, but then he nods and heads off into your bunk, leaving you with the chocolate and juice. 

You manage to finish the rest of it alone. The shaking is subsiding slowly but surely, the sensation of chocolate in your mouth distracting you for a little while. 

He’s back in a few minutes carrying your medpack. It’s got your meds and your monitor; you fish them both out and prick your finger immediately. Sure enough, it’s dangerously low. There’s a timer on the side of it, so you set it for ten minutes, making sure you don’t forget to test it again. 

Din just stands there, watching. You tip your head back against the sofa but you can feel his eyes on you, even though his visor; can picture it in your mind, him just standing there with his hands hanging at his sides, studying you as if just staring will help him to understand what’s happening. 

He’s entirely silent for ten minutes. He checks your vitals with his vambrace a few more times, but doesn’t say a word. 

The timer goes off. When you test your blood again, it’s back to safe levels, and you breathe a sigh of relief. As always after a low, you feel fucking exhausted and washed-out, and definitely need a proper meal as soon as possible. But you don’t feel like you’re about to pass out any second anymore, so there’s that. 

The next sigh that you let out is one of nerves. You breathe in deep, bracing yourself to look back at Din and face the inevitable questions. 

When your eyes meet his visor, your stomach twists a little in guilt. “I can explain,” you say, not needing to see his face to know that he’s probably raising an expectant eyebrow at you. 

“How do you feel?” He asks instead of What the fuck?

You swallow heavily. “Better,” you say. “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?”

“For…making you finish the mission alone. For being a useless partner.” 

“That’s what you’re sorry about?” 

You stare at him, wide-eyed, swallowing yet again in the hopes it will dampen some of the guilt rising up your throat. (It doesn’t). You put the mission in severe jeopardy; you put the both of you in danger. Din trusted you to be his partner, to get the mission done effectively, to not almost die in the middle of it. And you let him down. “Well…yeah,” you answer, like it should be obvious. “I let you down. I was a bad partner.” 

“Yes, you were.” 

“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful next time, I’ll be more helpful—”

“You weren’t a bad partner because you almost passed out,” Din interrupts you. He doesn’t sound angry, which you make note of and let calm your nerves. “You were a bad partner because you didn’t tell me about…this,” he gestures to your med kit, your machines and your medicines. 

Oh. Right. 

Of course he’s upset you kept this from him. 

He sighs. Stepping closer, he sits beside you on the couch, leaving just inches between you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is softer than you’d expected; not a trace of accusation or anger. Just…concern. Disappointment.

You can’t look at him. “I didn’t want you to worry. Or…to think that I couldn’t do my job.” 

“I am always going to worry about you, Riduur,” he says. 

“Exactly. I didn’t want to give you another reason to worry.” 

“Is this why you’ve been stopping mid-mission to eat so often?” 

“Yeah,” you laugh nervously. “I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out sooner.” 

“I just thought…” he fades off, then shrugs. “I don’t know what I thought. Maybe I should have asked.” He sounds thoughtful. You shake your head in response. Then, he turns to look at you, and asks, “How long have you…been sick?” 

“I got diagnosed with diabetes when I was nineteen. I’ve had it a long time now. And I’m usually much better at controlling it than this, but I…we’ve been so busy.” 

Din sighs softly and hangs his head. His hands clench into fists on his lap. “I’m sorry.” 

Your eyes snap up to look at him. “Why are you sorry?” 

“I should have noticed. I shouldn’t have let you neglect your health.” 

“You had no idea,” you assure him, putting a hand on the armour over his thigh. “I’m the one who kept this from you. How were you supposed to know?” 

“With or without diabetes, I should be taking better care of you.” 

“No, that’s not the lesson we’re taking away from this.” 

He looks at you again. The black T of his visor is emotionless, but you can imagine the quirk of his eyebrow. “It’s not?” 

“No,” you almost laugh, because how is he suddenly making this his fault? 

“Then what is?”

“That I should’ve told you. That I put us in danger by not letting you know something that could’ve affected the mission. Something that could’ve…hurt us.” 

He stares at you. Unmoving, unreadable. 

“Did you make me say the lesson out loud on purpose by pretending you feel guilty?” You ask him.

“No,” he replies, deadpan, “I’d never.” 

“You would.” 

“I didn’t,” he says, this time with a slight smile in his voice. He reaches out, takes your hand. “I meant it when I said I should have noticed.” 

“I was actively hiding it,” you say. “I don’t blame you. It’s my fault.” 

“You should have told me,” he agrees, albeit reluctantly. “But now that I know, we can make sure this never happens again.” 

“I’ll just be more careful, and always bring a snack, even if I think we’re not going to be out for long.” 

He squeezes your hand, still looking at you through the visor. “Will you tell me about it?” He asks earnestly. 

“What do you want to know?” 

“What you need, what to look out for,” he answers. “How you manage it. I want to make sure you’re safe. That at least one of us can be taking proper care of you.” 

Your heart swells with a sudden bloom of warmth. This isn’t how you expected this to go down: you thought he’d be angry with you for not telling him, and even more angry for almost ruining the mission. 

But, in hindsight, you should’ve known better. Better than to keep this from him, and better than to expect that kind of reaction. 

This is Din. All he’s ever wanted is for you to be safe. Any secret that you’ve told him has always been met with kindness, understanding. Even when you’ve kept it from him for a while. 

“What?” Din asks into the silence that you hadn’t even realised you’d created. You’re just staring at him, warmth in your chest and adoration in your eyes. 

You shake your head. “Nothing,” you say, finding your voice a little choked with tears in your throat, “just. I love you.” 

He softens. Leans in, presses the beskar over his forehead to yours. “I love you too, Cyar’ika.” 

You close your eyes. “I’m sorry I kept it from you.” 

“I know. It’s alright. But please tell me how we can make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

“I will,” you promise, pushing your nose into his helmet for a second before pulling away, giving him a sheepish smile. “But first, I need a proper meal.” 

notes: finally getting to one of yall's requests! i've been so busy but thank you for your patience, and thank you to this anon for this request. as a fellow diabetic, i can relate, and i would want din there for a low if i had to have one, lmao.

hope you enjoyed! reblogs & comments so so appreciated if you can ❤️

din taglist: @brokenghostgirl1 @astronymity

[jreads]

Unexpected Constellations (Part 14)

Rating: No crazy stuff

Word Count: 6.8K

Warnings: Warnings: Angst, Mentions of blood, Canon-level violence, Dark themes, Foul language, Din being a cutie

A/N: Sorry I pushed this back for so long! It was giving me such grief but I think I am okay with posting it now. I was overwhelmed with the love from the previous part and I am so so happy that everyone liked it. As it stands, this is the penultimate part! As always, comment on this post or the masterlist to get added to the taglist. So much love 🤍

Waking up next to him was bliss. Your body felt tired and achy and sore, but his head was resting on your chest, curls tickling your chin, body pressed possessively against your own. Breathing even. It was so new to see him like this, and it had quickly become one of your favourite things. You ran fingers through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp and his sleepy groan was so deep that it might have been a purr.

“You’re so beautiful.” It sort of slipped out. You were becoming loose lipped around him.

“You keep saying that.”

“It’s true.” Maker, and his voice. Rich like sweet candy. 

He huffed into your skin, arms tightening around you like a band. 

You stilled your fingers in his hair. “You don’t believe me?”

No answer. But he lifted his head, brows raising quizzically, eyes still heavy with sleep. It was impossible. Intolerable. 

“I mean… Have you looked at yourself?”

Din answered too matter-of-factly. “Yes. In the fresher sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“I don’t look at my reflection a lot.”

“Why not?”

He seemed to get fed up with your line of questioning, collapsing back against you and nuzzling into your stomach to avoid an answer. But you weren’t letting it go so easily.

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

“I think you’re biased.” He kissed your navel.

You tried to ignore the flutter that went through you. “I think you’re insufferable.”

He pressed you to the bed then, hovering over you just slightly. “I guess you’ll have to suffer then. You’re stuck with me now.”

Snarky, gorgeous, unbelievable. “Can’t imagine how I’m ever going to survive—”

“Shut up.” He captured your laugh in a kiss, slow and sensual and lazy, and you lost yourself in it. You let him guide your wrists above your head, where he pinned them with a broad palm. You let him trail the other hand down your side, over the curve of your waist. 

You let him, you let him, you let him. 

It took the both of you far too long to make it out of Boba’s guest suite. Din had even quipped about him starting to charge rent. But eventually, and quite unfortunately, you were reminded that a galaxy existed outside of each other, and that you needed to get back to it.

Din had only told you about the Imp that morning, reluctantly. And perhaps that was lucky, because if you had known earlier, there was little chance you would have been able to sleep let alone focus on anything else. Focus on Din.

But you knew now.

What Din had done wasn’t lost on you. He could have killed the man himself; he had had plenty of time while you were still unconscious. He could have drawn it out, made it bloody. You knew he enjoyed that sometimes… when given the right circumstances… when the victim was deserving. But he had captured him instead, left him alive. Not just so you could kill him yourself if you pleased, but because he knew you needed closure. Thus, the day’s responsibilities would be far from easy and would also take some time. 

A quick comm chat with Peli had ended with the lady practically demanding that she take Grogu to a podrace, and that if you two were early to Mos Eisley this evening, you ‘would just have to park your asses down in the hangar and wait.’ It was so good to hear the child’s coos from the other end of the line, though it only eased your trepidation by a fraction.

“You don’t have to do this.” Din’s presence was unyielding behind you as you made your way down darkened sandstone steps. “Say the word, and I can—”

You silenced the rest of his sentence, stopping abruptly on the staircase and spinning on him. A step above, he towered over you. Ever the protector. “As much as I’m sure you’d love to…” You rose onto the tips of your toes and caressed the indents in his helmet. “…I have to handle this myself.”

He nodded once. “I’ll be here. If you need anything—” Before he could finish, another voice sounded from behind you.

“You’re awake. I was getting worried.” 

