#nothing fills me with more power than lining up a ramp well and running over zombie cops in the city entrance - instant therapy

[bigkickguy]

Olivia is my favorite so far!!

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child���as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher  higher  higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando��a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything  shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @djarinsbeskar @sammysdaisy @whataperfectwasteoftime @mandobloggin @silver-streaked-wings

[butchhamlet]

OKAY SO I GOT TO SEE SHAKESPEARE IN THE PARK ANDRE DE SHIELDS KING LEAR YESTERDAY AND IT WAS FUCKING AMAZING SO HERE’S A POST ABOUT THAT

first off here’s the shitty picture i took of the set! the entire thing was set in “a north african nation” (words theirs; in quotes because i don’t want to seem like they named a real one and i just didn’t bother to remember askdfhdskhfds) & the entire cast was people of color! i am staring at this picture thinking about how blurry it is but trust me that it was SO fucking cool... it was visibly gorgeous but also visibly crumbling which. like. foams at the mouth about the symbolism yknow

ALSO the winged thing is the throne! during intermission (which was after 3.6), some crew members took the wings off and laid them down at the back of the set like the whole thing had come apart, and when edmund entered in 5.1 he had a moment of staring out at the audience with his foot up on the top wing

the entire production went hard on drums; there was a note in the program about how the director wanted to center the african setting & also the rhythm; the trumpet herald at the end was replaced by drumming, and during the storm scenes, the drums represented the thunder! (complete with flashing lights for lightning; it was cool as fuck)

& now i’m gonna describe my beat-by-beat staging notes that i scribbled down from where i was sitting in the grass. no attempts to make this coherent bc the show was so fucking good and i just feel insane <3

 edmund came out in literal jade-colored glasses which felt like a WONDERFUL character bit

everyone in this cast was so well cast btw and not to be a lesbian but like. the lear sisters. 😳

they cut the cordelia asides in 1.1, which made it slightly harder to get a read on her but also made it slightly more startling when she said “nothing, my lord” (goneril and regan both got up to take a literal microphone from lear, while cordelia didn’t take it when he held it out and literally turned away to face the audience instead)

there were three little stools laid out for each sister to sit on & lear was so infuriated by what cordelia said that he started throwing them around (not at her but close)

and lear never looked particularly Legitimately Threatening (he looked very small, actually; idk how tall andre de shields is lmfao but he definitely looked like an old man), but cordelia flinched near-instinctively when he threw the stools, like this wasn’t the first time

WHEN LEAR LEFT NEAR THE END OF 1.1 GONERIL GOT UP AND SAT IN THE THRONE WHERE HE’D BEEN SITTING AND STAYED THERE WHILE SEEING CORDELIA OFF

she was also the only lear sister in a pantsuit 😳

on that note they were color-coded! goneril was dressed all in purple, regan was orange, and cordelia was pink; all of their households followed this (eg cornwall was orange, oswald was purple), but when cordelia came back in act four, it was in soldiers’ clothes without any pink on her

andre de shields lear was fucking incredible and is anyone surprised about that like he was so good

he did SO much yelling. man has some lungs on him. not even yelling words all the time but a lot of just flat-out yelling (which was alternately funny and distressing depending on the moment)

like in 1.4 he stumbled back in to deliver “50 of my followers at a clap?” heralded by his own flat-out scream which made everyone laugh a little. grandpappy off the shits

EDGAR CAME IN ON A SKATEBOARD WITH HEADPHONES ON AND WHEN HE STOPPED AND LIFTED UP HIS SKATEBOARD SHAKESPEARE’S FACE WAS ON THE BOTTOM

this edgar was so fucking perfect btw like. everything about him. i think he was my favorite part of the show

lear and his knights busted in playing loud music, waving guns, and drinking from beer cans (white claw? idk what it was i’m a weenie). lear was wearing the brightest orange shirt ive ever seen. kent received entry to the group by busting some sick moves to the music despite being an oldass man

the fool was SO fucking funny he interacted w the audience constantly and the entire time (even during the storm scene) he was lugging around a suitcase and a little folding stool

after “have more than thou showest” the audience started clapping and he looked at us and said “not yet”

and then proceeded to deliver the sweet and bitter fool speech as a full-on rap with the audience clapping the beats in after each line

at the end of which he said to us “good job! give yourselves a hand. the king’s mad at y’all now though” and then he turned around and lear had his gun aimed at him and AUDIBLY clicked the safety off and there was a tense second where the fool had to talk him down

GONERIL SLAPPED LEAR AFTER THE BARRENNESS CURSE

1.5 hurt because the fool was VERY clearly trying his best to cheer lear up, like, he kept glancing around for ideas and trying to joke while lear sat pathetically on his folding stool

the stage was outdoors (duh) and there were ramps on either side for the actors to come on and off into the crowd, and when edgar ran off, he sprinted down the ramp, then turned, sprinted BACK, hugged edmund HARD, and then ran off again and around the back of the stage

this was after edmund FULLY punched him in the face on “pardon me” :(

at the end of 2.1 edmund was the last one to file off stage and he turned and gave the audience the cheekiest shrug

edgar tripped and ate shit while he was absolutely tearing around the side of the stage for 2.3 and idk if it was on purpose but it felt in character AKHSDFKHDSSFH

he delivered “poor turlygod! poor tom!” like he was acting, and then looked up and went “that’s something” kind of like he’d just realized

the fool delivered his merlin speech like he was making it up on the fucking spot. “and then the realm of albion...” [PAUSE.] “will come... to great... con-fu-si-on” emphasizing the non-rhyme. same with the non-rhyme of “see’t” / “fee-eet.” then he looked at us and said, “i didn’t write it. ask the author” and scrambled offstage

in 3.3 gloucester hugged edmund! ...and edmund picked his pocket for his key

“nay, he reserved some white flowers in the crook of his elbow, half a pair of pants, and a nasty ratty baseball cap, else we’d all been shamed” (im filling in the wording i forgot but that’s near verbatim and i cackled out loud)

(he was, indeed, wearing nothing but some white flowers, a ragged pair of pants, and a nasty ratty baseball cap. and a lot of dirt/paint)

when gloucester entered during the hovel scene edgar was skittering across the floor and looked up and the whole set paused as they made EXTENDED eye contact and it hurt INTENSELY

and then edgar snatched gloucester’s flashlight and hurried to the opposite end of the stage to focus entirely and intently on warming his hands over it like a fire and he did not look in gloucester’s direction at all but he got VERY still when gloucester mentioned him

i made an AUDIBLE noise when lear stabbed the fool. like. i knew it was a possible staging but it happened so fast and so viciously that it caught me totally off guard

and edgar got the “i’ll go to bed at noon” line :(

genuinely it is hard to emphasize how perfect this edgar was. how do i kin a character but just one specific version of that character that i saw one time

(intermission happened here!)

while interrogating gloucester, cornwall was very deliberately putting on medical gloves and then he picked up a power drill and my friend and i in the audience looked at each other exactly like the fucking monkey puppet image

however. only one eye went out with the power drill. because regan took the other one out WITH HER NAILS in a fit of rage when her husband was injured. full on stuck her hand into his eye socket

goneril and edmund kissed for a LONG long moment in 4.2. long enough that oswald coughed pointedly. which did not stop or affect them

gloucester tried to pay edgar and edgar immediately turned around and chucked the payment off stage

gloucester used a cane the whole show and he dropped it off the “cliff” before he fell, and edgar swooped down and silently caught it and held it for a moment before he let it clatter to the floor

at this point he was also wearing leggings and like. three mismatched layers of flannels and jackets

lear came out in act four in a tropical dress, white face/chest paint, and a flower/fruit hat

he threw money into the crowd multiple times during his speech, including one point where he specifically leaned over the edge of the stage, motioned at the closest audience member, said, “come here,” and then threw money at them

he also mooned the guards who came to get him

and nearly hugged someone in the crowd while the guards tried to drag his half-tranquilized body away

oswald was so fucking funny for the entire play. so funny. in 1.4 he came in with goneril and pointed at lear with the air of a small child tattling to the teacher; when kent attacked him he fell on the ground whimpering;  he came in to kill gloucester a moment before lear left and ducked back into the wings FAST before creeping out again

when the guards brought lear and cordelia in, someone set out the fool’s little folding chair, and cordelia ended up sitting on it during lear’s speech :( felt very my-poor-fool-is-hanged y’know

curan from 2.1 was the captain in 5.1! so he & edmund already had a bit of a relationship established

REGAN THREW HER WINE IN GONERIL’S FACE WHILE THEY FOUGHT OVER EDMUND

edgar and edmund dueled with two swords each

AND WHEN HE WAS INJURED AND ALBANY CALLED THEM BOTH OUT. GONERIL TOOK EDMUND’S SWORD AND WENT AT ALBANY WITH IT AND NEARLY GOT HIM BEFORE RUNNING OFFSTAGE

they cut “yet edmund is beloved” which is always a cardinal sin HOWEVER when he got the news about regan and goneril edmund stabbed himself which. pain and suffering!

much like albany himself, i literally forgot about lear and cordelia because i was so enthralled by gloucester brothers duel like. i was so caught up in the agony of edgar killing edmund that i forgot the other fucking bomb that had to drop and it was like getting bricked in the face

my last note literally reads “cannot believe i forgot abt the other bomb to drop jesus christ i hate this shit ass bitch ass play it really just fucking ends like that huh fuck off”

it was the first time i’ve ever seen live shakespearean theater and it literally could not have been better and i am terminally insane now.

[brokenbeskar]

Denial

Chapter One of Memories Reforged ( Din Djarin x F!Reader )

Word Count: 8.2k

Summary: After crash landing on the planet of your next job, you learn another mysterious mandalorian bounty hunter is working the same contract as you and you decide to investigate.

Warnings: descriptions of blood and death, canon level violence, grief, there's a nightmare sequence but nothing crazy!

A/N: I’m super nervous to start posting this, but I hope you all enjoy it! Let me know if you find any mistakes or have any criticisms/advice! Theres a lot of mystery surrounding you for the first couple chapters, but I promise they will be explained soon enough! 

Everything around you is happening so rapidly, in flashes. Red, surrounding you, clouding everything around you... 

It’s blood. Blood--blood on your hands, you realize. Blood on the ground around you, on you--on everything. Your vision is so blurry you can barely make out the shapes around you. You’re sobbing, your chest aches, burning, smoke and ash in your lungs, you try to cry out but barely any sound comes through. A rushing in your ears so loud you can barely hear. 

You're desperately applying pressure beneath you, but the bleeding won’t stop. You beg and plead to the maker, the universe, whatever could possibly hear you, whatever could possibly help you, you're so desperate. you’re trembling, shaking so hard you can’t keep steady despite trying so hard to keep the pressure on the gushing wound beneath you... 

Another flash, you can’t see anything anymore, everything is too blurry, but you feel something brush up to your cheek, you lean into it. It’s comforting, but the burning in your chest only gets worse, your sobbing doesn't stop. The brush on your cheek is so tender, so precious, but so painful. So bittersweet... 

More red, another flash, and now a sound, cutting through the white noise that fills your ears--a steady beeping. Through your clouded vision you can barely make out the light flashing on the bomb that's been set to detonate in his hand. You press your forehead to something cold, and you squeeze your eyes shut, blackness engulfing your vision, only the faint blinking of the light shining through your eyelids...

 Suddenly, everything is crystal clear. The feeling of his hand tangled in your hair, pulling you tighter against the cool metal of his helmet, the warmth of the blood gushing out of the wound you are still so desperately applying pressure to, and when you open your burning, sobbing eyes, the crystal clear reflection of the bomb blinking in the corner of his visor. The light growing brighter, and the beeping growing faster, louder, and louder---so LOUD-- You shoot up with a sharp gasp in your seat, absolute panic still consuming you, the beeping from the bomb still going off rapidly--no...you realize suddenly. The beeping from the cockpit of your ship, you're dropping out of hyperspace. 

You’re shivering, covered in a cold sweat, things slowly starting to come back to you. It was another nightmare. You must have fallen asleep while you were still in hyperspace. You glance over to the helmet in the copilot seat next to you, the familiar visor staring at you, hollow. The stars reflecting off the tint of it, and the beat up, once glossy copper accents framing it. You try to get your breathing under control while you shakily take hold of the ship's controls, flicking off the alarm and getting ready to break through the atmosphere of the planet thats suddenly in front of you.

 This is going to be rough. This ship, if you can even call it that, is a piece of shit. It’s barely holding together, you were shocked it was even able to make the jump into hyperspace in the first place. It's trembling dramatically under you, as you try to hold her steady while you descend. 

“Talk about a bumpy ride,” you barely mutter to yourself through gritted teeth as you struggle against the violent rattling of the hunk of metal surrounding you, suddenly very thankful you were already buckled in. Suddenly the whole ship lurches violently despite your firm hold on the controls as you break into the atmosphere, and alarms start blaring deafeningly throughout the cockpit, the ship is barely holding together at this point. You clench your jaw tight, this is going to be a rough landing. Another violent jerk of the ship and you feel something big break off. You can’t even begin to think about what it is though, because you are quickly losing control entirely. You are descending much too fast, and there's nothing you can do about it. Alarms blaring in your ears as you try to make this the softest crash landing possible. The sandy surface of this planet is coming quick, until it's all you can see. You violently collide with the ground, you can't see anything, sand shoots up all around the ship blinding you. You had tried to hit a good angle coming down, but your ship slides through the sand, bounces back up, and rolls twice. You get roughly knocked around in your seat and you wack your head pretty hard on the dashboard in the collision, you black out. 

You groan, slowly coming to, clutching the sore spot on the side of your head while you try to collect yourself. Maker, it HURTS, you can feel the pulsing behind your eyes and you’re seeing stars, your vision blurry from the impact. You shakily undo your seatbelt, and try to lift from your seat, hand still clutching the side of your head. Everything on you hurts, you know you’re going to be covered head to toe in bruises despite being buckled in the whole time. You tap the nav console in the center of the dashboard, but nothing, unresponsive. The whole ship has gone completely dead. No more flashing lights and blaring alarms. Just the slight groaning of the metal struggling to stay together after the crash. 

“Well fuck…” you sigh out, but then the dread and anger hit you all at once. A pit pooling in your stomach and rising up tight in your chest like an inferno, You had scrounged together every last credit you had for this piece of shit, and now it's absolutely trashed. It would cost you more than its worth in repairs, if it can even be repaired. You would bet all your remaining credits it was far beyond saving. You violently slam your fist down into the control panel, cursing loudly into the cockpit. You needed this ship, badly. How were you supposed to collect bounties without it? How could you afford a new one? You bang your fist into the control panel again, then slump down defeatedly back into the pilot's seat, resting your elbows on the edge of the control panel and leaning forward to burying your head in your hands. 

You take a deep breath in and run one of your hands through the hair framing your face as you lean back in the seat and let the same breath out. You turn your head slightly to look over to the copilot's seat, but you shoot back up to your feet when you find the seat is empty. Your heart is racing again. Where is it? Where did it go? You frantically scan the floor of the cockpit, desperately looking for even the smallest glimpse of it. When you finally catch sight of the familiar hunk of metal in the far corner, you rush over and drop to your knees next to it. You carefully pick up the heavy beskar helmet and rotate it so the familiar T of the visor is staring empty at you. You breath out heavily as you press your forehead to it, clutching it so tightly in your hands. You pull away to inspect for any damage--well any new damage at least. The helmet was in bad shape. It had a couple dents and gashes in it, the paint that once coated it so beautifully now chipped and worn, the small crack in the corner of the visor catching the light. You sigh at it, realizing you probably wouldn't even be able to tell what's new and what's not at this point. 

“Well,” you breath out to the helmet as if it could hear you, “no point in wallowing, right?” You stand from where you were kneeling on the floor, tucking the helmet under your arm. “We’ve got a bounty to catch.” And with that you step into the hull of the ship, trying your best to ignore the mess caused from the crash, all of your belongings thrown about and scattered unceremoniously throughout it. You find your go bag and sling it over your shoulder. Then head to the exit ramp to leave, but pausing before you step out into the sandy environment to slowly slide the helmet from under your arm, over your head, with a click.

--------------------------------- 

You hate desert planets. You're burning up under your bulky beskar. It barely fits you, so you have to bulk up under it to make sure it stays on properly. It doesn't look as awkward as it feels, and no one can tell how much you're sweating under the helmet, but maker, you’re miserable. With every step you can feel the soreness lingering from the crash earlier. It was quite a walk to the nearest settlement. You’re in some kind of marketplace. It’s bustling and busy, vendors lining the sand covered streets selling all kinds of wares, a lot of it junk. 

You’re in a terrible mood. Between crash landing your one and only ship, the heat of this planet baking you alive under your armor, and the sand that you can feel working its way uncomfortably into your boots, you’re seething with anger. You swear it would only take one local giving you the wrong look for you to snap and break their neck with your bare hands alone. You bet it shows in the way your walking, you're used to people staring at this point, it comes with wearing beskar, but the way people are quickly stumbling to get out of your way as you angrily stride through the streets, crowds parting for you so you can pass, you know you probably seem more intimidating than usual.

Stepping into the nearby cantina, is instant relief. It’s much cooler in here, but you try not to relax too much and lose that power in your stance as you enter. Something feels off, when you notice the reactions in the bar. The stares and hushed whispering were normal to you, but something about it was different this time. Maybe the heat was getting to your head. You stride over to the bar and silently take a seat. The patron in the seat next to yours, quickly gets up to move away from you, and you don’t even bother to look in his direction. 

The bartender in front of you, polishing glasses speaks before you get the chance, “Let me guess, you want information on the bomber.” You tilt your visor up to him a bit surprised. How did he know? “You’re friend already came by, I told him everything I knew, I’ve got nothing else for you.” Now you’re really confused. You cock your helmet slightly to the side quizzically without saying a word. Friend? You don’t have any friends. And definitely not any you would be working on a bounty with. Not anymore at least. The bartender seems to catch your confusion so he continues, “The other mandalorian.” Other mandalorian? There was a mandalorian here hunting your bounty? when you don't move he elaborates, “The big one, uh you know--real shiny guy, all chrome and whatnot…” the bartender trails off not knowing how else to describe him. Well, that's surely interesting. Suddenly you decide maybe you need to investigate this...shiny mandalorian. You nod at the bartender as a quiet thank you as you rise silently from your seat at the bar. You toss a couple credits onto the counter for the information, even if it's not what you were initially looking for. The bartender at the sight of the credits points you in the direction of where he had seen this mysterious mandalorian head off to, likely understanding now, that the two of you were most likely indeed, not friends. 

