#jedi lance

[jonberry555]

The Veteran by Adam Lance Garcia BOOK REVIEW -- Star Wars: Return of the Jedi From a Certain Point of View

#fromacertainpointofview #starwars #returnofthejedi The Veteran by Adam Lance Garcia REVIEW #shorts

[bh-52]

What if Ahsoka had Laurel Lance or Matt Murdock as her lawyer during her trial in the clone wars season 5?

[richdadpoor]

Star Wars Reveals Dexter Jettster's Sad Life After Return of the Jedi

Of all the intriguing tales in the new Return of the Jedi anniversary anthology From a Certain Point of View, one revolving around Attack of the Clones’ premiere gourmet establishment proprietor Dexter Jettster was arguably the most intriguing to many when it was announced. What was Dexter up to during the original trilogy? It turns out the answer was being very sad. ‘I Started a Yoda Fan…

[almahiphop]

Vinnie Paz - Faith Healer Prod. C-Lance

Vinnie Paz – Faith Healer Tortured In the Name of God’s Unconditional Love Video dirigido, filmado y editado por Jimmy Giambrone, canción producida por C-Lance.

[moorgate]

More of my Nautolan oc sketches! She's a grey jedi who wields a double bladed lightsaber that converts to a lance-like version. She greatly prefers the distance the lance version affords her in battle.

I haven't named her yet. Because names are hard and tiddy is soft.

(edit: i've named her so'un ze (zae, not zee)!)

[callmemaeverick]

Gray

Disclaimer: This is pure indulgence okay. It's my interpretation of the Force, my view of the Jedi after ep 8, and my theory of what happened. P/S: pls read tag for TWs

PPS: If you didn’t know yet, Manny did a futuristic Sci-Fi podcast where he voiced a soldier. Theres quite a bit of injury involved.. if you wanna have some auditory aids for his voice and umm.. other stuff. It’s called Marigold Breach, it’s on Apple Podcast, Spotify, Realm and Youtube. (fork, I sound like an ad. Im not being paid I swear) WC: 1.6k

Never before in the time you were intuned with the Force have you felt so lost. So… unbalanced. When normally, tasks and missions were approached in a calm and collected manner, with a clear and peaceful mind, it had since warped into frantic breathing and a thundering heart, engulfed in compromising emotions.

Every sound grated, every jolt of the ship you were flying felt like a quake and you scrambled to keep the small craft stable. You couldn't afford major turbulence, not with him in such a state.

But you went as fast as you could, desperate to get into lightspeed so that all traces of you and your passenger are gone. As far as you could, though you doubt that you would find a corner of the galaxy that could hide you both. They would find you, you know this to be fact. It would only be a matter of time.

Fear threatened to consume you and for once; you were tempted to let it. After what you have seen, after what you have discovered; the teachings of the Jedi no longer seemed as righteous as you once thought it was. You scoffed, feeling stupid. Not once did you ever question your environment or the teachings of the Masters' as you rose through the ranks, from fledgling to Padawan. You took their word as law. After all, they were the Jedi and you wanted to be just like them.

Now, the thought of the Knights you had so venerated left you angry and confused. Hypocrites; all of them. All they wanted was power. Power over the Republic. Power over the Senate. And they had the audacity to condemn those who wanted to keep power for themselves.

Screw them.

xxxx

The planet you randomly chose was amber in colour, ringed with a manageable asteroid belt.

You were never really good at landing. In your impatience, you would misjudge the thrust and would sometimes send the ship careening too fast. And it was always resulted in a bruised chest; and an even bruised ego after the lecture your Master would unleash upon you.

The thought of your Master sent a lance through your heart; but you pushed it away and fought to calm down as you attempted the landing. You had wanted to be gentle, to make it a smooth landing. You managed; barely. The moment you touched down, you were out of the pilot's seat and into the belly of the ship.

He was exactly where you left him on your cot, stomach down. Had you not been so intuned with him, had you not been able to hear his soft breaths, you could have sworn he was dead. He should have been dead.

The memory of what you witness in secret breached your mind. You remembered the shock you had to bite down, the scream you had to swallow when you witness what happened to him.

How could she do that, to her own Padawan.

Shaking your head of the dark thoughts, you pulled out the emergency kit, grabbing saline and gauze and bacta patches into your arms. On your way to him, you also grabbed an IV drip.

The smell of charred flesh turned your stomach and you swallowed to keep nausea at bay as you kneeled by his side. His tunic was in taters, pieces of the material burned and melted onto his skin. Dirt and mud slicked his back, mixing into the red exposed flesh. You choked down a sob. You whispered his name.

A soft groan reached your ears, then a gasp.

"No, no, don't move." You reached for his shoulder, grasping gently, and you could feel the muscles tightening. "Shh… I'm here. It's just me."

Recognition smoothed his features and your name escaped his lips before his eyes fluttered open. His hand lifted but before it could reach your face; his body spasmed and he cried out.

"Fuck," You moved quickly, gently peeling his ruined tunic from his body. The moment you made contact; he whimpered. His body shook with the agony and your heart broke once more. "I know… I know. I'll be quick, I promise." His back was torn violently, almost shredded, and the worst of the injury was where the wounds connect, overlapped. Burnt muscle was exposed, black and red and oozing blood. Apologies fell from your lips like a prayer, begging for forgiveness for what you are about to do. Then, you flushed a gauze pad with saline and as gently as you could, wiped down the dirt.

You worked as carefully as you could, ignoring his cries and sobs. His body tensed then shook then tensed again every time you touched him. "Almost there. I'm almost done," Your voice cracked, the efforts to hold back tears and nausea proving too much.

As the pile of soiled gauze beside you grew; the blood trickled to a stop and finally, you were able to place the bacta patch on him. "This will help, okay." You told him, but he had long since passed out. You were mostly talking to yourself. "It's going to be over soon."

Once the bacta was on, you sat back and finally let your tears fall. He was unconsciousness, but alive. Thankfully alive. Wiping your face with your sleeves, you stood up and finally initiated ground security protocols.

xxxx

Something was approaching. You looked back and all you see was darkness but you kept running.

Exhaustion weighed down on you. It had been days. Fear slithered in your chest, wrapping around your heart, constricting your lungs. Anger and shame flared inside you, threatening to consume.

A crack of lightning, and a snake lunged at you and your back seared in an unimaginable pain. White hot and blazing. You felt your flesh rip and your vision blacked out. And then, cold. Freezing cold.

You ended and you began.

xxxx

The gasp that tore through your throat hurt like a mudscuffer. You blinked, frozen for a few seconds before feeling came back into your limbs.

The thing about Force dreams was that they don't normally show you the good. Most of the time, it was almost always something dark. But a Jedi is supposed to control their emotions, to release one's self and let go. Selflessness, it was the mark of a true Jedi.

Despite you renouncing the Order, you went through the motions of calming yourself down, or reigning in your emotions.

It’s been a few days… or what felt like a few days. The planet cycle is foreign to you and you’ve essentially lost track of time.

You looked over at the other occupant of the ship and sighed heavily. He was twitching as well, in his sleep, something you were familiar with.

You walked over and gently checked on the bacta. It was one of your last supplies but at least it was working. The wound was healing. Scarred… but healing. There will be mobility issues and you doubt if he would ever get his full range of motion, much less the ability to swing a saber again. Still, you wouldn't put it past him. He is as stubborn as you are.

You remembered growing up with him, the both of you in the Academy.

He was strong. Both of you were, but unlike you, he was the nail that stuck out. Where you obeyed, and did as you were told, he questioned everything. Where you hid your true emotions, he was not afraid to let it show.

And you were glad for it. Had he not done what he had done, questioned and researched, poked and prodded, you wouldn't have seen the true face of the Jedi Order. You wouldn't have known that they were just as power-hungry and backstabbing as the rest of the pirates in the galaxy. They just covered it under the guise of the greater good.

But in the end, he was also the one who paid the price.

They did not know you stole a ship and followed them. They did not know you saw them string him up and strip him of his lightsaber.

You heard his terrified pleas but they fell on deaf ears when it came to his Master. And yours.

He was a child, barely 20 years old. You both were, but they did not see him anymore. The pupil they once treasured. In their eyes, he needed to be eradicated. Just because he wanted to draw power from a source that was forbidden to them.

The buzz of an activated saber drew your attention to the lightwhip of Master Vernestra and your eyes widened in shock. Surely, she wouldn't, you thought.

But you were wrong.

All it took was one strike and his scream would haunt your nights for a long time.

You waited until they left. You had to. And once you were sure they were no longer around, you rushed to his side. It was then you decided you were not coming back.

The sound of your name pulled you from your anger and you turned to see him watching you.

"You're causing a quake," He remarked, and the chattering of loose metal around you ceased. You took a deep breath and reigned it in.

You scooted closer to him and leaned in close. You took stock of him. He was pale but at least he was lucid. His dark brown eyes were clear, which was another good sign.

"So… the favored pupil… finally left the nest, huh? Didn't think… you had it in you."

And he was teasing you.

And it broke you. You drank him in like a person obsessed, trying to make sense of what you were feeling. Anger, fear, confusion, relief. And something else you couldn’t name. But they roiled together inside you making tears pool in your eyes and your lips wobble.

"What… What are we going to do?"

His touch on your face and your eyes closed. He was real. He was alive.

"We'll survive." He told you. "We'll survive."

FIN

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter I : Apollo

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Summary: Enter: A man who is not so much a man, but an effigy, a wound of steel and armor and Creed – secrecy and masked faces, above all else. 

Enter: A girl who is not a girl, but a creature helmed in darkness and spit out unto the galaxy broken and unmoored. 

Enter: The creation of myth.

Content Warnings: Dominant Din Djarin; Unprotected sex; Creampie;Size difference; Size kink; Rough sex; Overstimulation; Spanking; Brat taming; Touched-Starved Din Djarin

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Hello, friends, and welcome to the new story! 

A few notes: We are starting prior to season one’s canon, and I am doing what I want and making it so that Din already knows about the Force and the Jedi. I make free use of canon and the timeline in whatever way I see fit to suit my own horny purposes, sorry. If things aren’t canon or don’t make sense pls don’t tell me. I am naught but a fragile flower who wilts under harsh criticism. 

Please note as well, that I do describe the FMC as having two different colored eyes although I do not specify what color they are. 

Also, I will be updating the tags as we go along so as to avoid spoiling too much too early on. 

Thank you and enjoy!

Word count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

PART I

CHAPTER I : APOLLO

Is it a god inside you, girl?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

The first time you meet, he’s sitting in the corner of the shithole cantina on the shithole backwater planet you currently find yourself on: Nevarro. Sometimes you were wont to flight – in search of a nowhere place in the middle of a nowhere part of the galaxy to lose yourself. And the barren landscape of the volcanic planet, a broken star of red, the only interruption in the black field of ash, no wind, no life, no sound; it provides the perfect environment for getting lost when necessary.

And then one day, unexpectedly: him. He is a shining, metallic, mountain of a man. 

Mandalorian. 

Whenever you’d felt too suffocated, strangulated, in need of a moment, a breather, a reprieve from the reality of what you were… what you are becoming – this place is enough of nothing to be just the perfect something. When you’re not busy flitting from planet to planet, sector to sector, looking for something to fill the gnawing void within you. Before landing here, you’d been on Sorgan for a time. It’d been… nice… peaceful, or whatever approximation of peace you could partially recognize after an existence such as that which you were currently trying to run from. A temperate climate, kind people, but after a while, you’d happened upon a community one day, and they’d been so… so together, so familiar. Happy, they’d be so openly, unabashedly, uncomplicatedly happy. It was simple, and it had made a terrible lance of poisonous jealousy roil through you. Jealousy and anger and bitterness and a loneliness so painful that you’d had to flee, as far and as fast as you could from the reflection of all your envy and shame. And so you’d come here instead, to Nevarro. A more barren, emptier sort of place – better suited to your ilk. 

“I’ve never met a Mandalorian before,” you croon up at him, smoothly sliding into the booth he’s currently occupying in the furthest dark corner of the cantina, only the gleaming silver crescent of the curve of his helmet visible from the other side of the room. 

This is the first of many lies you will tell him. 

No response. Only the dark, yawning pit of his visor faced slightly away from you. 

The stark curve of his helmet gleams brightly. Beautiful. He looks strong, thickly built. His shoulders, so broad. The armor adorning his torso is beaten and worn, and yet, there’s something so… what’s the word? Lived, perhaps, about the facade of him. This is a creature who has lived – who has seen things, who has battled and survived and most assuredly killed. 

Maybe a little like you, but good. For this you know with certainty about Mandalorians – a flash of a pained scream, beskar crumbling beneath the force of you, for not even what could be considered the most endurable alloy in the galaxy could withstand something of your nature, blood, so much blood, and the sound of such defeat as you do the unforgivable– they are good and honorable and worthy – great warriors. But perhaps, on the surface, with a face of shared, painful history, of survival, maybe there are some things between the two of you which could be called similar. 

“I’ve always been curious, though… Always wanted to meet one.” You sidle closer to him. There’s something about him, the weapons, the breadth of his shoulders, the silence, which starts a chilled little shiver of fear that flashes and coalesces into something hotter and wetter deep in your belly, the closer you get to him. And the feeling of it – of apprehension, of standing in the presence of something other, something that could perhaps best, even you, it is exciting and arousing and different to everything else you’ve ever encountered.

Still no response. 

“You’re hard to come by now. Not many of you left, right?” A curdle of shame and regret hidden beneath your wry tone, “A girl’s got to get extra lucky to find something as interesting as you nowadays… something as pretty too.”

He does react to this, finally, and a little shock of victory fizzes in your belly at the fact that he’s at last deigned to give you even a semblance of his attention, for you are desperately in want of it, as he turns his helmet the fraction of an inch in your direction at the sound of you calling him pretty. So, it seems even a Mandalorian is victim to vanity. 

“Oh, so you can hear under there,” you quip, “I was beginning to worry…”

And then his voice, deep, and of potentially the lowest and smoothest baritone you’ve ever heard, comes through the modulator, “I can hear.” Clipped, and even maybe, a little cold. 

“And he speaks too!” He flexes open the fingers of the gloved hand that lays on the table. You’re annoying him. “How exciting.” You cross one knee over the other, elbow propped up on the edge of the table and chin cupped in your palm, looking up at him. He’s tall, even sitting. Your joint presses into the hard muscle of his thigh, and you feel him scoot just the tiniest bit away from you. You have the uncontrollable urge to snap your teeth at him. You must surely be at least half his size, especially with all that beskar covering him. Don’t act so scared, big, bad Mandalorian. I’m just a little girl. You don’t know what I actually am.

Helmet now turned entirely in your direction to keep an eye on you, he says, “What are you?” Or… whoops, maybe he does know. 

You ignore his question. “You know, I met a whore once – who claimed she’d fucked a Mandalorian. Is it true you just pull out the important bits and get on with it? Seems a bit cold, no? Even for a paid fuck?” He jolts a little at your vulgarity, and you flash him a wide grin, wriggle one delicate eyebrow provocatively. “No game?”

He turns his body to face you more fully now too, his thigh pressing into yours once again as he takes you on directly. Perhaps a warrior's instinct that can sense he is not in the presence of something to be trifled with. The helmet cocks slowly to the side. Silent, silent. Not one for many words this Mandalorian, although, it seems you’ve provoked him now. 

“What are you?” he says again, voice measured. 

“How do you mean?” You let your voice end on an upward lilt, and he shifts minutely, as if agitated at your uncooperativeness. 

“You’re not– I don’t–” The helmet tilts the other way as if inspecting you, and you cut him off before he can finish. 

“Oh, so many things.” You roll your hand on your wrist in a fluttering wave, tapping your fingers quickly against your thumb one by one, flexing a muscle you’ve not allowed yourself to use in a while and repressing it, all at once. You’re watching him so closely you see the small pivot of his neck to glance at your hand, and then back to your face. “Who can keep track anymore? So many strange creatures roaming the galaxy after the fall of everything. The Empire. We’re all just madly careening around as whatever the moment requires of us, aren’t we?” He’s quiet, still inspecting you, and you feel his gaze like a brand on the skin of your face. Like fire, like something that you remember from a nightmare, and that you think should be painful, but now only feels exciting. “So, what are you, Mandalorian? What does the present moment require of you?”

He goes silent again, and you watch the subtle downward tilt of his helmet as he inspects the length of you. You wish you could see if he was ogling the tight swell of your breasts beneath your dark clothes. You tilt your head side to side, smile big at him again, and you’re pretty sure you hear an agitated little huff of annoyance slip through the modulator.

And then: “I’m not interested.” He turns back to face away from you, both fists now firmly planted on the table’s surface, clenched into tight balls of clear annoyance. “Go away.”