It was enough to make you reconsider the rest of the descent into the Rancor’s cave. Truthfully, you might have preferred coming face-to-face with the Rancor instead. Powerless. You had to remind yourself. He has no power here. Over you. Over anything.

With a shaky breath, you reached the bottom of the pit, advancing on a menacing portcullis. Though he was silent, you knew Din followed.

He was grasping onto the gate bars with white knuckles. He looked a sight. Usually pristine Imperial uniform now torn and singed, he was covered in dirt and dried blood. A nasty gash had crusted over on the top of his head, staining his hair. You wondered who had done it. Your money was on Boba. If it had been Din, he wouldn’t have stopped there.

“Leaving you alone with two Mandalorians and a bounty hunter?” He scoffed, as if the idea were preposterous. “Their kind are ravagers. I’m relieved you’re alright.”

To act as if he was concerned about your well-being at all was almost insulting. What was worse was the assumption that the ones who had cared for you would have put you in harm’s way. A reversal of roles… a projection.

You tried to summon an air of phony assertiveness, though your hands were shaking. Fear? Anxiety? Rage? It was anyone’s guess. “Here’s how this is going to work. You don’t insult my friends. In fact, don’t speak unless you’re answering a question. Are we clear?”

He seemed to pay you no mind. “Look at you! So confident. Perhaps those years apart were a blessing in disguise.” He seemed comfortable, assured even, but his knuckles, blanched against the gate metal, gave him away. 

“I’ve been meaning to tell you… what you did in that control room. It was amazing. Magnificent.”

The control room? When you knocked him out?

“I always knew you had it in you.” His eyes were glazing over with some sort of sick admiration. “Your master would be so proud.”

The control room. The water, the cables. The electricity. Oh. Stars. He thought you had summoned lightning.

“I don’t… I didn’t.” You suddenly felt the need to defend yourself. Not to him, but to the man behind you. The one you were trying to convince that you were good. The one you were trying to convince yourself that you were deserving of.

“You don’t need to be afraid.” His smile made you feel sick, whatever calm mask you had put in place quickly slipping. “This is what you were meant for. Don’t you see? Everything we—” He was quick to correct himself. “Everything they did was for this… And look how strong you are now.” Dirty fingers reached past the bars, grasping for you. You stumbled back into Din’s chest. 

He ran a hand over you side, squeezing at your hip, barely a featherlight touch but grounding nonetheless. You breathed a few times, timing your inhales with the rise and fall of his chest.

However, the Imp was now surveying the Mandalorian with a repulsed expression. Looking from him to you… and back again. He sneered. “Wow, really?” He waited, as if for an answer. “You could conquer worlds, topple governments. The galaxy would bow at your feet.” That petulant entitlement had found its way back into his cadence. “Is this what you’d throw it all away for? A trivial romance?” Disgust dripped from his words. “You could be a god.”

When you broke his eye contact, he turned to Din instead. “And you could be rich.”

“I’m not interested in credits.” There was a sharp edge in his modulated voice, a promise of violence.

“No, I’m sure you’re not. It’s power you’re after.” The hatred between the two men hung so thick in the air that it was starting to suffocate. “What is it? Planning on using her to retake your home world?” Din stilled. “Who would dare to stand against you with a Sith at your side?”

“Enough.” Your tone was sharp, but not sharp enough.

“How long has it been since your people have even seen Mandalore? Set foot on the scorched soil? I wonder what they’ll find beneath its surface.” His tone was all too knowing. Din’s mind roared like a wildfire behind you.

“I said enough.” Your raised voice finally seemed to break their murderous concentration on one another. “You don’t get to ask questions. But you can answer mine.”

His energy changed immediately. “Anything you want to know. I’ve only ever been honest with you.” A flicker of a glare over your shoulder. “But your bodyguard will have to leave.”

You could feel Din reach for his blaster. No, not the blaster… that was on the other side of his hip. 

You spun, a hand on his own to halt him. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.” There was a beat of silence as he considered. Rage, violence, bloodlust. This wasn’t Din; there was nothing of the man you knew in him. This was The Mandalorian.

“You don’t open the gate; you stay away from the bars.” His voice was hushed, steady, lethal. “He tries anything, or you sense anything, you call for me.” You nodded. Still, he hesitated. 

“I’ve got this.” You ran a thumb under the edge of his glove, over the soft skin of his inner wrist. Over the pulse point. It was jumping rapidly, a sign of him. “Go.”

With what you could tell was one more glance at the man behind you, he turned, footfalls heavy, and made his way back up the steps. Before he could disappear from sight, the man spoke. 

“Good. Now we can stop pretending.” You knew Din had heard it. He was egging him on. Did he not understand that you were the only thing stopping Din from shoving the saber through his throat? Or maybe that was the whole point.

Without Din’s protective presence, you instantly felt more unpredictable. You needed a moment to calm, recenter yourself. You paced in a circle. However, the Imp had other plans.

“So, this is the company you’re keeping nowadays? Bounty hunters and criminals?”

Focus. Don’t get carried away.

“You understand it, right? They’re not on our level. Nowhere near it. Completely inferior. I suppose it’s my own fault for letting you go.”

Letting you go. As if you hadn’t tried to remove his head from his shoulders in your fight for an escape pod.

“Won’t you say something? As much as I’m glad you’re okay, I’m not overly fond of the hospitality here and would like for us to get going as soon as possible.”

What?

“You think I’m going anywhere with you?” You practically hissed it. Only once he smiled did you realize you had given him what he wanted… engagement.

His head tilted. “Aren’t you? What life do you have here, amongst the rabble?”

You have one. You have one. A place, a purpose.

“Don’t you remember?” You hate his smile. You could slice lines up his face, from the corners of his mouth to his hairline. “You were made to serve.”

There’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop the onslaught of memories, the mere utterance of those words enough to shake them loose. Even through the haze of repression.

You’re shaking, so weak that you can barely keep your head from drooping. Your hands are tied with binders to the ceiling, so high that you have to rise on your toes to release the strain from your shoulder. A rib might be broken, maybe two. Not that it mattered; the droid would patch you up anyway. It always did, after every round, over and over and over…

“Let me go.” It was a pathetic wheeze, croaky and quiet.

Two of the men leer. “Sorry? What was that?” One caresses your face before rearing back and throwing a fist. You’ve numbed to the pain a bit, but you still feel the sharp sting of your own teeth cutting into the inside of your cheek. You lose purchase on the floor and hang, the impact brutal on your shoulders.

“Please.” You would beg, on your knees if you needed to. “Please, let me go.”

He’s there. Lifting your head with an iron grip on your chin. “And where would you go, dear?”

You have no ship, you can’t fly, your knowledge of planets is minimal. You have nowhere to go.

“What life could you have outside of this?” 

Your head is throbbing. You might pass out.

“This is your purpose. You were made to serve. Don’t ever forget that.”

Your vision goes black.

Perhaps it’s because you were squeezing your eyelids shut, trying so hard to block out the vivid recollection. You shook your head like a crazed person, grabbing at your scalp. Like you could feel the pain. The pounding ache of having been hit too many times. Oh maker, the pain.

Breathe. You’re out. Din’s just outside the stairwell. Listen. You can hear his heartbeat. He’s right there. Breathe with him.

He was solid as a stone when you sensed him, leaned against the wall. You wondered if he could hear—probably not. You could remember what it was like to kiss him, feel his skin against your own, his hair, trace the angles of his jaw. It was so recent, so fresh. Not like the other memories. You could forget the agony, replace it with pleasure. Softness and warm pressure. 

Your eyes opened in their natural hue. The Imp was clapping, a slow, sharp staccato. “Impressive. Is that a Jedi technique? Does it help to play pretend?”

Get the info. Get it done and get out. You took another deep breath.

“You answer my questions, or I walk.”

He didn’t reply, just assessed you. It wasn’t a yes, but it also wasn’t a no. But you could feel that he wanted to answer—or rather, he wanted to talk—but either way, he didn’t want you to leave. It was beyond unsettling.

“Have you found him?” Please no, please no, please—

“So, you believe me now?”

“No. I just want to make sure Palpatine stays dead.”

His smile was absolutely vile. “There are more ways than one to ensure that that doesn’t happen.”

He could be lying. Trying to extend his relevance, his usefulness. Half truths. Half answers. Always cryptic. You were so tired of this. Of the worry, the fear, of looking behind you anytime the light dimmed and the dark intensified, just in case.

You stepped closer. “What do you know?” 

There was a sparkle of crazed excitement in his eyes. “I know that it’s inevitable. There’s not a single thing you can do to stop it from happening. All you can do is be ready.”

“Ready for what?” But he was already on the uncontrolled ramble of a zealot.

“I’ve made you ready. I’ll be a hero. I’ll get what I was promised. We—”

“We what?” Every muscle in your body was tensing dangerously. Warning alarms. “What were you promised?”

“Look at you.” He was breathless. “You’re perfect. I crafted you—”

He believed it. All of it. It may be bullshit, but it was the truth from his tongue. There was a pain in your chest. You wouldn’t go back. Couldn’t. Because if he was right and Palpatine did come for you, you knew that Dinwouldn’t stand aside. Grogu wouldn’t. And you knew what he would do to them, what he would make you watch him do. Din was a powerful warrior, but he wouldn’t stand a chance against the Emperor. Palpatine would break him apart.

“What were you promised?” You didn’t notice the walls start to tremble. The loose sandstone start to fall in small puffs of dust.

“The Force. I was promised the Force.” His eyes were blown wide, rimmed with red. “We would be equals. We will be.”

Shaking. Your bones, your eyes, the very structure of the palace around you. “That’s not possible.”

“Times are changing. Why do you think Gideon wanted the child so badly?”

Grogu. Everything stilled. He looked triumphant.

“I could just kill you right now.”

“You won’t do that.” He reached an arm through the bars, as if he expected you to take his hand. “Because if you do, you prove me right. If you do, you become everything you insist you aren’t.”

That was it. That was all you could take. Because as you turned for the steps, blocking out the voice behind you, you knew that he had a point. You wanted to kill him. You wanted to take your time with it. Make it hurt. And what did that make you?