It doesn’t take long to spot him. He must have just left the cantina not too long before you arrived, he was close by, and the reflective beskar stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the crowd that was parting for him in the same way it had for you. You kept your distance, keeping out of sight but trailing behind just enough that you wouldn't lose him. You knew damn well, that he probably knew you were following him, any truly skilled bounty hunter would realize that fact, let alone a mandalorian. Your theory was proved correct when he suddenly took a turn and dipped into an alleyway. You weren’t trying to sneak up on him, but you still kept your distance, turning the same corner and following him until you lost the crowd completely. The both of you walking to a part of town with no one, the bustling of the marketplace becoming faded white nose in the background. He makes a few more turns and you follow a few feet behind, until you go to turn the next corner and he's gone, no longer in front of you. 

But you’re no fool, in a flash you whip around behind you, your blaster unholstered and pointed straight in front of you. He’s standing there, his own blaster mirroring yours. You both stand there, perfectly still, unmoving, blasters pointed to each other, fingers on their respective triggers. He speaks first, “Why are you following me?” but he doesn't move an inch “Why are you hunting my bounty?” you quip back. Making sure to stress the fact that this is your bounty, not his. You need those credits, you can’t afford to let them slip away from you when you have no way off this sandy shithole. 

He tilts his visor at you slightly but doesn't reply. So you continue, “The bomber is mine, I suggest you find someone else to hunt down. I’ve got this one handled.” and by that, you mean if he does anything to compromise your ability to collect this quarry, you won't hesitate to kill him too, and you know he knows it...doesn’t he? The mysterious mandalorian doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move a muscle and neither do you. The silence between the two of you carries a tension just as deadly as the blasters you have pointed at each other. 

With him standing in front of you like this, you’re able to get a better look at him. You look with only your eyes, careful not to move your head at all, as to not give him any indication you’re looking anywhere other than his visor, which is staring deadpan into yours. The bartender wasn’t exaggerating when he said this strange mandalorian was shiny and chrome. His beskar armor is unpainted, and beautiful, not a single flaw. You’ve never seen anything like it before. Whoever forged that for him was truly skilled in their craft.

“Your beskar,” You suddenly nod in his direction after the silence drags out far too long, “it’s new.” He still doesn't say anything. He’s giving you nothing. You’ve been doing this job awhile, there's usually something you can pull from, a slight change in breathing, tensing on the shoulders, anything to know what your enemy’s intentions are, but him....he's giving you nothing. “I’m looking for a forge master.” You hope by elaborating, you make your own intentions clearer. 

“An Armorer?” he questions, and you nod once slowly. “Don’t have one in your clan?” He tilts his visor at you in inquiry, and you slowly shake your head once.

“I have no clan,” and you can sense his confusion so you continue, “I’m no mandalorian.” you confess, and instantly his blaster arm straightens and you hear the click of his safety switch off. You expected nothing less.

“Beskar belongs to the mandalorians. Hand it over.” His voice is dark and firm in his demands, but you can't help but scoff. 

“I may not be a mandalorian, but this armor is mine.” your voice darkens threateningly, “It belonged to someone very important to me, passed down in their family for multiple generations. They’re gone, so now it's mine and I will die defending this armor in their honor.” “Did you inherit it from your father?” his voice through the modulator is firm, unwavering, and when you shake your head, he tries again, “Your mother?” You shake your head again. “Then it’s not yours, take it off...or I will” he threatens taking a step forward.

You take that step forward as an attack in itself, there's no way in hell anyone will take this armor from you, you quickly lunge towards him in a flash and he goes for you. You go to grab for his blaster, but at the same time he grabs yours and next thing you know, both your blasters are skittering across the sand in opposite directions. You both snap your gaze back and your visors meet each other, pausing for just a second before you're immediately swinging in his direction, aiming directly for his unarmored throat. He catches your fist, and swings with his free hand, you duck expertly out of the way and knee him right in the gut below the beskar chest plate. He doubles over, but manages to kick out one of your ankles causing you to stumble, and he goes for another swing. You jump back the best you can, and punch him perfectly in his unarmored side. He groans loudly at the impact, and stumbles back, but then before you know it, he gets you right back, and then again, his beskar fist colliding with the side of your helmet. It knocks you to the ground, your vision blurs again reminding you of your earlier injury from the crash. You shake your head and try to regain your footing, but he lunges down to grab you. You both struggle on the sandy ground before you get a hold of one of his arms and kick him up with both feet, hauling him over you, so he lands roughly on his back behind you. 

He scrambles to get up, but you’re too quick, you’re on top of him pressing the mouth of his own blaster under his jaw. He doesn’t move and the only thing that can be heard is the rough modulated breathing of the two of you through your helmets. He moves the slightest amount, you're not sure if it's to adjust or to try to get up but you won’t risk it. You press his blaster farther to the underside of his jaw and click the safety off, a threat you think he understands well. You will absolutely not hesitate to kill him if he makes a wrong move. You’ve had a bad day, blowing a hole through his head would be the first good thing to happen to you, but at the same time, he clearly knows where to find what you're looking for and you want to get that information from him before you kill him. 

“The armor is mine,” you say gruffly through your heavy breathing. You nudge the blaster into him again, just to make sure you’re being clear, “and if you, or anyone so much as lays a finger on it, I will kill you.” He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move an inch. Neither do you. 

Instantly heat blasts against the side of you, and white noise erupts in your ears, a powerful force sends the both you flying sideways and slamming into the wall of the other building next to you, smoke and sand fly up and surround the air around you. You’re groaning as you slowly try to pick yourself up off the sandy floor, the heat from the fire building next to you quickly heating up your armor. It takes you a second to realize what's going on. The bomber. You had almost forgotten about your bounty, you were so transfixed on the strange mandalorian next to you, grunts coming from his modulator as he struggles to his feet. There's another explosion next to you and you try to keep steady scanning with your visor through the smoke to see if you can catch a glimpse of your quarry--and there! It's quick, but unmistakable as you see his heat signature duck away behind the roof of a neighboring building.

“Stay out of my way.” you spit darkly at the rival mandalorian, before turning and breaking into a sprint in the direction of your bounty. 

It doesn’t take you long to catch up to him. You're running through the alley beneath the cloaked bomber while he jumps from roof to roof above you, desperately trying to shake you off his tail. He throws explosives in your direction, but you evade them expertly, bursting through the clouds of smoke and sand just when he thinks he's gotten you. He thinks he's being smart when he decides to throw another explosive ahead of you this time, blocking the rest of the alley with rubble from the surrounding buildings as their walls crumble. He lets out a loud and victorious laugh as he continues to run, celebrating far too early, not realizing he's made a critical error. 

Instead of the rubble halting you in your pursuit, you use it to your advantage, nimbly leaping off a large piece and hauling yourself into the roof. Now that you're level with him, and off the maker forsaken sand, you start gaining on him, quick. He looks back in horror at you and tries to speed up, but you both know it's futile. You would have shot him already, but you left your blaster in the sand, forgetting to pick it up after the explosion, so you have to use other means. You grip the vibroblade strapped to your thigh and unsheath it. You’re just about to lunge for him, grab him and pull him to the ground, but something hits him and he drops instantly onto the roof below him. 

You come to a screeching halt, almost tripping over his body. What the hell happened to him? You look down at him, convulsing on the floor, he's been stunned, quite literally electrified. You immediately know who's responsible and angrily look up to see that damned shiny mandalorian a few roofs away, lower his rifle and start to stride across to you. The sun reflecting off the top of his helmet in such an irritating way. 

“I told you to stay out of my way!” you shout in his direction, “This is MY bounty! I’ve got it handled!” you grab a pair of cuffs off your belt and drop to your knees to cuff the bastard below you roughly despite his lack of resistance. 

“You were too slow.” he says matter-of-factly as he approaches you. Oh you could kill him, you're tempted. The fact that he not only had the audacity to take down your bounty, but now dares to mock you? It would be an absolute pleasure to sink your blade into his neck. 

Your thoughts are cut short when a gloved hand holds your blaster down to you. You look at it in confusion, then tilt your helmet to look up at the reflective beskar staring down at you. He nods towards you and nudges the blaster towards you again. You snatch it from his grip and put it in your holster without a word, and haul yourself up onto your feet with the bounty. Keeping a firm grip on his cuffed wrists behind his back while he struggles to hold himself up, “Bounty is mine.” you remind him, your visor burning a hole through his with how intensely you stare. 

“I shot him down,” he reminds you. 

“I had it handled,” you shoot back at him. Suddenly you’re curious, and you have an idea. You tilt your helmet up at him, if this works, you might have a solution to your crash landing earlier. “How much are they offering you? For the bounty.” He doesn't answer, you assume it's because he doesn’t trust you, so you offer your commission price readily, “Mines ten thousand.” with the way his visor snaps straight ahead in response, you know you have him beat. Probably by a lot. “I’ll tell you what,” you continue, “let's split the reward.” He cocks his helmet to the side in surprise...or possibly confusion? Maybe both. You can't really tell. So you repeat yourself, “let's split the reward. Five thousand between the two of us.” 

“What's the catch?" Well, it’s not a no, so far so good.

“I need a ride,” you admit with a modulated sigh running through your helmet, “I had a bit of a rough landing. My ship’s scrapped." 

"Five thousand credits isn't enough for a ship."

"That's not your problem. We'll part ways after we split the credits. We got a deal or not?" 

"Only if you hand over that beskar when we split the credits." 

you pretend to mull it over in your head, but you know that nothing in the universe could possibly convince you to give up your armor. you will die with it, and even in death you will take it to your grave.

"I'll consider it." you say finally. you know it's not what he wants to hear, but you hope it will be enough. 

"Then it's a deal." He nods and doesn't say anything more, just starts walking in what you assume is the direction of his ship, so you kick the heels of the bounty you're still holding up by the cuffs. 

"Move it." you snap at him and start pushing him forward as you follow the silver armor ahead of you. the bounty is still barely hanging onto consciousness, dragging his feet, you're doing most of the work for him. 

Then suddenly the bounty stops all together like dead weight, digging his heels in, refusing to budge. 

"I said move it!" you nudge him again roughly, more aggressive this time, but the bomber doesn't comply. His shoulders start shaking, rumbling beneath you, it takes you a second to realize he's laughing. "what's so funny?" you jostle him lightly to encourage a response. and at that, he throws his head back and starts laughing maniacally. That shock bolt from earlier must have done something to him, fried his brain or something. He just keeps laughing, like he can't control it. the mandalorian in front of you has stopped walking, and turned back around to you and the bounty to investigate the commotion. 

"You're too late" the bounty spits out darkly between laughs, and he roars out louder, finding whatever it is he's going on about absolutely hysterical. 

"What are you talking about? you roughly yank him around to face you and his laughing subsides leaving a sickening smile ripping across his face. He cranes his neck to look back at the bustling marketplace and begins roaring with laughter once again. but he's cut off at the sound of multiple pieces of metal hitting the tile of the roof in front of him. 

"Talking about these?" the mandalorian asks, tossing another destroyed detonator bomb to the bounty’s feet. and the bomber looks at the pile horrified. it doesn't take long for you to put two and two together. This shiny mandalorian must have caught onto the bomber's plan early on and found all the hidden explosives long before you ran into him.  

The bomber continues to stare down at the destroyed explosives in distress, realizing his plan failed, before that same sickening smile breaks out across his face and he chuckles out, “You missed one.” 

He bursts back into a horrible laughter, and you suddenly have a pit in your stomach at the sound of it, you yank the bounty roughly by the neck, “Where is it?” your voice is rough and threatening, but he just continues to laugh maniacally. You can’t take it, todays been too much and his horrible laughter pushes you over the edge. Still grasping at his throat, you slam your armored fist hard straight into the center of his face, cutting his laughter off all together. He hangs his head limply, blood dripping down from his mouth, where his disgusting smile once was. “Where is it?” you grit out, pulling him in close to your visor with your grip tightening around his throat. 

The bounty in your grip lifts his head just enough so his gaze meets your visor, and he smiles again brokenly, blood continuing to drop down from the middle of it. “Who knows?” he shrugs. Then spits blood at your visor, chuckling again weakly at you. Your veins turn to ice at the blatant disrespect and you can’t help yourself. You slam your fist into him again, harder this time, sending him flying to the ground at your feet, unmoving, out cold from your attack. Your stare lingers on the bloodied bounty beneath you too long, violence swirling through you. How dare he--how fucking dare he disrespect the armor like that--how dare he disrespect him like that. 

Your fists clench at your sides, as you try to calm yourself. Your helmet snaps to the chrome mandalorian besides you, his visor shamelessly staring directly at you. You wonder if he can sense the anger whirling inside of you. “Where did you find the others?” You manage to grit out through your tight jaw. “The explosives.” Everything about you is rigid and tense from the altercation.

“At vendor tables he was harassing a few days ago, after the first bombing at a neighboring settlement. I checked all of them.” The chrome helmet doesn't move its gaze off of you. He's standing statuesque, unmoving. You look back to the bomber still unconscious on the floor. You’re trying to rack your brain, think where the last explosive could possibly be. You haven't even had the chance to investigate anything yet, you didn’t even get a chance to gather information, you immediately ended up tangled up with the strange mandalorian next to you when you made it into town. That’s when it hits you--the cantina. “Did you check the cantina?” you snap your visor to meet his again, and he shakes his head. “Keep an eye on him,” you nudge the bounty on the floor with your foot, then take off in the direction of the bar without another word. You have to be quick, you don’t know how much time is left until the bomb detonates and kills everyone in that cantina. 

The bartender greets you when you rush in, “Ah! Your back! Did you find your friend?” but you ignore him, you don't have time for pleasantries. You start scanning the entirety of the bar rapidly, looking for any sign of anything unusual. You don’t even know where to begin, patrons staring at you and murmuring to each other while you silently search around--but then you hear it. The faintest of noises barely cutting through the hum of the scene around you. You follow the sound of the achingly familiar beeping, it's at the bar, close to where you sat earlier today. The bartender mistakenly thinks you’re walking over to him directly, and panics at the way you’re striding over in his direction, with purpose. “H-hey, listen-- I don’t know what I did, but i'm sure we can work something out--there's no need for any un--unnecessary violence...,” he backs up nervously, his hands out in front of him trying to show he's unarmed and willingly surrendering. 

You continue to ignore him, and he swallows audibly as you make it to the edge of the bar, but you immediately drop down to reach below it, snatching the blinking explosive from where it's stuck under the bar and rising back up, holding it in your hand. He stares at you--stunned. Now realizing what your intentions were as you toss the explosive to the ground and crush it with your boot. The light fades from within the device and you pick it back up, staring at the cracked device in your hand. Your mind wanders for just a second as you remember your nightmare from earlier, the painful memory that still haunts your dreams. The environment of the cantina fading entirely until it's just you, and the broken metal in your hand. You swear you can almost still see the faintest of light blinking from inside it. 

“Thank you.” you snap back to reality at the bartender's words, suddenly realizing where you are. You nod at him once accepting his gratitude. “Drinks are on me--always! Forever! Anything you want, you can have, I owe you that much…” he fades off looking down to the destroyed explosive in your hand. You smile at him, knowing he can't see it, and nod again. 

You’re about to reply, but the bartender cuts you off, looking behind you, “Ah! I see you found your friend!” You turn to look towards the entrance of the cantina, where you find the shiny and chrome mandalorian standing, the unconscious bounty slung over his shoulder, while his visor is staring at you. You hold up the destroyed piece of metal in your hand for him to see, and at that, he's already turning to head out. You go to follow him, but stop when you hear the bartender start to speak again, “Maker,” he breathes out, “I’ve heard stories of mandalorians before. Never thought I would see one in person--let alone two!” he chuckles to himself.

You turn your helmet in his direction over your shoulder without turning fully towards him, “I’m no mandalorian...” your voice ringing through the modulator at an audible volume, despite how quietly you feel you say it. You don’t wait for a response, you immediately continue your way outside of the cantina to catch up to the stranger carrying your bounty ahead of you. 

----------------------

When you finally arrive at his ship, just on the outskirts of town, you’re a little surprised to see his ship isn’t much nicer than yours was. It’s old and worn down. It looks like it's been abused to no end. “Are you sure you’re able to give me a ride? She doesn’t look like she would last the journey through the atmosphere…” “Where’s your wreck? We’ll stop by so you can grab what you need.” You know he ignored your question on purpose, and he hits a button on his vambrace, which triggers the slow lowering of the ship's ramp, kicking up sand around it. 

“I’ll punch the coordinates into your nav comp. Just get that asshole in carbonite.” You’re already climbing up the ramp to his ship, not waiting for an invitation, and walking into the dark of the ship's hull, its armored owner following close behind you, your bounty still slung over his shoulder unconscious. You take a quick look around as the ramp closes behind the two of you, dim lights illuminating the space. It’s not big by any means. You make note of all the crates and other miscellaneous goods neatly tucked around the hull’s nooks and crannies, it’s surprisingly cozy. 

While the mandalorian moves past you towards the carbonite chamber, you take that as your sign, and you make your way up the ladder of what you assume to be the cockpit of the ship. Opening the door once you make it to the top and stepping inside, you let out a sigh of relief at the sight of the control panel. It’s familiar enough, thank the maker. With how old the ship is you were expecting the controls to be unrecognizable and ancient, but you could pilot this. Easy. You step up to the navigation panel and punch in the coordinates of your wreck. 

You go to sit in the pilot's seat and initiate for takeoff, but stop suddenly. This isn’t your ship, you should wait for him. You’re going to be stuck with this stranger of a mandalorian in hyperspace for an unknown amount of time, you don’t want to overstep and cause another scuffle. He's, unfortunately, your only way off this planet, and he's got your bounty. You should be considerate seeing as you’re a guest, and he's doing you a favor. A five thousand credit taxi ride...maker what a shitty deal you negotiated yourself into.

 You settle into the copilots seat, and groan slightly as you sink into it. The soreness from the crash earlier is starting to settle in now that all your adrenaline from the day has worn off. Your glaring headache is becoming more and more unbearable. You reach up and, with a click and a hiss of the release, slide your helmet off your head and rest it in your lap. You breathe in deeply, maker...nothing beats the initial hit of fresh air when your helmet comes off. You lean back further in your seat trying to relax against the plush, worn leather seat. Everything aches, you're exhausted. You close your eyes and continue to breathe deeply as you enjoy the feeling of air hitting your face without your helmet. You don’t even hear the door to the cockpit slide open while you take a moment to relax. 