Oh, he’s funny too. You throw your head back in a quick laugh, “Did I offer something?”

Silence.

“Dirty mind, Mandalorian.” You drag the vowels out to irk him just that extra bit more. “What? Just because I made one little mention of a whore means that, I too, must be peddling my wares?” And you knock your knee into his beskar clad thigh again. He scoots a smidge away from you, and you follow him, laughing again. Oh, you really should stop provoking him, but it’s just turning out to be too much fun. And you’d been watching him for weeks now, every time he came in here for a new bounty puck. You’d so wanted to talk to him, had snooped around to find out he’s in the Guild, and now you finally are. It was just too much for a girl who had too much time on her hands, and too many ugly thoughts she’d rather forget, roaming around in her mind, to look away from a moment of distraction such as this. 

“Stop,” and it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. 

You snicker. “Stop what?” in a sing-songed lilt that you know must be grinding his gears. Poor, shiny Mandalorian. 

“Whatever it is you’re doing – speaking to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want something from me.”

“What could I possibly want from you?” You bat your eyelashes at him. “Who’s the one peddling their wares now, Mandalorian, hmm?” He says nothing now, and you know you’re pushing him, you can see the vibration of his restrained agitation in the lines of his thick arms, but there is something needling and annoying and obnoxious inside of you that wants his attention, that wants to incite him. And so you make a mistake that perhaps, is not a mistake at all, but a call for something more, for a reaction from him because as you slowly start to lift a single finger up towards the curve of his helmet, you say, “Tell me, what do you have to offer?” At the same time, he pivots and snaps up to grasp the thin of your wrist in a bone crushing grip as you’re about to make contact with the smooth surface of the gleaming beskar helmet. And you know you were asking for it, that you should never have even insinuated that you were going to touch a Mandalorian’s helmet, and that this is only your own doing, but as his harsh strength makes contact with you, so unexpectedly, he’s so fast, that you’re caught almost entirely unaware, you react on pure instinct. A reflex so embedded into the deepest and most poisoned recesses of your mind, that despite the fact that you know this is the last sort of reaction you should exhibit, that above all else you needed to keep this part of yourself hidden and secreted away from the rest of the galaxy, you can’t help yourself when, at the moment that his crushing strength slams your hand back down onto the table, twisting painfully so that you’re crying out in shock and hurt, you weren’t going to do anything to him, you just wanted to touch a little, you can’t help it when you let go of the reins on your power, and you feel the Force snap out of you like a band of rubber, to crack out and wrap around his arm and rip his painful grip away from you. Another inviolable tendril shoves against his chest plate to push him back. His movements, too abrupt, too unexpectedly aggressive to give you a moment to temper your reaction, to give you a chance to remind yourself that this is not one of your painful, dark memories, that you’re free, you’re free, you’re free, and suppress your reaction to not reveal yourself.

The two of you pause for one long moment, him by force, and you in shock and fear and slight nausea as you pant breathlessly. It’s been a long time since you’ve lashed out like this, since you’ve used the Force in front of another person, and the sensation of being perceived, of being seen for what you truly are is disequilibrating and terrifying and sickeningly liberating all at the same time. 

One thick arm of his is held up and pinned against the back of the booth the two of you are ensconced in, hidden from prying eyes, at least. His legs start to shift restlessly, seeking purchase or trying to kick out, and you pin him there too, lest he try and hurt you again. 

“I do not like to be handled so,” you admonish him, clicking your tongue. You can feel the seething fury rolling off him. “I wasn’t going to do anything to you. I am not going to do anything to you.” He’s got a blaster strapped into a holster at his thigh, and you’re sure his vambrace is hiding several other nasty tricks up his sleeve. You eye them both. “If I let you go, are you going to try and hurt me again?”

“No,” he growls out.

“No,” you mock back, but release him anyway, letting an impenetrable wall settle between the two of you. He immediately goes for his blaster, and you block his reach which has him furiously growling and lurching towards you, only to be met by the invisible Force impeding his attack. He spits a frustrated volley of curses in a language you can’t understand, but that you’re fairly certain is Mando’a. 

“Ah, ah, no blaster,” you tut, and he settles, going suddenly, shockingly still, watching you watch him. “You really are quite poorly mannered and surly.” There’s a part of you that is still slightly unbalanced, heart beating painfully against the cage of your ribs, but you’re trying to hide it behind a wry smile and light tone. Echoes of pain and hurt and cruel and unyielding hands molding you into a thing that was just as cruel and unyielding. You cannot tolerate being handled like that anymore, and you feel contrite that you’d provoked him into doing so. Sometimes it is still difficult for you to remember how it is you’re supposed to behave around other people. 

And then something you weren’t expecting, for he says, “You’re a Force weilder. You’re a Jedi.”

You let out a barking laugh. “What do you know of the Force?”

“Are you?” He presses.

“Yes, but no, definitely not that, no.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Or… whatever the opposite of a Jedi is, I suppose.”

“The opposite?” He shakes his head, “I don’t–”

“Hmm…” you cut him off, turning to make sure the two of you still haven’t been noticed. “Not anymore. I don’t use it anymore.”

“Oh, no?”

“Well… you’ve gone and ruined that now, haven’t you?”

“You started–”

“All I was trying to do,” you interrupt, “Was make nice. I’d always wanted to meet a Mandalorian,” Lie, “Haven’t you ever heard of a little flirting? And I fear, now, you’ve painted them all in a very poor light,” Lie, “Look at how rude you’ve gone and been, when all I wanted was to be friends,” Another lie, “A shame…” you heave a big sigh, “You really are very beautiful.” Truth. That fist clenches again, and you cock your head to the side, getting one last good look at him. You feel suddenly sad, you don't want to go. You’ve enjoyed this brief moment you’ve gotten to talk to him. Even if you’d gone and pissed him off and ruined it all now. 

“It was nice meeting you, shiny. Even if you were an abominable beast about it.” You give him a nod of your head, and a quick two fingered salute before you’re sliding out of the enshroudment of the booth and slipping out the back of the cantina, into the dark alleyway, leaving him behind. 

The last glimpse you catch of him out of the corner of your eye before the door shuts behind you, is the sight of him scrambling out of the booth and starting towards the door to follow after you. 

A glutton for punishment, then, so it seems. 

You flit through the dark, dirty alleys, scampering from shadow to shadow. The city streets around you, gone quiet now as the sun over Nevarro sets quickly, and you can feel him hunting after you. He’s strong, and you can almost feel the heavy weight of his life force even at a distance, almost as if the goodness and honesty of his character is a presence of its own, sentient in a way. And he’s angry, and you can feel that too, charging after you, provoked, even if he does it on entirely silent and measured feet. You can sense that ravenous curiosity and frustration at being bested and evaded pressing up against you, chasing after you. As if there were some dark red thread connecting the two of you from spine to rib bone, leading him to you, pulling him along your trail. You tiptoe the lines of the shadows silently, making your way through the winding city streets, feeling him getting closer and closer, trying to confuse him, even as he gains on you anyway. 

And then he’s there. 

You feel a massive hand, strong and sure, clamp around the back of your neck, but his touch is measured this time – he’d heeded your warning. His other hand wraps around the bend of your elbow, twisting your arm back behind you, and then he’s kicking open the nearest door, what seems to be some sort of storage alcove, the space dark and humid and mildewed, and pushing you inside. He shoves you away from him once you pass together into the darkness, and you catch yourself on the edge of what feels like some sort of table or workbench.

You laugh breathlessly. Overwhelmed by the thrill of the chase, of the feel of his hands on you, the surrounding darkness, the sound of his own panting breath through the modulator of his helmet. You hope he’s just as overwhelmed, disequilibrated, as you are now. 

“Oh, you again?” you laugh, turning to face him, bracing yourself back against the table. All you can see of him is the silver crescent of the curve of his helmet, the outline of his wide shoulders in the dim light of the moon seeping in through the cracks of space around the door. He is a steel giant.“Did you forget something? Need me to hand your ass to you again, Mandalorian?”

“You’re a fucking brat. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

You gasp mockingly, “Me? Never.”

“Why is it that everything you say sounds vaguely like a taunt? Like you’re trying to provoke me.”

And, oh, he sounds just so unbearably serious and put out by you, that you pout, forced to match his serious tone with one of your own. You force the smile to leave your voice, “Maybe because I am,” and your voice goes quieter, softer, because again, truth. There is something about him that incites provocation, you want him rattled, come undone. “Maybe I want to see what happens when a man made of metal loses control.”

“I can’t – I don’t–” His voice, even through the modulator, is its own flavor of foreplay. “I don’t know…” he says again, whispers it, his tone seeping through the helmet, entirely uncertain, or at war with himself. 

He takes one menacing step forward, made even all the more intimidating by the vast difference in your heights, the sheer breadth of him, the darkness wrapping around him so that all he’s made into are slivers of gleaming silver flame here and there. You feel the whisper of one leather covered finger skim lightly over the outside of your right forearm, another soft touch to the left side of your waist, and you shiver all over. 

“Not a virgin? Your Creed lets you fuck?”

“No.”

“No, what? Use your words.”

Silence. Stubborn, silent, tin can.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Whores?”

A grunt. 

“Aha! Gotcha.” You start to toe your foot forward, bending your knee to make contact with him when you find his leg, tilting slightly away from the table so that you can slide your thigh between his legs. “Is that what you want me to be for you?”

“No.” Fucking monosyllabic–

“Then what do you want from me? Why did you follow me?”

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t lie.”

“I want to fuck you.” Your cunt goes soaked and tight at his words, because yes, yes yes, this is what you were leading him to. Finally, he’s caught on, and then he’s planting a strong, broad hand to the center of your chest and pushing you back into the table, and pressing the hard, unyielding length of himself against you. He’s hard and swollen beneath his pants, you can feel the thick heft of him against your belly as he presses into you, and you bring your palms up to slide against the unprotected sides of his strong waist, sending him into a full body shudder as you touch him, helmet falling forward on his neck as he hunches over you, hands planted on the table behind. You can hear his labored, panting breath huffing through the modulator as you run your hands along the planes of him. He’s huge, pure muscle beneath unrelenting beskar, and if you weren’t the creature that you are, you’d feel slightly frightened at the unbelievable strength he’s made up of. He is a thrumming effigy of restrained power beneath your hands, different to that which makes you up, and you feel the strength of him once again, humming through the Force. His light burns so bright, almost blindingly. He’s strong. 

You slide one of your hands up his chest plate, tucking your fingers into the top-most edge to bring yourself up and closer to him as he curves over you, bending you back into an arch over the table’s edge. Your other hand reaches for his wrist braced against the table, wrapping around it, so thick your fingers don’t meet, to tuck your fingertips into the space where his sleeve meets his glove, and at the feel of your bare skin on his, just there, just there, he growls, deep and savage in his chest at the same time that you let out a breathy, warbled moan. His other hand shoots up to grasp at the small of your back and press you into him, his fingers digging painfully into your skin. He’s burning hot, sweltering, and he slides his palm lower, tilting your pelvis into his as you hitch one of your knees up the outside of his thigh to his hip, and then your cunt is rocking against the thick length of his cock, and another breathless, pained groan from the both of you as you make contact there, pushing and pulling against each other. You want to taste his skin, his tongue, you want to kiss him, to feel him licking into your mouth. You pull yourself in closer by the hand tucked into his chestplate to press your face into the warm space between his helmet’s edge and the folds of his cowl. He smells so good, like leather and sweat and metal. Something earthy and musky, something that proves to you that despite the beskar, there is only a man of flesh and blood and want beneath. 

His palm slides to grip the lush of your ass, rolling you onto his length harder, pressing deeper as if he could fuck you through your clothes. 

“Are you going to let me fuck you, little brat?” he pants, ending on a stuttered groan as you hook your calf around his waist and press your foot into the small of his back to grind particularly sharply onto him, pressing your clit into the edge of his utility belt, “Please, just– just–” you gasp, head falling back on your neck. And then he’s spinning you abruptly and pressing between your shoulder blades so that you're bent entirely over the table, cheek smushed against the hard surface. That wide palm slides down the slope of your spine, squeezes your asscheek harshly so that you’re moaning out in lust or pain, you can’t tell.

“Was that a yes? Who can’t use their words now?”

“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” you grouch, but then his fingers have somehow snuck their way up beneath your tunic and under the edge of your trousers, and he’s ripping everything down to leave you bare and unprotected from the sudden onslaught of that huge expanse of leather clad palm cracking down painfully on the soft skin of your ass so that you’re scrambling to find the opposite end of the table to pull yourself away from him. A pathetic little screech claws its way out of you, and he wraps the length of your hair around his fist to pull your head back and up, turning you into his own little bow string, head resting back on the hard pauldron over his shoulder. 

“Where do you think you’re going? I caught you, you’re mine now.”

“Fuck off–” You try, but he clamps his fingers around your jaw, squeezing the fine bones of your face to cut you off, his other hand in your hair gives a sharp tug that makes the tips of your breasts go hot and tight and your cunt clench around nothing. You can feel yourself dripping down the insides of your naked thighs. 

“Open your mouth,” he orders, shoving the thick of his fingers inside to press down on your tongue. You try and moan around him, protest or something, but you can’t help but run your tongue around the digits, tasting the smokiness of blaster residue, the tang of whatever he must use to oil his gloves. “Finally, some silence. I like you better like this,” he taunts you with an imitation of your previous words. He bends his head forward, “Get them wet,” he murmurs, voice soft and sultry through the modulator, and the moan you give him now is all desperation as you let saliva pool heavy on your tongue to coat the leather. 

When he pulls them from your mouth, tugging your head back further so that you can look up into the dark tee of his visor as he slides his spit slick gloves between your thighs to press against your throbbing clit, your whimpered little mewl has a chastising tut filtering through the helmet, “Slippery, little thing.” He starts to press slow circles to the aching bundle of nerves, sliding down on every other swirl to press gentle, teasing pressure to your clenching opening. “Did my chasing do all this? Do you like being hunted, brat?”

“Not–” you moan as he presses down hard on your clit, then back to the mouth of your cunt, giving you just the tip of his finger, “Not a brat,” you struggle to get out.

“No?” He starts to press two fingers inside at once, both of you groaning in tandem. “Maker – fucking tight–” He scissors his fingers inside of you, twisting his wrist to fuck you open, making room for himself inside of you. “Don’t know if I’ll even fit in here.”

“No,” you groan, low and drawn out, and then, yes, whispered breathlessly, one of your arms reaching back to hold onto the wrist of his hand still twisted in your hair, trying to find purchase on anything to anchor yourself with. Because the stretch of just his two fingers inside of you – you can hear the slick squelch of your wetness as he starts to fuck them in and out of you slowly – is so unexpectedly obscene. You had not expected to find yourself in this position with any man, especially not one like this – had not thought you were yet ready to be touched by another person. Not so soon after– “Please – m– more. I want–”

“You think you’re ready for my cock, little one? Have I stretched this tiny cunt out enough?”

“Yes– yes. Just do it.”

“Fuck–” You listen to the wet little pop as he pulls his fingers from you, and the clink and shuffle of his belt and armor as he pulls himself out of his clothes, and then he’s shifting behind you as you brace against the edge of the table. The burning hot blunt tip of his cock skimming against the round of your ass, and you feel him spread his feet wide, bend his knees, and then his cock is there at the slick mouth of your cunt, and he’s thrusting up and into you on the downward roll of your hips, and Maker, he’s deep like this. Suddenly, twin strangled groans of pain or relief ripping from your throats in tandem as he grinds deep, deeper, for a moment. You feel the heavy kick and throb of his cock inside of you, and he is too big, too thick – he forces you to take it anyway. Stretching you in a way you’ve never been before, your eyes smart, forcing your body to make room for his inside of you, it leaves your breath to stutter out in a weak little puff of shock. 

And you moan, using the palms of your hands against the edge of the table to grind yourself back onto him while his hands clamp tightly around your hips, his fingers so long they almost meet at the center of your belly beneath your navel. 

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. That’s so good.

You can’t tell which one of you is speaking. You can't even tell if you’re still breathing. And then he starts to move. 

You knew he’d fuck hard, from the first moment you’d seen him, you knew.

He pulls his hips back, the slick wet, the grasping walls of your cunt trying to suck him back in, and then the scorching slide of him pressing back in, in, in, grinding again, those long fingers pressing down on your belly so that you feel him from the outside too. 

“Harder,” you beg, because of course you want more. You are a creature made of greed and hunger. You always have been. 

“Quit. You’ll take whatever the fuck you’re given,” but his hips slam back in, a savage growl punctuating the movement. 

He gives it to you almost brutally, without pause or thought, fucking punched out breaths and whines from you. 