You made it to the top of the steps and turned the corner too sharply, bumping into a wall of beskar. He didn’t say a word, just held you. You couldn’t find the energy to hold him back. You were still seeing flashes of imagined images. His helmet, splattered with blood. The handsome head you were just starting to become familiar with severed from his broad shoulders. Grogu’s cry of anguish. There was something numbing about the information he had given, a sense of futility to every action you had taken and would take. What if none of it mattered?

“I’m going to get some air.” You pushed away from him, and he let you go.

He had seen you through many moods recently, but never such empty hopelessness. And he felt hollow himself, watching you walk away, because he had no idea what to say to make any of it better. Din could tell you what he believed, but this wasn’t up to him. There was, however, one thing he could do. Maybe it was petty and stupid, but Din descended the stone staircase with a muted smile on his face.

The Imp was facing the back wall of the Rancor pit, kicking at a pile of picked-clean bones in the corner. They might have been human; Din wasn’t sure. He must have heard the footfalls because he called out without turning: “Made up your mind that quickly?”

“Oh, my mind’s made up.” It was satisfying to catch him off guard. “My mind was made up the second she told me about you.”

“She told you, did she?” Din had no mind-reading abilities, but he could easily sense just how much this man despised him. And he had a nauseating hunch as to why. “What, exactly, did she tell you Mandalorian? I’m curious as to which parts she conveniently left out.” He pulled down the dirty collar of his uniform. “Did she tell you about this?”

You hadn’t. But he found himself smiling wider. The pale pink scar practically stretched from ear to ear. You had tried to slit his throat. Good girl.

“Did she tell you about how she slaughtered my men? How she left a trail of blood to the escape pod? She was still young then. She murdered them like animals. Did she tell you about that?”

Din crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. He was actually quite enjoying this story.

“What about the choke? I doubt she’s learned to control it.” He cocked his head. “But, then again, maybe you’re into that sort of thing.”

Ah. “That’s it, isn’t it?” Din could tell he had struck a nerve. “It’s jealousy.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

He pushed off, stepped forward a touch, into the light of the opening above. “You wish you were me. You wish she saw you the way she sees me. As an ally, a protector…” A vein was starting to bulge in the Imp’s forhead. “…a lover.” 

He threw a fist against the bars. “You’re fooling yourself, Mandalorian. You’re like a child holding a blaster. You have no idea how dangerous she is. She’s some pretty girl to you… a trophy.” He spat at Din’s feet. “You make me sick.”

Struck a nerve. He had to laugh, though it was humorless. He still believed in your superiority, truly; next to him you were practically royalty. But you had chosen him… and that was enough. His riduur. 

He pondered for a moment, about telling the Imp of the vows you had made last night, the depth of them. If only just to piss him off. But it was none of his business. He didn’t need to prove himself. So instead, he said: “You’re going to die here. And maybe she won’t be the one to kill you, but if she doesn’t then I will. And if she doesn’t want me to, then Fett will, or Shand. You won’t leave this palace alive; you’ll bleed out in that cell. That’s a promise.”

“What’s your point, Mandalorian?”

“My point is that I suggest you make peace with the things you did to an innocent girl.” He turned to leave. “And I sincerely hope you don’t believe in the afterlife.”

It was a scorching day on Tatooine, but you had been lucky enough to catch an edge of the rounded palace walls that welcomed both shade and a light breeze. It was there that you had sat for the past hour, staring out over the dunes, lost in an endless free fall of thoughts.

Since the day you escaped and crashed onto Sorgan, you had taken part in a never-ceasing internal battle between light and dark. Trying to prove to yourself that you weren’t the culmination of your history. And this—the decision to kill him or leave him alive—it played directly into that conflict. He was right. But he had to die. And it was no one’s responsibility but your own.

You heard him coming, you always did. But Din still didn’t say a word, just sat cross-legged to your left. You were both silent for a long time, the hiss of shifting sand the only sound. But you eventually leaned closer, like magnets drawn together, until your head met his shoulder.

“He’s right, you know. About me.”

“Bantha shit.”

“Din…”

He straightened and you moved your head, already loathing the loss of contact. “No. Stop. You don’t get to do this now. I��know you.”

“You know who I am since I met you, that’s different.” You pulled at your scalp in frustration. “Who I was before, the things that I did—”

“You did to survive. You didn’t have a choice. With me, you do.”

“So then what about the Weequay in Mos Eisley? The crystal, Din. And on the Razor Crest when I had that nightmare, and you woke me?”

“Stop it.” His tone was harsh in a way you hadn’t heard from him very often. “I have never…” He trailed off, voice straining. “I have never met anyone like you. Who acts for others, cares so strongly, even after what you’ve been through.” You can hear his shaky inhale. “Cyare, you’re a fucking miracle.”

You were trying so damn hard to keep your bottom lip from trembling.

“Killing him won’t change that. It won’t change a damn thing. Not to me.” He cupped your jaw, turning it to face him. “You’re still you. You always will be.” A light laugh. “Even with yellow eyes.”

You managed a smile through the few tears that had already fallen. He wiped at one with a gloved thumb.

“He might be right about some things, but the depth of your character is not one of them.”

That got your attention.

“What do you mean?” He didn’t reply. “Din. What did he say to you?” 

He kept stroking a thumb absentmindedly over your cheekbone. When he finally spoke, it was only a breathy whisper. “You are. Above me. I don’t deserve to touch you; I don’t even deserve to breathe your air.” It felt like you were being gutted. “I don’t deserve to want you. He’s right about that.” He huffed a mirthless laugh. “As if I could even help it.”

Oh, stars. What a fucking pair the two of you made, both so convinced you were unworthy of the other. It was almost hilarious. “This is stupid,” you said as if it was an epiphany. “That is so stupid.” You punched him, square on the breastplate. He barely even moved, but your hand hurt so badly that you had to shake it out.

That eclipsed your problems. Din Djarin, singlehandedly responsible for teaching you to trust again, for bringing you back from the brink maker knows how many times, for making you feel love and pleasure so strong it burned a hole in your chest. He thought himself unworthy of you.

“I’m going to kill him.” Din’s helmet cocked to one side at your quick change of heart. “And then I’m going to show you why that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”

“I love you.” Those three words, the way they rolled off his tongue, crackled through the vocoder, they were so charged with emotion that they singed through you like a blaster bolt.

He stood and then offered a hand down. “Do you want me with you?” You took it, rising to your feet and brushing sand off of your trousers.

“Yes. Please.” Always.

He only nodded. Waited for you to make the first move. And when you finally stepped ahead of him, walking back to the mouth of the palace, he had a hand on the small of your back, as if he knew the depth of comfort that it offered.

You didn’t want to keep looking over your shoulder. Because you would. If you left him alive now, no matter where the three of you went in the galaxy, there would always be the possibility of him looming, of Palpatinelooming, just around the corner. And it wasn’t just about you. This was about keeping Grogu safe too. And you would do absolutely anything to protect him, even if it meant… whatever it meant.

The roughly hewn rock cavern was cool, mercifully. Though it did little to stifle the heat of your nerves, the sweat rolling between your shoulder blades. The clamminess of your hands. Din stayed a few paces behind.

“So, what’s it going to be?” His ability to remain unruffled in the face of possible death was almost admirable. You throat was too dry to reply, so you focused instead on the gate control panel. It rose up with an unpleasant screech. You could see him assessing your own features, Din’s stance. He didn’t believe you would do it, but he was smart enough to realise he wasn’t escaping.

“Really?” His eyebrows rose. “You’re going to make him do it for you? At least have the decency to kill me yourself.” A last ditch attempt. If only he knew that your mind was made up. You reached a hand behind you, not taking your eyes off the Imp. You weren’t taking any chances. Din understood; he always did.

But you had expected the blaster. A single shot to the head and it would be over. That wasn’t what Din handed you. The handle was smooth, heavier than you expected, all sharp angles and cool steel. Harsh? Maybe. But people had been known to survive a blaster bolt. 

It ignited smoothly. You swung it low, experimental. The blade hummed in response.

And suddenly there was fear—real fear—in his eyes. And oh, how it made your blood sing. 

“You won’t.” I sounded like he was trying to convince himself. He gaped at you, mouth opening and closing, searching desperately for words that might spare his worthless life. “He’ll come for you!”

You advanced, rolling the darksaber’s hilt in your grasp. Palms slick with sweat. “You’re delusional.” You wish you believed it more. There was no fanfare, no grand moment. You drove the darksaber through his chest without pause, without hesitation. And it didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel evil. You were glad to see the light leave his eyes. But the words he uttered in his last breaths would stay with you for a long time, rousing you from nightmares for years to come.

“The master… needs an apprentice.”

You looked majestic holding the saber. It didn’t seem as heavy for you as it did for him, perhaps because you were already used to the weight of power. Din felt pride swell in his chest like a blooming flower.

The symbolism that the Imp had put upon his own death was bullshit, but he had known it would affect you, cloud your judgement. The truth? It was that he deserved to die, brutally, and that regardless of who made the killing blow, it was justified. Din only thought, fleetingly, that it was too easy. That he deserved a slower demise, more painful. That perhaps your actions had even been merciful. Maker knows that if Din had been the one to do it, his methods may have blanched even Fett’s already Sarlacc-bleached skin.

He had crumpled to the floor, the edges of his wound glowing slightly as the skin cauterized. You were heaving, lost in the moment of death. So he brought you back, and hand on your elbow snaking to your hand, helping you to extinguish the darksaber. You let it happen, leaned into his touch. Turned to him and smiled, because it was over, because this time he wasn’t coming back. He loved being the one to center you. That smile was haunted, tinged with some far-reaching darkness that he knew wouldn’t pass easily. But it wouldpass. With time.

“Let’s go get our kid.” 

You nodded, and he watched the stiffness ease from your shoulders. You looked tired. So tired. Din pulled you into his chest.

“It’ll be okay.” He would burn the galaxy down to ensure it.