He says something, as he approaches behind you, but you didn’t quite catch what it was, so you spin in your chair to face him, “Sorry,” you shake your head slightly, “I was zoning out, what was that?” but he doesn't say anything or move. The armored wall of a man looks frozen, tense, his body language is all rigid and weird compared to how he usually stands. You just stare back at him confused. Is there something outside? You look behind you and out the windows of the cockpit, feeling your hair brush against you at the movement. Nothing there. You turn back to him, “Uhh? Everything okay, shiny?” He continues to stand there staring at you, stiff as a board, before he suddenly looks away from you and makes his way to the pilots seat, sitting down without a word and initiating for take off. 

What the kriff was that about? You continue to stare at him confused, hoping for an explanation, but he continues flicking the controls and grabbing hold of the thrusters to take off without a word. You know he's focused on flying, but at the same time, it's really starting to feel like he's purposely avoiding looking anywhere in your direction. You can’t help the way you tilt your head at him in suspicion, but you decide to let it go. You just met the guy, he doesn't owe you anything other than the ride you agreed on. But maker, is it going to bother you the whole time. 

You ride the rest of the way to your ship in silence, luckily it's not too far and you make it there relatively quickly. The second his ship touches the sand next to yours, you jump out of your seat tucking your helmet under your arm. “I’ll be quick. I don’t have much.” you wait a second for a response, but he’s still avoiding looking at you, and doesn't say anything. You tilt your head at him again with growing suspicion, but head out regardless without another word. 

Stepping back onto your trashed ship feels surreal. Looking at all your belongings scattered around and trying to decide what to take is upsetting. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, having to leave behind the majority of your belongings and start over, but it never gets easier. You pack mostly practical things, the essentials: clothes, medical supplies, rations, whatever weapons you have. You figure you should probably bring your blanket, you aren’t quite sure how long your journey will be and hyperspace is cold. 

When you head over to your cot however, your gut wrenches seeing what you still had of his things scattered throughout the space. The old box you kept some sentimental items in had spilled, scattering the contents across your bed. Some of his old clothes, a crumpled note he left you once, you chuckle lightly to yourself at the memory of it. A necklace, he got it for you as a gift on Coruscant. You pick up his old sleep shirt that's bundled up in the corner and bring it up to your face, taking a deep inhale. It still smells like him. Despite sleeping with it every night, his scent still clings to the material. It's faint, not as strong as it once was, but it's there. Your heart aches, not a day goes by that you don’t miss him. You gingerly and lovingly fold it up neatly and pack it away with the rest of the belongings you plan to take with you. 

You haul the large bags of your belongings over your shoulder, off your own ship and carry them up the ramp of the stranger mandalorian’s ship. You hit the control panel on the wall once you're inside, closing the ramp behind you. You set your things down in an unoccupied corner and make your way back up to the cockpit, helmet still under your arm. When you enter the cockpit however, you pause. 

There’s a strange cooing coming from the pilot's seat where the mandalorian is sitting. Was...was that sound coming from him? There’s no way. You slowly make your way over so you can peer over his shoulder, you gasp at the sight of the green creature bundled up in his lap. It’s big dark eyes staring into yours. “What is that thing?” you mutter out, barely able to squeeze the words out as you stare at it curiously. 

“A child.” You furrow your brows together at his answer. Well no shit. That was clearly a baby, but not like any baby you’ve ever seen. You don't recognize its species. Let alone the mystery as to why the mandalorian in front of you has it in his possession. “Is it...yours?” you're not quite sure how to vocalize all of the questions running through your head. Is the mandalorian the same mysterious species under that beskar? How has he managed hunting bounties with a youngling on board? 

“For now.” You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. You slowly lower yourself into the copilot’s seat, not once removing your gaze from the green baby in his arms.

“And that means?” You tilt your head and the baby mirrors you, cooing at you.

“He is mine until I can reunite him with his own kind. I’m looking for a jedi to take him on.” the baby reaches out to you babbling happily. You go to hold him, reaching out to take him from the mandalorian’s arms, but stop in an instant when his visor suddenly snaps up to look at you. He's doing that thing again, just staring at you intensely. You decide to ignore it, more transfixed by the baby. “May I?” you tilt your hands still outstretched in front of you, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that he still doesn't trust you. He just met you, another bounty hunter, and now you're asking to hold his baby. Much to your surprise however, he allows it and cautiously hands the baby to you, his visor never moving from your face.

The baby coos happily and reaches up to you as you pull him to your armored chest. He’s adorable, the way his little teeth poke through his smile, it swells through your chest. Oh he is absolutely precious. You wiggle your finger at him and he latches his tiny green ones around it. You haven't even noticed the mandalorian still staring at you. “Does he have a name?” you press your finger lightly to the baby's nose and his little green smile grows larger as he giggles in response. You can feel yourself smiling too, you can't help it, it's contagious. 

“Grogu.” You can still feel his visor on your when he replies. “Little Grogu…” you repeat softly, stoking the baby’s cheek. His big ears perking up at the sound of his name. He reaches up with his little fingers, so you hold him up a little higher against your chest, and he grabs onto a piece of your hair. You chuckle lightly at how captivated he is by you, in the same way you are with him. “He’s adorable.” you finally break your gaze from the baby in your arms, looking up to the shiny wall of beskar sitting next to you. Your smile fades into a frown when you see he's still staring at you. Okay, this is getting weird. “What's your deal?” you snap out at him, the baby still babbling away in your arms, his little hands reaching out to touch your face and hair. “Why are you staring at me like that? We got a problem?” 

The mandalorian quickly averts his gaze to the control panel, and begins initiating take off again, punching coordinates into the navigation. “No, sorry.” He mutters, barely audible through the helmets modulator.

“Then what is it? Is there something on my face?” and with that he pauses. Stops flicking switches for just a second too long, before continuing. “No.” He grabs a hold of the thrusters and pulls back, lifting the ship off the ground, and taking off. Maker, his responses are so--frustrating. Absolutely infuriating. How many more questions do you have to ask before you get to the bottom of this? You decide to give up again, it’s not worth your efforts. Let him be difficult if he wants, you’ll forget about him soon enough when you part ways. You turn your attention back to Grogu, immediately your irritation dissolves into nothing. Maker, you’ve only held this child in your arms maybe five minutes and you are already absolutely enamored with him. 

By the time you make the jump into hyperspace, the child has fallen asleep soundly in your arms. The mandalorian stands, and carefully takes him from you, descending the ladder into the hull with him to put him to bed, you assume. Now that you're alone in the cockpit, you look down to the helmet in your lap with a sigh. You grasp onto it lightly and tilt it up to stare into the visor. You reflect on your day; the crash, the scuffle with the strange mandalorian, the rush of trying to find the last bomb your bounty hid. Nothing ever goes smoothly for you anymore. Everyday feels like a struggle now that he's gone. It's been over a year since he died--almost two, you realize suddenly. The nightmares still plague you almost every night. You clench your eyes shut, and shake your head lightly trying not to think about any part of that horrible day. You should have died with him--you were supposed to. Whatever kind of sick joke the maker was playing, saving you and not him, you’ll never understand. You flutter your eyes back open, another sad sigh escaping your lips, as you stare back into the familiar visor. The smear of stars through hyperspace reflecting off of it. Hollow...empty. You gently hold the beskar up in your hands, and lean forward to press your forehead into it, taking a deep breath as you do so. 

You gasp lightly when you hear the cockpit doors open, and pull away from the helmet in your hands as the new and mysterious mandalorian you just met enters and resumes his seat in his respective chair. You’re suddenly embarrassed, hoping he didn’t see that. Such a personal and intimate moment you don't want to be witnessed by anyone, let alone someone you just met... and quite frankly don’t like. You relax slightly after a moment of silence, and lean back into your seat, resting your aching body against the back of it, closing your eyes against the streaks of light coming through the window. 

“Who did it belong to?” His modulated voice ringing out through the silence catches you off guard. 

“Hmm?” you open your eyes and turn your head slightly against the back of your seat to face him. He hasn't moved his gaze from the cockpit window. 

“Your armor. You said it belonged to someone important to you.” You suddenly get the feeling he definitely saw you earlier, when you had your forehead to the helmet in your lap, and you tense a bit. You’re just staring up at him cautiously, uncertain if you can trust him. 

You’re quiet for too long before you let out the softest of sighs and take another deep breath in, “Maybe another time...” is all you can manage. You’re not sure why, but the idea of telling him seems impossible. It's not a secret by any means, you haven't hesitated to tell anyone before. Maybe it’s because you're not sure you can trust him, or simply the fact that you don’t like him. Maybe it’s because he's a mandalorian... 

It's probably all of those reasons and more, all mixed up. It doesn't really matter, there's no reason for him to know. You will be parting ways with this mysterious mandalorian soon enough. Thankfully he doesn’t press the issue. In fact, he doesn’t say anything. The two of you ride your way through the silence of hyperspace without another word. Only the low rumbling of the engine beneath you filling the air.  ***  MASTER - Next

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “A Ship Named Infinity.”

Hope you all enjoy your morning :)

Geea and Beatrice made their way from the underground bar as the music was still playing. Beatrice had one of her arms hooked through one Geea’s lower left, and together they sauntered slowly up through A136 and towards the docking area. Beatrice flipped a knife between her fingers as she did, “I don’t see why you are trusting this guy.” Beatrice grunted, “He could just as easily hail the Omen as soon as we got close and tell them that they have been hijacked.”

Geea shook her head, “No, he wouldn't, and i will make sure of that.” 

Beatrice looked up at her and she hummed rather smuggly, “If he tries anything, I release all of his criminal activities to the GA and UNSC. there is nothing that he can do about it, besides we are going to have our crew on his ship as well, and they should be able to keep him in line.

Beatrice nodded, though she didn’t seem entirely reassured.

Together the two of them made their way up through the winding passages, and clattering stairways until they eventually made it to the main docking bay. The room was filled with twenty or so docked shuttles, and looking around they found captain Kell sitting with some of his crew members outside a waiting shuttle.

The men and women that stood behind him were….. well , they were no joke.

They seemed fit and capable, though most of them sported some sort of metal attachments.

Captain Kell stood to greet them, and in this lighting the two of them were able to give him a more thorough once over.

The man was still wearing his long brown coat, and the black hood was still resting on his head though it didn’t shadow his face so much in this room. She saw strands of tawny hair peeping out from under the front of his hood. As she had seen before, one side of his face was covered by mechanical components, primarily the right eye, the cheek and down onto the lower jaw. His remaining good eye was a muddyish brown.

Walking up to stand before him it was clear that the man was tall, over six feet to be certain and well muscled, which Geea couldn’t help but find odd in a pirate. Sure pirates did some hard work, but mostly they followed the motto of work smarter not harder, and their life of heavy drinking didn’t exactly lend to people with bodies like his.

Under his jacket he wore a white shirt and a chin around his neck with some sort of arrowhead attached to the end.

His boots were high and tall, making her wonder if he was trying to make himself look taller than he really was. 

She could still see the glittering metal of his right hand as he moved to greet them.

The men behind him eyed them suspiciously. One was shorter and darker than the captain but just as well muscled. He was wearing heavy cargo pants, though his chest was mostly bare except for some sort of bandelier he carried over one shoulder, though it was his honey gold eyes that made it very clear he had no issue with  beating them up and stealing their lunch money.

The woman just off to his right was short and bald with extremely pale skin and bluish eyes, but she had the look of someone who you didn’t fuck with no princaple.

Geea noticed Beatrice eyeing her and tried to ignore it. B was always trying to make her jealous, and she didn’t want to give her that sort of satisfaction.

Captain Kell stepped forward, “Ladies.” He nodded before turning to wave a hand at his two bodyguards, “This here is Angelo.” He said pointing first at the man and then at the woman, “And that is Mace.” The two didn’t even nod their heads in acknowledgement, but looked on at hem in suspicion and distrust.

That was the way of the pirate though.

There was a sharp thudding, and out from behind the shuttle came a tall hulking figure at nearly nine feet tall.

The large Drev wiped grease from his hands as he stepped into place beside his three human companions. His carapace was a muddy black color with a red undertone. Geea raised her head in mild disdain for his coloring, though he didn’t seem to care what she thought.

“And this is our associate Noble.”

The Drev crossed two of his arms over his chest as he looked them over.

“The shuttle ready?” the captain asked.

The Drev nodded, “Yes, the components are clear to fly. That shake was from our right underwing stabilizer, though it was just a little loose.”

“Good.”

He motioned the two of them to follow him into the rusty little shuttle, and they strapped into the seats behind the pilot’s chair buckling in across from Angelo, Mace and Noble, all who eyed them with more than a measure of mistrust and suspicion. The captain for his part, seemed the most pleasant and sociable out of the groop, though he took his seat in the captain’s chair and called in to be let into atmosphere .

The group of them felt it as the struts gifted off the ground, and they hovered slowly over to one of the landing tubes leading up to the surface of the planet.

The doors to the docking bay opened revealing a long, water stained tunnel before them.

“Thirty minutes until the next fire wall comes, so you should be safe.”

He acknowledged the radio, and slowly began to lift them up through the long dark tunnel.

As they approached the top, the heavy steel door that kept them safe from the elements of the A1 death plant opened up. 

There was a heavy mist outside causing condensation to appear on their front windscreen as they rose into the night. In the distance, the sun was just beginning to rise, and from here thre group of them could see the fast approaching firewall on the horizon.

The ground below them was still wet, but that would change soon as rising temperatures caused the water to burn off into steam and return to the atmosphere to start the cycle again.

However, they didn’t stay long enough to watch the spectacle, and Captain piloted them easily upward through the cloud cover.

Geea had to admit that the man was a handy pilot. That was the steadiest flight she had ever had from the surface.

Either that or he just got lucky.

When he exited the atmosphere, he hurriedly made contact with the bridge of his ship. They approached slowly, and she could see the small ship with its sharp lines and black painted hull, better to blend into the background of space. It wasn’t a large ship by any means but it was still a good enough size that she expected it to have at least a class B warp drive.

They docked some minutes later, and the soundless environment around them was suddenly sucked away as a rush of air flooded the airlock. Red lights highlighted their faces as the Captain began powering down the ship. The others unbuckled their seatbelts  and the back ramp opened up for them.

The captain followed last from the ship, stepping onto the deck as the airlock doors opened into the docking and cargo bay.

It was…. Almost exactly how she expected it to be.

The ship was small enough that most of the rooms doubled for something, and men and women lounged around the small cargo space just as they might on her own ship. A few of them were tying down tarps over piles of unknown goods, while others were taking manifest from inside open crates with the UNSC seal stamped on them.

She was surprised to see that, thinking that the man was too much of a coward to pirate goods from the UNSC itself, but it seemed that she was mostly wrong.

The captain spread his hands wide and turned to look at them, “Welcome to the Infinity.”

Men and women in the cargo bay sat up and turned to look at the newcomers, and immediately Geea could see that the crew was a diverse one with Tesraki Celzex Drev, and even the odd Burg, though this  one was one of those strangle Male burg with the gossamer wings.

He turned to look at the crew, “And crew say hello to our new employers for the next month or so.”

The room shifted rather uncomfortably.

“Since when did we do mercenary work?” Someone shouted from the crowd.

The captain grunted under his breath, “They made me offer I couldn’t refuse.” Then he straightened up, “Either way play nice, and don’t get into fights or I WILL shoot you out the airlock. We should be expecting more of their crew boarding soon, so make room, and get to know each other.”

He walked past the group of them without another word, and marched off towards the font of the ship.

Geera and B followed after him their boots clattering on the floor underneath them.

“I am not instilled with a great amount of confidence that your men will behave.” Geea said 

The captain turned to look at her, and the appriture of his robotic eye narrowed, “Look lady, you are the one who came and threatened ME. If anyone here shouldn’t be trusted it is YOU.” He turned on his boot heel and marched up the next hallway, pushing through the doors and  onto the bridge, where he took his seat in the waiting captain’s chair.

The ship itself was a bit old and rickety, and the chair had a bit too much glowing neon on it for her liking, but when he ordered his men to get to work, they worked seamlessly as if they had done it thousands of times before.

Geea had to admit, grudgingly of course, that it was the most disciplined pirate ship she had ever seen. There was no arguing or backtallking or arguing or people trying to shirk their duties, the men and women here worked as if they were trained for it, like those fancy crews she had seen aboard some of the GA and UNSC ships.

This was probably why the captain came so highly recommended.

The Celzex on his shoulder hopped down from his position and into a small seat just off to the side of the captain’s chair. From over the top of his furry head, she could see that he was busy running diagnostics on the weapons systems.

That made her smile.

To think that they would have Celzex weapons on their side was rather thrilling. She, and no one else she knew had ever been able to acquire weapons from the fuzzy little creatures. They may have been willing to join pirating crews, but most of them were still loyal to some stupid and unknown code of honor that didn’t allow them to just spread their technology around, so they kept their mouths tight shut to the annoyance of everyone.

She wondered how this particular human had gained the trust of the Celzex enough to acquire their weapons. In fact, she had never seen a Celzex wit on a man’s shoulder like that, and doubted that was something the Celzex had been willing to do on their first meeting.

This human was becoming more and more interesting the more that she watched him.

He reached out with a gloved hand and flicked the switches on the console before him. He piloted this craft with the same ease in which he had piloted the shuttle.

The Com burst to life just then, “Infinity this is War preparing to dock.”

The captain turned to look at her over his chari, “You named your ship war?”

B snorted at the derision on his face, “She just likes being able to say ‘ This is war” whenever she goes to dock.”

Geea ground her teeth, and Captain kell rolled his eyes as he turned back to initiate the docking sequence, “Waar, this is infinity, please move to docking port A and standby for confirmation.”

He let go of the transmission and looked over at Geea skeptically, “You name your ship like an idiot.”

She didn’t like that much hands balling into fists though B traced a consoling hand over her back.

“Watch your mouth.” She growled, low in her throat.

The man did not seem at all worried by her denouncement of him, “Naming a ship is an art. You have to know her, to feel her. You have to walk around and fly in her to get a real understanding for what she means. It isn’t just about slapping a word on her. Just like you would name your son or your daughter you have to know what she iis about BEFORE you name her.”

Geea rolled her eyes at the sudden fervor in the man’s voice.

She honestly couldn’t give a shit what a ship was named as lng as it worked.