“Shut up,” he spits on the end of one particularly deep, harsh thrust that’s followed by a high pitched mewl from you. “You want every piece of shit on Nevarro to find you split open on my cock like this?” Your head lolls back limply on his shoulder, the wet slap of his heavy balls against your clit overwhelming the sound of your thoughts. You can’t speak, your brain is currently being jostled within the confines of your skull by the force of his cock splitting you open. “No? Then be a good girl, and be quiet,” his voice, rough, even through the modulator is almost drowned out by the wet, obscene sound of him pounding into you. 

He brings one of his hands back up to your jaw, turning your head slightly so that your nose is almost smushed up against the chrome of his visor. He wants to look at you. The hard beskar of his chest plate rubs harshly against your back on every push upwards of his hips, and you’re sure that’ll hurt later, but right now you just can’t seem to care. You can feel the humid, warm air of your panting breath, foggy against the gleam of his helmet, and you bring one of your hands up to the wrist holding your face, holding on for dear life, sanity, you’re not sure what. Your other hand twists back into the hanging fabric of his cloak so that you can pull yourself more tightly back into him as he slows his thrusts, making them longer and more drawn out. “Yeah– like that. Settle… good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut. Too much, too much. It should hurt. You wanted it to hurt. Not gentle, you don’t want it gentle.

“Harder,” you whine, plead.

“No. How I say.” He rolls his cock into you over and over, your slick sliding down your thighs, the backs abraded by the plates of beskar over his own legs. He’s so deep, so big it hurts so good. Even if you want it harder, it still hurts so good. The hand at your face slides down to rip open the fastening of your high necked tunic, reaching inside and under your breast band to pull out the heavy aching weight of your tit and pinch your nipple, rolling it between his strong leather clad fingers – more high, desperate mewls that have him groaning deep in his chest. You’re sure if your face wasn't so close to his you’d never be able to hear them through the helmet, low and rumbly and so delicious. 

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs low, cupping your breast to plump it up, massaging it in his palm.

“What? You can see?” 

“Yeah– fuck yes, I can see.”

“Not fair,” you whine. It’s so dark in the little room he’d pushed you into, you’re not even going to get to take a good look at his cock before this is all over. 

“You don’t need to see. You just need to be good and take it.”

“Do you ever kiss?” you ask him suddenly. Irritated by the fact that you’ve not gotten to ogle him – or kiss him. If he even does that.

Another deep roll of his hips, a tight squeeze to the swinging globe of your breast, “No.”

“That’s a shame.”

And he responds immediately, voice subdued and even, underneath the helmet, despite the fact that you feel like he’s cleaving you in two. “Maybe next time,” he says. His palm slides down to your belly then, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades to fold you over the table, hands moving to wrap around your hips and lift you up and back onto his impaling cock so that the tips of your toes are left skimming the ground beneath, your fingers scramble and claw for purchase against the wood of the table. You can feel the wide tip of his cock punching against your womb on every thrust in and stars flash behind your eyes, mouth hanging open pathetically. 

There is nothing gentle about the way he fucks you. Like he wants to split you in two, like he wants to make sure the shape of him is branded into the center of your body so that you’d never forget this. The sticky sweet coil of your orgasm starts up low in your belly, and you feel molded in his image for one second, pushed out of yourself to stand on the sidelines and look upon the sight of your much smaller form draped over the table and being fucked into so savagely by this silver blade of a man.

And then: they’re fucking bare, they’re fucking raw, and it has been so, so long since he has felt the touch of another person, someone else’s skin on his that was not bestowed upon him in violence or with the barrier of a sheath between. It is an almost overwhelming feeling, that of your hot, soaking wet cunt pulsing around him, you’re about to come for him, he can feel it. The fluttering of your inner muscles, delicate thing that you are, your thighs shaking as you struggle to push yourself back on to him to get it harder, deeper. He is, almost, made faint with the feeling. And those eyes… you’ve got the strangest multicolored eyes. One enshrouded entirely in darkness compared to its bright counterpart – as if one had forgotten to take that last step into the light. You’re fucking beautiful and–

You snap back into yourself. No, no, no, stay out of his head. Stay out of his head. Focus. You push yourself up again so that your back is against his chest, and he bands one tremendously strong arm around you, gripping your breast tightly. You feel him bend his knees framing your thighs to change and deepen the angle, and then he’s pounding right into that tender, devastating place inside of you, and your cunt twists and floods with your orgasm, electric shocks of pleasure numbing your fingers and toes. You can do nothing more than let him do with you what he will. Your toes aren’t even touching the floor. 

He presses as deep as he can, grinds for a moment, and then he folds you over the table once again and presses down harshly on the small of your back with one heavy palm as he pulls his cock from you and finishes himself off. You listen to the wet thwack, thwack, thwack of him pulling on his cock, and then the searing hot spurt of his come is hitting your ass and the exposed seam of your fluttering cunt, a savage growl ripping through the modulator as he squeezes all of the air out of you with that unyielding hand. You’re like a pressed flower between the pages of a book – wilted and frayed, but still held in the image of that which you once were. At the last spurt from his cock he brings his hand to your ass, spreads you apart to rub his spend into the tight furl of your ass, and then further down into your throbbing, overly sensitive clit. All you can do is cry and whimper weakly, still trembling from your own orgasm. “T– too much, nooo,” you whine pathetically.

“Easy – easy, settle.”

You feel him fall to a crouch behind you, pulling you apart with both hands by the meat of your ass to look upon the sight of your blushed, fluttering hole. Messy, little cunt, you hear him whisper. He rubs his come into your trembling thighs, over your swollen clit again, inspecting every vulnerable inch and crevice of your sex, and then he’s pushing two of those thick fingers back inside of you, the passage made slick and fucked open by your mingled come. “Just one more, little one. Want to see it up close,” he murmurs. You try and wiggle away, tears of oversensitivity brimming beneath your lashes, I can’t, I can’t, you think you whisper, but he’s inescapable. He clamps one hand painfully over your asscheek, keeping you spread apart for his inspection, the other one buried deep inside of you so that his fingers are hooked against your g-spot where he presses over and over, quick and relentless, his fingers almost vibrating inside of you until your vision is going white hot and a buzzing sound rings in your ears, and you’re crying for what you think might sound like mercy or something equally despeerate. “Yes, fuck, yes. Just like that.” Your answering sob does not prompt him to abate, for he keeps his fingers pressed against that spot inside of you until you’re leaking an embarrassing amount of wetness down your thighs, until the rippling throbs of your orgasm have finally settled. You feel his head fall forward, the beskar of his helmet pressing against the space where your asscheek meets your thigh, and he holds there for a second against your burning hot skin, the scorching soothed by the cool metal.

You can’t stop shaking, you feel, suddenly, like you might cry. You were not prepared for something of this intensity, to be touched like this, and now that it’s happened you’re left reeling. You don’t even know his name. And now you’re sure he’ll go away to wherever it is that Mandalorian bounty hunters run off to, and you’ll never see him again, and you’ll have to live with the memory of this forever. And something like this… amidst all the other horror that lives within you, you’re sure that the intimacy, the fervor of this, will make it hurt all the more, even compared to all the rest. 

He uncoils behind you, rising up to his towering height. You listen to the rustling of his clothes, and then he’s smoothing a large palm over the slope of your trembling back and reaching down to pull up your trousers, tucking your breast back beneath your tunic, righting your clothes for you without commentary. When you think you’ve finally caught your breath, or can at least pretend you’ve done so, enough to push yourself up from your position over the table. Your eyes feel pinched and hot, your heart beating so hard, almost painfully, within the confines of your ribcage that it feels as though your bones are rattling beneath your skin, knocking together in the imitation of a death rattle so that he’ll surely know that you feel two paces away from falling apart entirely. 

“You’re… Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?” Voice stilted.

“No more than I wanted you to.”

He’s silent for a moment, uncomfortable. You can feel the sensation of him pulling away, getting ready to make a run for it. “That’s not–” he cuts himself off. “Do you– do you spend much time on planet?” He’s awkward, uncomfortable now with this unnecessary notion of seemingly required small talk.

“No.” Lie. You like Nevarro, you spend more time here than anywhere else. 

“What’s your name?” It shocks you that he asks, for you know he’d not give you his if you asked it of him in return, but for one infinitely painful, insanely uncharacteristic moment, you want to tell him. You want to give him your real name desperately, tell him who you are. But if you were to do that, then you might tell him what you are. And then he’d hate you, and the memory would be ruined, and you have so few good ones, that this one must be protected at all costs. 

So instead you say that which you have no real desire to say, do what you have no real desire to do, and make sure that he thinks you’re not interested, that you have no desire to ever see him again. Maybe next time. Your heart gives a surprisingly painful pinch, your eyes growing hotter by the second. “This was just a fuck, don’t get all sentimental on me now.” Your voice is so cold, so uncaring. You hate the way you can make yourself sound sometimes. You sense him snap with tense shock, and he nods once, succinctly. “Very well. Thank you… for this. I suppose.”

You lean back against the table, trying your hardest to appear as unaffected as you can. You turn your face to the side, roll your cheek over the hill of your shoulder. “It was my pleasure.”

He turns to go, his cape snapping with the sharp abruptness of his movements, and he pulls open the door of the little storage room letting a flood of moonlight sweep in to shed light on the construction of this memory you’re assembling brick by brick to preserve in your mind for as long as you possibly can. Your eyes sweep over the length of him ravenously, trying to catalog every single detail of him, the incredible breadth of his shoulders, the silver gleam of his beskar helmet, the sweep of his cape, the arsenal of weapons strapped to his body, lethal. He turns back to look at you for one moment, the yawning darkness of his chrome visor, “Don’t get killed, Mandalorian. There are so few of you left now.” And truth, truth, truth, for it would be a shame beyond imagining for a creature such as this, something so strong and beautiful and other, to perish when so few like him remain. He pauses to take you in, as well. You wish you had the courage to ask him what he sees when he looks at a thing like you. The tears are right there, and you hate them and feel weak and disgusted, but also relieved, and you could fall to your knees, in this moment, to thank the Maker that you still possess the ability, the heart, to cry, to succumb to something as trife as tears. You hope he cannot see them. The helmet cocks to the side for one second, perhaps he too is cataloging you to his memory. He nods once, and then he’s turning and gone away into the night. The door snicks shut behind him, and you’re alone once again. 

You pause for a moment, hoping that relief will come. He’s gone, you got what you wanted from him. You should be glad. But there is only the screaming thought of wait, there was still more, there was still more that I wanted from you. 

You let yourself sink slowly to the ground, hand braced against the edge of the table he just fucked you over, lest your shaking legs give out and have you planting face first into the dirt. You fold your legs beneath you, tuck your wild hair gently behind your ears, your movements measured, trying to breathe deep and slow, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Don’t cry, there’s no reason to cry. But shouldn’t we be glad we can still cry? Isn’t it a sign that not all is lost? That there is still a part of us that feels enough to shed tears? This should be a good thing. And so you let the tears fall. You fold yourself over as small as you can, one hand pressed over your hot, leaking eyes, another over your mouth to keep your sounds contained, and you sob as quietly as you possibly can. It was so good and you’re crying and you’re alive and you’re free. You are free, and you should be glad of this. Cry, cry, but cry for your own victory, for your own freedom, for the chance to cry. This is what victory feels like. This is what it is to be alive. 

And so, here is your truth: It is a difficult thing, to shed the facets of the dark side after you’ve lived with it for so long. To be a Sith is to forsake all connection, all peace. There is only passion to strength to power to victory to the Force, but it is always alone. Always against someone or something else. So, yes, it is difficult to shed the facets of the dark side that have made you the thing you’ve been for more than half your life, since the time you were stolen from your cradle, your parents slaughtered, and spirited away into the shadow of a cruel and unforgiving master. What is it to know exactly how your life will play out, to see everything, to be so aware of what you will be – and to still be lost? Part agony, part madness. The pieces of you that are secretive, that like to hide, to run, these are especially difficult to let go of, and you are so, so interminably sad, you live in it. It’s all you feel you are now, after the dark, after the fall of the Empire and the Sith, after escape, after freedom, after you’d so forcibly ripped its claws, that were so deeply sunk within you, out by sheer force of will, by sheer force of desperation, you worry that it’s taken a piece of you with it, your soul. That it had eaten a piece of you. That you don’t have one anymore. 

You don’t even know his name. And even if you’re certain he would not have given it to you, for one moment, you feel an incredible lance of regret that you did not give him yours. 

But then: a person without a soul could not cry. 

And so this must only be proof of the fact that you must still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must. 

And you think: I am not unfamiliar with this half life – there is a wound inside of me – dark and putrid and festering. But perhaps my tears will heal me. Seal the wound closed. 

You feel lonely – worse, you feel strange. Once, you were terrible – now you are only yourself. So you cry for the passion of the moment, for the way he made you feel, for the loss of a name, for the truth of freedom.

Chapter II

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[squad-724]

FINALLY! IT IS DONE!

Ponds and Windu in the dragon Jedi au! I had like 5 scrapped designs for Mace, none of them said „motherfucker” enough.

He’s a Haruun Shatterer, powerful dragon species that creates a quickly hardening purple amber as their breath weapon.

I just realized I missed the chance to make Mace’s soul weapon A LITERAL MACE, that would be too funny. Maybe I’ll change that in the future

Windu is the strongest fighting dragon on the Republic’s side and everyone thought prince Cody would pick him as his battalion’s dragon.

The lance says „shatterpoint” btw

Full ref of Windu

[multi-fandom-imagine]

«Future, Sex, love, sound || Cal Kestis ||

A/n: Here it is, reader getting fucked by Cal on his work bench.

Song Inspo:

You could see how tense he was from where you were sitting in the saloon. You all had barley managed to escape with your lives and Cal was tense.

You both hadn’t had a chance to be intimate with how busy you both been but now, with the Mantis empty you had a plan to make your red head relax.

Standing up you slipped behind the Jedi, your chin resting on his shoulder. “Cal.”

“Hm?” Cal’s gaze focused a head of him, he didn’t want to snap at you but he was to tense.

Placing a kiss to his cheek you let you fingers trail down his chest. “You know, the Mantis is empty and I’ve been hoping you can show me that work bench of yours.” Your voice dipping as your fingers slipped under his shirt.

Nearly jumping, Cal felt a shiver rush down his spine. Glancing around he quickly stood up then wrapped his arms around your waist. “Are you sure?”

“I’m very sure Cal.”

•

His fingers were digging in your hips as he thrusted into your velvet heat. You felt so good wrapped around him, your whimpers only spurring him to thrust faster. His work bench wasn’t the ideal place he had in mind but you were reading him so damn much he just needed you.

Harsh pants leaving your lips as you clutched the table below you, you tried your best to move until you realized that Cal was using the force to keep you in place.His name falling from your lips as your lover moved your legs around his hips.

Pressing his face into your neck, Cal nipped and sucked at the exposed skin, his cock is a thick lance of heat inside of you. He rocks back and forth, fucking you. It felt so good in this position, to feel you like this, to have you on his work bench where anyone could walk in. His cock pushing into you deeper as the force held in place.

It felt good, he felt like he could lose himself within you, with in your heat as he felt you calm around you as the work bench groaned underneath you both.

Another whimper escaped your lips as you begged Cal for more, more of him. Turning your head you managed to capture his lips for a kiss as you felt his hand message and group your breast as this thumb ran over your nipple.

Your eyes rolling back into your head, resting against the wall behind you. You could feel the familiar warmth spreading in your belly as you did your best to focus on the pleasure Cal was giving you, pushing you closer to the edge. Your tongue gliding over his as you did your best not to shudder as his hips snapped drove into your pussy.

The sharp, wet snap of skin on skin filling the ship, broken up by your cries of pressure followed by Cal’s rough groans. Squeezing your eyes shut you did your best to listen to the sound of his voice, the heat of his body.

Of him.

And soon Cal’s thrust started to grow more sloppy, hasty as he picked up his movements. Shivering, you felt something light, a feathery touch run over your body. The force holding you in place letting go of its hold on you until you felt it press against your clit.

A sharp cry leaving your lips, as you felt your orgasm hit you.His arms wrapping tightly around your waist drawing you in close pushing you hard onto his cock as he nipped at your neck. Walls clenching around his member as his name spilled from your lips, your body shuddering as you felt him spill his cum within you.

Now free you pressed your face into his neck, chest heaving as Cal slumped forward. Laughing weakly, you let your fingers run through his red hair as the man clutched you close doing your best not to move to much as his fun seeped your pussy.

“Feel better.” You teased lighting doing your best to catch your breath.

Snorting, Cal shrugged his shoulders as his thumb ran over your hips. “A lot better, you always make me feel better….but uh…we should probably move before someone catches us.”

“Boo! You’re no fun.”