You went to take a shower. You had stumbled over your words, trying to explain why. Din had stopped you, knowing the reason innately, having experienced it himself. A need to wash the deed off, to clean the blood that hadn’t even stained your hands. He sought out Fett while you were gone, thanked him, refueled the Crest. 

They were both quiet as they worked, a lack of words available to describe what they wished to say. Finally, Boba broke the silence.

“Take care of her. Protect her. She needs you. They both do.” 

Din nodded in acknowledgement, not trusting himself to speak stably. Boba seemed to catch on quite easily, stopping his tinkering with one of the hull’s new outer panels. 

“I know what it’s like… to feel like you don’t deserve happiness. After everything you’ve done.” Din stilled, hand hovering over the fuel tank lid. “Learn to be selfish sometimes, Djarin. It’s the one thing you’ll never regret.” 

Fett didn’t wait for a reply, clapping him once on the back before moving to exit the hanger. “You’ve always got a landing pad with us. Don’t forget that.” His murmur of thanks came too late; Boba had already left.

The shower had only half helped, but seeing Din again, bent over and fussing with wiring, was much more effective.

“Need a hand?” He jumped a little; you must have been too quiet on approach. “Sorry.”

He rose to full height, and you shrunk under what you could tell was an assessing look, even with the helmet. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now.”

 His head tilted. “Be honest with me, please.”

You sighed, because of course he could read you. “I’ll be okay.” He was too quiet, probably running through ideas of how to put a smile on your face. The idea of it was enough to do just that. You swore that you could see his stature loosen. “Let me help with the cables. Your hands are too big.” You swatted Din to the side, crouching over the panel he had been studying.

“The ramp’s been fussing. I came in too hard when I landed, probably shorted something. And the cockpit door doesn’t close. Um. It’s dented.” You knew why. But the information made you study him, looking up into the dark T of the visor. Fennec had told you briefly about how he had practically stormed the palace, leaving a trail of incapacitated Gamorreans in his wake in his rush to get to the throne room. ‘Panicked,’ Shand had said. You had never seen him panicked before, even when the kid had been taken. Always cool and calculated.

Wires momentarily forgotten, you rose steadily and circled your arms around his middle, cheek resting against that divot in his breastplate. He stiffened at the suddenness of your movement. 

“Thank you. I haven’t said it… I don’t say it nearly enough.” His body felt nice in the circle of your arms, warm and sure and real. You could feel the shudder of his inhale as he hugged you back.

You had pushed your boundaries with him recently, physically. But this… the simplicity of being able to curl your arms around each other, share breath, feel his heartbeat on the other side of a beskar plate, and know what it meant; you wouldn’t trade it for a single thing. 

And to think that you thought you might never experience this. Such an all-consuming type of love, a fierce protectiveness, a family. 

Maybe the stories had been right; perhaps the stars did align sometimes.

Even with all the events of the day, Din and you were early to Mos Eisley. The suns were getting low, but only enough to cast that warm reddish glow upon the sand. You both sat on the ship’s extended ramp, looking out towards the street. It regaled you with memories of only a few days prior. And how impossible it seemed that so much had happened in such a short period of time. 

Din had kissed you before opening the Crest, once… twice… more times than you could count. Your lips felt swollen, but you doubted you would ever get enough of him. The crowds were getting louder as spectators made their way back from the podracing track, their ruckus travelling into the landing bay and echoing off the walls. It was… nice. Really nice. One thing could make it perfect.

A shrill cry stood out over the commotion. One that you knew all too well. He tried his best to run towards you, short legs tripping over the long fabric of his cloak. You and Din met him halfway, scooping him up from the sand, dusting it off his clawed feet. Grogu cried out in joy, and you tried and failed to stop the wave of emotion before it crested. Because from him you felt such love that it bore a hole straight through your heart. Love and happiness and bone-crushing relief. 

“He was worried about us,” you told Din, laughing through blurred vision. You were holding the child in your arms, and Din was holding you in his. Grogu messed with your earlobe with one clawed hand, and the fabric of Din’s cowl with the other. 

So this was what home felt like.

“We’re good, Grogu. We’re okay.” Din was fussing with his ears, such a tender motion. “Hope you minded your manners, kid.”

Peli’s high pitched voice cut through the moment. “Well, what am I? Chopped liver?” All three of you looked up at the same time.

The tiny woman had both hands on her hips, a fond smirk across her lips. She closed the distance between you. “Kid’s an absolute joy. A menace… but a joy. You two sure you don’t have any more galaxy-wide adventures you need to take care of?”

Din squeezed your waist. “We’re on sabbatical. Extended leave.” 

She nodded in appreciation. “Good. Take them both somewhere real nice then. Five-star resort, renowned chefs, the works.” She muttered under breath: “Maker knows you can afford it.”

Grogu cooed. You wondered if he was starting to recognize the word chef, given its association with his absolute favourite word, food.

“Something like that,” Din answered. You hadn’t really discussed you plans to follow this, your priority having been getting the kid back. It didn’t matter too much to you, not really, not as long as you had the two of them at your side. 

He had already punched in the coordinates when you came up behind him, Grogu on your shoulder, your hand on his own.

“Can I ask something of you?” You were wearing the vambraces. He was momentarily speechless, forgetting you had just posed a question. They fit perfectly. He wondered, awestruck, just how the Armourer did it. She had once said that each piece speaks of its wearer as she strikes it into shape. He wondered if she saw you.

Beautiful. And all his. 

“Din?”

“Anything you want.” His voice was breathy, caught off guard. Your bashful smile was heavenly. He wanted to kiss you… kiss the beskar… fuck you with nothing but the gauntlets on. Grogu squawked sharply at the both of you, as if to say ‘Get on with it.’ 

You laughed, before the smile faded into something more muted. Apprehension, curiosity.

“I want…” You fiddled with the tattered edge of his cape, toying with a hole in it, taking a deep breath before meeting his eyes again. “I want to go see Skywalker.”

“I thought you might say that.” He noted your look of well-camouflaged surprise. “There’s a box for you in hull storage, when you’re ready.” He knew that you knew what was in it. He was going to get choked up if you kept looking at him like that. Din spun back around to face the dash. “I’ve got to redo my calculations now.”

“I’m sorry.” He had to smile at the dismayed tone of your voice.

He was quick to reassure. “Don’t be. It’s the right choice. I’m proud of you.” He let the words settle and it was quiet in the cockpit for a time, apart from Grogu’s occasional babble, which was starting to sound concerningly more like actual words. Maker, forbid.

As he circled Tatooine and emerged into the inky blackness of space, you asked: “Where were we going to go?”

He grinned under the helmet. “I’d rather keep that a surprise for now, if that’s alright with you?” You probably knew anyways; you could probably guess.

You slept with him.

Not like that; you were both a little apprehensive with Grogu only metres away. The pram was closed, as was the door to the cot, but it was still new. Simply sharing a bed with Din, however, was just as nice.

He snored—albeit lightly—but it made you smile. He had tugged the helmet off once the kid was asleep and had let you run your fingers through his tamped-down hair. He had said you were fussing. You had told him to shut it. So he had fallen asleep with his head on your lap, a broad hand curled over your knee. He had bent his spine at an impossible angle, but you could wake and shift him as soon as you put this damn datapad down.

You were looking up Luke Skywalker, ‘doing your homework,’ as Din had said earlier in a gruff and sleepy voice. However, it had only worsened your nervousness. He was a hero, known across the galaxy for his role in the defeat of the Empire… of the Emperor. He stood against everything you were taught, a figure of unyielding good in the face of what was once impending darkness. Practically a deity. Would he loathe you? Because you might remind him of his past, what he fought against, what he lost. Or would he be sympathetic? Vader was his father, after all. Would he understand corruption, a turn to the dark for survival, because there was no other choice? Would he see you as someone who could be redeemed?

You sighed, sweeping a hand across your face. Your vision was starting to go unfocused, eyelids getting heavy as you fought against your own fatigue.

“Put it down,” he mumbled, squeezing your knee. “I can hear you overthinking; it woke me up.”

That made you laugh. “No, it didn’t. Liar.”

Din grunted and rose on his elbows, plucking the tech from your hands and depositing it in the makeshift hammock above. He then grabbed you by the hips and dragged you down, until you were flat on your back. You yelped. “Sleep.” It was a command.

You couldn’t have resisted even if you wanted to. Because he had caged you into him, arms winding around your waist and tightening. You melted to fit his body.

“Love you.” It was barely intelligible, just a string of syllables muttered into your neck, but it was enough. More than enough. It was everything.

“I love you, Din,” you replied. He hummed in satisfaction.

You left your worries behind for another night.

Taglist: @that-girl-named-alex @aavengingbucky @prismaticpizza @blub-senpai @a-phan-of-youtube @jaguarthecat @lizajane3 @come-hell-or-eldren-fire @graciexmarvel @soobinsrose @simply-maggie @alwaysdjarin @minky77 @tinytinturtle @tae27 @groguspicklejar @slightlyuglierbeyonce-blog @willow-t @abbyhaslongshorts @andrewshotspot @racetrackheart @leithatnight @messageinadaisy @lostinsideourminds @wren-2-d @goth-cowgir1 @aphterthoughtt @sleeplessskeleton @teawrites01 @dashlilymark @imherefordeanandbones @sunshine96 @kalea-bane @http-onie @focusedarrow @tremendum

[adhd-coyote]

if these are still open lovely-

#43 - Bloody Kiss for Sev/Kix?💕

have a cookie🍪

!!! A cookie?? For me??? :D Delightful!

I had so much fun with this one, these two are great!

For those who are unaware, “Mir’sheb” means “smartass” in Mando’a ;3

-

The last Imp goes down with a pitiful fight, and Sev is left the only one standing. His chest heaves with every breath, his blood sings with adrenaline, and his teeth flash in a triumphant, snarling grin. That’s one good thing that’s come from the rise of the Empire- Sev’s fighting people now, not droids, and people are a lot easier to break.