There was a sharp thudd through the hull as her ship docked, and she turned to go and greet her men down in the cargo bay leaving the Captain to contemplate his stupid philosophies on how to properly name a ship.

Making eye contact with him one last time, she couldn’t help but notice the strange fervor she saw in his eyes when he spoke about ships. This was a man, she thought, sho loved being in space.

She herself didn’t mind it so much, but when she looked out the window of a ship, all she saw were stars.

There was nothing particularly beautiful about it.

Together her and B walked into the cargo bay where her men were slowly filtering onto the ship

She only need around twenty of them, sure that that would be enough when paired with captain Kell’s crew.

They didn’t plan a big complex assault after all.

Hopefully, all of this would be done while most of the crew of the Omen were sleeping and they would be on and gone before the shit hit the fan.

Geea spent the next few hours helping her crew settling onto the ship warning them that if they caused any trouble she was going to hurt them. Of course they would listen to her, they were afraid of her and that is what a good leader needed to keep her men in check. Fear was generally the best way to control people she found, and while they didn’t like being ordered around, they would rather do what she said then suffer the consequences.

From there she went to find Captain kell again , and found hm in some sort of meeting room just off the bridge perusing a star map with some of his men and women from the bridge .

“UNSC channels indicate their last known location to be in this area.” A woman was saying zooming in on a cluster of stars as he did, “Now It seems to me that in this area.” she motioned with a wide circle, “We can send out scanning probes to look for his ship. It shouldn’t take too long and the probes aren't likely to catch the attention of a ship that big. I would suggest using a distress beacon to lure them into the nearby nebulae and then use that as a distraction to dock quietly.. Now the Omen is so large that it actually works to our advantage. It has multiple cargo bays and multiple docking bays, all of which have their own set of airlocks.”

There was a sharp blip in the image as the woman pulled up a schematic of the ship.

She heard B mummer in surprise from behind her.

“How did you get that.”

Captain Kell turned to look at her, and the woman crossed her arms seeming rather annoyed to have been interrupted.

Captain kell motioned to the schematic, “What, you think we only deal in goods.” he shook his head slowly, “No no, schematics and information are easy enough to get your hands on if you know where to look.” He nodded towards the hologram, “I bought these schematics off a guy at the Europa station a few years after it was launched. The guy was drunk, but he had been an engineer that worked on it before it was deployed.”

He turned back to the woman, “You were saying?”

She huffed and continued, “Well, from the information I have been able to gather, the primary cargo bays are here and here below the ship, they would be easy enough to bring a small ship up and usie the hacking equipment to open their airlock without being noticed and send a small team inside.”

She turned to look at Geea, “We only need a small team to do what you are suggesting.”

She glanced back at the map, “The only problem with this plan is that the safest place to board is also the furthest location away from the Admiral’s quarters which would be on the top deck right here.” She jabbed a finger at the upper deck, so we are going to have to plan this and our rout up if we want to avoid being spotted.”

Geea nodded, “The maintenance tunnels should be our best bet.’

Captain Kell tapped his chin, “Both yes and no I think. There will be less security there, sure, but the people most likely to be up are those in engineering, and they would spend most of their time in the maintenance tunnels.”

There was a nod of agreement from the others.

“Better to deal with a few nerdy engineers than highly trained marines patrolling the halls.” Geea said 

Captain kell nodded slowly and behind him Angelo snorted rather derisively as if the idea of a well-trained marine struck him as funny somehow.

Across  the table from him Mace was smirking right along with him.

Geea didn’t like those two, there was something about them that made her want to punch them in the face, but she kept her cool and continued to listen to the plan as the group gathered around each other .

She was mostly surprised at what she saw. The crew of this ship was well functional, worked well together, were relatively professional, followed their captain and even seemed to admire him. It was something she had never seen on a pirate ship before. The way they worked together was almost militaristic, but she supposed that is why they had survived so long and gotten so good at what they did.

She frowned as she thought about it wondering why her crew didn’t behave this way. Her crew tended to be lazy slackers most of the time, only working when they wanted to which was hardly ever

But these people did their jobs as if…. Well as if they actually liked them and respected their captain.

See eyed Captain Kell doubtfully. 

They must have been REALLY afraid of him to follow him like this.

She wondered what he did yo people who disobeyed him

[stars-trash-18]

Home II

I’m thinking of doing weekly to bi-weekly updates since that seems to fit my schedule better. I’m in the process of moving so between packing and getting my house ready to sell I’ll use my spare time to write. Also as many of us know the well of writing goes dry leaving us in a writer’s block.

I hope you enjoy the second installment to this series. Reminder that if you see any errors, or mentions of race or gender to let me know so that I can fix it. I want this fic to be for everybody.

You didn’t speak to them for weeks after that, wanting them to come to you when they were ready. Until Big Blue decided to disturb the peace.

He flew in when you were re-thatching the roof of the barn, you clutched your hat to your head as the wind picked up as he was landing. He sent dirt everywhere and blew several stacks of thatch off the roof, the chickens running around in panic, and Tusker went into an overprotective tizzy. The Tusk Cat circled the man warily with a low growl, but stopped when Paz held his hand out, concluding that the man half the size of a Bantha was no threat.

Paz looked up at you and you swore you could feel his apologetic look as he hoisted a few bundles of thatch into his thick arms. You would’ve been impressed if you weren’t sweating like a TaunTaun on Tatooine. Paz carefully climbed the ramp up to your spot and set the thatch down next to you, lowering himself to his knees to help.

“I’m here to let you know the clan agreed to repay you in labor, a few of us are able enough to help you work the land and the rest have skills that you’d benefit from,” he explained as he tightly weaved the long reeds and grasses together. You were slightly impressed, you had him down as a plain warrior not a craftsman.

“Alright, just know I won’t treat you like slaves, I've helped too many escape so it’ll be fair pay for fair work,” you said as you fixed a few of the strands.

“The most I’ll ask for is basic repairs, some help during harvests, and maybe some help gathering the herd when winter rolls in,” You rattled off handedly , “it might take awhile since it is a big piece of land but you'll have more use than I did so you should work it off in a few years,”.

You glanced up at the giant to see his visor pointed directly at you. You quirked an eyebrow at him as you stabbed a wooden pin into the weave, he flinched slightly at your sudden move and refocused on weaving.

“That’s kind of you more than we can ask for, pretty sure you’re one of the only decent beings left in the forsaken galaxy,” he huffed as you finished one section of the roof. You stood up and dusted your hands on your pants and held a hand out to help him up. He took it and with a grunt pulled himself up .

“If we’re going to be working together I'd at least like your name,” you said as you walked carefully down the ramp, Tusker waiting patiently at the bottom for you. You used him to help balance yourself after walking down at such an angle, leaning some of your weight onto him.

Paz seemed to have better footing than you did because he was able to walk in a straight line down, sending a chicken scurrying out of his path with a squawk of protest.

“Paz, my name is Paz and who has my clan put themselves in debt to?” he asked, though his tone was joking you didn’t miss the thinly veiled threat behind his words. You knew that anyone who messed with the clan had to answer to this blue mountain.

“Y/N, and don’t consider it debt, consider it an exchange with delayed payment,” you teased slightly as you heard your son’s scream getting closer. You pivoted in the direction of Attila and had a blaster in your hand and held at your thigh primed before Paz could even react.

“ZAZAAAA,” he cried as he launched himself into your legs. You nearly toppled over but a strong hand on your back kept you upright and a quick glance in the corner of your eyes proved that it was Paz who kept you upright.

“What is it, my little womp rat? Don’t tell me you were up to your antics again,” You scolded lightly as you placed a hand onto your son’s hair and softly ran your fingers through it to calm him, bending down to be closer to his height as you spoke. Attila reeled back from you hold and lightly battered your hands away from his hair, running his own hands through to keep it in place.

“Zaz I'm too old for that, I just wanted to show you my project,” he grumbled, his eyes glancing from you to Paz who leaned against a hitching post. You blinked at your kid for a moment, forgetting he’s almost a teenager. He may love your attention most of the time but when people are around he acts like every other preteen, wanting to impress others. 

You only sighed and lightly shook your head, “sorry kid, I forget you’re older now, but what is this project you were so excited to show me,” you said. You stood up again and watched as Attila reached into his back pocket and brought out one of your broken blasters.

“I know you hate me messing with weapons zaza, but I read blaster repair and wanted to try it out for myself, and look it works again!” he exclaimed, holding it out to you. You tried not to get angry with him, he was intelligent for 10 and always liked taking things apart to see how they worked. But you didn’t want him messing with weapons until you could find him a mentor, too many incidents from a blaster being rewired wrong flashed through your head.

“You know I’d normally ground you for this Attila and you’re lucky I’m in a good mood, so let’s see how this’ll work out,” you sighed defeatedly, taking the offered blaster from his hands. You carefully inspected it for anything out of order while it warmed up, glancing at a few of the components to find anything amiss. It was when you felt a large presence behind you that you glanced over your shoulder, having forgotten about your guest.

“If you’d like I could fire it for you, the armor protects me better if anything goes wrong, besides I’m a weapons expert and I've been blown up by a few of my own projects,” Paz offered, almost shyly at the mention of his own projects. You gave it little thought before dropping the blaster in his waiting hand, you’d rather he take the hit to his armor than you in nothing but your work clothes.

“Of course, there’s a can up on the fence post across the yard that I use for practice,” You mentioned offhandedly, taking Attila by the shoulders and moving yourselves back a few paces. Attila giggled in excitement as he kept his eyes glued to Paz’s armor, your son obviously taking a liking to him. Paz nodded in your direction and placed himself in a shooting stance, lifting the arm with the blaster up as he lined his shot. With a loud pop you saw a bolt send the mentioned can flying several yards away, and Paz let out a pained grunt as electricity flowed through his arm, causing him to drop the blaster into the dirt.

You rushed to his side and placed an arm around him to steady the man as Attila stood stock still in shock. Paz leaned heavily into your side before straightening up and letting you guide him into your house, kicking the door open and settling the man onto your dining chair.

“Attila, run and grab my kit from the bathroom, then put on my electrical gloves and get that blaster out of the yard,” you ordered as you wrangled Paz’s glove off his hand. Paz seemed to protest at first but relented when you glared at him and removed the glove, seeing slight burns on his fingertips and his hand stuck like he was still holding the blaster. 

“I’m fine, it’s just a little shock, kid put too much power into the firing module and it backfired, I’ll be fine in a few hours,” Paz lamented, gritting his teeth and balling his good hand into a fist to try and distract himself from the pain.

You only huffed before grumbling about his stubbornness, “what I see is different, you have some nerve damage in your hand and if I don’t get some Bacta on it now you won’t have use of your hand for the next week,” you retorted. Digging through your kit for the bacta spray, pulling it free and popping the cap off with your teeth, spraying a generous amount onto the burns and surrounding nerves. You started to massage the hand, trying to get that bacta deep into his skin to better heal.

Attila came running in and set the blaster down onto the table, wringing your gloves between his hands as he stared at Paz’s hand, his eyes slowly filling with tears. 

“I’m sorry mandalorian, I should’ve listened to zaza and now you’re hurt, I didn’t mean for this to happen,” He sniffled letting a few tears roll. Paz seemed to relax and extended his good hand out to Attila, moving the boy closer to him so he could rest his arm around Attila. You watched on in caution but refocused on wrapping his hand in bacta infused bandages when you saw how Paz softened at the crying child.

“It’s alright little one, accidents happen, this is just a lesson that needed to be learned,” He soothed, rubbing Attila’s shoulder comfortingly, “Now you know to listen to your Buir better and that I need to shock-proof my armor better, I’ll be alright,” he continued. This seemed to soothe Attila as he wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and nodded, scurrying to his room to curl up with Tusker to calm down.

You sighed and watched him until he closed his door, turning back to your patient as you secured the glove back onto his hand, “thank you for that, it normally takes longer to soothe him, he hates failing,” you said, watching as reached for the blaster on the table. Turning it this way and that to inspect it.

“I told him he can mess with blasters when I find him proper training, but out here it’s hard to find a weaponsmith without an apprentice already,” you lamented softly. Paz turned his visor towards you and extended the blaster out to you to take before settling back into the chair.

“I know what it’s like, I was the same way when I was his age shortly before I joined the fighting Corps, I'm just glad I took the hit and not you or the boy,” he explained, running a hand down his thigh plating. It drew your attention briefly, knowing it was probably a scar from a similar incident, but you quickly looked back up at Paz as your face started to heat up.

“Kid’s good I’ll admit with his limited knowledge, if you ever find him a mentor I think he’d make something of himself,” He added, before standing up and heading towards the still open door, pausing briefly to look back at you.

“If you need anything you  know where to find us,” he said before closing the door behind himself. A minute later you heard his jet pack fire up and you heard him disappear towards the bunker. 

You sighed heavily and cradled your face in your hands to breathe deeply and decompress from all the activity. Rubbing your hands harshly down your face before you stared at the seat Paz had occupied a minute ago. What had you gotten yourself into.

[hualianff]

Untethered II 《I》

I am a Soldier – Shoon

Clink! Clank! Clink!

The violent clashing of metal-on-metal fills Xie Lian’s ears as he enters the scene.

Clink! Clank! Crack!

Cannons go off on both ends, each time rupturing the turbulent atmosphere.

Blood roars in his ears.

Every sound feels distant–almost muffled–yet simultaneously intensified. The prince passes several guards fending off the enemy, uniform gold and white against mismatched grays and blacks. Xie Lian remains unperturbed as he makes his way to the main deck of the ship.

He doesn’t wish to waste his time on pirates with ragged clothes and vulgar obscenities.

“Your Highness, what are you doing out here!?” One of the royal guards screams from a level above.

“Prince Xianle, please go back inside your cabin where it’s safe!” Another one warns, but he’s immediately tackled by a pirate whose growl sounds more non-human than human. Xie Lian pays their objections no mind, ordering his guards not to be distracted and to keep fighting.

It can be described as cruel, the way the prince disregards the very thing these guards are putting their lives on the line for. Even in actual warfare, Xie Lian doesn’t experience extreme feelings of anxiety or terror. Perhaps Xie Lian has desensitized himself of these feelings, albeit in different contexts.

Dying is not his greatest fear.

Xie Lian leaps from the side of the ship that is most secured against enemy attacks to the side that is openly exposed. There, Xie Lian sees a massive ship donning maple-red flags anchored next to the royal ship. Five retractable ramps extend from the pirate ship, granting the enemy access to the royal ship.

Plenty of pirates now circle Xie Lian with interested eyes, interrupting his passive search. Xie Lian’s instincts kick in. He surges forward with impeccable speed, knocking away every enemy that blocks his path. He stabs one right in the gut and flings another into one of the wooden posts.

Xie Lian goes through the motions that he has trained over thousands of times, maddeningly alert in the wake of combat. The bedazzled sword heats up in his hold, serving its master with every twist, splice, and slash. Xie Lian never lets himself be cornered, too swift and practiced to have any blind spots.

After fifteen minutes of pushing back the enemy, XL has temporarily cleared out the area. His attention returns to scanning the opposite ship—Ghost Ship is what it’s called. Xie Lian narrows his eyes, putting one boot on the ramp, looking and listening in anticipation.

The strain of rope being pulled taut is all he needs to hear before he whirls around and blocks the swing of a giant sword–a scimitar. It is thinner and longer than Xie Lian’s own, but wielded with the same amount of brash force.

Xie Lian peers up into the eyes of Crimson Rain.

“We meet again, dear Prince,” the pirate captain purrs, leaning forward to put more pressure on the push of his sword. Xie Lian scoffs, purposefully letting his sword be pushed to the side so he can bolt under Crimson Rain’s arm.

“I must say, it’s quite rude to come uninvited,” Xie Lian says with distaste. He maintains a sideway stance, sword held high as the pirate slowly turns around. The vicious look in Crimson Rain’s left eye sends sparks of electricity down Xie Lian’s spine

“I’m afraid if I were to wait for an invitation, I’d never meet the acquaintance of the prince or his sword again,” Crimson Rain retorts, having the ever-so-sharp tongue. He matches the Prince of Xianle’s posture, standing a good ten centimeters taller than Xie Lian.

This time, it is Xie Lian who makes the first move to attack, aiming his sword in a series of precise jabs to penetrate Crimson Rain’s defenses. The pirate, however, intercepts every one of Xie Lian’s advancements. When their swords collide in a locked battle of strength, Xie Lian glares up at Crimson Rain, spitting out, “I’d expect nothing less from a pirate.”

The aforementioned pirate merely chuckles at that, tilting his head down so their foreheads almost touch.

“I am humbled the prince keeps this lowly pirate in his thoughts,” he says. Both of them abruptly pull back, now aware of the onslaught of shouting from guards and pirates observing their duel from the side while still engaged in their own battles.

“Don’t lose to a filthy royal, Captain!”

“Your Highness, be careful!”

“Finish him, Captain Chengzhu!”

“Protect the prince at all costs!”

Xie Lian breathes heavily, never taking his eyes off of Crimson Rain. The pirate playfully twirls his swords adorned with blood-red jewels, clicking his tongue as if to entice the prince. When Crimson Rain dips down into a lunge, preparing to pounce, Xie Lian steels himself for another barrage of strikes.

This is what he has been training for his whole life.

Ivory and scarlet slam and jam against each other like a fast-paced sequence, a choreographed dance of death that becomes more thrilling the longer it goes on. They are unnervingly matched, predicting their opponent’s next moves with an accuracy that only comes with having dueled on multiple occasions before.

Xie Lian manages to land a well-timed punch on the side of Crimson Rain’s ribs as the pirate spins around to dodge his sword. When the pirate grunts in pain, Xie Lian has time to retreat to the next level; Crimson Rain automatically follows, like a game of tag, of cat and mouse, a predator intent to catch and devour its prey.

“You can’t run from me forever, Your Highness,” Crimson Rain taunts, using one of the ropes to follow Xie Lian to the area where the wheel is, absent of its navigator.

“Perhaps you are saying that because you cannot keep up?” Xie Lian challenges with a raised brow.

This comment renders the pirate captain suspiciously silent, a newfound glint appearing in his narrowed eye. As Xie Lian knocks away the foot Crimson Rain attempts to roundhouse kick into his side, the pirate’s mouth forms an entertained snarl, tongue peeking out to lick across his front teeth.

It’s the most animalistic expression the prince has seen on Crimson Rain’s face, and for a split second, Xie Lian’s stomach drops in fear.