[velvetsainz]

✨ formula one but make it star wars ✨

listen: i was originally a star wars slut (og blog was @scavengerrey for proof), so it only makes sense that i do this. the writing juices are not...…juicy atm so here’s some scraps in the form of who the hell i think these drivers would be in a star wars au!! i've seen a bunch of other au's floating around, so i figured i'd give it shot for what i know best. enjoy!! 🤍

max verstappen — he’s in his anakin skywalker jedi knight era rn. not evil but he certainly flirts with it—like anakin in the first half of ROTS. he could become darth fucking vader if he wants to, but he’s resisting it and comfortable in his dominance.  a semi-benevolent dictator, if you will.

checo perez — probably some kind of popular senator or corrupt (but benevolent) ruler of an outer rim haven. not a main player but important enough.

charles leclerc — he reminds me of a young ahsoka, almost? very idealistic and rigid in his belief of rules and order. it’s yet to be seen if he’ll follow a similar path to her and throw off the association (ferrari = jedi order, ig ????) of those who trained him, which i think he may need to reach his full destiny. alternatively: bo-katan.

carlos sainz — he reminds me of a mandalorian, maybe din djarin but much more affable and less serious. he is very oriented to a sense of belonging and family, but he is still searching for his own. also, not force-sensitive but he can still get shit done if that makes sense. his father passed his armor down to him and he is doing his best to live up to his reputation.

lewis hamilton — soooooo obi-wan kenobi it hurts. more fast & loose with his temper and rationale when he was younger, more refined & respected as he’s aged; accepting of his faults with age, and understands his greater purpose, too. he just oozes jedi that is disillusioned with his training and is questioning (and has been questioning) the system that raised him. what he does know are his own abilities and he trusts himself in those. in terms of eras, mclaren = TPM, mercedes = the clone wars, ferrari = ROTS and beyond?

george russell — he is leia!!!! force-adept but not necessarily jedi-trained. also, the sass alone is just very fitting for him. incredible hair. icon4icon.

lando norris — he’s giving luke skywalker on tatooine before he realizes he’s force-sensitive. iykyk. uncle owen just asked him to make a run to most eisley and he's got a hand on one hip, ready to complain.

oscar piastri — after seeing this piece by @unknownaster, i can’t see him as anything other than another anakin or luke towards the end of their padawan training.  he’s on dagobah rn and yoda is taunting him while he carries him around like a fucking backpack. will have to learn to hone his use of the force to work on tire management.

fernando alonso — he’s sith and there’s no doubting that. actually, scratch that: he’s mandalorian. (ig spaniards are just mandalorians ??) a lot of personal tragedy (read: terrible, terrible career decisions) and his loyalty is not easily won.  ig that makes flavio his equivalent of the armorer or clan leader ??? something like that ??? he lives a fairly solitary life and he's okay with that.

lance stroll — he has padme vibes but there’s someone else i’m reserving that for. similar origins, i think, but with less heroics and less concern for grander politics of the galaxy.  he enjoys a lush life as royalty of some verdant mid-rim planet where not much is expected from him other than don’t fuck shit up and be pretty (honestly jealous of this ngl). this piece by @penaltyboxboxbox is an obvious inspo for me <3

nico hulkenberg + kevin magnussen — bounty hunters alllllll the way.  not mandalorian, but bounty hunters. they’re tired, trying to bring home the bacon, and caring family men at home. probably neighbors who bicker over their moisture farming on the side but let the other borrow some blue milk here or there.

daniel ricciardo — han solo but TFA!han solo. his glory days are behind him but he’s still got a few tricks up his sleeve here and there. beloved but probably problematic.

yuki tsunoda — for his sake, i’m just going to say he’s the owner or head chef of a galaxy-renowned restaurant in the upper levels of coruscant. fiery and verbose temper but he loves his patrons and employees fiercely. if he can't own a restaurant in this life, then you can be damn sure he'll own one in a fictional one.

alex albon — this C3PO ass motherfucker. sassy, funny, generally beloved. he would HAVE to be a sassy droid, it just makes the most sense. lily is obviously his master.

logan sergeant — resistance or new republic x-wing pilot. skilled pilot but struggles at times. earnest and craves approval. trying to prove himself the best he can, but worries he’s let one too many smugglers slip past his watch. still, he has lots of options in the galaxy, and if the x-wing gig doesn’t work out, he can probably get another flying job in the outer rim.

pierre gasly — he really gives lando calrissian. the flair, the attempt at fashion…the horniness. it all checks out.

esteban ocon — he is most definitely rey. scrapping and scavenging since the beginning for a spot in the sport pairs well with our scavenger rey. idk if he’d have the same force sensitivities (i think that’s reserved for a very select group of drivers tbqh), but his persistence is impressive nonetheless.

valtteri bottas — moisture farmer just trying to mind his own business. was a rebel alliance fighter but has now retired to some desert planet where he can live out the rest of his life in peace and away from the commotion of his youth.

zhou guanyu — like checo, probably a senator of a wealthy family from a mid-rim planet who’s well-respected but frequently flies under the radar. key negotiator, fashion trendsetter.

and some fun extra ones!

nico rosberg — HE IS PADME AMIDALA AND I WILL NOT BE TAKING QUESTIONS. NEXT.

jenson button — he’s a young han solo.  not force-sensitive, but skilled and hapless enough that he could peel one off those with more gifts than he. scrappy, sassy, and slutty lmao. i would like to put him in carbonite and hang him on my wall pls n thx <3

sebastian vettel — qui-gon jinn the house downnnn. flouts expectations and tradition of the jedi order but still has a core that is pure and good. (plus, isn’t the lore that qui-gon was an early adopter of the force ghost? i feel like seeing seb in the paddock is like seeing a fuckin’ force ghost, y’know?) also feels right given the max = anakin choice.

helmut marko — palpatine.

chr*stian h*rner — also palpatine. maybe darth vader? idk, i feel like that’s giving him too much credit.

adrian newey — thrawn. smarter & better than the previous two. morally ambiguous to anything that doesn’t suit and serve him.

toto wolff — grand moff tarkin. smart and cunning at times, but hubris is his downfall.

zak brown — owner of a shady ass casino/tavern/saloon in the outer rim. do not trust him as far as you can throw him.

obviously pls feel free to talk to me about this, b/c i love f1 & i love sw. let me know what you think !! 🤍

[gffa]

In honor of the 40th anniversary of the film’s debut on May 25, 1983, 40 storytellers explore the story of Return of the Jedi through the eyes of supporting characters, including heroes, villains, droids, aliens, and creatures.

From a Certain Point of View features contributions by bestselling authors:

Olivie Blake gives us a chilling glimpse into the mind of Emperor Palpatine.

Saladin Ahmed recounts the tragic history of the rancor keeper.

Charlie Jane Anders explores the life and times of the Sarlacc.

Fran Wilde reveals Mon Mothma’s secret mission to save the Rebel Alliance.

Mary Kenney chronicles Wicket the Ewok’s quest for one quiet day on the forest moon of Endor.

And Anakin Skywalker becomes one with the Force in a gripping tale by Mike Chen.

Plus, more hilarious, heartbreaking, and astonishing tales from Tom Angleberger, Kristin Baver, Akemi Dawn Bowman, Emma Mieko Candon, Olivia Chadha, Gloria Chao, Adam Christopher, Paul Crilley, Amal El-Mohtar, M. K. England, Jason Fry, Adam Lance Garcia, Lamar Giles, Max Gladstone, Thea Guanzon, Ali Hazelwood, Patricia A. Jackson, Alex Jennings, Jarrett Krosoczka, Sarah Kuhn, Danny Lore, Sarah Glenn Marsh, Kwame Mbalia, Marieke Nijkamp, Danielle Paige, Laura Pohl, K. Arsenault Rivera, Dana Schwartz, Tara Sim, Phil Szostak, Suzanne Walker, Hannah Whitten, Sean Williams, and Alyssa Wong.

[ineedmorevat7kinmylife]

Okay so I watched Empire Strikes Back tonight, and like, how have I never seen any Varigo as Han Solo and Leia? Like they’re perfect.

Anyway, this triggered a “what if I wrote a whole fic about this and put all the characters from tts and vat7k into Star Wars?”

So here is who I’d think be who. Keep in mind, my Star Wars knowledge is limited to mainly just the original trilogy, and even then isn’t much.

Varian - Leia So, basically instead of Varian being a princess or prince of whatever planet Leia is from, he would be a royal scientist who was naturally good at the force and just didn’t know it yet.

Eugene - Luke Luke and Leia would be cousins in this, Eugene being the son of Darth Vader, and Varian being Vader’s nephew. Eugene, after being born, gets taken to an orphanage on Tatooine, where Ben watches him and makes sure he’s not evil. Hugo - Han Solo Hugo would still work for Donella, he would be more of a bounty hunter than he is in the movies. He has his own ship, but Don gives him assignments. Olivia - Chewbacca/Millennium Falcon Chewy: so I’m imagining like a big robot that Hugo built, she could’ve worked as R-2, but Chewbacca is always with Han, so it just made more sense. In this Olivia would be used less for sneakiness and more for brute strength, because Hugo needs that more Millennium Falcon: Olivia is an AI in the ship, Chewy is just Chewy Donella - No one! She doesn’t really fit with anyone, or maybe she does and I just don’t remember them. So here she’s kind of just inserted Qurin - Leia’s dad Seeing as we never see Leia’s adopted father, we don’t know much about him, just that he was an old Jedi master. (I think. I’m getting most of my info from my dad, so let me know if I’m wrong) But he presumably dies when her planet blows up, so that’s what happens to Qurin here! Sorry! Edmund - Darth Vader So, since Eugene is Luke, Edmund had to be Darth Vader, and the more I think about it, the more I like it. Especially because of Dark kingdom/Dark side. Sorry to Edmund fans, (not sure how many there are) but I can personally totally see him being evil if the Dark kingdom was just a bit more evil. Rapunzel - Jedi leader Not an actual character that I know of, she’s just one of the generals or whatever for the Jedi. Lance - Lando Calrissian Because it just works okay. Especially for Lance’s first appearance in the show, when he was kind-of reformed, but not really, then later becomes better. It just works. Also I like the idea of Lance and Hugo knowing each other before hand. Eugene and Hugo did, it’s not too much of a stretch to say Lance did too. Baron - Jaba the hut I have nothing else for this, it’s self explanatory. The Force: So we’re going more moonstone with this. Those who can connect to the moonstone are Jedi, and they can use its magic. Usually trained from a very young age. If you’re a Jedi you get a fun hair color (it matches your lightsaber), and makes it very hard to blend in. This is mainly cause I like the Varian’s hair stripe means he’s got some moon magic in him theory. Dark side: Dark kingdom wants to protect the world from the moonstone, they think it’s dangerous. Darth Vader rose to power despite being connected to the moonstone and using the force, he claims he can use it without being connected, but he can’t. The reason he wears the mask isn’t because he’s terribly disfigured, cause that’s a little bit of bad messaging, it’s so he hides his bright red, glows-when he-force-chokes-someone hair. And cause he thinks it looks cool. I didn’t want to make Adira and Hector evil, so I just didn’t include them, let me know if you think of a way they work. If I do end up writing this, it will take a long time, feel free to use the ideas for your own fic, especially if you know more about Star Wars than I do, just let me know and please credit me. :)

[illuminatedquill]

Sabine Wren x Ezra Bridger

Knightfall

Story Summary: A mysterious new enemy attacks Grand Master Skywalker's Jedi Temple in the dead of night. Faced with overwhelming odds, Jedi Master Ezra Bridger and Jedi Master Sabine Wren must fight against an enemy determined to finish what Emperor Palpatine started so long ago: exterminating the Jedi, once and for all.

@sabezraweek Prompt: Free

"Everything dies. In time, even stars burn out." - Revenge of the Sith novelization, Matthew Stover

The temple was burning.

Jedi Master Ezra Bridger moved with all the speed he could muster, drawing on the Force to aid in his movement. Merely a hundred feet ahead were the stone steps leading into the temple -

His eyes narrowed and a lance of agony pierced his heart.

Bodies lay scattered on the steps. Silhouettes, lit by the inferno engulfing the Temple, were engaged in fierce battle up and down the staircase: some of them were garbed in the traditional Jedi robes, lightsabers ignited in shades of blue, green, yellow, and violet; others wearing the familiar sinister plaster-white of what could only be stormtrooper armor.

As he approached, the rapid staccato of blaster-fire pierced the cool evening air. Some of the remaining Jedi went down.

He called to his wife, Jedi Master Sabine Wren. "Sabine!"

"Yeah, I see it!" He heard swift movement somewhere behind to his left and felt her reassuring presence through the Force.

"You can get there faster and clear the way!" he shouted.

"On it! I'll try to save some for you, old man!" Sabine, wearing her customary Mandalorian armor underneath her Jedi robes, fired her jetpack and raced ahead. A moment later, her lightsaber flared to life, the green-white blade a stark contrast against the fiery red and orange they were racing towards.

Her humor, Ezra noted, was purely reflexive. In the Force, he could feel her inner turmoil and despair barely restrained by sheer force of will.

Be safe, my love, he thought, desperately.

His wife flew through the battle and lopped off a head from one of the stormtroopers. She landed, pivoted, and switched to her patented akimbo lightsaber/blaster style. With grim determination, she set to work, with the other Jedi Knights rallying to her aid.

Her lightsaber blade cleaved through the enemy force, a green blur punctuated by shots from her blaster.

Ezra allowed himself a grim smile.

He needn't have worried. Closing the gap quickly, he ignited his own lightsaber and joined his wife in the fray.

Her name is Sabine Wren. She is a Jedi Master.

In her lifetime, she has been born many titles.

Mandalorian. Rebel. Traitor. Jedi. Mother. Wife.

She is all of these things . . . and more.

Her story is famous among the Jedi younglings. She is fearless, passionate, and forthright. The first Mandalorian Jedi in a thousand generations.

Sabine is not particularly attached to any of these titles, although she is grateful for them; for what they taught her and how they continue to guide her, even now.

Sabine Wren, Jedi Master, values one thing above all: balance. A sense of life and purpose that, for the longest time, had eluded her.

After much hardship she finally found it in the most obvious of places: herself. She didn't need to be a Jedi to matter.

She just needed to be herself.

And that is what she excels at. That is what gives her such fearsome strength. She is the personification of a tempest in battle; her prowess in combat is said to rival that of Grand Master Skywalker himself.

She never gives into the anger; the fear. They are tools, merely to sharpen her edge. Through the Force, she burns so brightly like the starbird of legend that she wears proudly on her armor.

Her name is Sabine Wren. And even in the blackest of nights, she shines like a torch for all to follow.

A flicker in the Force; Sabine angled her lightsaber to swat away another blaster bolt. She crouched and aimed her blaster at a stormtrooper, a dozen steps up towards the entrance.

Pulling the trigger once, twice, three times - all shots found their mark. He fell limp and tumbled down the steps in comical fashion.

"Watch it!" she snapped to a Jedi Knight - a Wookie, still young, named Lowbacca - who was busy with two stormtroopers. A third was taking aim at him from the Temple entrance, a long rifle in his hand.

Lowbacca growled his acknowledgment and snapped his lightsaber, a unique bronze color, to a defensive position. The long rifle fired; the bolt was deflected away by the younger Jedi.

However that left his flank exposed to the other two stormtroopers he was previously engaged with.

Sabine prepared to jetpack straight for those two, only to find a barrage of blaster-fire halt her progress; another squad had appeared from the burning entrance of the Temple and began to batter the remaining Jedi with shots.

Realization hit Sabine like a gut punch.

I'm not going to make it. Lowbacca's going to die.

The stormtroopers, sensing their opportunity, raised their rifles -

And were promptly cut down in a flash of humming blue-white energy.

Fierce exultation filled Sabine's heart.

He was here. Ezra was here, at last.

Her husband sprinted up the steps with speed that shouldn't have been capable of any being, let alone a middle-aged man. But with the Force as his ally, there was little that couldn't be accomplished by Jedi Master Ezra Bridger.

Throwing out his hand, he called his lightsaber back into his hand and pounced towards the squad of stormtroopers at the Temple's entrance.

They saw him too late. His blue-white blade cut through the air, scattering away their fire, moving at a speed that defied logic. Within mere seconds, the squad was cut down.

Ezra pivoted away from them and raced down the steps, picking off the remaining scattered troops.

Sabine trained her blaster on the entrance but no more troopers appeared.

And like that, the battle was over.

She reached out through the Force, looking for any signs of life among the still bodies - but nothing.

Ezra had done what was necessary with his usual efficiency.

Lowbacca lowered his lightsaber and stared at Sabine - and then at Ezra, coming up to check on his wife.

The Jedi Master wasn't even breathing hard.

"Show off," said Sabine to her husband, smiling a little underneath the helmet.