“All clear on my end,” he reports, breathless. He’s still getting used to the feeling of a comm in his ear, but he’s had to make do since he lost his bucket. Fucking Imps had shattered it a few weeks ago, and the loss of it was almost as painful as the concussion. He wouldn’t be as upset if he’d been able to get a replacement, but he no longer has access to the seemingly-unlimited resources of the former Republic. Fuckin’ sucks, but Sev isn’t complaining too much. Not when he’s finally been let off his leash.

“Copy that,” comes the reply, drawing him out of his thoughts. “Stay where you are, I’m almost at your position.”

“Better hurry up. I’m getting impatient,” Sev drawls, lips curling into a smirk. He sheathes his knives — he’d abandoned his blaster when it had jammed — and stretches out his limbs with a sigh. His partner in crime — literally — is only a CT, and as such, a bit slower than Sev. Sev doesn’t mind too much. He’s used to Scorch racing ahead of everyone and getting himself shot. Sev much prefers to have his CT at his back than needing to worry about providing cover for his idiot of a squadmate.

He does kind of miss Scorch’s yapping, though. Not that he’d ever admit that aloud.

“Here.” Kix’s voice echoes through the comm as he finally makes an appearance. Sev turns a half-manic grin on him, head tilted.

“‘Bout time. Was worried you’d gotten lost, verd’ika.”

Kix’s bucket tilts in a way that indicates he’s rolling his eyes. He hops over a blood-splattered Imp, slips into the empty space in front of Sev, and tugs off his helmet to frown at him. “You’re covered in blood.”

Sev’s grin widens. “Not mine.”

“Mhm. Where’s your blaster?”

“It jammed, so I tossed it,” Sev shrugs. “Knives are more fun anyways.”

“It’s all over your face, Sev. You look like you tore someone’s throat out with your teeth.” Kix’s pauses and frowns harder. “Did you tear someone’s throat out?”

“Yep.” Sev pauses just to enjoy the expression on Kix’s face before he continues, “But not with my teeth.”

Kix snorts, crossing his arms. “Mir’sheb.”

“Yeah. But you like that about me, Kix’ika.”

“For some rea- mph!” Kix is cut off as Sev drags him into a kiss, though his surprise quickly fades and he melts under Sev’s hands. Sev squeezes the back off his neck, smug, and teasingly bites and tugs on Kix’s bottom lip before he pulls away.

“There. Now you’re covered in blood too, Kix’ika.”

“Mir’sheb,” Kix repeats, though he’s breathless this time. The dark crimson on his mouth looks almost like smeared lipstick, a comparison that’s giving Sev ideas. “That tastes awful.”

Sev hums and tilts his head. “Really? Maybe you should give it another try.”

He’s dragging Kix in for another before his little CT can reply. They’re the only two living beings left in the base, and they’ve got all the time in the galaxy. Sev wants to have a little fun before they leave.

-

Kiss ask game

[madelgard]

Imperial March 2024 Fic Roundup

The Imperial March 2024 event hosted by the Seswennan Social Club has completed! There's over 25 fics posted, with a lot of great new writing in the Imperial tags. While I encourage everyone to check out the entire collection here on ao3 (and special shout-out to the Imp discord!), I wanted to take a minute and promote my own entries, too. Please let me know if you've read and enjoyed them <3

Week 1: Survey and Science - "Obscure divisions of the Imperial military."

A Family Portrait - Motti/Jerjerrod, Rated T

Agent Alteveer of the COMPNOR Art Group is tasked with inspecting the latest acquisitions at Val Denn, the ancestral home of the Jerjerrods. But in all his excitement, it does not cross Alteveer’s mind that touring the manor will necessitate being stared down by the Jerjerrods themselves. Nor does he expect to be shown such, ah, interesting art from the youngest member of the household.

Week 2: Bugle Call - "Inspired by tracks from the movie soundtracks."

Lightweight - Veers/Jerjerrod, Rated T

When Rear Admiral Jerjerrod falls asleep on the speeder ride back to his hotel, Major Veers does the sensible, chivalrous thing, and carries him to bed. Only because Veers doesn’t want to wake him, of course. He certainly isn’t eager to hold Jerjerrod in his arms for any other reason.

Week 3: Public Comm Line - "Imperial quotes."

Every Open Eye - Motti/Jerjerrod, Rated M

With the dorm room to themselves, Tiaan accepts Conan’s offer to climb into his bunk, and spend an evening with some very new, very naughty flimsizines. Tiaan is only interested in looking, of course. And only at the proper type of man: someone demure, distinguished, and respectable. But when Tiaan’s eye wanders onto Conan’s ’zine, and the broader, rougher men contained therein, he’s forced to confront the fact that his type is a lot less respectable than he likes to pretend. In fact, his type is an awful lot like Conan….

Week 4: Astronavigation - “Homeworlds, Shore Leave, and Imperial Locations.”

Safekeeping - Motti/Jerjerrod, Rated E

Conan has been visiting Tinnel IV since he was small, yet he hasn’t seen every room in Tiaan’s sprawling manor. But a peek into a secret portrait gallery gives him more Jerjerrod family history than he bargained for, and an impromptu lesson on the noble and ancient tradition of collaring.

Week 5: War Machines - "Imperial ships and vehicles."

A View From Afar - Piett & Jerjerrod, Rated T

Admiral Piett is well-accustomed to averting a crisis just in the nick of time. That skill is put to the test when Piett is forced to step in and stop Captain Venka from making the biggest blunder of his career: Confessing an attraction to Moff Jerjerrod to no less than the man himself.

[imperiuswrecked]

It's a gift Namor, don't be rude.

Namor Week 2024 - Day 5 - Friends/Enemies Frenemies featuring Doom & Namor @namorweek Thank you to the wonderful @rikebe for creating this fun comic for me! I love it!!! Commission the artist here!

[padawansuggest]

Listen. You guys know how lately (mostly in an attempt to get back to writing and writing things that genuinely feel self indulgent and soothing) I’ve been writing for old posts I made on here a lot lately?

Yeah okay so often times my ideas evolve so don’t take this too intensely. But. AU where Obi-Wan left the order to be a ballerina with a professional troop when she was around 18. She’s been going to a mega fancy school on Coruscant that only gets the best dancers since she was 13 and was invited in after she became Qui-Gon’s Padawan. Just imagine Qui-Gon waiting for her to get out of class with other nannies and parents waiting for their kids that’s SO funny to me.

Now, the change happens that they knew there was unrest in the senate and Obi-Wan said ‘okay this is actually the perfect chance to get spying on the right people’ so her and her new troop (which slowly become battle partners over the years like Padme’s handmaidens) leave and search people out. She ‘cuts ties’ with the Jedi under the guise of leaving the order. She doesn’t actually but Qui-Gon (also female along with Anakin being a girl too) becomes her only contact other than Feemor (best big sister ever) because Obi-Wan puts up a front of leaving to pursue being a dancer, not leaving as a separation from the Jedi, and Qui-Gon legally adopted her to keep close to her. They see each other often and after she gets Ani she becomes baby sister af.

Anyways. Fast forward around 15 years later (at least maybe a few more) and the Empire has officially been installed for about 7 years now (Obi was right and that’s why the Jedi knew to get out of the republic before it fell, so they are safely ensconced on the edge of Mandalorian space) and Obi-Wan’s cover has been blown and she’s gotta get back to the Jedi’s official new temple. Unfortunately she gets separated from her troop along the way and is pretty fucking traumatized and beat to hell by the time she makes it to Keldabe, one of the places she was able to get closest to Jedi space.

Anyways. She gets there and Jango (not-so-young prince of Mandalore, father to like 17 kids by cloners by now, absolutely big brother af because Jaster adopted Satine and Bo-Katan -and Arla when they found her- after Adonai died) finds her in absolutely torn clothes and looking fairly lost in the universe. First of all, the fact that she managed to make it about 6 blocks away from the loading docks is impressive cause any Mando worth their armor would have seen her and tried to drag her off to the medics by now, but she’s very traumatized and keeps running off.

Jango manages to get a hold of her by simply siding up to her like nothings wrong and offering her arm and ‘would you like to see the palace, verd’e?’ And Obi-Wan is sorta shocked but not only Jedi training, but also her time as a high class dancer for imps (like I know Visions just put this basic plot out but I had it years ago so it’s more inspirational than copying okay) and royals for the past decade and a half, kicks in and she lets Jango drag her back home like a cat who keeps collecting kittens. He just finds girls and brings them home to drop on Jaster’s lap like ‘here I heard ur bitch ass got baby fever, take this’ and giving himself new baby sisters. He loves it.

A million sons and baby sisters in droves. That’s all he needs.

Anyways. They get back, Obi is subjected to very annoying medical attention, Jango is horrified at she wounds and such, but then they hit another wall. Obi won’t get into the new clothes they keep trying to give her!!! Plz ur dress is torn and you barely have a thin robe covering you!

They gently corral her into a room with four suits of pure Beskar armor sitting in each corner so it blocks out the sound, while Jango is ranting at Jaster and Arla about how to get her calmed down. She’s already stolen two blasters! Admittedly, she also has her own sabers, so the call to Qui-Gon (who she gave the comm number for and didn’t give a name, just said that’s Mama) sort of just confirmed that it wasn’t so much protection as a safety blanket layover from Melida|Daan that she gets when she starts to panic.

So Qui-Gon is coming out with a team to come get her and informed her troop where their wayward idiot has gotten off to, and Jango is now faced with a new concern. Where is the toddler??? His three year old baby boy Kote??? Where’s the baby??

So. Obviously. Cody wandered off to go see the pretty lady with sad eyes and nice hair. Jango finds him curled up in Obi-Wan’s lap while she rocks him a little, helping him with his preschool learners book. She’s very patient with him, and more relaxed than she’s been in months. Jango lights up like a lightbulb and runs off, getting Boba and Omega’s bassinet to bring into the room and politely asks Obi-Wan to watch over them. She happily does so, calming down and giving many gentle kisses.