He just pierced the beast.

A drop of water hits the tip of Xie Lian’s nose. He briefly registers that it has started raining. Sinister storm clouds gather in the pink-and-orange-streaked sky, and Crimson Rain’s gaze looks more menacing than ever.  

“Prince Xianle,” Crimson Rain murmurs, walking forward unhurriedly, the heel of his boots clicking loudly against the deck. “Allow me to properly demonstrate a pirate’s stamina.”

Xie Lian can barely lift his sword in time to block Crimson Rain’s next blow, bursting with even more power than previous attacks. It’s so powerful that it sends Xie Lian back a few steps. Not even a second later, another blow comes in a spot that Xie Lian was not expecting, right next to his lower hip. The prince stumbles to his knee after blocking.

The following succession of unmerciful swings perfectly showcases the pirate captain’s scimitar’s impressive length. After the fifth drive that swipes just below Xie Lian’s chin, the prince tumbles back down the stairs that lead from the wheel area to the main deck.

Tiny puddles soak the deck, too slippery for Xie Lian to find a grip with his heel to stand up.

The next stroke smacks his sword out of his hand, disarming Xie Lian from the conquest of the pirate captain. Crimson Rain smiles down in triumph at the prince sprawled on the deck floor. His scimitar flicks forward faster than Xie Lian can comprehend, the rain further obscuring his vision.

“Ah, what do we have here?” Crimson Rain questions, lifting his wrist slightly so the tip of his sword tugs on the inside of the object it’s caught on. Despite wanting to yell it is none of the pirate’s business, Xie Lian bites his lip, choosing not to answer. This does not deter his opponent, who chuckles lowly while eyeing Xie Lian’s neck.

A silver ring, connected to a simple chain, dangles helplessly off the tip of Crimson Rain’s scimitar.

《III》

[inkformyblood]

a long journey home (also on ao3) DinLuke Kink Week #1 Touch-Starved Pairing: DinLuke TW: NSFW

Luke stumbled as they both moved up the boarding ramp back onto the Promise, his usual grace abandoning him for a second, but that was long enough for Din to reach out for him. Beneath his grip, beneath the heavy swaths of black fabric that clung to the Jedi, Din could feel the hard jut of his elbow press into his palm for only a second before they were steady once more. 

Luke grinned, a thing of such beauty that Din’s heart almost stuttered to a stop in his chest, before he moved further into the depths of the ship. A low hum filled the air as the machinery powered on, lights flickering before they held leaving dancing imprints on his visor whenever he blinked. It reminded him of the glowing trails of light from the lightsaber the Jedi wielded, deadly and beautiful all at the same time. 

The darksaber hung heavy on Din’s belt, and he pressed his hand to it for a moment, running his fingers over the embossed lines that ran around the hilt. He couldn’t feel the slight change in texture through his gloves, but he had studied the weapon for long enough in the empty silence left behind by Grogu to know it well. 

Din knew exactly where Luke would be as he shook off the lingering discomfort. Grogu was safe with Boba, possibly safer than he would be with Din himself, in the depths of his heavily fortified Tatooine palace while Luke and Din attended to this bounty. 

“Is it strange to say that I’ve missed this?” Luke called, and Din turned just enough to watch him out of the corner of his eye. 

The readout had been damaged during the bounty — a lucky shot that had been deflected by his beskar but had still sent spider cracks over his field of vision — so would need to be repaired when he was alone. Even so, Luke was clear to him. He would be able to see the other man by his warmth, by the scent of ozone and growing things that clung to him, and by his laugh if Din had no eyes to perceive him. 

But what he saw took his breath away. 

Luke had already taken off his dark cloak, the fabric lying pooled on the seat next to him like a discarded shadow, exposing the bronze curve of his arms. From this distance, Din could make out a few of the darker freckles that were spread out like a constellation over his skin. He still had his gloves on, but, as Din watched, he tilted his head back — exposing the hard line of his throat — and bit down on the edge of the leather, slowly drawing it away from his hand. 

“I’ll get us on our way,” Din said, turning away abruptly. He felt hollowed out, a cold sweat clinging to his skull despite the heat of the day, the air dry enough to plunder every last bit of moisture. 

“Sounds good!” Luke called, shifting with a bitten-back grunt of effort to cross his legs beneath him, settling into the now-familiar pose for his meditation. 

Din allowed himself, just for a moment, to picture walking over to the Jedi. It would barely take a moment, barely more effort than a thought. Luke wouldn’t move out of his meditative position, merely raise his face to him, eyes still closed. What would the smile be like that would cross his face? A barely-there curl of his lips or something bright and explosive?

Kedalbe was more than what it seemed, a gesture of trust more than Din could express with words. 

Grogu knew to reach for him now, pressing his forehead to Din’s helmet on every meeting and parting. He had felt Luke’s eyes on him like a weight every time, more than simple curiosity, but he had never found the words to ask him why. The idea that Luke might care for him felt like an impossibility, and finding out it wasn’t true would break him in a way that almost nothing had before.

Din shook off those lingering thoughts, and made his way into the cockpit, refusing to turn around when he thought he felt the weight of Luke’s gaze settle on his back.

⁂

Din sighed, feeling the final lines of tension shift from his shoulders as the ship finally settled into autopilot. He tipped his head back against the edge of the seat, feeling the cooler air bite at the line of exposed skin around the top of his throat. He shivered, the motion slipping down his spine and causing his jaw to clench. 

“Hope I’m not intruding?” Luke’s voice rang out, hesitant, in a way his footsteps hadn’t, and Din couldn’t hold back the flinch, his head shooting up and shoulders curling to hide away even that scrap of skin. 

The Jedi had seen his face before, when he was broken and nothing but his son mattered, and even he was leaving him, but this felt different. 

If Luke was going to see his face again, it would be deliberate.

“No,” Din answered, cheeks flushing at the notion that he may have let the question sit unanswered for too long.

Luke swung himself into the passenger seat easily, avoiding the copilot seat without Din needing to mention it. His hands were now bare and Din caught the strange glint of metal as the cockpit lights reflected on his prosthetic. Luke  pressed them against the back of the seat, smoothing over the material.

“I’m glad you came with me,” Luke said after a few minutes of silence, “I won’t deny that I have wanted to spend more time with you. And to do more than just that.”

Din turned, helpless to do anything else, and met Luke’s gaze, his blue eyes steady and unwavering. There was a low heat burning in them, and Din felt that same burn begin to kindle in his stomach. 

He couldn’t deny being attracted to the Jedi, but it was more than that. Din may not be a Mandalorian in the same way Boba was, or even in the same way he himself had been, but he still held the values. He loved Luke for his skill in battle, for the way he tried to help even when he was scraped thin and exhausted, but most importantly, Din loved him because Grogu did. He watched the Jedi take care of his son with the same focused determination, and Din loved him even more for that.

Luke settled back in the chair, curling in it sideways, falling out of Din’s line of sight for only a moment before returning with a grin that was devilious in every inch. Deliberately, he raised one leg that was thrown over the arm, leaning forward to start undoing his laces. 

“I will never ask you to take your armour off,” Luke said, tugging another section free of the fastening, Din’s eyes locked to every movement, every inch of tanned skin that was exposed. “But you don’t need to take it off for me to ride you.”

Din felt his thoughts grind to the halt, the entire universe ceasing to exist. 

“Unless, I’ve overstepped?” Luke’s teeth dug into his bottom lip, turning the pale pink skin an off-white colour. “I don’t—”

“Come here.” Din’s vocoder transmitted the cracks in his voice perfectly, the neediness clear as day, but Luke only grinned, his cheeks a burning brilliant pink like the sunrise. 

He stumbled once more as he made his way over the short few steps, shedding the remains of his clothes as he went, only wearing a pair of dark shorts when he finally settled onto Din’s lap. 

Din thought he was used to the way his beskar muted everything. Each touch was translated to nothing but pressure through the heavy weight of his armour, but he had forgotten the warmth of another person pressed against him, the feeling of bare skin that wasn’t his own beneath his hands. He had peeled off his gloves with barely a second thought, pressing his hands into the dip of Luke’s waist, the thunk of the metal hitting the floor almost masked by Luke’s groan — high and gasping — with his head thrown back and hips canting forward. 

Din moved his hands, catching the motion at his peak and pulling Luke closer, trapping him next to the cold beskar as his groan broke into a whine. He was trembling in Din’s grip, chest heaving with every frantic breath but he didn’t pull away. Luke’s hands pressed and twitched against Din’s shoulders, fingers scratching against his armour helplessly, metal and flesh alike. 

“Sorry,” Luke managed to get out, curling himself back forwards with a jerk, still trembling enough to send a tremor rattling through Din. “It’s been a while.”

He didn’t move forward the bare few inches that would let him press his forehead to Din’s, his eyes bright with desire. It was the same spark Din had seen ignite in him before battle, a sort of delighted determination and it was all focused on Din now. 

It was a heady sensation as he breathlessly studied the fragmented vision before him, Luke’s eyes so brilliantly blue, the pupils blown wide and dark. It had been so long for Din since those distant fumbles pressed against one wall or another in the covert, always just hidden from sight and barely progressing past the slide of a hand, just shy of too painful.

Now, he had the man he loved on his lap, almost naked and pressing against him, squirming in need.

Din’s groan crackled through his helmet’s speakers, a fire burning through his belly and his cock hardened fully in an instant, pressing against the curve of his armour. He ignored the pressing need, focusing instead on the slope of Luke’s ribs. His thumbs pressed over the man’s skin, feeling the heat radiate from him. 

One hand remained holding Luke close, stopping him from grinding against the unyielding curve of Din’s armour even as Din’s cock pulsed with every beat of his heart, as the other slid up his chest. The callouses on Din’s fingers and palm caught on every slight change on Luke’s skin, every touch burning him as if he was trying to grasp a supernova. As his hand moved from the softness of the faint hair on Luke’s belly, to the smooth divots of his scars, to the mere edges of the lightning burns that coiled over his shoulder and down his arm, Luke never stopped moving. He pressed himself impossibly closer, somehow never drawing back to do so.

“Easy,” Din gasped, turning his head to press his helmet into the crook of Luke’s neck, feeling the groan vibrate through him rather than hear it, the sound of his heartbeat too loud in his ears. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Luke went slack as if his strings had been cut, his heels digging into the back of Din’s greaves — barely more than a slight change in pressure — as he gasped in tiny punched-out noises, his mouth bitten red and inviting. 

“Okay,” Luke gasped after a moment, seeming to reign himself in as a level of composure settled over his shoulders. He pushed himself back, his hands resting on Din’s shoulders, and Din let him, feeling the distance cool between them. “How do your fastenings work?” 

One hand pressed against Din’s codpiece, and he felt his hips rise towards the touch despite himself. It had been so long since he had touched anyone, but how long had it been for the Jedi, closed away from everyone else?

“Long flight back to Tatooine,” Din said, reaching down to tug Luke’s hand away and oh, the shiver that passed through the other man, the metal of his prosthetic  hand so warm in Din’s grasp. “You first. I can wait.”

Luke remained so still, his eyelashes casting spidery shadows in the reflected starlight as he blinked in mute surprise. Din tilted his head to one side, trying to imprint the fragmented image onto his soul.

When Luke began to move once again, it was slow jerks of his hips, almost disbelieving as he stared down at Din as if he was the most wonderful person in the world. Pink settled across his cheeks, revealing the faint freckles, and Din groaned, the sound distorted and almost unrecognisable through his helmet speakers, but it seemed to urge Luke on. 

His hips worked faster, every movement graceful and desperate at the same time, gaze locked onto Din’s. Sweat pooled on Din’s chest, every breath coming ragged and gasped, as all he could do was watch Luke move. His cock was so hard, the faint pressure never fully settling, but it was enough to move him closer to the edge, the knot in his belly tightening. 

Din’s teeth ached to bite down onto the exposed curve of Luke’s neck as the man gasped, throwing his head back, skin glistening and burning beneath his hands. Next time, he thought, then stopped. He wanted there to be a next time, and a time after that. He never wanted to let the other man go again. 

Luke laughed, the sound low and gasping, his nose crinkling as he grinned. “I’m not doing a good enough job if you’re still thinking this much.”

Din flushed, mouth falling open as he searched for the words to say, but Luke stole his thoughts, leaning to press a kiss to the side of his helmet, shuffling forwards on his knees until—

“Found it,” Luke murmured, the slight scratch of his fingers moving over the back of Din’s helmet reverberating through his skull as he looped his arms around his neck, their hips flush and began to move once more. 

Din’s head thunked back against the seat, his hips surging up to meet Luke’s, the pressure constant yet fluctuating, driving him ever closer to the edge. Forcing himself back upwards to watch Luke, eyes wide and his teeth sinking into his lower lip, Din raised his hands, feeling the shift of muscles in Luke’s back and dragged his hands down — his blunt nails catching slightly with every swell of Luke’s hips — to grab hold of his hips once more and pull him closer. 

It was that touch that sent Luke over the edge, spilling with a howl and Din followed barely a second later, his hips twitching and rolling through the aftershocks. Luke curled onto him, his forehead pressed to the cool metal on Din’s shoulder, back heaving with every breath. 

“Long flight, you said?” Luke asked, his voice hoarse as he raised himself to allow Din to see him: sweat-soaked and grinning. “This is going to be fun.”

[intubatedangel]

Cold Snap: Chapter 1

I’m back, again, hopefully a bit more consistently. This time returning to the world of Anna Swift with a story that’s been an idea for almost 2 years but couldn’t quite come together.  No resus in this part, just setting up the scene, but I hope you enjoy.

----------

Shona dragged her large suitcase up the ramp and onto the lower deck of the old water taxi. It had become almost like an old friend to her over the last few years, the point of seperation between home and college. She turned and waved to her parents, who stood back on the quay, watching thier daughter leave for the last semester of her college life. In truth she wasn't going all that far. Only a dozen or so miles as the crow flies, and within the limits of the same greater city area. But while the city had grown and expanded to absorb her old home town as a mere suburb, the city's transport links had not kept pace. While the rail network ran along each side of the river, it didn't cross at this end of the city. There were plans for new bridges, but they never materialised. And so, instead of taking a 3 hour trip on the city metro, Shona would take the trusty water taxi that had been crossing the river back and forth for as long as her mother remembered, and be at her dorm within 40 minutes.

A good idea really, she thought, pulling on the suitcase behind her, trying to get it rolling again. She cursed internally at her professors for giving them so much work over the spring break, the suitcase weighed down with what felt like half a library. A gust of cold wind blasted her face, and she thought of another curse, this one at the northern climate. To many, spring break was about running around on beaches nearly naked having parties and getting tanned. To say it would not be advisable here was an understatement. This far north, winter was still clinging on, to the point where snow lay on the ground just a few weeks ago.

Shona pulled her scarf up a little further as she dragged the suitcase toward the door at the rear of the cabin, where luggage could be stowed out of the way. She pushed it open then spun to grip the suitcase handle with both hands and haul it over the small threshold, staggering back a little as the wheels finally rocked over. A gust of wind sucked the door closed with a loud bang and shone flinched, glancing around to see if anyone noticed. Like public transport in most cities, no one so much as glanced at her.

She ducked into the luggage area, and her heart sank. All the lower shelves were full. She walked over, wondering just how she was going to stow the case. She vaguely heard the door behind her, then the sound of rolling wheels that approached and stopped beside her.

"Erm, would you like a hand?" A male voice said. Shone turned to him. He was young, maybe a similar age to herself, with black hair in that intentionally messy style. He raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. "Not infering anything about the strength of your gender...You just looked... and I need to..." He glanced at his own case, similar sized to hers.

Shona shook her head "Sorry, yes that would be great." She smiled. "We can each lift half." She commented, prompting a grin from the young man. Together they lifted her bag. Well, Shona steadied it at least.

"Student?" The young man asked, with a slight pant from the effort. Shona nodded, and opened her mouth to reply. "Wait, let me try and guess. Your on this taxi, so you must be studying at Central. That amount of books, over spring break no less, narrows it down. Medical students are already back, my roomate's doing Chem and says all the natural sciences work is based on their own labs now. And, I haven't seen you in any of my classes or on my floor of the library, so by process of elimination I'm going to say... History."

"Impressive." Shona told him with a grin. "You must be studying literature." She grinned at his shocked face. "My roommate is in that course. She can almost quote the entire works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle at this point, and she told me that almost everyone goes through a Sherlock phase in that course."

He chuckles. "Well played. I must know the name of the lady who bested me." He said, with a mock bow.

Shona couldn't help but chuckle too, though it was drowned out by the horn of the water taxi, as it gave it's last call. Shona felt the familiar rumble as the engine got into gear and began to ramp up in power. "Shona. Shona Smith-Carlson. Yes it's double barrelled. Ardent Feminist of a mother refused to give up her maiden name."

"Well theres nothing wrong with that. Though by the look on your face you aren't too happy it."

"It's not that," Shona shrugs. "She just never shuts up about it. Still loves dad though." She trails off, the silence starting to become awkward. "What about you?" She re-directs. "I'm guessing your name isn't actually Sherlock."

He smiles. "Jack Davidson. Not literally, My dad's actually called Mark."

"You must have practiced that line." Shona said, trying not to laugh at the perfect delivery.

"Maybe once or twice, but it's a good ice breaker, don't you think?"  He replied with another dazzling smile.

It was a nice smile. The boat jerked slightly as it left the quay and started its journey across the river. Shona rocked a little, Jacks arm moved, lifting a little, not quite reaching out, but ready to steady her if she had stumbled, and Shona suddenly realised he was flirting. Why did this always happen? She fought to not roll her eyes. Her girlfriend was going to rib her again. She would have to let him down gently. She took off her scarf, wrapping it and putting it into one pocket, and then unzipped her coat. She caught his eyes flick down as all men’s do, then slightly to one side, catching sight of the rainbow badge.

He blew out a breath, then nodded with a wry grin. "That's a good move. I am out played once again. Though I suppose we aren't quite playing the same game are we."

Shona shrugged. "Sorry." She mumbled.

Jack waved his hand. "Don't be. Not like you can change who you are. How about we get my bag stowed and then we grab a coffee on the upper deck?" Shona looked at him, puzzled. "Your roommate. From what you were saying she's a year ahead of me. A bit of early information is always good."

Shona considered it for a moment. He wasn't being pushy or angry like one of those guys. And she was planning on getting a coffee. So she shrugged. "Why not, company is always nice."