"Hey, you liked it," retorted Ezra. He came close and eyed her. "Are you okay?"

"No injuries. Armor took all the pot shots, as always. You?"

He shook his head. "I'm alright."

They both looked around at the chaos around them. The remaining Jedi Knights were looking at them. Waiting.

Ezra turned to them and said one word. The word they were all dreading.

"Knightfall."

The fire burned behind them, casting shadows on their faces. Through the Force, she felt the grimness of their duty - what needed to be done - and the mourning for what was lost, bursting forth like a fountain in each of them.

But they nodded and ran into the night, one by one. Their duty was paramount. The future of the Jedi Order would be decided on this night, by their actions.

Lowbacca let out a howl of anguish. Ezra clapped him on the shoulder and spoke something in private to the Wookie Jedi.

Sabine felt a chill go down her spine - the wookie's howl sounded so much like the mourning cry of the Loth-wolves back at home.

Almost like an omen . . .

The Wookie Jedi Knight chuffed out a response, nodded once to Sabine, and then ran after his fellow Jedi Knights.

Sabine saw Ezra stare after them. She didn't need the Force to tell what her husband was feeling.

The fallen Jedi on the Temple steps spoke loud enough for her.

After a moment, Ezra turned to her. "Have you heard from Master Skywalker?"

Sabine frowned. "I'm not sure. Scattered reports from the other Jedi; they haven't seen him. He wasn't inside the Temple when the explosion went off."

"I can't sense him either. You?"

Sabine reached out - multiple presences inside the Temple, too numerous to count or identify.

She shook her head. "No, nothing. But there are survivors, I think. Other Jedi, still fighting."

Ezra grimaced. "We'll have to head inside, then." He paused. "Sabine, did you hear from . . . ?"

"Our daughter? Last I heard she was gathering up the younglings into the mess hall."

Aster Bridger-Wren, a Jedi Knight, like her mother and father. Their pride and joy and love.

Still inside the burning Temple.

Ezra asked, "Anything else?"

"No. Comms were jammed shortly after that."

Ezra nodded, but she felt his concern and anxiety double through the Force, thrumming like a taut power cable.

She reached out and grabbed his hand. "Ezra. She's tough. She'll be alright."

Ezra swept a hand at the chaos before them. "This enemy - who are they? Imperials?"

"Can't be. Empire's been dead for decades. This is something new."

She paused before stating, "I think it's the enemy General Organa was warning us about."

Ezra narrowed his eyes at her. "The Imperial remnant hiding in the Unknown Regions? They had this kind of firepower out there this whole time?"

"I don't know, Ezra. It's possible."

Another explosion rocked the Temple and the two Masters were briefly buffeted by wind and debris.

Her husband shook his head. "No time to talk theories. We need to get in there, find Aster and the younglings."

"What's the plan?"

He looked at her and ignited his lightsaber.

She grinned. "Oh, I like this plan."

He snorted. "You always do."

His name is Ezra Bridger. He is a Jedi Master.

A model to the other Jedi, he is considered to perfectly embody the quintessential Jedi essence: kind, compassionate, and diplomatic.

What very few realize is how funny he is; how passionate he can be, just like his wife; and, most importantly, how hopeful he remains on even the bleakest of days.

His love story - and subsequent marriage - with Sabine Wren is the stuff of legend; not just among the Jedi, but the galaxy as a whole. Holo-dramas have told and re-told their story to trillions galaxy-wide, never failing to amuse him (and exasperate his wife).

His proudest achievements are his daughter and marrying Sabine.

Where Master Wren is a storm, he is a gentle wind, swaying the grass fields; where she is a firestorm, he can be the rain; his light is not the burning torch of his wife, but a calm, unwavering candle in the night to guide your way.

His skills in combat are vastly underrated, only due to him preferring a more diplomatic approach to problem solving - but the few who have seen him in action have been awed to silence at his speed and efficiency.

Ezra Bridger is merciful. It is a quality that his wife - and others who admire him - adores.

But he is no push-over. And his mercy has its limits.

Something more eternal, more truthful, and more deeper to the Light Side of the Force exists within the soul of Ezra Bridger.

Because he knows the truth of life; of the light and the dark. He has seen it all in his life.

He knows the fundamental law of nature and lives its creed to the best of his ability everyday: that the dark must always yield to the light.

No matter how small the flame.

The way to the mess hall was choked with fire, smoke, and stormtroopers. Sabine pulled out a re-breather mask from her pouch and handed it to her husband.

"Thanks," he panted. Jedi had techniques for dealing with smoke inhalation, but they could only stretch out air for several extra minutes - and that was if they weren't doing anything strenuous at the same time.

The stormtroopers were handled with little problem by the two Jedi Masters; it was the bodies of fallen Jedi that disturbed them the most. Friends and acquaintances, all of them. Too many to count.

Sabine wondered if this was how her master, Ahsoka Tano, felt during Order 66. Did she see the bodies of her friends and comrades too? She never spoke much about the events of that bloody period of history.

Vaulting over the corpse of a Jedi youngling, Sabine didn't have to wonder why.

They felt the presence of her daughter huddled inside the mess hall with a group of younglings. The two Masters reached out through the Force and let her know that they were coming.

Reaching the door, Ezra said, "Sabine. Watch my back?"

"Always." She ignited her lightsaber and turned around to scan the hallway for any incoming enemy traffic.

He opened the door.

Inside was a mess; benches pushed to the sides of the hall, with the long tables used for dining bunched together in a tight half-circle. And enclosed in that circle . . .

"Aster! All clear!"

His daughter poked her head above the table, along with ten or so Jedi younglings.

"Dad!" She waved a hand at him.

Ezra felt his heart lift with the immense relief at the sight of her uninjured. He ran over and gave a huge bear hug that lifted her off the ground.

Sabine ran behind him and quickly closed the doors and locked them before joining her husband in an embrace of their family.

"I told your father you'd be alright," said Sabine. "Smart of you to barricade yourselves in the mess hall."

"Thanks," said Aster. She was tall for her age, a latent gift from her grandmother, Ursa Wren, who stood at a towering six feet. Her hair was cut short in a bob fashion, similar to her mother but she had inherited her father's dark blue color.

Even now, he smiled faintly at the memory invoked whenever she was within eyesight; she was the spitting image of her mother at that age. Except for the eyes - those she had gotten from him, perpetually piercing with their blue, bright-eyed gaze.

"You're not hurt anywhere?" He searched her all over, with all his senses.

"I'm fine, Dad, really." She paused and said. "There were Jedi Knights outside the door. Did they . . . ?"

Sabine shook her head. Ezra remembered the bodies they stepped over on the way here. "They didn't make it. I'm sorry."

Aster bit her lip and looked down.

Ezra put his hand on her shoulder and said, "Hey. They did their duty. Just like you did yours. Remember."

"Honor what they fought for," she said.

"Right. And we do that by getting you and the younglings out of here."

He looked to his wife. "Hangar bay?"

Sabine nodded. "I know a short-cut. Should be safe. We hid the corvettes pretty well in case of something like this. I doubt the Imperials know about it."

Aster looked at her mother sharply. "Is it really the Empire?"

Ezra shook his head. "I'm not sure. Your mother and I don't think so."

Sabine said, "Well, they fall pretty easily to a well-placed lightsaber."

Aster snorted. "That doesn't narrow down the list of suspects much, Mom."

Sabine shrugged. "Hey, I'm a Jedi Master. Not a detective."

Ezra smiled briefly at his wife before asking, "Have you seen or heard from Master Skywalker, Aster?"

His daughter frowned, thinking for a few moments. Then: "No, I haven't."

Ezra shared a despairing look with Sabine.

"But I saw his astromech droid."

Ezra's eyes widened. "Artoo? Where did you see him?"

One of the Jedi younglings - a small Togruta female - spoke up. "He was being taken by the troopers. They were heading towards the inner defenses."

Ezra felt an icy fist clutch his heart. He looked at Sabine.

"It's bad, isn't it," she said, quietly.

"They have his astromech. Luke trusted Artoo with everything regarding the temple - if the Jedi are to escape, we need those defenses. They're probably trying to get him to turn them off."

She cocked her head at him. "What's the plan, Ezra?"

He smiled sadly at her. "I'm counting on you."

Even under the helmet, he could feel her eyes blazing at him. "Absolutely not. We go together."

"Someone needs to stay with Aster and the younglings to guide them out safely."

Sabine took off her helmet and stepped closer to him; her eyes were swimming in tears. "I am not leaving you here to die some stupid, noble death!"

Ezra gently grabbed her and lead them both away from Aster and the younglings. He could feel the worried eyes of his daughter watching her parents.

"I don't want her to see us fighting. Not at a time like this," he said to her in a low voice.

"The Jedi Order is dying, Ezra. We need everyone to fight back against this shadow enemy - "

"No, we need them!" He waved at Aster and the younglings. "They're the future! They're what we need to save, Sabine."

She shook her head. "Don't ask me to do this. Please, Ezra." Sabine reached out and cupped his face.

It took everything he had to step away. How badly he wanted to stay with her.

Just like before. A long, long time ago . . .

Softly, he gave his wife a kiss. "We had our time. I was happy with you. With Aster. With Hera and Jacen and Zeb and Chopper. And Kanan."

Sabine started to weep.

"It's time to pay it forward, my love. For the future. For Aster."

She looked away from him for a long moment. Then she put on her helmet. Sorrow radiated out from her like a furnace but he felt the iron will of his wife begin assert determination into her being.

She had made her choice.

Once, a long time ago, she had made a wrong choice. And Sabine had vowed never to do so again.

No matter the cost.

"Aster. Gather the younglings. Keep them in a tight formation."

Aster nodded and started issuing instructions. Sabine looked to her husband and said, "Thirty minutes."

Ezra frowned. "What?"

"I'm giving you thirty minutes, Ezra. Then we leave."

"Sabine . . . "

She grabbed him by the tunic. "I don't care, Ezra. The Force can't decide all of it. You owe it to me and your daughter to try."

Ezra blinked and smiled at his wife.

Do or do not . . .

"I promise to try," he replied. "That's the best I can give."

Sabine nodded and let him go. Igniting her lightsaber she went to the door and peered out.

"All clear. Aster, we're heading out."

Aster ignited her own lightsaber - a vivid, pink hue - and led the tightly formed group of younglings out the door. Ezra took up the rear.

Before they went separate ways, Aster gave him a quick hug.

"Is this . . . good-bye?" she asked, voice quivering. His daughter was trying so hard to be brave.

Ezra almost couldn't trust himself to answer.

She would have known if he was lying.

He just squeezed his daughter a little harder in the hug, feeling her; the strength born from him and Sabine, all their knowledge and fears and joys, flowing into her.

"Follow your mother. Remember your training. And trust the Force."

She nodded into her shoulder. "I will, Dad."

He watched them leave, Sabine leading them into a side corridor.

Ezra looked at his wife. Sabine paused and took one last look at him.

He wanted nothing more than to freeze that moment. To savor the image of his wife, beautifully fierce, for an eternity.

A disturbance in the Force -

"Ezra!" shouted Sabine.

He whipped around, igniting his lightsaber in time to parry two shots aimed for his sternum.

Stormtroopers, coming around the bend. They aimed their rifles and started to fire.

He batted away the shots. "Sabine! Go!"

He felt her hesitation . . . and then it was replaced with grim determination. "Thirty minutes, Ezra! Don't be late, old man!"

And then she was gone, quickly ducking into the side corridor.

Ezra huffed out a quick laugh, dodging another blaster bolt. He deflected another one straight back to its shooter.

"Sorry, fellas," he said to the remaining stormtroopers. "Can't be late for this date."

He moved in on them, the Force guiding his hands.

Drawing on the Force, Ezra made the sprint to the Temple's inner defenses in five minutes.

His comm-link chirped as he stood outside the door, reaching out with the Force. Five presences, all filled with malicious intent.

He could also hear the pained squealing of an astromech droid.

Ezra ducked to the side and spoke into his comm-link. "Sabine?"

"Ezra. We've arrived and are powering up the corvette."

He breathed out a sigh of relief. "Any issues?"

"Not really. Diced up some stormtroopers on the way. Aster did this neat flip move that I think Master Skywalker taught her."

Exasperated, Ezra heard his daughter groan. "Mom."

"It was very fancy. I think I saw you do something like that, when you were younger. Way younger."

Ezra growled, "I'm not that old, Sabine. You're older than me, you know."

"He's a charmer, your dad. How are things on your end?"

Ezra readied his lightsaber. "About to get this party started."

He paused and said, "Wish you were here."

Sabine replied, "Well, you can tell me all about it when you get back in twenty minutes."

Ezra smiled, despite the situation. Sabine always knew what to say. "I'll do that."

"Yeah. You will. Or I'm coming for you." The call ended.

He readied a breath and stepped inside.

Despite the simple name, the Temple's inner defenses were a complex network of fail-safes and redundancies; all tied to a single, massive computer core that oversaw a whole network of protocols that kept the Temple running smoothly.

In case of an attack, the whole network was to run automatically without need of supervision; an alarm was to be sounded for evacuation and a recorded message from a selected Jedi Master broadcasted to the other temples to warn them.

In addition, multiple turbo-lasers were embedded in the grounds all surrounding the Temple. If there was a carrier waiting in orbit - as Ezra suspected there was - the turbo-lasers would fire unceasingly, giving fleeing Jedi a cover to escape.

It was an ingenious system devised by Master Skywalker and the New Republic's best and brightest - but it failed to account for one possibility.

Sabotage from within.

As Ezra stepped inside, the first thing he noted was the slashes all over the consoles. Sloppy, powerful, angry strokes - but not made from any metal blade.

Made from a lightsaber. The Force radiated with the rage and power from within the room; an echo of whoever had done this damage.

I've got a bad feeling about this, he thought. Ezra hadn't the slightest clue who from Luke's students would be capable of such a betrayal.

The second thing he noted was the squad of troopers huddled around a familiar astromech - R2-D2, Master Skywalker's trusted droid. He lay on his back as the troopers took turns poking stun batons at him.

"Stupid droid," one of them muttered. "Have you ever met one so annoying? They usually cave after the first shock."

Ezra decided that stormtrooper would be the first. Igniting his lightsaber, he said, "Hey, why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

They all whirled around. "Jedi!" screeched one of them.

Ezra pounced. There was a random array of shots, easily blocked by him.

Five swift slashes later, he was alone in the room with Artoo.

"Hey, buddy," he said, picking up the droid. The astromech warbled a relieved response to him.

"Have you heard from Master Luke, Artoo?"

Artoo replied in the negative. He sighed. "Figures."

Artoo beeped worriedly. "I'm sure he's alright. Anyway, can you get these consoles up and running? We need to get the defenses operational before - "

A sudden flicker in the Force was his only warning. Ezra dove to the side as an explosion shook the room. Bits of ceiling and rubble sprayed over him.

Shaking himself at this daze, Ezra looked up and saw the stars.

And then he saw the stars blotted out by something massive. Hovering over the planet.

Artoo had already jacked himself into the console. Within seconds the consoles came to life - and beeped an alert at him.

"A little late, but thanks. Yeah, I see it Artoo." He whistled. "That's a huge ship."

Artoo beeped a statement at him.

"The Supremacy? Sounds like someone important is visiting us tonight."

"Shall I tell you his name?" asked a menacing voice.

Ezra ignited his lightsaber and looked around to the source. A human man stood there, mid-30s with brown hair and a permanently pinched expression, garbed in what looked like an Imperial officer's uniform.

Only it was all in black. Not the usual monotone gray.

He held a blaster pistol in his hand, aimed at Ezra.

"Artoo, get those defenses up and running now."

More footsteps - hard and orderly; a marching formation.

Twelve more stormtroopers filed into the room and formed a semi-circle around Ezra and Artoo. They raised their rifles.

Ezra forced calm into his voice. "I know you're all scared. I'm a Jedi; I can sense these things."

The officer sneered at him. "We've killed plenty of your Jedi tonight."

Ezra cocked his head at him. "Not me, though. I'm still alive. I'm sure some of you are wondering why that it is."

He lifted his lightsaber in a defensive salute. "If you want to leave, you may do so."

The officer laughed. "No one will be leaving, Jedi. Except for you, in a body bag."

"So, what are you? Empire? Or something else?" Ezra couldn't help but be curious.

At the word Empire, the officer seemed insulted. Ezra could practically feel the man boil over with indignant rage.

"Do not," he said through gritted teeth, spittle flying from his mouth, "compare us to that bureaucratic, bloated waste of an Empire!"

Ezra raised his eyebrows in astonishment at the man's reaction. "My apologies."

"We are so much more! Led by our Supreme Leader Snoke, we will create order! We will enforce peace! No more New Republic, no more Empire - just an Eternal Order, the first of it's kind in the galaxy!"