She’s still ignoring the new clothes they keep trying to get on her.

Finally, Satine and Bo get home, and ask what’s up. Satine thinks the girl is very pretty and nice looking. Cody might have to fight her cause he saw her first and that’s his future wife! Satine also thinks the same.

Satine goes off to her room and pulls out the most SCANDALOUS outfit possible. A short tee shirt and waist high exercise shorts! What the fuck Satine, who said you could dress like that??? Satine has never rolled her eyes so hard as when she explains she wears the shorts on top of her tights while exercising cause they have pockets and stuff. Okay, that’s more okay. Mandos don’t just!!! Show skin like that!!!!

Obi-Wan is given the clothes, and then further scandalizes the whole fam by stripping down right then and there in front of everyone and god and the fucking Mandalore to put on the new clothes. She’s much happier and goes back to cuddling Omega, while Cody quietly (loudly) asks Jango where Obi’s peepee is. Amazing.

Anyways. By the time Qui-Gon gets there, she’s willing to give partial custody of her baby to the Mandos for getting her cleaned up and soothed and handing her babies (Qui-Gon always sorta thought her girl might have ended up a nursery worker if not a ballerina lol) and getting her comfy and stuff. They took very good care of her traumatized girl but now she’s panicking when she’s asked if Obi is always that quiet. No. She in fact, is not a quiet girl! Oh shit!

She finally calms down the most and starts talking again when her dance troop gets there to coddle her a little, her dance troop who all have weaponry and protective armor and the Mandos respect that much more than Obi’s scandalous little dresses and stuff. Offensive.

But. I wrote this entire post to say. Mandos don’t show much skin, if any. And Jedi, will easily strip down in front of crowds. Cause it means nothing to them tbh. And Cody is wondering where her peepee is.

[bbeelzemon]

🌈 PWYW Comms!!

Hello!! @llatimeria and I are both opening our commissions to help keep us afloat while we get our situation all sorted out! This time around I'm gonna go with a basic minimum price for each tier, and the more you pay beyond that, the more details/rendering/etc i can add!!

SKETCH - $15+

Sketches start at $15, which will get you a fully monochrome bust like the first one! (Can be any color, not just b/w!) The second one (fullbody with separate lines + 1 color) would be around $25. The third one (detailed bust with shading) would be around $50! This sketch tier is definitely the most variable of all of them, so we'd have a discussion to figure out a quote that works best for both of us!

I can also do sketches with multiple characters, interacting or otherwise! Each additional character in the image gets a discount of 25% from the original base price for the level of detail you wanted

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ICON - $40+

These are more or less a flat rate! I don't have any current icon examples without shading, but $40 will get you flat colors, while $50 gets you shading like in these examples!

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FULLBODY - $70+

Fullbodies come with flat colors by default, but can be discussed! The example on the left would be $70, while the example on the right (the same detail/rendering, but with multiple characters) would be $175! Each additional character in the image gets a discount of 25% (so an additional $52.50 per character for this example)

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REF SHEET - $70+

Ref sheets start at $70, which will get you one like the first example! Ref sheets also come with flat colors by default. Each additional form/outfit/pose/angle/etc in the image gets a discount of 25%, so the second example here would be $122.50 total!

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[BONUS] DOODLES - 100% PWYW

The doodles tier is the most wildcard tier, the effort put into them will reflect how much you pay :) This is the only tier that doesn't include any in-progress updates - you can request whatever details upfront, but the final drawing will be a surprise! You really just get what you pay for with this tier - if you pay a dollar, you're getting a $1 doodle!

If you, for whatever reason, want to put more than a couple dollars in for this tier, I'll most likely draw multiple characters in this style, like in my imp oc examples here, or i might throw some basic colors on it. Let me know if you have any preference!

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What I will draw:

Humans, Furries/anthro, Mecha, Character interactions, Backgrounds (discuss for pricing)... Basically anything!

I will also draw Nsfw/18+ content at an additional cost, message to discuss and for examples!

What i won't draw: Hateful or offensive content, Heavy gore (can be discussed though!), Ship art involving minors or real people, things like that

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Feel free to send me a message here (or at virtualbeetle on discord, just be sure to let me know who you are!). Payment is accepted via paypal by default, but we can discuss other options if necessary :]

Be sure to check out latimer's comm post here as well, if you're interested!

[slitsimp]

‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Imp ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⸺‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 📌.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ they him it ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ sfw , adult , artist

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ +COMMs INFO . ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ↘︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ slitsimp

　

#⸺ ImpPosting  ‎.ᐟ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎- art posts

#⸺ DevilCorridor  ‎.ᐟ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎- offtopic

#⸺ BloodBaths  ‎.ᐟ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎- asks

#⸺ DemonShow  ‎.ᐟ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ - reblogs

　

　

BYF / DNI s . .

🌊 you can use my art as PFPs, BANNERs ect. Just credit me!

🌊 I'm mentally unwell , be patient 😈

🌊 nsfw , kys humor but kept very limited for minors

 💢 I don't feel comfortable talking to people under16. you can follow, just don't directly talk

💢 Object/Show , Mad/Com , HH/HB : actively stay away from me

💢 proship / comship / endos . the door is over there.

💢 don't be weird to me or ‎ ‎my art thanks 😋

 I'm pretty laid back, but these are the only things I'm clear on.

　

　FANDOM s . . / INTEREST s . .

Dialtown . Calamity Mod . Terraria . Ultrakill . DC/Marvel/Spawn . Warframe . 2000s RPG maker . Hylics . LISA RPG . Hell Mythos . Newgrounds . Rhythm Games . Mechas / Robots . Vocaloid

　

　

　

　

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Chapter 20: Morut'yc (Second Chances - Hunter x reader)

Morut'yc. adj. safe, secure.

Chapter summary: Safe for the moment, your squad takes a moment to assess the situation before moving on to Phee's surprise.

Chapter warnings: fluff?, Omega is best girl, Nav processing grief, Nav processing lots of big feelings actually, hidden relationship, the plot makes an appearance briefly but this is mostly fluff

Word Count: 4,560

< Previous chapter | Next chapter >

The warm Rintonne breeze does little to wick away the sweat you’ve worked up while helping Tech disassemble the paneling of both the Marauder and the Redthorn. He’d insisted on doing full diagnostic scans of each ship to ensure that tracking devices were not installed by Imps while you were all stuck in the sinkhole city, but apparently wasn’t satisfied with the flashing green light at the end of the scans. He wanted to physically check. 

Sure, Wrecker could have moved the paneling on his own, but you’d stepped in, needing a distraction from the lingering feeling of Hunter’s lips on yours.

Yet distracted you remain. You whack your shin on an exposed beam and curse, eyes watering.

“There is a beam there,” Tech says, ever helpful.

Swallowing down a scathing retort, you massage the bruised area and settle for sarcasm. “Wow, thanks.”

“My pleasure.” 

You catch the tiny smile tugging at his mouth as he turns away to loosen a bolt in the Redthorn’s belly. Soft, gentle warmth blossoms in your chest at the realization that he’s joking with you. You heft the bundle of cables higher onto your shoulder, then carefully step over the offending beam. You straighten up, back protesting, as you emerge from beneath your ship. Tech’s current plan is to link the two ships together to ensure a seamless data encryption and secure a private comms channel, which requires the thick cable you carry. One end plugged into the Redthorn, you make sure that the wire doesn’t snag on any bushes as you approach the Marauder.

“Need a hand?” Phee asks, falling into step next to you.

You grunt. “Might in a sec.” 

She follows you under the attack shuttle, both of you crouching. Tech had shown you where to plug in the cable, but now that the sun has begun to lower in the sky, you’re going to need another light source to find the correct socket.

“Watch your feet.”

Phee stands clear as you drop the thick coil of wire to the ground, flattening the wild grass. As you retrieve the exposed plug, Phee seems to understand what you need and clicks on her torch.

“Aim it at that panel,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the large, rectangular panel tucked next to the Marauder’s landing gear. As the light illuminates the labyrinth of wires, tubes, and empty sockets, you quickly identify the correct one. The wire hums faintly to life as it slides home. 

“So,” Phee says, lowering the beam of light. “You and Dark ‘n Broody, huh?”

Cutting your eyes over to her, you stiffen for a moment. “What?” 

“Oh, c’mon, there’s something there,” she says. She bumps her shoulder playfully against yours. “What happened when you literally ran over to him?” 

“Nothing,” you say, a little too quickly. Phee gives you a dubious look, her eyebrow cocked in a silent eye roll. “Really. The Redthorn was throwing out some funky warning errors that he couldn’t clear. Needed my help.”

She stares at you for a long, hard moment. “Alright, sure. If I ask him, he gonna tell me the same thing?” 

“Yes,” you say, striding away from the panel, “because that’s what happened.” 

You know she knows you’re lying, but you and Hunter both agreed, breathless and starry-eyed, to keep this new development in your relationship under wraps. At least for now. You all have enough on your hands trying to stay one step (preferably more) ahead of the Empire and keeping Omega safe. Trusting Phee to not pry any further, you step out from beneath the Marauder and wave over to Tech to signal him that the ship is ready.

He waves back. The panel behind you sparks and crackles with energy for a moment, but before you can even do anything about it, the electric hum dies down to a manageable level.

Phee stands beside you, at the edge of your peripheral vision. “We shouldn’t stay here too much longer.”

“We won’t,” you assure. “Just as soon as Tech calls the all clear.” 

“I know,” she says, “I just don’t like feelin’ like a sitting duck.” 

You hum in agreement. Letting your gaze drift, you take in the scenery. It’s just as beautiful as you remember from your first visit. Massive trees take up most of the view here, their thick trunks and heady pine scent consuming your senses. The wild grasses grow nearly to your waist. Above, puffy cumulus clouds tower into the atmosphere, the air thick with the promise of rain.

But your eyes keep coming back to Hunter. Perched atop the Redthorn with Omega, the two of them scrub at the carbon residue from the firefight over Nixor. Omega grins at something Hunter says, and even at this distance, the easy, caring smile that breaks over Hunter’s face is as warming and healing as the dawn. Tearing yourself away from the two of them, you refocus on Tech to make sure you haven’t missed anything. 