Together they lifted Jack's case, a little lighter than her own, and placed it in the rack. But as he was checking it was secure, Shona felt a rumble. A different rumble, one that she had never felt before on over two dozen journeys. If she'd been outside, she would have seen a plume of black smoke rise out the tall exhaust stack. If she'd been in the cabin that qualified as the bridge of the boat, she'd have heard voices filled with panic as alarms squarked.

Shona and Jack started up the stairs in front of the luggage compartment, when there was another rumble, and a strange noise filled the passenger cabin as the whole ship vibrated. Shona stopped halfway up the stairs, looking behind her. Jack turned to her, three steps higher up.

"What is it?" He asked

Shona shook her head "The boat. Somethings wr..."

 Her voice was totally drowned out by the noise of the engine exploding.

**********

Officer Matt Jones sat on the small river patrol boat, bobbing slightly against it's mooring. He glanced at his watch. Just another 7 hours and 50 minutes of his 8 hour shift. He sighed, feeling that boiling anger as he rembered getting busted down to river patrol. Not even standard beat cop, river patrol. In March, in this city, where even the foolish wouldn't think of getting in the river. Only the desperate. But this section of the river didn't even have any bridges, ruling that out too.

"So..." The old timer, Winston, who was now his partner muttered. "Who did you piss off to land yourself here?"

Jones breathed out slowly, sending the anger with it. "You know Dean Campbell?"

"The head of HR Dean Campbell?" Jones nodded, Winston whistled. "What did you do?"

"I may have pointed out that he was... inadequate for the position. In somewhat more forceful terms. To his face..."

Winston spat into the river. "That would do it. Not that you are wrong of course, that little weasel has done nothing but damage to the department, but, not exactly the wisest decision.

Jones nodded. "What about you?"

"I asked to be here." Winston replied, prompting a look from Jones. "Coming up on retirement. The last thing I wanted was to be that stereotype. Always liked fishing, figured I'd get some boat time and avoid anything likely to finish me off before my service is done."

"That's fair enough I guess." Jones told him, sipping at the coffee, watching the old water taxi make it's way across the river. He noticed the black smoke, but thought nothing of it. "Does anything interesting happen here?"

"Wouldn't have picked this spot if it did." Winston replied. "Occasionally that floating wreck needs a hand when it breaks, but that's about it." He says turning to look. "Speking of which, that exhaust don't look too healthy." He said a moment before the radio squarked, lighting up an indicator on the emergency channel.

"This is the Beetle, may-day, may-day, our engine is...." The radio cut off as a gout of thick black smoke burst from the exhaust tube, and the distant boat seemed to lurch. A split second later the sound wave of the explosion reached them.

"Get us moving!" Jones shouted to Winston, as he grabbed at his own radio. "This is officer Jones, Badge number 4582. We have a major incident in progress on the river between....between..."

"Between North Inglebank and Trippers point!" Winston shouted.

"Between North Inglebank and Trippers point. Explosion on a water taxi, we are en-route, unknown casualties, unknown situation, requesting additional backup for evacuation and medical assistance!"

"Acknowledged Officer Jones. Relaying now."

Winston had gotten the speed boat unmoored, tossing a high-vis life jacket to Jones, before he gunned the motor and they began to cut through the waves, heading for the vessel that was now smoking from more than just the exhaust.

(Edit: Fixed some errors and details. A little out of practice.)

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Resol’nare - Part Nine

A/N: OH...HEY. Let’s all pretend that I didn’t just have like a three week creative crisis and just dive back in, shall we?? (I’M VERY SORRY.) 

*this story will regularly be using words in Mando’a. for a good list of references click here.*

Summary: The Mandalorian arrives on Nevarro to meet with Navina again, hopefully to trade information that could be valuable to them both. But before she joins him he receives a call with some concerning information. When she does finally get there, things come to a head. Quickly. 

Warnings: Language, violence 

Word Count: 5k

Nevarro. 

A dry wind blew across the arid lava fields, his cape whipping behind him as he focused the lens of his visor on the horizon. He had already scanned the other three directions before setting his gaze East. So far though, there was no sign of a ship or speeder anywhere. Another harsh gust of wind tore through the open landscape, accentuating its emptiness. Nothing. He sighed, changing the lens back to its default setting. Crusty flakes of ash covered clay tumbled over the cracked ground and clung to his boots. The Mandalorian hadn’t been waiting long, and Navina wasn’t late yet, but he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that something was wrong. Where is she? 

He shifted his weight, leaning against the lowered ramp of The Promise. Pulling his comm device from his pocket, he pressed the speaker button to check that it was still operational and was met with a crackling static sound that proved it was. She just hasn’t tried to contact me. Tucking it away again, he told himself that it was only because she hadn’t landed yet, not because she was involved in any sort of trouble.   

His concern hadn’t come from nowhere though, and it wasn’t entirely in regards to the woman’s safety. She can take care of herself. The prickling feeling in the back of his mind had more to do with what he didn’t know about her than what he did. And there’s a lot. Shortly after arriving on the volcanic planet, before he’d even had the chance to check in with Cara Dune, he’d received word from Boba and Fennec back on Tatooine. Curious as to what would warrant the call when he’d last seen Fett only a few days prior- Fennec had been out on one of her missions- he answered quickly, pressing the button to activate the holo screen on the ship’s main control switch. 

The blue light flickered and took shape, projecting the man’s image there in the cockpit. “Fett,” the Mandalorian greeted him with a nod. “What is-” 

The man’s gruff voice cut him off then, waiving the need for any pretense, which the Mandalorian appreciated. “I’ve got something you need to hear, Mand’alor.” Fett tilted his chin down, his stone solid gaze trained directly at the holo as he spoke. He continued without waiting to be asked, Fennec stepping into view beside him. “Got a hit on that name you asked about. Harsa.” 

He blinked, Navina’s face flashing in his memory as she told him her father’s name. That was fast. “I thought you said you hadn’t heard the name?” He tilted his head as he asked. 

“I hadn’t,” Boba confirmed. “Still haven’t.” What? “It wasn’t me who came across it, and it isn’t the father, Gavil.” 

Head moving back and forth he felt nothing but confusion. “I don’t understand.” 

“I came across the name Harsa on a syndicate raid, Mando.” Fennec’s clear tone filled the space as she clarified. “Ixon? The scum I was… interviewing when you were here last?” He nodded and she raised one eyebrow, a look of self-satisfaction still lingering on her face at the way she handled that quarry. “He gave up the location of a Black Sun hideout on Corellia after some light persuasion.”  

“And?” He still wasn’t sure where this was headed. 

“And when I got there, the place was mostly abandoned. Found a few ledgers, stolen credits.” She scoffed. “Cowards run like rats in Coronet City.” 

They do. It had been a long while since the Mandalorian set foot on Corellia or Coruscant. His bounties kept him mostly within the Outer Rim, and he didn’t miss the crowded streets or the types of people they were filled with.

“I was lucky enough to catch one of them though, one of their poor excuses for bounty hunters.” She clicked her tongue. “No accuracy, no skill, and as it turns out,” she grinned. “No loyalty.” That’s why they don’t work for the Guild. “One I caught? Duros. Sang like a little bird. Told me everything I wanted to know. Including who he was working with and what he’d been hired to do.” 

Though he was glad to hear that she and Fett were making more progress in cleaning up the galaxy’s garbage, he was still confused about exactly how this raid related to Navina’s name. “Fennec, I’m not sure if I-“ 

“Just wait,” Boba’s serious, gravelly tone was back. “We wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t worth the trouble.” 

He knew that to be true. While Karga enjoyed talking just for the sake of conversation, and Bo-Katan’s routine check-ins could be used to set any clock, Boba and Fennec only made contact when absolutely necessary. Which is almost never. He leaned back in his seat, clenching and unclenching his right fist atop his thigh. “Go on.” 

“Turns out this fine gentleman I spoke with had orders to plant a tracking device on a target so that his partner could hunt them down and take them out in a different location. Team job,” she explained, her eyes suddenly looking down as she fumbled with something off screen. Looking back up, she raised her hand, a bounty puck lying flat in it. “This was the target, Mando.” 

His eyes widened and his mouth fell open as he watched her activate the holo puck, Navina’s image flickering to life, her name listed in several languages below her rotating likeness.  

“Not the Harsa you were looking for, Mand’alor.” Fett inclined his head towards the puck in Fennec’s palm. “Someone’s looking for her though.” 

“Any idea who?” There were endless reasons as to why someone would hire an assassin or a bounty hunter, he knew that first hand. But if he knew who it was that wanted the woman dead, he might be able to reason out the why.

Fennec let the puck go dark and lowered her hand. “Well, you see that’s where things get very interesting.” They were interesting enough already. “Ixon isn’t- wasn’t- a very high ranking member of the syndicate, so he didn’t have any names for me.” Not surprising. “But what he did say?” She folded her arms over her chest. “It was a Mandalorian that hired Black Sun.” 

“A Mandalorian?” Not even the helmet could hide the shock in his tone. Aside from the fact that paying someone else to do their killing for them was not at all the Way of the Mandalore, it was as unnecessary as one of his kind hiring a personal bodyguard.  “Why would a Mandalorian need to hire an assassin?” They wouldn’t. Navina may be a skilled fighter, but the simple fact that she was not entirely covered in beskar put her at an extreme disadvantage when it came to fighting someone that was. Especially if she didn’t even know it was coming. 

“An excellent question,” Boba nodded. “And one I think you know the answer to.” 

“Discretion.” Whoever it is doesn’t want anyone knowing it was them. Most people contracted their dirty work out because they were incapable of doing it themselves, but he knew that there were others who were just seeking to keep their own hands clean. A sudden thought materialized and immediately took the form of a question. “Are all of our people accounted for there?” 

He needed to know if this was an isolated incident; if Navina had garnered this target on her head because of choices she had made, or because of who and what she was...and who she knew. He needed to know if the rest of the covert, the rest of his kind, were safe or if whoever was hunting her down was also tracking other Mandalorians. Perhaps most importantly though, he needed to know if he had to be suspicious of anyone within the covert’s walls. Mandalorian history was full of infighting, different sects and cells with varying beliefs and loyalties often waging war on one another to claim more power and reputation. I won’t let that happen under my watch. 

“Just talked to the princess herself, Mand’alor.” Fett grumbled, his upper lips pulling into the snarl it seemed he reserved specifically for Bo-Katan. “According to her, everyone is safe and she’s called for a full sweep of the facility to be sure there are no threats to your growing hive.” 

Relief washed through him, and he was glad not only that Bo-Katan and her people were there to keep the others safe, but that at least for the moment it seemed that this was more a matter of personal vendetta against Navina Harsa and not against Mandalorians or their allies in general. It was short lived however, Fennec chiming in once more to remind him that the tracking device was likely still active if Navina hadn’t already been found and killed. “If they haven’t found her yet, Mando… she might be leading whoever is looking for her straight to you.” 

He had ended the transmission thanking Fett and Shand for calling with the warning, hoping that Navina would arrive soon and that he’d be able to find and disable the tracker before it caused trouble for him. Or costs her her life. Though his first thought had been that she could be a danger to what he was trying to do for the Mandalorian people, his next line of thinking went in another direction. What if she was targeted because she’s meeting me? What if just knowing me, talking to me was what… Another fact about Mandalorian history that he had learned since becoming the owner of the Darksaber and the title that came with it, was that while the majority of Mandalorians accepted the wielder of that sword to be their rightful ruler, there would almost always be outliers in opposition who would see a different Mand’alor on the throne. He sighed, wondering if it would get worse once they had actually begun to retake the planet, when the throne was even more tangible and real and tempting. One thing at a time. 

Scanning the landscape one more time, he tapped the button on the side of his helmet to cut through the hazy fog that hung low over the volcanic ground. At first he saw nothing, but then a wave of air was displaced overhead, and looking up he saw a small ship, maybe half the size of The Promise, beginning its landing maneuvers. That must be her. Tipping his head back, he watched as the craft wobbled upon entry into Nevarro’s atmosphere before the reverse thrusters were engaged, the hull of the ship leveling out, its descent slowing as it got closer to the ground to give him a clear look at the vessel. Dank farrik.

He was immediately reminded of the Razor Crest after he’d trusted the Mon Calamari dockhand on Trask to repair it following the crash landing on Maldo Kreis. Not that I had much of a choice then. Couldn’t get off the platform the way it was. He wondered if there hadn’t been similar circumstances for the woman and her ramshackle ship. There were outer panels that flapped where they lifted away from the rivets that were supposed to hold them in place, shoddily executed patchwork and second hand replacement parts making it almost impossible to imagine what the ship may have looked like when it was new. If it ever was. Cocking his head to the side as the engines powered down, he wondered if it wasn’t something that Navina or her friend had cobbled together themselves from spare scraps of retired ships. 

There was another disturbance overhead, the hot air moving as though another ship were trying to cut through to land, and he shook all thoughts of her ship’s provenance and original model number away. He needed to stay vigilant, be on the lookout for whoever it was that was following Navina. The airlock hissed as she lowered the ramp on her ship, the steel plank stuttering jerkily as it dropped then freezing its motion with a grinding sound just shy of reaching the ground. 

“Kriffing piece of-” He heard a metallic thunk that he would have wagered anything on had been made by her boot striking the mechanism that operated the entrance ramp, the door groaning on its fastenings as it plunged down to close the distance. “There.” Swinging her braid with a huff, the woman appeared in the opening. She wasn’t wearing any of her armor, her bulging bag slung across her body. He did notice the sunlight glinting off of the kal at her waist and recognized the shape of the blaster strapped to her thigh beneath the gray shawl she wore though, the woman seeming to put more stock in being well armed than well armored. In her case, it made sense, and he realized that if she did know someone was after her, she would only stick out more if she was wearing the beskar helmet and the thin plates she’d collected over the years. 

Hopping down from her ship, a cloud of ash rising as her boot soles hit land, she waved one arm and called out. “Hey there, Mando.” Turning, she hoisted the ramp up manually and gave it a forceful shove to slam it shut. 

In the same instant that the hefty door clicked to lock, the enhanced audio receiver in his helmet picked up another distinct noise; the nearly silent sound of a ship entering the atmosphere. The tracker. Snapping his attention skyward, he adjusted his visor lens and located the incoming gunship. It’s weapons already charged from what he could see, it would be within shooting range in a matter of seconds. Eyes flicking down to the woman still struggling to close the ramp, he realized that she hadn’t noticed the very imminent danger that she was in. And he didn’t have time to warn her.

Acting on instinct alone, he lunged forward extending his left arm and deploying the whipcord from his vambrace. She turned to face him as the cable wrapped around her body, eyes widening in shock as the restraint tightened to trap her arms against her sides. Sorry. 

“What the-“ 

Her assumed string of swears and expletives was cut short by the zip of the line as he swiveled his wrist, the mechanized cord reeling itself back in. Overhead, a dark shape hovered above the clouds. Navina finally glanced up as the hum of the attacking ship’s guns announced their intent to fire. The expression on her face as she looked back down at him was a mixture of confusion, anger, and fear, adrenaline pulsing from her that he could almost feel himself. Hang on. 

Again, there was no time to warn her before he acted, punching his fist hard to pull Navina as far from where she stood as possible. She nearly flew through the air to close the distance, the Mandalorian whipping his body around just in time to stop her momentum by throwing his arms wide and catching her in them. The instant he had a solid grip on her, he bent his knees and pushed off from the ground, jetpack igniting and lifting them both out of harm’s way just as red blaster fire streaked through the sky to hit the ship that she’d been aboard only minutes before. 

He didn’t look back, focused instead on locating the enemy, already grabbing for one of the thermal detonators attached to his belt. But he didn’t need to look back to know the exact second that the enemy’s blast hit, her body stiffening noticeably as the explosion engulfed her ship, the sound of her incredulous gasp close to his ear. He didn’t need to see it on her face to understand what she was feeling. I hope there wasn’t anything… He recalled the moment he had found Grogu’s ball in the rubble where the Razor Crest once stood. I hope nothing she cares about was destroyed. 

Shaking those thoughts from his head, he rose higher until he was close enough to one of the ship’s engines to toss the detonator into the turbine. Reaching down, he unbuckled another two of the spherical explosives, shoving them in after the first before diving back towards the ground. He hadn’t been able to retaliate right away when Grogu was abducted and his ship, their home, decimated. But I can now. His weapons ignited, tearing the engine to shreds and causing the ship to drop like a lead weight, falling hard and gaining speed. 

The heat at his back as they plummeted was satisfying, but his thoughts quickly returned to the woman in his arms as they both touched down on the ground. Bracing for the impact of the destroyed ship’s impending crash, he tucked her head against his shoulder. Tilting his head down, he shielded as much of her with as much of himself as possible, widening his stance to lower his base as the ground rumbled underfoot. Charred debris rained down, a few smaller pieces bouncing off of his armor like fiery hailstones, and he kept her sheltered until he heard and felt them stop falling. As soon as it was clear, he released her, stepping back once he was sure that she was steady on her feet. 

“Are you hurt?” He knew that he needed to check the ship’s wreckage to see if the assailant was still alive. But he wanted to make sure that she was physically alright before he did. 

Mouth agape and expression completely stunned, she took a breath and then another, staring at the space where she’d landed her ship and seeing only a burnt out crater in its place. “I...I’m...no.” She answered, blinking rapidly before giving him a quick shake of her head. “You… how did you-” 

Now’s not the time. Without another word he pushed off from the ground again, flying through the smoke plumes towards the torn and twisted remains of the enemy ship’s cockpit and main hold. Looking through the windshield, he saw the slumped form of a man in dark goggles, the tell tale tattoo marking him as a Black Sun member visible on his neck above the collar of his shirt. From what the Mandalorian could tell, the man was still breathing, simply unconscious, and the lack of movement among the rest of the wreckage paired with the absence of a second body in the co-pilot’s chair led him to believe that this was a solo operation. It usually is. He could count on one hand how many times he’d hunted with a partner, and he knew that most bounty hunters and assassins worked that way, too. 

Finding the hatch to open the cockpit, he tried to peel it open but it wouldn’t budge, the hinges bent and damaged in the crash. Swearing under his breath, he drew his blaster and shot three times at the lock until the door fell inward. Kicking his boot down through the door, he opened it fully, dropping into the ship to extract the man who had just fired on Navina. In another circumstance, he may have let the man suffer the consequences of his actions and let fate decide whether he walks away from the flames. But then he’d be loose on Nevarro. If this trouble was somehow linked to him, which it was, because Navina was only there to meet with him, then he owed it to Cara and Karga and all of the people there to clean up his mess. And I’m sure Fennec will have questions for him. Slinging the tall but thin man over his shoulder, the Mandalorian climbed back out through the opening he made for himself, jumping from the top of the wreckage. The jets strapped to his back roared to life and he ascended as a fuel tank exploded right below him. That was close. 