He jabbed the blaster pistol at Ezra in a frenzy. "We are the First Order, Jedi!"

"First, huh." Beside him, Artoo beeped softly.

All finished. He nodded at the astromech droid.

All at once, the ground shook as the turbo-lasers, finally re-activated, began to blast away at the super-carrier in orbit above the Temple.

The First Order officer blinked in surprise. "What . . . ?"

Ezra pulled him forward with the Force, impaling him on the lightsaber blade.

"Ggghrk," said the First Order officer. Ezra leaned in close to whisper in the idiot's ear.

"The Jedi Order will make sure that your 'First Order' will also be the last. You should have learned something from your predecessors - never let a Jedi talk."

The fury erupted in the man's eyes - and then faded all at once. He was dead.

Ezra tossed him off the blade and waved to the stormtroopers. "Next?"

They opened fire.

Letting the Force guide his hands into a defensive pattern, Ezra shouted to the astromech droid. "Artoo! You're all good, buddy. Go find Master Skywalker!"

Artoo squealed in protest.

"I'll be fine. Gotta stay here to make sure they don't shut down the defenses again." His blade hummed angrily, swatting away more blaster-fire. "Go, go!"

The droid sighed in resignation and activated his boosters, flying through a hole in the ceiling.

And then it was just Ezra. Alone.

Deflecting more shots, he spoke into his comm-link to say good-bye to his wife . . . only for him to realize that it had been damaged in the explosion from earlier.

So that was it, then.

No more good-byes.

Ezra Bridger drew the Force into him, letting him fill his entire being until he could feel his cells glowing with its power.

And then he went to work. Moving with impossible speed, cutting down the stormtroopers; dodging, weaving, parrying with unerring accuracy and grace.

The twelve that entered didn't stand a chance.

But more came. Filing through, blasters firing away.

And then more. And more. And more.

And more. An unending, unceasing flood of white armor and red blaster-fire.

Ezra Bridger, Jedi Master, knew the math was not coming in his favor for this battle.

But he could not let them turn off the defenses.

And so he fought. Drawing more and more of the Force into himself.

It was dangerous, he knew. That much Force usage would burn out even an experienced Jedi in minutes.

He was burning himself out.

Ezra wondered if he could count how much time he had left in heartbeats. His hands weaved the lightsaber, blocking three shots -

A fourth got through. His leg.

He drew more of the Force in, walling away the pain. He pivoted, sliced through the abdomen of another stormtrooper -

His shoulder erupted in pain. Ezra ignored it.

And then his abdomen, left side.

He was fading. Somehow, barely conscious, he was still moving. Still fighting. His body moved on instinct, despite the increasing toll of his mounting injuries.

F a d i n g . . .

F a d i n g . . .

Memories.

Meeting Sabine for the first time. How intimidating she was; how fierce she looked in the Mandalorian armor. How beautiful she looked under the helmet. Feelings that had never gone away - that he never expected to be reciprocated until she found him again.

Kanan. His first lessons as a Padawan, learning how to wield the lightsaber, how to open himself to the Force; but, above all, how to be a good person.

Hera. The Twi'lek who was like a mother to him. The laughter they shared, how she protected and taught him. He remembered the tears she wept after his long voyage home from Peridea, sweeping him into the deepest, warmest hug he could ever have imagined after such a lonely exile.

Zeb. Cantankerous, reliable Zeb. The joy and deep soul underneath that gruff exterior.

Chopper. Foul-mouthed but ever dependable. The fun times they had getting out of sticky situations with the Empire.

Ahsoka. Always looking forward, always wise, always a mentor whenever he needed. She was the one to knight him. Helped mold him into the Jedi Master he was today.

More memories. More fuel to keep him going. Feeding the fire that was going out.

Sabine finding him again on Peridea. How easily they slipped into old habits, hiding away what had changed.

How her betrayal had shaken him - but they made it through, together. Forged a bond that could never be broken.

Meeting Jacen for the first time. Feeling his heart crack at how much like Kanan he looked.

Ending Thrawn's reign of terror against the galaxy. Saving the New Republic.

Living with Sabine. Falling in love all over again.

The marriage. Their vows. Waking up to Sabine, sleeping next to him, softly snoring. Feeling the weight of her, how she felt, the strength of her heartbeat.

The birth of their daughter, Aster.

Seeing her first steps, her first words; seeing her enter the Academy for the first time.

So many memories.

He fed them all into the fire.

The blaster-fire stopped at some point.

Ezra stood, just barely. He couldn't feel much at that point. His lightsaber held just aloft in a position that required the least amount of energy to hold.

Around him lay the crumpled bodies of at least a hundred stormtroopers. All dead.

A voice crawled into his head. Through the Force.

You have fought well, Master Jedi.

It sounded like . . . the Grand Inquisitor? No, it couldn't be. Or maybe it was Vader?

Or . . . Thrawn?

"Who is this?" he muttered.

The death of your Order, the voice said. The beginning of mine.

Somewhere in the haze of his mind, he remembered. "Snoke," he said.

Remember it well. For the short time you have left.

Three figures walked through the entrance, wearing scarlet armor. They moved through the sea of dead bodies like red wraiths.

In their hands, wicked blades with purple electricity surging through them.

Ezra had heard of them from the days of the Empire from Luke.

Praetorian guards.

Die well, Master Bridger, said the voice.

Still fading. Just embers left now.

Ezra, still in pain, lifted his lightsaber one last time.

Sabine looked desperately at the chronometer. Ezra hadn't arrived yet.

They were out of time.

"Anything?" she asked Aster.

Aster, tears streaming down her face, shook her head. "I can't raise him. Comms must be down."

Another explosion rocked the hangar bay.

"Not much of the turbo-lasers left," she said. "The massive ship above is bombing what's left."

She looked at her mother. "We have to get Dad. Let me get him."

I'm counting on you.

Sabine grabbed her daughter and sat her back down. "Tell the younglings to strap in and prepare for take-off."

A part of her was screaming, dying at what she was about to do.

"What? No - no, we're not leaving him, right? Mom!" Aster looked at her mother, pleading.

Sabine didn't listen. She keyed the control for the hangar bay doors and pushed the engines to maximum.

"Mom!" Aster yelled at her. "You're leaving him! You're leaving Dad behind!"

She glanced out the view-port to the burning Temple below.

Good-bye, my love.

Sabine knew, deep down, that she would always regret not saying it to him for the rest of her life.

She pushed the throttle and aimed for the stars.

The battle didn't last long.

It didn't need to. Ezra had done what was needed.

The praetorian guards pulled their blades from him. He fell over, watching the blood seep onto the stone floor.

One of them kicked him onto his back.

Through the crack in the ceiling, he saw a frigate rocket by, weaving through the laser bombardment, flying towards freedom.

He knew his wife and daughter were on there. Safe.

I'm sorry, Sabine. Going to be late after all. Hope you don't mind waiting a bit.

One of the Praetorian guards raised his blade for a final blow.

Ezra reached out one last time into the Force. Blowing life into the embers that were left.

With a strained shout, he threw his hands towards that cracked Temple ceiling. It shifted and groaned -

And then collapsed. Tons of rubble falling, caving in on the room.

The Praetorian guards screamed but had nowhere to run.

Ezra Bridger smiled, thinking of his watchtower - how the sun hit the capital city at the right angle making it sparkle in the early evening; how holding Sabine's hand felt on a warm, breezy day, just sitting in the grass fields, watching the Loth-cats scurry about . . .

He was still thinking about Sabine when he died.

FAR, FAR AWAY (Jacen)

Jacen Syndulla, Jedi in training, raced onto the docking ramp of the Ghost. His mother, Hera, is already preparing to lift-off from the Ghost cockpit.

"Jacen! Are we all set?"

He mentally checked the list one more time. "Yeah! That's everything!"

The broadcast from Master Skywalker's Temple had hit them hard - but the plan was already in motion. The Jedi were on the move.

Knightfall. Knightfall. Knightfall.

"Jacen, get up here! Gonna need you for navigation!"

"Alright, Mom," Jason shouted back. He began to close the ramp -

He paused. Two figures, shrouded in ghostly blue and somewhat translucent in Jedi robes, stood at the end.

One of them lowered his hood. Jacen sucked in a breath; it was a face he had only seen in holos and photographs.

"Dad?" he whispered.

His father, Kanan Jarrus, waved at him. He smiled sadly and turned to the other figure who also lowered his hood.

Jacen took a step back. "No, it can't be."

It was Ezra. He looked pointedly at Jacen and the younger Jedi could hear him in his thoughts.

It's up to you now, Jacen. You're the future.

Jacen began to cry. "Ezra, wait - "

I'll be seeing you around, kid. Don't worry. And look after your mom.

And then he was gone. They were both gone.

The docking ramp closed.

"Jacen! Where are you?"

After a couple minutes, Hera let Chopper doing the flying. She found her son, huddled at the docking entrance, still crying.

FAR, FAR AWAY (Ahsoka)

Ahsoka Tano turned to Huyang and asked, "Are the coordinates set?"

"Yes, Lady Tano. I expect we'll be the first to arrive."

They were sitting in the cockpit of her trusty T-6, waiting in deep space.

"Good. Any news from General Organa?"

"She'll be meeting us there, along with the other Resistance leaders," replied the droid.

The Jedi Master sighed and began to feel her age. "I can't believe it's happening again, Huyang."

The droid concurred with a sad tone. "Yes. Twice in my lifetime."

"And mine, too." Ahsoka had felt the disturbance in the Force, shortly followed by the broadcast from Luke's Temple.

Knightfall. Knightfall. Knightfall.

She drove a fist into her leg. "We're ready this time, though. We saw this coming."

Huyang replied, "The enemy is far more devious and quicker than we imagined. But, yes, we do have a plan ready for this."

Ahsoka opened her mouth to reply . . . only to feel a wave of sadness and grief wash over her. It was so intense and immediate that she doubled over in her pilot's chair.

I'm leaving it to you, Ahsoka. Thank you for everything.

"Ezra," she whispered. "No, oh no. Ezra."

Huyang, alarmed, asked, "Lady Tano? What is the matter?"

Ahsoka didn't reply. She was too busy crying over her lost friend.

FAR, FAR AWAY (Sabine)

Aster felt Ezra's passing before she did.

Sabine watched her daughter whisper, "Dad?", shudder once and then begin to sob, unrestrained.

And then - an invisible hand stroked her hair.

Ezra's voice, in her head.

Sorry, Sabine. You'll have to wait a little longer. I love you.

She reached out to grab the hand, but it was already gone.

And that's when she knew, more than anything else she had seen in the burning Jedi Temple, that her world had ended.

The frigate lay hidden in an asteroid field.

They had been pursued, as she expected. Sabine had used up every piloting trick she knew or heard about to escape the enemy.

Finally, they had stopped in an asteroid field to take stock and rest. Everything but the life support was turned off, in the event their pursuers came sniffing around.

And all that was left to do was . . . wait. Until they heard from Ahsoka.

Sabine sat in the darkness, feeling almost grateful for it.

Ezra was dead.

She kept repeating it in her head. It was a fact but that didn't make it feel any more true.

Ezra was dead. Ezra was dead.

"Mom?"

She looked over to Aster - and realized they weren't alone.

The younglings had all come to the bridge. They were scared, even if they were doing a good job of hiding it.

"Yes, Aster?"

"I'm - I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier. About leaving Dad behind."

Sabine shook her head. "It's the truth. That's what I did."

Aster reached out and took her hand. Sabine could feel Ezra's strength in those hands.

"It's what he wanted. He wanted to make sure we were safe."

The words tumbled into the hollow space in her heart where Ezra used to be. They didn't make much of a difference in how she felt, but she forced herself to nod.

"Master Wren?" asked one of the younglings.

Sabine said, "Yes?"

"Can you tell us a story? To pass the time?"

Sabine almost laughed. "A story?"

What use are stories at a time like this?

Aster replied, "I think that's a good idea. Mom?"

Sabine sighed - and then heard Ezra's voice.

Tell them a story, Sabine. You've got plenty of them.

She frowned. Why? What good would it do?

Well, it'll stop you from moping around, for one.

Oh, funny.

You've got to give them hope, Sabine.

Even when I don't have any for myself? she asked.

Especially, then, replied Ezra's voice.

She sighed. I miss you so much, already, goofball.

"Alright, gather around. I've got one. About going into another galaxy."

The younglings eyes widened and they huddled into a circle around her.

There was a small yelp. "Ouch."

Sabine winced. "Yeah, okay. Probably need some light, then. Can't use technology though . . ."

Aster said, "Hang on, I've got a lighter here."

She flicked it on. "Is that from Dad?" asked Sabine, amazed.

Her daughter's eyes opened in realization. "Yeah, for my birthday. He said they used to use this way back in the early, early days before the Republic. It's an antique."

Sabine watched the small flame, dancing defiantly in the dark. It lit the faces of all that were present -

And, for a small instant, she saw Ezra - smiling, huddled in the circle, ready to hear one of her stories.

I'm counting on you, Sabine.

She smiled, feeling the tears coming on. Sabine bowed her head for a moment, cleared her throat - and started telling the story.

"A long time ago, in a galaxy, far, far away . . . "

"The dark is generous and it is patient and it always wins – but in the heart of its strength lies its weakness: one lone candle is enough to hold it back. Love is more than a candle. Love can ignite the stars." - Revenge of the Sith novel, Matthew Stover

[thatslayer]

Always and Forever. That was the promise made, and yet the Mikaelsons have gone their separate ways. Klaus is rumored to have remained in New Orleans, but he so rarely leaves The Abattoir that no one knows for certain. The city thrives under the heavy hand of Marcel Gerard, and all is humming along smoothly until the ground starts to rumble beneath St. Anne's church. A new mouth of hell bubbling up power like a beacon, attracting vampires, demons and the forces of darkness.

Immortal Beloved is a casual panfandom group verse and discord server spanning The Vampire Diaries, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Teen Wolf, Supernatural (other like-fandoms welcome) and is vaguely set in the first two-ish seasons of The Originals. Plot-heavy group. Accepting canons and OCs are welcome and encouraged to join! Note: OCs must not have pre-established relationships with canon characters without prior discussion. Group is friendly and supportive! Contact @thatslayer or @phdinrage for info, or just add faithlehane on discord!

THE CAST

The Originals/The Vampire Diaries

Klaus Mikaelson ; @thisbloodlust Elijah Mikaelson ; @enduringlystoic Rebekah Mikaelson ; Discord Muse Kol Mikaelson ; @worthbeinggoodfor Finn Mikaelson ; @astormymind Stefan Salvatore ; @destroyedbyguilt Damon Salvatore ; @damonstevedore Bonnie Bennett ; @littlebennettbitch Katherine Pierce ; @bourbonandheels Marcel Gerard ; @onegativeandtequila Davina Claire ; ---looking--- Hayley Marshall-Kenner ; Discord Muse Jackson Kenner ; Discord Muse Kai Parker ; @sociopathicryanreynolds

Aya Al-Rashid ; Discord Muse

Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel

Buffy Summers ; @insufferablemonsters Angel ; @shanshu Faith Lehane ; @thatslayer Willow Rosenberg ; Discord Muse Xander Harris ; @strangeandoffputting Rupert Giles ; Pending Spike ; Discord Muse Whistler ; Discord Muse

Teen Wolf

N/A

Supernatural

Dean Winchester ; @pulledfromhell Sam Winchester ; @samattheend Rowena MacLeod ; Discord Muse

Grave Encounters

Lance Preston ; @demcnsinmymind

Percy Jackson

Lou Ellen Blackstone ; @nosestealer

Interview with a Vampire (AMC)

Lestat de Lioncourt ; Discord Muse Louis de Pointe du Lac ; Discord Muse

The OCs

Maria Gonzales (Vampire Slayer) ; Discord Muse Robin Clark (Human) ; Discord Muse Jedi Collins (Witch) ; @jedicollins Chase Preciado (Werewolf) ; Discord Muse Gael Morrow (Psychic Medium); @misfitpuzzlepieces Irina Rybar (Feral Revenant) ; @misfitpuzzlepieces

[inkformyblood]

until we meet again (CWFKB #17)

Magical kiss, Canon Divergence - Left the Jedi Obi-Wan, Jedi-positive, General Qui-Gon. (injury detail) @codywanfirstkissbingo

The man speaks with a grin that’s entirely bloody teeth and latent fury sparking to the surface, his hands steady over the fresh hole torn into Cody’s chest. “So, come here often?”