Kark, if Echo could see me now, you think wryly. The thought of your best friend makes your heart squeeze. You should send him a message soon.

The thought of Echo leads you to thoughts of the armor currently spread out in the middle of the Maruader’s hold. Wrecker definitely saw it when he went up to see his gift, but so far he hasn’t come to say anything to you about it. You study Hunter for a moment more, wanting it to be a surprise for him to see you in it. You make up your mind.

Figuring that the others can help Tech if something goes awry in the next few minutes, you make your way as casually as possible up the ramp. A few of the plates shifted when Tech landed, but otherwise, they remain as you left them, arranged neatly and in anatomical order. Gingerly stepping over the legs and arms, you crouch by the helmet. The paint seems fully dry at this point; you make a mental note to thank Omega for the idea of using the squad’s colors. 

A turquoise sunburst curls over the crest of the helmet, its yellow and orange rays stretching down the torso and limbs. Triangles of teal, stars against the dark-wash field of night, burst across the spaulders and gauntlet plates. A rush of pride crests within you. 

The armor will take some getting used to, the plastoid plates resting atop your clothing like an exoskeleton. Tech did an exceptional job, just as you knew he would, of making sure the pieces fit properly; none of them pinch, jut, or overlap where they shouldn’t. In the tiny, cracked mirror of the ’fresher, you meet your reflection’s gaze as you lower the helmet over your head. 

You nearly rip it right back off, the claustrophobic sensation immediate and terrifying. Chest heaving, you stare down into the black visor of the helmet.

“We’ll work on that,” you mutter to it. 

It remains silent.

When you emerge from the ship, helmet tucked against your hip, Wrecker is the first to notice you. Giving a whoop! that echoes off the surrounding trees, he leaps in excitement. 

“Wrecker—” Hunter’s tone is harsh, dipped down into his battlefield voice, but he cuts himself off as soon as he catches sight of you.

Omega flashes you a smile from atop the Redthorn. She scrambles to slide down the edge, calling for Wrecker to catch her. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she scampers over to you. 

“It looks so good!” she gushes. 

“Couldn’t have done it without your help, kiddo,” you say with a warm smile. And you really couldn’t have. Glancing up, you catch Tech’s curious gaze as he approaches. “Or yours, Technically.” 

He inclines his head. “We will need to make sure the plastoid withstands our usual stress.” 

It’s as close to a compliment as you figure you’ll receive from him right now. You’re fine with that; it’s not his opinion you care about. 

Hunter’s eyebrow is cocked as he halts a few feet away, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze sweeps you from head to toe, and you flush, lips tingling with the ghost of his. For a long moment, you hold your breath, anxious, palms sweating in the gloves.

Finally he grins, joy spreading over his face. “It suits you. You look...” He clears his throat. “You look like one of us now.” 

Ducking your head, you smile, face flushing. “Was hoping you’d say that.” 

He hums, but before he can say anything else, Tech interjects. “The ships are clean and re-encrypted. We can replace the panels now.”

To your relief, Wrecker helps with this part, making things go by much faster than if you’d done it alone. As you push against the final panel of the Redthorn, holding it in place for Tech to tighten the bolts, Wrecker grins down at you. 

“Wanted to say thank you for the gift, Nav,” he says, “before we took off again.” 

You smile, arms shaking a little with the strain. “I promised I’d help you learn to cook. While it’s not technically cooking, per se, blenders are fun. I’ll show you how to make a smoothie first.”

His grin widens, and yours does, too, his excitement palpable and contagious. “Great! What’s a smoothie?” 

“Typically you make one with fruit,” you say after a moment, forgetting that for all their combat experience, the squad really hasn’t had much time to be regular people. “Some people like to put yogurt or milk, protein powder, whipped cream....” 

“Aww yeah!” His booming laugh cracks over you. “Healthy and tasty? I can’t wait.”

The sun is still above the horizon by the time both ships are fully closed up again. Stretching your arms out to alleviate any future soreness, you sigh softly. A presence makes itself known in your periphery. Omega melds herself to your shadow. “Can I come with you?” 

“I did promise you a ride in the Redthorn, didn’t I?” 

She nods enthusiastically. “I’ve been studying scout-class ships as part of my training!” 

Tech’s chest puffs with pride at his star pupil’s energetic admission. “Then I expect a full report of the Redthorn’s capabilities after we arrive...wherever it is we’re going.”

Omega’s face falls for the space of a heartbeat, but when Phee steps forward, the girl brightens once more. For your part, you can’t help but lean forward in anticipation. Phee’s penchant for embellishing and exaggerating is well known, but even you can’t quell the curiosity stirring in your chest, your desire to finally learn her surprise.

“Here,” she says, handing you a data stick. “Coordinates. When we get there, we’ll be expected to spend some time with the mayor, but afterward, you’ll have a place to rest.” 

Hunter catches your gaze and twitches his eyebrows up. He says, “Mayor? What kind of place are you taking us, Phee?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” she says with a cheeky grin. “Now let’s go, before the Empire shows up again.”

As Phee follows Tech and Wrecker up the Marauder’s ramp, Omega practically skips to the Redthorn, disappearing into its hull with bright, excited eyes. You hesitate for a moment in the tall grass, within arm’s reach of Hunter, his presence nearly overwhelming in its proximity. 

“I’ll see you there,” Hunter says. He jerks his head back toward his own ship. “Don’t want them getting suspicious.”

“I think that ship has sailed,” you say with a sheepish smile. “At least for Phee.”

His eyes darken a bit at that, becoming shards of obsidian glass. “Hells. Well, at least I won’t have to listen to the others tease me. Yet.”

“Would that be so bad?” you ask, quirking one eyebrow.

He chuckles with a shake of his head. “With Echo not around? Nah.” 

You hum in agreement, another memory of his teasing jests surfacing. “Right. Well, stay safe.” 

“You, too.” He lingers for a moment longer before retreating to the Marauder. 

Turning, you’re halfway to your ship when he calls for you to wait. “What is it?” 

His eyes have softened, buttery and mellow. “It really does suit you, (y/n).”

Your nerves sing with electricity. “Thank you, Hunter.” 

With a nod, he waves, then climbs the stairs to the Marauder. 

Sighing as you climb the ladder to the cockpit of your ship, you school your expression into something more neutral than the adoration you’re sure is etched into each line of your face. Omega swivels the pilot’s seat around as you haul yourself up, her brown eyes glittering with excitement.

“Can I fly?” she asks.

“You can help,” you say. There’s no way you’d be able to say no her anyhow, not with the pleading look you know she’s capable of mustering up. “But only after we take off. She’s a touchy ship.”

Cheering, Omega shuffles out of your seat just long enough for you to sit down, before launching herself up into your lap. With a surprised chuckle, you tug her farther into your lap to make sure she’s secure. Your hands move over the control panel with ease, the familiar pre-flight checks settling the roil of nerves that have suddenly made themselves known. You’ve never particularly enjoyed surprises—a preference for which the irony is not lost on you—and Phee’s desire to keep ahead of the Empire has you more on edge than you initially realized. But you’re not alone. Not anymore. Across the clearing, the Marauder lifts off from the ground.

Sliding the datastick into the navicomputer, you narrow your eyes as the pre-selected coordinates feed into its system. The coords aren’t ones you’ve seen before, and based on the navicomputer’s readout, it’s not a well-traveled system, wherever it is you’re heading.

“Alright, ’Mega,” you murmur. “Hands on the yoke.” 

“Really?” she gasps. 

You nod. When she places her hands on either side of the controls, you rest your hands overtop of hers, and then gently pull back on the padded grips. “Just like this. She’s responsive, so you don’t need to yank it around the way Tech does with the Maruader.” 

She giggles. “Tech’s a good pilot.” 

“He is,” you concede, “but every ship is different. You can’t fly one ship the same way you fly another.”

Once the ship lurches away from the ground and clears the treetops, you remove your hands. Omega audibly gulps, but then her jaw sets. She glances around at the various readouts, all of them showing normal. 

“Flying is about a feeling,” she mutters to herself. 

You raise one eyebrow, curious about where she heard that—she’s not entirely wrong, but you know she didn’t pick that up from Tech. Holding your breath, you wait to see what she does. 

After a moment more of hesitation, she twitches the yoke back a little farther to catch up to the Marauder. The Redthorn responds beautifully, accelerating steadily as it climbs through the atmosphere back toward the vastness of space. Omega realizes, without your input, that the ship isn’t quite aligned with the other ship’s course; she gently adjusts her grip on the yoke, and brings the Redthorn into alignment. 

“Well done, kid,” you say, beaming. “You’re a natural.”

She cranes her neck back to look at you, her nose scrunched in a wide, toothy smile. “You mean it?”

“Of course.” You ease her head back forward. “Eyes on the prize, though, kiddo.”

“Sorry,” she giggles. “I just— Tech promised me flying lessons, so now I can impress him with my skills whenever he lets me fly the Marauder.”

Your own gaze focuses on the bright, blazing thrusters of the other ship, several hundred feet ahead of you. “I’m sure he already knows how skilled you are.”

“I suppose,” she says. As you glance down at her, a sudden wave of emotion crashes over you, your heart soaring and squeezing at the same time. Her brow furrowed in concentration, her tongue pokes between her teeth in the exact same expression you’ve seen Tech wear when he works on particularly delicate projects. She may be Hunter’s daughter, you reflect, but she is also very much the squad’s sister, too. 

You don’t realize tears have gathered in your eyes until you blink and one slides down your face. It drops onto Omega’s shoulder, instantly soaking into the dark fabric. Clenching your jaw, you will the rest of the moisture to retreat, not wanting the girl to worry about you. You nearly succeed, too, but not before the Redthorn exits the gravity well. Ahead of you, the Marauder stretches and vanishes.