His next priority was checking that The Promise hadn’t suffered any damage. The blast seemed to have been a direct hit, so he wasn’t overly concerned. But it’s my only way out of here and it’s… He frowned as he landed. It’s not home but it’s… He sighed. It doesn’t matter. The ship was fine, far enough away that it hadn’t even been hit with any rubble or debris. Good. He dropped the man he was carrying in an unceremonious heap, an audible crack coming from his arm as it made contact with the hard ground, ignoring it as he turned back in the direction he’d left Navina in. 

She was walking cautiously through the field of burning metal, her face streaked with soot and her blaster drawn. As soon as she saw the man crumpled at the Mandalorian’s feet, her face pulled into an angry scowl. “Kriffing scum!” 

She coughed as she inhaled the thick smoke, and he realized that if not for the filter in his helmet he would be having the same difficulty breathing. We should get inside. She stumbled closer, and he could see the shake in her hand as she pointed her weapon at the figure on the ground. Don’t- He was about to reach for her to stop her from shooting the man, despite how badly he knew that she must have wanted to. She didn’t make him do that though, opting instead for a swift, hard kick as she stowed her blaster. Lifting her eyes up to the eyeline of his visor, she shook her head. “How did you kn-” 

Another cough cut her short, and he flipped open the cover on his vambrace, tapping in the code to unlock and lower the ramp. “Go inside,” he shook his head and gestured at the black smoke. “You shouldn’t breathe this in. Go.”  

He stooped down to lift the unconscious assassin from the ground, hoisting him over his shoulder again and followed Navina up the ramp into the main hull. As soon as he was in, he punched the switch on the wall to seal the door behind them. The air circulation system kicked in with a whoosh as the airlock clicked shut, and before he said anything else, the Mandalorian opened the locker where he kept three slabs ready at all times. Shoving the limp man into the frame of the slab, he held down the button that released a gust of super chilled carbonite to freeze his captive, then shut him away in the locker for transport to Tatooine. He’ll answer for what he did. He was certain that Fennec would squeeze every drop of information out of him and then make him sorry that he ever agreed to work for the Black Sun.

“Hey.” The curtness in her tone made him wince as he turned to face her, but it was understandable. “Are you going to tell me how you knew that was going to happen?” She crossed her arms defensively and he could tell that she was trying to keep her composure. 

“I was tipped off by one of my people.” He nodded at her. “I had asked about your father, but they came across your name instead.” Pulling a device from the cabinet below the weapons locker, he went on. “Found a bounty puck on you in a syndicate hideout, and found out that someone had you followed.” Switching the small object on, he pointed it at her bag. 

Pulling the satchel away from him, she stepped back. “What are you doing?” 

Lifting the device, he explained. “This will find and disable any tracking devices on you so they can’t send backup.” She still seemed hesitant, and though he wanted to be sympathetic and give her time to process what was happening, he knew that they didn’t have that luxury. “Look, I just saved your life and I don’t even know who I saved it from.” Or why someone’s after you. He recalled the way that his subconscious had convinced him to trust her the last time they were together, and though he still didn’t understand why, he felt himself leaning into it again. “So you’re going to let me check you for tracking beacons, or I’m going to make you let me.” 

She swallowed, not out of fear but frustration, glaring up at him, then begrudgingly held out her bag. “Fine.” 

He swept the device over it, the thing beeping loudly over one of the pockets. “There.” 

“What? There’s nothing in-” She dug her hand into the pocket, then froze, pulling it back out with a tiny silver circle between her fingers. “Dank farrik, what the… how-” 

The Mandalorian took it from her, dropping it on the floor and crushing it with the heel of his boot. “Someone must have slipped it into your bag while you were distracted.” He raised the scanner once more, making sure that there weren’t any other trackers or bugs planted on her person. Satisfied that there weren’t, he stowed the scanner back where he took it from and straightened up to face Navina again. 

The anger and defensiveness were gone, the woman instead displaying concern. “I need to contact Firo.” She shook her head. “That… The Flare, it… that was his ship and I…Osi'kyr! Firo. I need to make sure he’s… that he and his family are safe. What if-” 

“Alright.” He held up his hands. “Alright, you can use my holo screen. It’s in the cockpit.” She pressed her lips together and nodded, clearly worried. “It… my contact? They told me that it was only your name that was on record.” If that makes you feel any better. 

He didn’t wait for her to respond, simply nodding at the ladder that led to the ship’s controls. She climbed wordlessly with him right behind her, and within seconds he had the holo up and running, allowing her to make contact with her friend. If I thought the kid was in trouble I’d… need to see him, too. There were things that The Mandalorian needed to ask her, but he knew that nothing would be accomplished until her mind was put at ease over the people she cared about. 

Once she was satisfied that no one else would be in the crosshairs meant for her, she apologized again to the shaggy haired, amicable man that he had seen pick her up on a stolen speeder when last he was on Nevarro. He insisted that he didn’t really care about his ship, that he was just glad that she was safe, his relief genuine. Ships are replaceable. He looked around at the switchboards and panels that surrounded him. People aren’t. His eyes fell to the vacant seat that was still waiting for Grogu to occupy it. From what she had told him last time they spoke, she knew that all too well. 

As she wrapped up her call, she visibly relaxed, no longer on the verge of hyperventilation from smoke or worry, but still a little on edge. Rightfully so. Someone just tried to- a Mandalorian tried to have her killed. One of my... The idea felt wrong to even think, but he had to ask. “Navina?” Her sharp eyes locked with his, again giving him the feeling that she could see through his visor even though he knew that was impossible. “Do you have any idea who would have,” he sighed. Just tell her what you know. “It was a Mandalorian. The person who put the hit out on you? They were… Do you know why a Mandalorian would be after you?” 

To his surprise, she actually let out a dry laugh. “Mando, if I kept track of everyone who… everyone that I made an enemy of I’d never get any sleep.” 

He was sure that she was right, but it wasn’t what he’d asked. “That wasn’t an answer.” 

She frowned, rubbing at a smudge of black ash on her forehead. “No, it wasn’t.” Looking down at her lap, she let out a breath. “I…” she clamped her eyes shut. “Yeah. There are a… a few Mandalorians who might be...who want me-” 

“Tell me why.” It wasn’t a command, regardless of how it came out. “Please, tell me why. I,” he paused, wanting to be sure of his word choice so that she would understand his line of questioning. I want to make sure that no one that I am responsible for was responsible for this. As the Mand’alor, it was his responsibility to uphold peace and hand out punishment to those that would threaten it. But she doesn’t know that I’m… He wanted to trust her like his brain was telling him to. But he didn’t want to be wrong, not at the expense of the rest of the covert. She hasn’t sworn the Creed. “I want to be sure that no one in my covert, my Tribe, was behind this.” 

She opened her mouth then shut it, furrowing her brow before smoothing it out again, and he knew that she was trying to be just as careful in choosing her words as he was, the two of them playing a precarious game of strategy as they got to know one another. “I’ll… I’ll tell you about the Mandalorians I’ve…” She sighed, her eyes landing on the signet on his shoulder. “I’ll tell you about the Mandalorians I’ve made enemies of, if you tell me something. Like last time.” 

He thought for a beat before answering, something in the way that she was eyeing the Mudhorn crest that he wore giving him pause. But that’s how this works, right? Give information to get it? “Alright,” he agreed. “Go ahead.” 

As though she’d been practicing the question since the second she pulled away on that speeder three weeks ago, it rolled right off of her tongue to fill the quiet cockpit. “Are you in possession of the Darksaber?” 

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tags: @something-tofightfor @alraedesigns @pheedraws @valkblue @malionnes @gollyderek @fific7 @becs-bunker​ @commanderlola​ @greatcircle79​

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

Falling Ch. 4

Master List: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: Bucky X Reader [and a few more to come]

Summary: For a moment you had something good, something wonderful. But moments pass. Now, left with nothing but the ashes of a life and a love you fought so hard for, you find yourself in a free fall. Who will you be once you hit the bottom? [Sequel to Only For A Moment but can be read independently.]

Warnings: Loss, grief, violence, death, blood, just all the things

A/N: Well... Ya know I’m at a loss for what to say about this one. It’s a lot and goddamn if I don’t love me some angry Steve Rogers. 

Also, thank y’all so much for the really great feedback on the last chapter! I absolutely love hearing from readers.

OH! If you read my Stay series there is a sad little easter egg in here. Let me know if you catch it. 

TAGS ARE OPEN

“I still can’t believe it,” Bucky pushed a stray piece of hair from his face. “She even agreed to take my name.” 

Steve couldn’t help but smile. 

“Sam can’t believe that one either.” 

Bucky chuckled, “Glad he and I can agree on something.” 

“I’m so happy for you, brother.” He settled a hand on Bucky’s good shoulder, feeling like his chest was going to burst. 

Never in a million years could he have imagined James Barnes actually settling down. He certainly never thought they’d ever be watching a peaceful sunset over the water discussing how happy Bucky was to be settling down. But their lives had been nothing if not a long line of surprises; at least this one was pleasant. 

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, a cloud of worry suddenly darkening his features. 

“Stevie…” The old nickname shot a pang of worry through Steve’s gut. Bucky didn’t take his eyes off the water as he continued. “If something were to happen-” 

“Buck, nothing is-”

Bucky let out a low bitter laugh, “Careful there, pal. Getting dangerously close to a lie.” 

“I’m not exactly the most popular guy in the world,” he tilted his head to meet Steve’s worried expression. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m about to disappear.” Bucky shoved Steve’s shoulder with his own, “I’m not you. I have no intention to go lookin’ for trouble.” 

Steve scoffed, rolling his eyes, “Jerk.”

“But,” Bucky continued, ignoring Steve’s soft jab, “trouble seems to like me so… Just…” He took a ragged breath, eyes once more on the horizon. 

“Just what, Buck?” When Bucky looked back Steve almost lost his breath. The emotion on his friend’s face like a knife in his heart. Fear, worry, shame, and something else all swirl around him. 

“Just promise me you’ll look out for her.”

That afternoon with Bucky by the lake plays over and over in Steve’s head throughout the flight back to the states. 

Look out for her, was all Bucky had asked. 

Take care of her, Okoye ordered. 

He wanted to do both. 

So why did he keep failing?

Why had he placed his own burdens on you the same night you’d lost your own battle with grief? Why could he keep up appearances for everyone else but not you? Why was he sitting here across the jet while Thor did what he should have been doing? 

He would do better. He had to. 

When the jet lands at the compound his resolve wavers just a bit. They were all supposed to come home together. He’d promised Wanda that… 

“I’m good, Thor,” your voice pulls him back. 

Thor stands, making his way out of the jet, Rocket at his heels. You don’t move though, bolted to your seat, eyes on your clasped hands as if in prayer. 

Natasha steps away from the captain’s chair, glancing at you then him, an unspoken question on her face. Steve nods in response and she too leaves. 

Steeling himself for rejection, he stands, slowly walking over to you and extending his hand. 

You look up at him with painfully red eyes, the circles beneath them making the effect all the more harrowing. He thought of what Okoye said M’Baku had called you. Demon. 

Surprisingly, you accept his hand. 

“Here,” he reaches for the backpack slung over one of your shoulders, “let me.”

“No,” you release his hand, immediately gripping the strap of the bag with white-knuckled force. He tries not to look put off by the action and suspects that he failed, if your follow up was any indication. “You can get my duffle though.” 

A half-smile tugs at his mouth, “Alright.” 

Shouldering his bag and yours he heads out into the later afternoon sun. It had been almost full night when they left Wakanda and such transitions always shook him. He credited that with the reason he didn’t immediately notice that you remained frozen at the foot of the ramp. 

“Y/N?” He asked gently, heading back toward you. With a chill he remembered how you’d stood in the woods that night, unmoving. 

“Are you sure I should be here?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

His brows knit in confusion, “Of course. Why wouldn’t-”

“Isn’t this technically Stark’s place? I doubt he’d want… Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” They’d cleared it with Pepper, and in his opinion, that was all that mattered. “If anyone has an issue with it they can take it up with me.” 

You nod in acceptance and follow him inside. 

-

The room Steve showed you to had the cold but comfortable feel of an upscale hotel. Not a speck of dust or item out of place. 

“If you need anything just find me or ask Friday,” Steve said running a hand through his hair. “Kitchen should have a few things according to Rhodey. And-”

“I’m good, Steve.” You didn’t want him to feel obligated to linger. 

“Ok, but if-”

“I said I’m good,” your tone was filled with far more bite than you intended. You cringe at the hurt that quickly flashes in his eyes. 

“Alright,” he nods. “Get some rest.”

“You too.” 

As soon as the door closes behind Steve you can hear Bucky’s voice in your head. 

Look out for him. He’d asked that of you not long after you made your marriage official. 

God, you’d hated that entire conversation. Hated that even in the safety of Wakanda he was afraid of something happening to him, something he couldn’t control. Now you hated even more that he’d been right.

He’d trusted that you would take care of the only family he had left. 

And you were failing him. 

Your right hand begins to tremble, thrumming with power, fingers flexing, reaching for the ghost of his heartbeat. 

Anger flares in your chest. Curling your hand into a tight fist you slam it into the door, again and again, until the metal finally groans. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your forehead pressed against the door, breath catching. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.” 

Suddenly you sway on your feet, a wave of pure exhaustion rolling over you. Cradling your bloody fist to your chest you shuffle to the bed, unable and unwilling to face another moment of consciousness. 

When you wake, it’s full dark. Your hand throbs with pain but it’s better than the memory of loss it carried before. You locate a fully stocked medkit in the bathroom - perks of crashing at a superhero base you guess - and bandage your hand. After that, you’re unsure what to do with yourself.

Aimlessly you pace the room, growing somehow more numb and frantic with each circuit. From time to time your packed bag catches your attention; you know you should probably unpack but… The thought of getting the bag, opening it, going through the contents, finding where to put each one. It felt like an insurmountable task. 

Finally, the grumbling in your stomach breaks through, forcing you from the room.

There wasn’t a ton in the kitchen, which made sense considering no one had been living here full time, but mercifully there was bread, peanut butter, and jelly in the fridge which was enough. 

You pour all your focus into the familiar task of making PB&J. Taking far too much care to get the peanut butter right to the edge of each piece, making a little well for the jelly, not pressing too hard when you cut. So, when someone presses on your awareness you jump in alarm, body hovering about a foot in the air. 

“Shit! Sorry,” Natasha holds her hands up trying to be unthreatening. It’s then that you realize the cabinet doors are shuddering. You swallow a breath, feet back on the ground, the cabinets silent once more. 

“You’re good. I was just… distracted.”

“I see that,” she looks from the two sandwiches to you. “Never seen someone pay that much attention to a peanut butter sandwich.” 

You shrug, “Want one?” 

“No. That’s yours. I can-” You float one of the sandwiches over to her. She smiles. “Fine.” 

She grabs the sandwich and leans against the counter across from you.  

For about half a sandwich you eat in silence. It’s not uncomfortable but the unspoken crackles. 

“I lost someone once…” Your eyes shoot to hers. A sheen of unshed tears makes her eyes glitter in the dim kitchen. “She was like you.”

“How?” 

“Gifted.” You snort at the word. 

“She didn’t view it as a gift either. Charlie,” she pauses, taking a shaky breath, “could read emotions, catch glimpses of memory, even read thoughts if she set her mind to it. Empathetic with telepathic tendencies was what her S.H.I.E.L.D. file called it.” A soft smile fills Natasha’s face, “She just called herself a freak.” She sets her plate down, half a sandwich still on it. 

“We… It wasn’t what you could call traditional. We never settled down, couldn’t. But, we made it work in our own way. She… I loved her. I’ve never… Anyway, she-” Natasha’s voice breaks. 

You don’t breathe, don’t move. All your effort is focused on listening and keeping control of yourself even as you feel your power threatening to break free. 

Finally, you ask, “How long?”

“She’s been gone almost ten years.” That hits you right in the chest. “I wish I could tell you it gets easier, but…” She trails off. 

A vision of your future flashes in your mind. Years spread out before you. Empty and aimless without the warmth of his smile or the ring of his laughter.  

There’s a scream bubbling up in your chest. Without warning Natasha reaches across the small space separating you, grabbing your hand with ferocious strength. 

“I just wanted you to know you’re not alone.” 

Her touch shakes you. The warmth of her palm, her fingers shifting between your own. 

Neither of you let go. 

It just happens. One moment you’re about to drown in the understanding that there was no coming back from this, no healing, no return, and the next-

Your lips crash into hers. 

They’re warm and soft. Something real and solid and alive. Her mouth opens against yours, your other hand reaching to cup the back of her head. You want to forget, ashes and heartache and loss - burry those feeling in the heat of her. 

“Stop,” she breathes heavily against your kiss. 

That one word sends reality crashing back into you. With a sharp breath, you release her, stumbling back into the opposite counter, hand covering your mouth to keep in your shock. 

Around you, things begin to hum, a low deep frequency rather than a shaking, as you feel your perception dive beneath the surface. The plate next to you lets out a creaking sound as it begins to crumble. 

Too much. 

“It’s ok, Y/N,” Natasha grips your shoulders. 

“I’m so sorry,” you croak from beneath your hand. 

“It’s ok,” she smiles, rubbing your upper arms comfortingly. Slowly you regain some kind of control. 

“No,” you shake your head. “That was-  Fuck!” You pull away from her, pacing several steps away, gripping your head trying not to lose it. 

“I should never have… God, Nat, I’m so-”

“Stop,” she says in a tone that broaches no argument. You turn to look at her, arms crossed leaned against the counter like nothing happened. 

“Didn’t I just say you weren’t alone? I get it. I do. I’m not hurt or offended. We’re good.” She walks over to you, forcing you to release your grip, lowering your arms. 

“We’re good. Ok?” 

You nod in response, not trusting yourself to speak. 

“Let’s finish these sandwiches.” 

-

Steve spent the last week and a half on a razor edge. 

He managed to retain his composure the few times he found himself among the others. Thankfully, save for a handful of meals and some attempts to scan for Thanos however they could, everyone kept to themselves. 