Oh stars above, Cody has found a civvie medic with a sense of humour. He considers, briefly but weighed up all the same, throwing himself back outside of the tent and taking his chances with his own stubbornness to keep his blood inside his body. The man, sensing this somehow, leans further forward, one of his hands pressing sideways with a squish that feels like it should echo from rotting fruit exploding underfoot. Cody lets himself be herded onto a bed that creaks beneath his weight as he lies back, but the blanket is soft enough against his palms and Cody sighs, letting his eyes drift closed. Any moment of peace is luxuriated in, hole in his chest or not. 

“You haven’t answered my question,” the man prompts. Metal knocks together somewhere to Cody’s left, the man’s hand steady on his chest, before the fabric of his blacks is cut. The line of the scissors burn a thin line of warning over his belly and Cody is moving before he can stop himself, bracing his feet against the cot and pushing—

He stops himself, pain lancing up his chest and over the curve of his hips, wordless screaming agony, and he collapses back against the bed. Breathing is difficult, every gasp tinged with sour bile, every pant painted with copper and iron. The man continues cutting away the fabric in his way, his gaze flickering between a well-worn look of intense focus, his brow pinched into a crease between his eyes, and manufactured care. It had to be false to look so sincere. 

“You could,” Cody begins before he tips his face sideways, spitting a wad of something dark and liquid off the edge of the bed. “You could at least buy me dinner first.”

The man laughs prettily, wide and unhurried in his luxuriating delight of it. He laughs like a man who has never known war or maybe, a man who has known too much of it. His hands are streaked with Cody’s blood, dark over the pads of his fingers and the creases of his palms, a trickle sliding down his wrist like a caress. Cody watches it go, his lip curled back over his teeth. 

He’s still braced across the expanse of Cody’s hips, a warm and solid weight against his thigh, makingCody wonder if they could have met some other way. Some hole-in-the-wall cantina where the drinks were cheap and embellished with a twist of something sweet and the man could slide into the space at Cody’s side like it had been made for him, take his wrist and pull him out onto the dancefloor despite the bruised egos of the collection of others that Cody had turned down. 

“Here.” 

Cody holds his hand up, snapping back to the sore and aching present in the same blink. The man deposits a ration bar onto his palm, the thin packet already torn open in an uneven line, and returns to threading a curved needle. “We’re doing things the old-fashioned way, I’m afraid. I’ve patched you up internally but the outside will need some assistance.”

“And this is for?” Cody takes a bite of the bar. He’s not about to turn down free food, especially when it arrives in any different flavour than grey. The bar is dry, crumbling at his first bite and he cups his palm to his mouth, chewing at the pieces that have broken away. There’s some kind of fruit mixed in, sweet and soft and Cody would tear himself open to be able to eat it again. The man leans forward, the needle held aloft and the light catches the sharp point of it like a magic show, nothing in this hand, nothing in that hand, but look. He picks one of the sections out of Cody’s palm but it never touches his skin, hovering above the bloody pad of his fingers. The man tips his head back to eat it, his hair falling free from the bun he had likely drawn it up into hours before. Copper on his hands, copper in his hair. 

He winks at Cody. “That is dinner. Now hold still, soldier, and let me work.”

There’s the expected sharp stab as the needle pierces through skin, the ache as the thread is drawn after it, and Cody grinds his heels into a bed that is far softer than he deserves, his jaw clenched so tight it would shatter. “Cody,” he grits out, digging dirt-streaked nails into his palm, drawing out a dark piece of the fruit and pressing it to his lips. It bursts, sticky and smearing across cracked and ruined skin. 

“Pardon?” The man blinks up at him. His weight is mostly resting on his knees now, splayed wide and nestled into indentations on the bed. One hand smooths over the dip of Cody’s waist, trying to settle him with the repetitive splay of his fingers. 

“My name. Cody.”

“Cody,” the man repeats. His fingers trace over the seam of Cody’s waist, following the curve of a scar before his touch moves to another, then another. “It’s a good name. Suits you.”

“Thanks,” Cody answers, an old burn of learnt embarrassment catching the back of his throat, the memory of chasing something sharp and blue with something just as sharp but pink. His name is his name and he had chosen well. Might as well lean into it. “Picked it out myself.”

The man cracks open on a laugh, pausing his wandering exploration of Cody’s waist and the sharp bite of the needle against his stomach. He doesn’t tip forward but it is a neat thing, clinging to the tatters of his professionalism like it would keep him afloat. His cheeks are slightly pink and a wash of freckles stand out with the additional flush of colour. There’s a single mark high on his cheek, just beneath his eye, and Cody’s attention snaps to it like a named target. “I can understand the impulse.” 

“Oh?” Cody commits the man to memory deliberately, the curve of his smile and the precise colour of his eyes. He had thought he would be sick of blue after shipping out from Kamino and it’s endless rolling oceans but the man seems made to surprise him. The man’s grin only widens, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and he pushes the needle through the last necessary piece of Cody’s stomach, drawing the wound entirely closed. His stitches are neat, evenly spaced to reduce the scarring later with bacta rationed for the more severe cases, and Cody nods once, reaching down to trace his fingers over the man’s work. 

“If you would care to leave me a good review on Spelp,” the man says, still seated across the stretch of Cody’s thighs, his hands clasped in front of him and something about the pose sparks familiarity but it vanishes as soon as the man leans forward to trace his hand over Cody’s stitches. “My name is Ben. But you will possibly have better luck finding me under Kenobi.”

Cody nods once and the reality of the situation catches him like a blow. Ben is a civvie medic with something strange about him — Cody has been a soldier since before he had been pulled from his decanting tube, he knows how badly he’d been hit and this wound looking a week old already is not the same injury he’d been brought in with — and Cody is likely never going to see him again after they ship out from this planet. A name and a memory is the only thing they’ll ever be to each other. He wants to make sure it’s a good one. 

“Not going to kiss me better, Ben?” Cody asks, his cheeks flushing with heat but his hands are steady. He doesn’t look away. 

Ben’s brow raises, delight washing over his face. “Do you always ask your medics for a get-better-kiss?”

Cody shrugs. The movement doesn’t hurt as much as it should have done and he wants to kiss Ben. He wants to remember him in a way that is permanent and the scar across his belly will accomplish that well enough, but he wants more. Wanting is new, still shiny out of the packet. “Only the pretty ones.”

Ben cackles, low in the base of his throat, something meant to be savoured with ice and a warm fire, sipped until it’s gone. He leans forward until he is lying flush with Cody, his nose brushing against Cody’s, his breath brushing his cheek and smelling faintly of mint and disinfectant. “Sweet-talker,” Ben murmurs, no heat behind his accusation, and he stands suddenly, pushing himself off of Cody. 

The medtent is fucking freezing. A shiver rattles through Cody, newly-stripped to the waist and bereft of human contact, mitigated by the heady flush of embarrassment coursing through him. He makes to sit up, intent on throwing himself in front of a droid, somewhere where he would be actually useful, when Ben stops him, a hand on his shoulder. Cody notes that his back is to the entrance, partially shielding Cody from the view of any passing troopers outside. “Remember what I said,” Ben says. “Remember my name.”

“Ben Kenobi,” Cody repeats.

Ben grins and leans forward to kiss him, just once. There is a warm mouth pressed against his, Cody leaning into his touch, and Ben retreats, his smile smaller, softer, wistful in a way. “Take care, Cody.”

Standing to his full height, Ben picks up a spare undershirt from next to him, folded and still faintly warm from the transport box. Cody knows a dismissal when he hears one and he takes the shirt, pulling it on carefully. As he tucks the shirt into the ruins of his former flightsuit, Ben moves into another section of the tent, separated by a length of fabric and Cody walks back onto the battlefield as he bolts his armour back on. The chestplate is ruined, dented and torn where Cody had been hit, but he picks up a spare and throws himself back into his task. He doesn’t think about Ben Kenobi. He doesn’t think about the kiss. He doesn’t think about the accelerated healing of his wound, the way he picked up the ration bar without touching it, and the way that another shot like the one that had just sent him to the medbay alters trajectory in midair and crashges into the ground at his feet. 

In the quiet after the battle, Cody pulls his helmet off and scratches at the tangle of sweat-soaked curls at the back of his head. His stomach aches but he doesn’t think he’s torn any of the stitches. Qui-Gon waits at the head of the table, his head bowed as he splays his fingers over the controls. The display shifts, widening over a single piece of earth before it flickers and scans sideways. Qui-Gon throws his hands up in dismay before he clasps them in front of himself. Same gesture, same bite of familiaity catching on the weave of Cody’s thoughts and he’s speaking before he can stop himself. “Sir, is the name Kenobi familiar to you?”

Qui-Gon straightens and Cody forgets how tall he is every time, used to the non-regimental curve of his shoulders, the way he sinks into his posture. “I have a Padawan named Kenobi.”

Skywalker, slouched in the corner, speaks around his nails, worrying at the edges as he had watched Qui-Gon prod at the controls. “Master, he left the Order.”

“A sabbatical, dear one,” Qui-Gon corrects, trodding over the floorboards of a well-worn argument. “Obi-Wan can return anytime he would like and he will always be my Padawan in one way or another until he decides he isn’t.”

Skywalker grumbles something that sounds like attachments and Qui-Gon silences him with a look before returning back to Cody. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering, sir.”

Seemingly satisfied, Qui-Gon turns back to the screen. It’s pink now, somehow. Cody didn’t realise that was even a setting that could be changed. Skywalker’s eyes narrow, his features drawn tight. “I do miss him. I’m glad that he’s doing well. And, to answer your inevitable question Anakin, I know he’s doing well because he’s met my Commander here who is a good person to have met.”

Cody doesn’t think about kissing Ben. Not here, not now. He doesn’t know how much the Jedi could pick up from his thoughts and that is a memory just for him, until they meet again. 

[geodax]

Codywan Reverse Bang

It’s that time of year! Here’s my contribution to the @codywanreversebang. It’s an enemies to maybe lovers story in an alternate universe where Cody and the clones were raised to serve the Empire and fight the Jedi. Read the fic below or on AO3.

Check out the amazing art by @cmarani linked here. And thanks to the mods for the extra time!

~~

Pain.

It radiated out from his abdomen, burning shards of agony shredding through his stomach and liver, splitting open his rib cage, and leaving his heart only just beating. The pain was far too familiar and no less agonizing than before. It was almost unfair that the agony of plasma cutting through skin and organs never seemed to lessen no matter how many times he endured it.

Cody was fairly certain he was screaming, or at the very least, yelling for a medic, but there were no medics here, no surgical wings equipped specifically to treat clones, no specialists standing at the ready to ensure the army lost none of its leadership.

He had long expected to die in battle. Not like this certainly, but it was a fact he had accepted a long time ago. Still, it was a shame. He had rather hoped that after dealing with the band of raiders, he would have enough credits to take a few months off and settle somewhere quiet, away from the roiling political shitstorm of the Core.

Blurry faces appeared in his vision. More pain lanced through his side - someone was touching him, trying to staunch the flow of blood where the blackened skin had broken open.

Cody tried to push them away. He’d rather die quickly, without the added pain of treatment, but his arms were caught and pulled aside.

Jumbled voices filled his ears, trying to calm him, but nothing could soothe him the way his brothers could. Their voices always meant help was coming, help was here, even if help was impossible, at least he would die in someone’s arms.

He thrashed violently when they moved him, nearly escaping their grasp, before they pinned him firmly to a stretcher.

More jumbled words, more soothing voices filtered through the pain. Something about healing, something about debt. No, he did not like the sound of that at all.

“Stop--” his voice slurred, then failed him entirely as he hacked at the blood suddenly filling his throat. The sickly sweet scent of bacta flooded his nostrils before it poured into his sinuses.

In the Core or in a medical bay, he would have inhaled deeply, allowing the mist to reach his lungs and staunch the bleeding until surgery could be completed.

But out here, bacta was worth more than the few thousand credits in his bank account. Certainly more than these people had paid him for this job.

How much would they demand in return?

How many years of service would they deem an acceptable exchange for saving his life?

This would never end, would it? He barely escaped the clutches of the Empire before they snatched back what little freedom they had offered the clones as thanks for fighting the war. And even then, he had to fight tooth and nail just to keep what bare semblance of choice he had.

“Breath,” the healer repeated again, this time just as someone else pressed on his wound. He screamed again, wheezed in another breath, and felt the bacta soothe the burning tissues even as he tried to cough it back up.

It was already too late, but he couldn’t give up.

He couldn’t--

The sunlight vanished and he found himself indoors, somehow. They were still hours away from the village, he had been certain of that. It’s why he had laid his trap here, where no one was supposed to get hurt.

They were gentle as they placed him back on the floor, but it did little to stop the blinding pain.

And then the chanting began.

Cody would have sighed if he had breath to spare. He knew this village was a little off - most groups isolated for long enough tended to diverge from the galactic norm at least slightly - but he hadn’t thought a cult was flourishing here. And it certainly was, judging by the sudden appearance of glittering white and gold robes swirling throughout the room.

Well, at least whenever their supposed god failed to save his life, Cody would die free. There wasn’t much more he could ask for at this point.

Metal clanked and then hands were on him. They lay upon his side and moved outwards, the pain numbing with each pass of their hands over the torn skin.

Cody wondered idly what painkiller they were using. There were more than a few on the market that acted so quickly, but they were extraordinarily expensive. Perhaps some crop had those properties. He had seen stranger things in the galaxy.

Still, it didn’t matter. No painkiller would save his life, just ease his passing. That had been an unheard of luxury to the clones; it had never made sense to waste resources on the dying. But lying here, on the receiving end, he thought it would have been justified to spare even a half dose to his brothers clutching their spilled guts in their hands.

Cody squinted upwards and caught a glimpse of brilliant blue eyes before his vision blurred again, too accosted by agony to focus on anything.

Some memory tickled at the back of his mind. Something important. Something--

He screamed through another wave of pain, even as the painkillers fought to soothe it. It wasn’t enough.

“Breath,” the man said. Now, there was a soothing - familiar? - voice. Yes, it had the same Coruscanti lilt of the Empire’s senators and bootlickers that had spent a lifetime trying to keep Cody enslaved, but this voice reminded him of the rare specialists that had visited medical frigates to conduct more complex surgeries than the clones were trained for.

It was one of those specialists that had stitched his brain back together after his skull had been cracked open. She hadn’t said much, but she had allowed Rex in during his recovery to ease his back awake from the anesthesia.

He hadn’t realized such an act was normal to so much of the galaxy, that this was only a hint of the kindness natborns showed each other on a day to day basis that was so often denied to the clones.

There were a lot of things he hadn’t realized back then.

Cody closed his eyes and allowed his body to relax as the pain continued to fade. Really, there was no harm in falling asleep. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t wake up again, but that was okay.

Maybe he’d finally get to see Rex again.

--

Pain was there when he woke up, but it was the light glaring into his eyes that drew him to wakefulness. Cody groaned and covered his eyes, too tired to consider moving out of the sunbeam. His whole body ached, but some of the supposed god’s painkiller must still be in his bloodstream because he didn’t feel the need to scream through the agony.

He was almost comfortable. The floor beneath him was plushily carpeted and a pillow was tucked under his head. Someone had wiped the blood off his face and hands and removed his armor to make room for the bandages wrapped around his torso.

He felt much better than he should, considering.

A blaster bolt to the chest was a death sentence, more often than not. In triage scenarios, it was too time intensive a surgery to be performed when so many others were in just as much danger. Even outside the chaos of a mass casualty event, it was a risky procedure on the best of days since surgeons were permanently in short supply.

Really, the only option was a Jedi healer.

But they were all long dead. Cody had made sure of that - had even once reveled in destroying the Empire’s enemies and facing a cunning opponent. He would have laughed at the irony of it all if the ghosts did not weigh so heavily on him.

The light in his eyes abruptly dimmed with the rustle of a curtain. Footsteps approached, accompanied by the soft clink of - a chain?

Carefully, Cody squinted into the dim light to find the supposed god haloed by what light still filtered in through the curtains.

“Hello again, Commander,” the god said and what little warmth Cody had felt in his bones turned to ice.

Obi-Wan Kenobi. Jedi master. The last knight of Alderaan, the savior of Christophsis, the guiding light of the Hyperion Cluster. The reaper, as his brothers called him. The man had a thousand names to accompany his own, dozens of titles to commemorate his victories against the Empire before Cody had finally outmaneuvered him.

The Empire had heralded the day as a great victory.

But too many brothers had lain dead at his feet.

Because Cody had to win, damn the consequences.

“You’re--” Cody choked on the rest of his sentence. Of course, Kenobi was alive. Of course, he was here, of all places, pretending to be a god, when Cody had no blaster at his side, no army at his back. Cody doubted he could even land a punch if Kenobi were to so helpfully place himself within range.

Kenobi would take his revenge.

And Cody wouldn’t be able to lift a finger to stop him.