Omega peers back up at you. “Nav, are we ready to j—are you okay?” Her eyes widen. Letting go of the controls, she twists on your lap. “What happened?”

“Hyperspace lever is that one.” You point, then, with a quick glance to the navicomputer to ensure the coordinates have held steady, you slide the lever forward. The ship jumps to hyperspace without issue.

“Nav,” Omega says, reaching up to wipe your face dry, “what’s going on?”

“S’nothing,” you say with a weak smile. More tears well up now that there’s attention on them. Omega’s brow scrunches with worry, her lips turned down in a doubtful frown, and in your heart of hearts, you think you finally understand the feeling of your entire being, your soul, shifting. 

“Ad’ika,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. Caressing her curls, you swallow against the lump of emotions lodged in your throat. “Ner ad’ika.” 

Her eyes widen further, tears welling up to match your own. “Buir.” 

You can only nod, smiling tearfully. Omega burrows against your chest, her arms wrapping around you. Holding her close, you press your face to her curls, eyes screwing shut. You don’t know, and don’t frankly care, how long you remain there, holding your daughter, your little sister, your shadow. Now that you have a moment to breathe, a moment to think, all you can think about is the girl you hold next to your heart and her safety. If Phee’s surprise turns out to be just another stop in the journey of making sure Omega is protected, so be it. You’ll explore every system untouched by the Empire if that’s what it takes.

You wait for her to pull back first. When she does, her eyes are dry but bright and shining. You smile at one another, and then dissolve into laughter. Your abs hurt—you haven’t laughed like this in far too long, since Arien, but it’s a good kind of soreness. As you both calm, you ruffle her hair. 

“C’mon,” you say. “I’ll give you the grand tour.” 

She opens up every locker, most of which are empty. Her curiosity can’t be contained, and you wouldn’t stop her anyways. She deserves to explore, to be a kid. Yet, despite how sternly you tell yourself that, anxiety trickles into your bloodstream as she gets closer to your private locker, the one with the gray uniform and identification badge stuffed to the bottom. The thought occurs to you to lie, to say that that door is broken, but you’re past lying, especially to her. 

When she flings open the door to that locker, she stills, her smile fading, the sun dimming behind clouds. 

“What was the academy like?” she asks after a long moment. 

“Stressful,” you say, quiet. “I...was never going to make high ranks. And I was okay with that. Supply officer was still an honorable post, one that served from behind the scenes, supporting the front lines without ever actually getting into combat.” You shrug. “School was never my favorite, but I was good at it.”

She tugs the uniform out of the locker. Pinching the gray fabric between her thumb and fingers, she frowns down at it like it insulted her. “You believed in the Republic.” 

She doesn’t phrase it as a question, but you feel compelled to answer anyway. “I did. I do.”

“But the Republic is gone.” 

“It is.” You sigh, sinking onto the bench that rings the cargo hold. Rubbing your face, you let out a long sigh. “I can’t imagine we’re the only ones who see the corruption of the Empire. Why else would they be hunting me down?”

With a shrug, Omega places the uniform back into the locker and shuts the door. She sits next to you, kicking her feet. “They don’t like people who stand against them. It was the same with the Republic; the Republic was just better at hiding it.” 

You blink at her. “When did you become so wise?” 

“Kamino,” she says with a grin. “I watched a lot of the training my vode went through. The Republic wasn’t the best, but it was better than what we have now.”

You can only nod at that. Sitting in silence, save for the hum of the hyperdrive and that damned squeaky panel that won’t stay fixed, no matter how many times you whack it with a hammer, you finally let yourself process the last several days. You realize, with a start, that Coruscant was only...four, maybe five days ago. And yet, so much has happened. Exhaustion settles heavy and frigid in your bones. Memories of your time in a Coruscanti prison cell drift through your mind: bland, tasteless meals; forced medications; and an Imperial officer who seemed entirely too smug after you called her a di’kut. 

And then there’s the matter of Tarkin. You still only know the name and the fact that he’s not a fan of clones. Wracking your brain, you try to hypothesize why someone like that would be so interested in finding you. Leverage? Power? You clench your jaw, frustrated at the lack of information.

“Do you have a holo of Arien?” Omega asks suddenly. 

You jump, so wrapped up in your thoughts you momentarily forgot where you are. Hand pressed over your heart, you nod. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, hang on.” 

You’re glad you had the wherewithal to keep your old datapad stashed aboard the ship when you went to the academy. You hadn’t been allowed to bring your own, so you’d asked Arien to keep it safe. Of course, she had, but not without adding a few holos to it. Retrieving the datapad from its charging port on top of the highest rack, you click it open. 

Arien’s toothy smile and shining purple eyes glint up at you from the screen. Your steps falter. For a moment, all you can do is stand and look down at the selfie she’d taken, probably just days before she died. Her long hair tied back and swept over one shoulder, eyeliner winged and perfect, crooked teeth bared in a show of exuberance: that’s the Arien you want to remember. 

Omega stands on her toes to peer at the screen, as well. “She looks like fun.” 

“Oh, she was,” you chuckle. “The most fun I ever had in my life was with her.” You nudge Omega’s shoulder with a wink. “You’re a close second, though, kid.”

“Yeah, right,” she laughs. “We don’t get to have fun.” 

“You might now,” you say, thoughts turning back toward your surprise destination. “Who knows what we’ll find when we get there?”

Gazing up at you, the gears visibly turn in Omega’s mind. After a moment, she shrugs. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Can I see more?” She gestures at the datapad. 

You hand it to her. “Yeah, here.” 

She retreats to the bench that lines the wall and tucks her feet beneath her as she swipes back through the holoscans. A knot begins to loosen in your chest, one you didn’t even know was there until this moment. Seeing Arien as she ought to be remembered, you expected the pain to be crippling, paralyzing, but instead it was...dull. Present, for sure, and still very upsetting, but not debilitating like it had been just a few weeks ago. 

“Grief is a normal part of the process,” she’d told you once. “And once we stop grieving, that person has found their way back into the galaxy. We don’t have to mourn for new life. We celebrate it.” 

Maybe the lessening of your pain means her Force energy is moving closer to being reborn. Or whatever. You’re not certain if that’s even what she or her people believe. 

Settling next to Omega, you smile at the holos as they pass by. You answer her questions, but mostly, she just studies the holoscans. Most of them are of Arien making various faces, some of them silly, some of them staged like she intended to set up one of those HoloNet dating profiles; but there are a few of you in there, too. Ones you didn’t know she took. There’s you, frowning up at one of the skyscrapers on Coruscant. There’s you, mid-bite of a dish you remember being one of the best things you ever ate, a blissful expression on your face. There’s you, asleep on your shared couch. And there’s a handful of ones with both you and Arien, faces smushed together.

The last one in that folder is another one of you. Brow furrowed, pen held between your teeth, your gaze looks like it could burn a hole through whatever you’re reading. And it probably would have, if that kind of power was possible. You don’t remember what you’d been reading in that moment, but that image is so painfully you—so determined, so passionate, so concentrated—that it leaves you breathless. 

Arien saw you. 

You want Hunter to see you the same way. You vow to show him these as soon as you’re able.

But you’re wrenched away from that thought as the navicomputer trills over the intercom. Rushing up the ladder, you slide into the pilot’s seat and ease the lever back in the same movement. As the hyperlane condenses back down into starlines, which collapse back into stars, your breath catches at the sight of the planet below you. 

Glittering azure in the light of the nearby sun, the water world is a giant gem. Swirls of puffy white clouds and dots of brilliant green marble the planet’s surface. As Omega perches on your lap, you can’t hold in the disbelieving chuckle that bubbles up from your sternum. 

“Look at that, ’Mega,” you say in a hushed, awed voice. 

“I grew up on a water world,” she says in the same tone, “but I never thought water could look so...beautiful.”

This place’s beauty only grows stronger the farther down into the atmosphere you guide the ship, following the contrails of the Marauder. You circle a tall, conical island while Tech lands his ship, and your breath hitches at the sight of dozens and dozens of buildings nestled along the flanks of the island. Docks fan out at the base like so many fingers. As you lower the Redthorn, people’s faces turn up, shielding their eyes against the glare of the sun. At the top of the island, in a flattened courtyard, you land the ship close to the Marauder, and just sit for a moment, taking in the surroundings. A massive tree twists upward with a gnarled trunk in the center of the courtyard. In the alcoves of the wall that rings around the space, people pause, looking curiously at both ships. 

“You ready?” you ask. 

“If you are.” 

You ruffle her hair. “C’mon. Let’s go meet the mayor.”

Taglist: @the-hexfiles @fjordg @idoubleswearimawriter @skellymom @jedi-hawkins (if i missed you or you'd like to be added pls lmk!)

BONUS!

Nav's armor!

[tiredofsatansbullshit]

This drawing strip has inspired me to write a little thing that is barely a drabble so here you go

Warning: (slight) spoilers for The Mandalorian Chapter 23

“Kryze wants to talk to you, says it’s an emergency,” Fennec tosses the comm in her hand at Boba as she enters the room, dropping down onto the chair next to his.

Sighing, Boba picks up the comm and is met with the sight of an annoyed Bo-Katan Kryze. “What,” Boba is not in the mood to deal with her. “I have been leading the Mando’ade in retaking Manda’yaim-” Bo-Katan began to speak but Boba cut her off. “I literally couldn’t care less about what you and your group of zealots are attempting, Kryze.”

Boba could practically see the steam coming out of Bo-Katan’s ears but her next sentence wiped the smirk that was forming on his face right off. “Moff Gideon has Djarin.” Grabbing his buyce from the table, Boba began preparations to leave, “I will be there as soon as possible. The land of Manda’yaim will once again be blessed with the blood of our enemies. The brutal ways of Mando’ade will be shown, there will be no mercy. The last thing those imp scum will see is the barrel of my blaster before they know nothing else.”

Mando'a translations (I hope I'm right, please let me know if any of it is wrong"

Mando'ade: Mandalorians

Manda'yaim: Mandalore (literally translates to Mandalorian home)

Buyce: Helmet