He was free - from the Empire, from the smugglers that had gotten him off Coruscant in exchange for five years of his life, from the bounty hunters the Empire had sent after their most famous deserter. No more army, no more regulations, no more collars wrapped tight around his neck.

Cody deserved to die for what he did. His heart knew that even as he ran from it, too terrified still to dare recall that day.

He just wanted a little more time.

Just--

Kenobi smiled at him, but it wasn’t the blazing, flirtatious smile Cody had gotten to know over the battlefield. There was something too knowing in those eyes, too aware of everything Cody had done, every corpse he had left in his wake. And yet there was no hate in his gaze.

Cody looked away.

“I didn’t know the Empire allowed for armor paint,” Kenobi said.

The gold stripes painted on his armor were certainly not regulation. Neither was the hair curling over the tops of his ears or the dusting of stubble across his cheeks that he hadn’t bothered to shave. The blaster he usually carried wasn’t standard issue nor were the few hesitant strokes of polish on his nails and the single piercing he had gotten during a drunken evening on the streets of Nar Shadda.

Each small deviation had felt unforgivable. For days, he couldn’t help but look over his shoulder, certain he would be caught and reprimanded - or worse. Not even deserting had cranked his paranoia so high.

But no one had said anything. His brothers hadn’t been waiting behind every corner to arrest him. Local security hadn’t even given him a second glance for so obviously flaunting the rules that the clones had never lived a day without.

“They don’t,” Cody said.

The silence stretched on.

“I don’t serve the Empire anymore.”

The words felt like an apology.

They weren’t.

“I see,” Kenobi said. The Jedi certainly did not - could not - see what Cody meant. But Cody wasn’t in the mood to clarify. Not to him.

Again, the Jedi’s gaze fell on him, searching for something, though Cody could not guess what. Too often he had borne the brunt of Kenobi’s piercing gaze and the too-knowing look in his eye that usually meant he was a dozen steps ahead of Cody and would be walking away from their confrontation without even igniting his saber.

It was strange now to realize how little stood between them. No armies, no politics, no strategies. It was just the two of them.

And all the bodies they left in their wake.

The Jedi remained still, far from Cody’s side and his twitchy trigger finger. His blaster was probably out in the field where he fell or maybe Kenobi had finally had the good sense to disarm his opponents before trying to sweet talk them.

He had tried to shoot the Jedi in the face on more than one occasion. It never landed, but it had always been satisfying to startle Kenobi out of whatever tangent he had travelled down and allow Cody to make a break for it before the Jedi’s word could sink too deeply in his mind.

“I need to change your bandages,” Kenobi said. He had the good sense not to approach, but Cody wasn’t sure how long that would last. If he was intent on saving Cody’s life, he would do it, one way or another. Because alone, Cody was no match for a Jedi. Especially a Jedi like Kenobi.

“Would you rather change them yourself?” Kenobi asked, a single eyebrow twitching almost into his characteristic smirk before it disappeared.

Cody scowled, but there was no way to change the bandages himself. He was almost willing to try anyway if he wasn’t guaranteed to rip back open what the bacta and Kenobi’s Force had begun to heal.

“Go ahead,” Cody said, trying not to feel as if he were surrendering. The battle was already over. He lost. Now, he could only hope for the mercy Cody had not once shown to Kenobi’s people.

Kenobi’s hands were quick and sure. He removed the soiled bandages and bacta patches before replacing them with fresh gauze and a new layer of bacta. Cody idly wondered at the cost of it all, before realizing it was probably beyond his ability to repay at this point. Besides, his life was in Kenobi’s hands now. His financial woes were the least of his concerns.

“You should be healed enough to leave in a few days,” Kenobi said as he finished. “The organs still need time to heal and you’re still at risk for infection, but you’re out of the woods. You’ve got your remarkable healing abilities to thank for that.”

Kenobi had already started talking about something else before the words finally caught up to Cody.

“You’d let me leave?” Cody asked. It felt like a trap to ask, but Cody had always thought it best to spring the trap rather than let it close when he least expected.

Kenobi shrugged. “I have no quarrel with you Commander, unless you feel inclined to dig up old grudges.”

The sentiment was so obviously a lie it was almost laughable. Kenobi was clearly trying to lull him into some false sense of security. Cody would not fall for it.

“And the town?” Cody asked.

“I don’t believe they have taken issue with you.”

Cody scowled, then looked away. Of course, the Jedi wouldn’t even have a proper answer. He had lived too long assured that his needs would be met, that medicial supplies would not be withheld as bartering chips or punishment. He wouldn’t even know what Cody was asking.

“Commander,” Kenobi said. There was a touch of steel in his voice, the hint of the general Cody remembered bleeding through. “I’m afraid I am not particularly involved in local politics. I cannot answer your question without the relevant information.

“I can’t--” Cody steeled himself. “I can’t afford the bacta treatments.”

The bacta treatments should have been his right after the war ended. He was supposed to have his citizenship, backpay, and medical care to cover the plethora of injuries he had sustained over the war. Even as a soldier, bacta was readily available. It was cheaper than fulltime surgeons. And once the Empire established a monopoly, they had as much as they needed while the civilian market struggled.

But even as he lamented the loss, he realized too late what he had revealed.

“You deserted,” Kenobi said.

“No!” Cody snapped, but the truth rang too loud to be ignored. His cheeks burned with shame, still just as fresh as it was ten years ago.

“There are people out there that can help you build a life away from the Empire, Commander. Help you get your feet on the ground, maybe--”

“I don’t want your help, Jedi. I just want to be left alone.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Kenobi said.

“I know.”

The silence between them stretched on. It was not the silence Cody had grown to know in the moments before battle nor the silence of the barracks when most had already gone to bed. It was not the sort of silence that begged to be broken, nor the kind that must not be. It was simply the space between breaths, stretched out a moment too long.

“Do you know why the Jedi fought in the war?” Kenobi asked, apparently oblivious to Cody’s own desire to never discuss the war or the Empire, but he supposed it was a fairly neutral question. Better than Kenobi asking after him.

They both knew the answer the propaganda fed them - greed, power, madness. Even the Alliance had gradually begun to turn their back on the Jedi; for all great feats the Jedi accomplished, the lives they saved, their abilities only served to alienate them from the general public.

Cody didn’t provide an answer, though he had a guess or two. One couldn’t learn to predict their enemies’ moves without knowing their motivations.

“We can feel the galaxy’s suffering. Not just the feelings of the people near us, but the actual weight of every sentient life that has ever lived or will ever live. Their feelings leave an imprint on the Force that echoes through time,” Obi-Wan said. “Every day, we wake up to a billion voices begging for help. By night, there are just as many, no matter how many lives we save. But we can’t stop trying.”

It was certainly not the official answer - that they were honor bound to restore the peace, to restore freedom and justice to a galaxy rapidly destabilizing under the ever expanding grip of the Empire - but it rang true in the way Kenobi’s words rarely did.

And yet it made no sense.

“Isn’t that an exercise in futility?” Cody asked.

“Perhaps,” Kenobi said. He paused to look down at his shaking hands. Cody wondered vaguely when that had developed. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what happened, Commander. You and your brothers deserved more than to fight a war that was not your own. And if you don’t mind me asking, I would very much like to know why you fought at all. Because you are certainly not mindless, obedient droids, no matter what your Senate claims.”

Cody could easily give him the official answer - citizenship, honor, duty, training. The list went on for miles, all of it dedicated to lofty ideals that the Empire claimed to uphold. But they all knew that was crap from the beginning.

Honor hadn’t kept him on Coruscant when the Empire declared war again mere days after they had finally defeated the Alliance. Duty hadn’t freed him of what he had done, of the ghosts that haunted his steps.

But love did.

At least, it used to. Before the death reports trickled in, before the numbers tallied up faster than Cody could track. Before his brothers stopped looking him in the eye, stopped trusting him to watch their back.

Before he had sacrificed hundreds of his brothers to win a war none of them cared about.

Before he had killed Rex.

It had been the right choice, tactically speaking. A few hundred brothers fed into the meat grinder, so that the rest of them could finally have the freedom to live, to breathe, to take whatever life they wanted and make it their own.

It had been love that drove his hand.

And love was why his brothers hated him - because they would have rather kept fighting than see their brothers slaughtered.

Because at war, they were together. United. Purposeful.

Without it…

“We were made for it,” Cody said.

It felt like a lie.

It had to be.

Kenobi collected the soiled bandages and disappeared from Cody’s eyeline. His instincts made a half-hearted attempt at panicking, but Cody was too tired to consider the danger. Kenobi was right; he would never have the quiet life he desired, never be at peace while his brothers were still enslaved by the Empire.

And yet none of them would ever desert - they were too loyal to each other to even consider it. And the promise of citizenship, of being acknowledged as a sentient, free people had been motivation enough to prevent their more scheming minds from finding them some way out.

But it was a lie. Just like every damn thing Cody had ever believed. Over and over he found himself living with the consequences of the lies the Empire told - that they were bringing peace to the galaxy, that they were doing something good, that the clones would be rewarded for their work, that they would all be free someday.

Only a few years alone had revealed the truth to him.

And with the truth, came the horror of what he had done - the blood he and his brothers had left in their wake. But much stronger than guilt, was frustration.

It had all been pointless. All the brothers that died for a better life, all the lives he had sacrificed: they were never going to be given their freedom.

He heard the clank of a chain again as Kenobi returned. He looked almost as bad as Cody was feeling: his face was gaunt, his skin almost gray, his eyes red. More than that, he looked exhausted.

“What are you doing here?” Cody asked. Kenobi was in hiding, certainly. All the Jedi (what remained of them) were. Cody had been quite efficient at wiping out their network of support. But Jedi didn’t go into hiding as gods - rumors traveled too quickly of such things. Even out here, far from most hyperspace lanes, on a planet that disdained outsiders, rumors should have spread eventually. And yet he was; alive and untouched by the hunters that had burned their way through the galaxy for years now.

Kenobi had always been the exception to the rule - too clever, too manipulative, too proud. It was what made him a great general, how he inspired devotion in his troops, how he could convince them to trust even his most ridiculous plans.

It’s why he had been the Empire’s greatest enemy, why Cody had been tasked with slaughtering his battalion, his allies, down to the last member. He had succeeded when no one else had, but never managed to track down the Jedi’s starfighter after they shot it out of the sky.

“The whole galaxy thinks you’re dead,” Cody said.

“I almost was,” Kenobi said. “I was caught in the hyperspace slipstream of a cruiser before I was spat out here, no comms, no support, not even a general idea of where I might be. I walked for days to find civilization, and when I did, it was under attack. I revealed myself as a Jedi to defend the town, but I was shot twice in the process and brought here to heal.”

The Jedi came to Cody’s side with a tray of biscuits and a glass of infused water that shimmered almost blue in the dim light.

“You should eat,” Kenobi said.

“It’s been ten years,” Cody said.

Kenobi didn’t answer. There was something terribly close to guilt in his eyes, but more than that, Cody finally glimpsed his freezing anger.

Good. It was about time they stopped this pointless, slow dance around each other.

“Kenobi--”

“What do you think happened, Commander?” Kenobi asked. “No matter how many times we offered you and your brothers a way out of slavery, you spit in our face. You destroyed our Temple, you developed the protocols for the killing squads, you ensured we had nowhere to run. And then when we were practically beaten, you gave the order to hunt and execute us. As if we were nothing but animals.”

“So you set yourself up as a god to these people? Using and manipulating them in the same way that the Empire does to us? Because if that’s the kind of people the Jedi really were, then I’m glad we never followed you. Because you deserved what we did to you.”

Kenobi looked away, his fringe falling over his eyes. And then pulled his robes aside to reveal a heavy chain around his ankle.

“I didn’t choose this,” he said. “No Jedi would.”

Kenobi ran his fingers through his hair and sighed at Cody’s skeptical expression.

“While I was healing, they trapped me here. They thought they could use my abilities to keep their crops growing, their children healthy, so they tried bribing me – giving me gifts and food, anything they could imagine. And when I couldn’t help them, they turned to punishments and coercion.”

Kenobi’s fingers ghosted over a nearly invisible scar cutting across his cheek.

“They had never heard of the Jedi. All they had were stories of fickle gods that wandered the stars that could destroy planets on a whim or bring great riches to those that won their favor. They thought they were doing the right thing. Eventually, I taught myself to heal. That was the one gift I could actually give them.”

“You healed them?” Cody growled. The very idea set him on edge. He certainly wouldn’t lift a finger to help the shitty natborns that denied him and his brothers their citizenship. “Why?”

“I couldn’t leave them to suffer.”

“But they hurt you, they—”

Cody stopped. Because Kenobi had been telling him why since he opened his mouth. Because it was only a chain – ten years was more than enough time to wiggle his way free one way or another, Cody had seen him escape for more secure prisons.

“It’s because you’re a Jedi, isn’t it?”

Kenobi nodded. “It is not such a bad life,” he said. “I can still help people without bringing the Empire down on my head. I can meditate freely, still practice my beliefs. I can sleep without worrying what tomorrow will bring or what harm I will have to cause. I can simply serve these people as best I can – and here, that means healing.”

“Then you already know why so many of my brothers cannot leave.”

Kenobi smiled sadly. “You love each other and each other only.”

“Yes.”

The truth was simple. It did not make the loss of their love any less agonizing.

“They hate me,” Cody said when it felt like the silence had stretched on for long enough. “That’s why I left. After what I did—” He shook his head. “We only ever had each other. And I—”

Cody couldn’t continue, but he didn’t need to. He had seen the shock on Kenobi’s face when he realized that Cody was going to walk his brothers into a trap just to distract the other Jedi generals and their army long enough to bring in the bombers and the surrounded them.

The annihilation had been complete.

Not a single survivor walked away.

Not even Rex.

The Alliance had tried to retreat under Kenobi’s quick direction, but Cody hadn’t let them go, hadn’t allowed for surrender, for decency.

He won the war.

And lost everything else.

“Then go back for them,” Kenobi said, as if it were that simple.

It wasn’t. There was no way to pull everyone off Coruscant and the outposts at once. Too many things could go wrong, too many brothers would be left behind to face the wrath of the Empire. Cody had spent years agonizing over the problem, turning it over and over, accounting for thousands of variables and possibilities without luck.

“It’s impossible.”

“Then let me help.”

Epilogue

The chain broke with the snap of Obi-Wan’s fingers. He had not bothered with fanfare or comment, simply done what he had spent ten long years avoiding. But Cody saw the way his shoulders uncurled, how the permanent tension seemed to bleed out of his body. This was a relief too long in the making.

Cody’s armor slipped back on easily now that his wound was healed. Kenobi had certainly become a master healer in the intervening years. With the help of bacta, there was not even a scar to remember it by nor any lingering tightness in his lungs. He was fairly sure the Jedi had managed to soften some of the scar tissue in his lungs and gut that had been his constant companion since the day he woke up with his skull stapled back together.

Obi-Wan packed them both a bag, woven together by the rich sheets the town’s residents had gifted him. In it went what necessities Obi-Wan could scrounge up, though there wasn’t much besides the simple robes he wore, a few hygiene items, and some medical supplies. He left the gifts and offerings behind, not budging even when Cody revealed his sorry financial situation. He was certain the Force would provide. It was a faith Cody allowed himself to hesitantly share.

He stretched his stiff muscles as they readjusted to the comforting weight of his armor. It felt much the same as always, but the persistent itch between his shoulders blades was gone.

“My ship’s only a few kliks south of here,” Cody said as Obi-Wan tidied up the cottage. There wasn’t much to do – the place was kept almost spotless – but he folded away the nest of blankets and set the pillow back on the bed. The meditation corner he set up for himself was quickly dismantled. In minutes, it was as if no one lived here.

“Clean slate,” Obi-Wan said as he pulled the curtains open, letting the light flood into the room. He hesitated briefly before the last, before flinging it open like the others, letting in a mess of colors and lights like Cody had never seen.

Cody tucked his helmet under his arm as he stepped forward, a hand outstretched to touch what was certainly the results of hundreds of hours of work. Hundreds of glass pieces had been cut and soldered together to depict Obi-Wan in the moments after a battle, the sun at his back, his lightsaber extinguished, his eyes closed as he centered himself, a perfectly serene expression on his face. The artist had added a pair of colorful wings to Obi-Wan’s back that glimmered as the sun passed through the glass before it pooled on the floor in a mesh of hues.

“They loved you,” Cody said.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan said. His own hand reached out to trace the soldered lines, a labor of love by an artist who must have spent decades practicing their trade before they brought their work here. “Too much, perhaps.”

“They’ll be alright.”

“I know.”

Obi-Wan turned away from the window, the fire finally returning to his eyes. “Well, there’s no time to waste, my dear. Shall we?”

Cody put on his helmet and hefted his bag.

His brothers had been waiting long enough.