Despite the commitment he made on the jet, he couldn’t bring himself to spend more than a few minutes in your presence. The one time he did, he spent most of the night blowing through punching bags. 

He’d been so fucking concerned for you. So worried your grief would be too much. You’d be lost, and he’d have failed Bucky in a way he could never forgive himself for. Clearly, after what he’d seen in the kitchen, his concern had been for nothing. You were moving on nicely. 

With one more ferocious right hook, the punching bag lost the fight. 

Huffing with exhaustion and exertion he collapses onto the padded floor of the training gym, resting his forearms on his knees. 

“We don’t have an endless supply of those ya know?” His head shoots up to see Rhodes leaning in the doorway. 

Steve pushes his sweat-damp hair from his eyes, “Seem to be the only one using ‘em so we shouldn’t run out too soon.” Rhodes nods in acquiescence, hovering in the door.

“What’s up, Rhodes?”

Rhodes sighs, “Pepper wants to go back into the city. Start figuring out what to do now.” The more time that passed the more likely it was that Tony, like the others, wasn’t coming back. 

Steve nods, “When?”

“Tomorrow.” 

It would mean two fewer people to serve as a buffer between you and him - he wasn’t even particularly thrilled to be around Natasha right now - but it was also two less to keep up appearances for. 

“You’ll let us know if we can help?”

“Of course. And if-” Rhodes is cut off as the building shudders. 

“Friday?” Rhodes asks.

“Captain Danvers has returned and appears to have a craft of some kind with her.”

He still didn’t know what to make of the mysterious woman who’d clearly been close with Fury but they weren’t in a position to be picky - they needed all the help they could get. 

Steve and Rhodes rush out, the others right behind them. 

No one speaks as Carol lands the ship and steps away. 

The ramp lowers and, Tony, supported by a tall blue woman, staggers out. 

Without a thought for the past, Steve rushes to help.

“I couldn’t stop him,” Tony says, voice rough. 

“Neither could I,” the words feel bitter on Steve’s tongue. 

“I lost the kid,” the sorrow in Tony’s eyes is like salt in every wound Steve carries. The kid. The one from Queens… 

“Tony,” the words stick, “we lost-” He doesn’t know what to say. There are too many names. Thankfully Pepper runs up, gathering Tony in her arms. 

Steve turns away from the moment just in time to see the bitter, pained, look on your face. Despite his anger, he feels his heart ache for you. 

True to form, Tony wanted to immediately know what happened in his absence. Seeing the images of all those they knew and loved - everyone he failed to save - lined up as Natasha gave the rundown made him feel like he was being crushed. 

“As far as we can tell, he did exactly what he said he would. Wiped out half of all living creatures…” Natasha says, her voice surprisingly only shaking a bit. 

Steve glances toward Carol, her eyes shining with unshed tears. 

“And what’s with him?” Tony asks, gesturing toward Thor’s slumped form in the atrium. 

“He thinks he failed,” Rocket says in a matter-of-fact tone. “Which he did. But seems like there’s a lot of that goin’ around.” 

Tony gapes at the raccoon, “You know, until this second I thought you were a Build-A-Bear.”

“Maybe I am,” Rocket says, sounding tired. 

“We’ve been scanning, trying to find him,” Steve says. He can feel Tony veering off course. It was a defense mechanism, his wit. While Steve couldn’t blame him now wasn’t the time. “You fought him Tony-”

“Who told you that?” All eyes shoot to Tony in confusion. “He wiped my face with a planet while the Bleecker Street Magician gave away the store. There was no fight-”

“Ok,” Steve tries to say gently. “But did he give any clues, coordinates, any-” Tony cuts him off with a raspberry noise. 

“Tony,” Steve is too damn tired to hide his exasperation, “we need you to focus.”

“And I needed you!” Tony swipes at the bowl of oatmeal and the glass of water sending them tumbling as he stands on shaky legs. “Past tense. We lost because you chose to leave. We lost because of-” He takes one teetering step toward Steve before his body stops, rigid. Steve looks at you, your focus squarely on Tony. 

“Enough,” you say in a low voice. Tony turns his head, noticing you for the first time. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Tony looks around for an answer. “Has she been here-” Steve can see when you release Tony, the action sending his frail body swaying. 

“This isn’t on Steve,” you say, dismissing Tony’s question. “You don’t get to come for him like-”

Tony laughs, “Oh! Oh, I remember you now. Barnes’ little-”

“Tony,” Steve says in a warning tone. Tony, ignores him. 

“Fangirl. The murderous Sinead O’Connor look suits you by the way.” Tony eyes you, waiting for a response that doesn’t come. 

“Why are you here?” It’s impossible to miss the venom in Tony’s voice. “From what I saw, your deranged-” The table begins to shake followed by a low creaking groan. 

“Ooo, spooky. This isn’t Wakanda sweetheart. We don’t harbor murderers.” You visibly flinch. Steve’s blood boils.

“Tony! What the hell?” He closes the distance in a beat, beginning to pull Tony away, but serum or not he could never be faster than Tony’s sharp tongue. 

“Isn’t that what you are? Reaper.” Tony nearly snarls the moniker Hydra granted you. The floor begins to shake. You look away like you’d been slapped. “Yeah that’s right I read-”

When you turn back you don’t say a word, just spit in Tony’s face before storming out, the tremors going with you.

“Classy new friends, Rogers,” Tony says, wiping his face with his sleeve as Steve grabs his shoulders. 

“I think you’re the one who needs a lesson in class,” Natasha says. 

“Do I? You know what,” Tony rips the arc reactor from his chest, “here.” He presses it against Steve's hand. “Why don’t the two of you take this and your new best friend and go find Thanos. See if you can do better with-” Tony doesn’t finish before collapsing. 

-

You didn’t know where to go. 

Part of you wanted to run. Leave them and all of this behind and never look back. All promises made to the dead be damned. 

But you just couldn’t quite bring yourself to do it.

Instead, you find yourself on the roof, staring out into the trees. Futility you try to calm your power pulsing in your body like a caged beast, restless and screaming for release. 

Unsure of what else to do, you let it sink into the concrete under your hands, pulling at the tiny particles until a chunk of the low wall surrounding the roof comes free. It hovers before you as you focus all your power into it, feel each tiny atom humming even in this inanimate chunk of rocks and cement. 

This time, you force your eyes open, even though your brain stutters with the effort of maintaining this level of perception - visual and whatever you could call this. The concrete begins to crumble, you feel your power plucking away at the pieces, pulling them apart bit by imperceptible. 

Deep in the recesses of your mind, you feel the hunger. It’s as though whatever the stones left behind was seeking sustenance in this strange destruction. 

Your right hand begins to tremble, the memory of losing your hold on Bucky rising fast to the surface. As your palm flattens - muscles remembering their position at that moment, desperate to return to it - you force your hand into a fist. Immediately, the floating chunk of the wall crumbles to dust. 

Dumbfounded, you stare at the heap sitting on the edge of the wall as bits are caught by the wind. Fear rises in the back of your throat, tasting metallic on your tongue. 

Thankfully, Natasha arrives before the panic fully grips you, providing a welcome distraction. 

Wordlessly she stands beside you, eyes on the peaceful scene. All you can think is that she’s standing so close to danger and doesn’t seem to notice.

“Tony passed out.”

“I didn’t-”

“No! No. No one thinks you did. I just meant… If you wanted to come back in.” You grip the wall, knuckles white, unsure of what you want. 

She sighs, “He’s really not-”

“Don’t try to defend Tony Stark to me. Not after-” You don’t have it in you to even think about Bucky.  

“Right…” The silence rises like a wall between you. 

Rather than speak, Natasha lays a light hand on your shoulder. You sigh and nod.

Rhodes steps out of the small medical room off the lab when you and Natasha make it back inside. 

“He’s probably gonna be out for the rest of the night,” he says on a sigh.

“Good,” you throw a raised eyebrow at Carol. “You guys take care of him and I’ll bring him a Xorrian Elixir when I get back.” She turns on her heel as you exchange a questioning glance with the others. 

“Where’re you going?” Steve asks, striding after. 

“To kill Thanos,” she replies without missing a beat. 

“Hey!” Natasha calls after her. “We normally work as a team around here we could-”

“We know up there is more your territory but this is our fight too,” Steve says. The slight exasperation in Carol’s expression makes you smile just a little. You hadn’t spent much time with her but you found yourself liking her nonetheless. 

“Do you even know where he is?” Rhodes asks. 

“I know some people who might,” Carol says. 

“Don’t bother,” Nebula, says. You’re pretty sure it was the first you’d heard the woman speak. “I can tell you where Thanos is.”

Nebula’s story about her father sends chills down your spine. You’d always thought parents couldn’t get much worse than your own but you were clearly way off the mark. But when Rocket pulls up the scan from their ship any remnants of cold flee your veins. 

“Hey, hey, hey. We’d be going in short-handed ya know?” Bruce cautions. 

“Look he’s still got the stones so-” Rhodes backs him. 

Carol meets your eyes, “So let’s go get him.” You nod. “Use the stones to bring everyone back.”

“Just like that?” Banner questions in disbelief. 

“Yeah,” you and Steve say in tandem. You meet his eyes. 

“Just like that,” Steve finishes. 

You’d no sooner made peace with the concept of literally going to space than you were boarding the ship thanks to Carol’s quick fuel trip and Rocket’s adept repairs. 

It seemed unreal that you were looking out at Earth. From here, just outside the atmosphere, it looked peaceful and unassuming. When the ship turned, facing space rather than the broken planet you’d just left, you felt like you could stare into that beautiful endless sea forever. 

“Okay,” Rocket begins, ending your awe. “Who here hasn’t been to space?” You, Natasha, Steve, and Rhodes, look awkwardly at one another before raising your hands. Carol catches your eye, a smirk on her face. You werene’t sure if you should laugh or be terrified. 

“Why?” Rhodes asked, his tone suspicious. Carol laughs. 

“You better not throw up on my ship,” Rocket said dismissively. 

Nebula’s countdown was hardly visible over the sound of your heart. But the moment the jump began you calmed. 

Your mind felt silent, your power, unable to keep up with the movement surrounding you, just gave up. It felt incredible, like a tense muscle relaxing. And the colors. 

Space opened up around you, an indescribeably beautiful swirl of color and light. 

It was over too soon. But on the plus side, no one threw up. 

As Carol goes down for recon you all move about the ship, nervous energy thrumming through the air. 

The planet beneath you didn’t look so different from your own. You wonder about the people there, wonder if they realized what kind of monster was hiding among them.

“There’s no one but him,” Carol’s voice relays on the comms. A whole planet. And not one other being… Anger curls in your chest. 

After Carol gives a full rundow of his location Steve relays your plan of attack. 

You’d approach in teams. You and Carol would go in first since your abilities would give you an advantage. Thor, Rhodes, and Banner would follow - the two suited men assisting in restraining Thanos whole Thor removed the gauntlet. The others would follow.

“We can’t hesitate. If he has even the slightest window he’s going to use it,” Steve says. 

“Let’s do this,” Thor responds, weilding his axe. 

On the planet’s surface you feel suddenly off kilter. That insidious hunger rising in the back of your mind, reaching for the stones and their power. It ached at the base of your skull. 

“Ready?” Carol asks. It pulls your focus away from the strange feeling and replacing it with fear as you remember the last time you faced Thanos. None of you were enough. How could this be- 

The fingers on your right hand tingle, the ghost of a heartbeat beneath your palm. 

Fuck fear. 

“Absolutely,” you say without an ounce of doubt pushing against the ground with your power, sending your body into the air.  

Carol blasts a hole through the roof of Thanos’ hut and shoots inside. You follow her down. 

The moment she has him in a headlock you push your power into him, keeping his body immobile focusing on his left arm. Rhodes and Banner join moments later, adding their strength to restrain this creature. 

Curiously, you realize that you don’t feel the pull of the stones. 

Thor arrives as planned, severing the gauntlet from Thanos’ body, hand and all. 

You release your hold on him, your power lifting the gauntlet, devoid of stones into the air. 

“No,” you breathe, an indescribable dread beginning to fill your chest. 

“Where are they?” Steve demands. Thanos only groans.

“Answer him!” Carol barks tightening her grip on his throat. 

“The universe required correction,” Thanos wheezes. “After that, the stones served no purpose…” His gaze falls to you, “Beyond temptation.” You shiver, stepping back, letting the empty gauntlet fall to the floor. 

Bruce rushes Thanos but you can hardly hear them. The room seems smaller, hotter. Your ears begin to ring, your power throbbing through your body.  

“Where are the stones?” Natasha asks in a trembling voice.

“They’re gone,” he huffs, “reduced to atoms.” 

The shock of his statement tears through all of you, a near tangible wave. 

It only holds you for a breath. 

Atoms. 

Silently you allow your power to sink into the ground beneath you. Just like on earth you can go deeper, deeper until you can feel the fabric of everything. 

You could fix this. You would fix this. 

-

Steve glances at your retreating form. He can’t blame you for leaving, no matter how much he wants to.  

The small hut is immensely oppressive suddenly. Just breathing gets harder with each second. He hadn’t had a panic attack since 1943, he didn’t think he was still capable. But right now he felt that familiar rapid pace of his heart, the tightness in his chest… It blurs the voices around him, everything growing staticky until- 

With a roar Thor severs Thanos’ head from his body in one clean swing. 

He begins to feel the panic recede to make room for the shock. Still he doesn’t move.  

“What now?” Natasha croaks. 

Steve can’t even attempt a response. Rocket begins to rummage somewhere behind him.  

“I know what I’m doing,” Steve turns to see him dragging a small crate. “Taking everything that’s worth anything.” He pries open the crate pulling out something that looks like a wine bottle. The metal top comes off with a tug and he drinks deep. “Including all his booze.”

“Toss me-” Thor is cut off by an ear-splitting crack of thunder.

“Y/N,” Steve says in barely a whisper, cold seeping into his bones. 

Carol beats him outside but he’s on her heels. The ground trembles before they spot you. 

“What the...” Carol breathes. Guilt and fear begin to stir in his gut. 

On the top of the mountain behind Thanos’ hut, you’re barely visible through a growing funnel of dust and cloud, but he knows it’s you. 

“Want a lift?” Carol asks, extending her hand. He nods. In seconds they’re on the mountain top just outside the wall of dust. Another loud boom shatters the otherwise quiet air.  

Visions of that night in Wakanda whir through his mind as he stares. He remembers your pain, your screams, he remembers the blood… and the blood that streamed from your eyes and nose when he and Okoye found you at your house… and- 

“Look out for her.” Bucky’s voice in his head once more. 

The risk didn’t matter. He had to get to you. If you tore him apart in the process so be it but he would not let another person he cared about die. 

He’d taken no more than a step in your direction when Carol’s hand tightened on his upper arm. He tries to pull free but she holds him fast. 

“Look,” Carol says with a note of almost reverence in her voice. 

“I see her! And I wo-” The words die on his tongue. 

In the air between your hands, he can just barely make out six points of light beginning to pulse like stars through the haze. Blue. Green. Yellow. 

“Dear god…” He doesn’t know what else to say. 

The others had arrived at some point, though Steve couldn’t say when. 

“Can… Is she that powerful?” Carol asks, seemingly unable to look away. 

“I don’t know,” Steve answers honestly. 

Natasha steps up beside him, “Steve should we-” Your scream cuts her off. 

This scream isn’t like the one in Wakanda. It’s not the unyielding cry of mourning. Rather this scream is one of barely restrained agony, a soldier shot on the battlefield who refuses to fall, quick but heavy. His breath leaves him in a woosh as he watches your knees hit the ground. 

Your bloody face contorts with pain. Yet your hands remain outstretched, the points of light between them beginning to form ghostly shapes. 

“They’ll destroy her,” Thor says.

Once more Steve pulls at Carol’s grip on him. 

He panics, “We can’t just let her-”

“No,” you say in a voice that is not quite your own. The awful, powerful, resonance of it shakes him to his marrow. “I can do this.”

“It’s her choice,” Rocket says. Steve looks to each person, eyes begging, but they all nod in agreement. 

Filaments of light rise from where the stones are forming like smoke. He notices as some caress your skin, leaving glowing paths in their wake. More and more touch your flesh, searing your outstretched fingertips in zigzagging lines. 

Your back arches, your hands tremble, you cry out once more as the stones flash vibrant and whole for one moment - so fast he could have imagined it - before they vanish. 

The small tremors that had been pulsing through the ground cease, the dust falls, the clouds dissipate. Suddenly the world seems darker and far too still. 

Then there was you, in the middle of a patch of barren ground, sitting back on your heels, body swaying. He’d swear your expression was serene. Something in him knows - even before you release a wet rasping cough, blood flowing from between your lips - that you’re lost. 

Everyone remains frozen, unsure of what to do. Until you collapse, breaking the spell. 

They all rush forward, pushing past him. 

He should help. 

Yet all he can do is watch, paralyzed by the realization that he isn’t sad or heartbroken over your loss. The only thing he feels toward you, as he watches Carol lift your prone form to search for a pulse she won't find, is jealousy.  

-

One moment there was only darkness. A foreign yet curiously familiar weightlessness. Peace.  

The next you felt like you’d swallowed a forest fire. 

Heat bloomed in your chest and abdomen. You could feel the flames crawling up the tiny veins of your eyes and nose, tingling in your skull. 

Gasping, you claw at your throat. Trying to understand what the fuck was happening. 

“You’re ok,” a woman’s voice said in soft tones. “You’re ok. It’ll pass.” It was Carol, one hand supported your back while the other pulled your hand away before you could break skin. 

“Xorrian Elixir, hurts like a bastard but works every time,” she offers you a weak smile. 

“What?” You croak. 

“Nothing,” she shakes her head. “That was one hell of an effort.” 

An effort. 

Not a success. 

You go numb. 

Whatever Carol had given you may have healed your body, pulled you back from the brink, even pushed your power back into its box. But everything you had left, you’d poured into that last act, that final attempt to bring the stones back and reverse this nightmare, no matter the cost. 

And you’d failed. 

There was nothing left. 

Natasha lays a hand on your shoulder, “We’re here.” It takes you a moment to realize what she means. Honestly, you didn’t even remember getting on the ship… 

You follow her out in a fog and stand a few paces away from the others numbly staring into the night sky when suddenly you find yourself tumbling through the air. 

In your present state, you don’t know how to react consciously, but your power catches you before your face meets the ground, acting like a cushion. A memory of Bucky tingles in your mind before it’s interrupted by a voice.

“Get up!” A rough voice, dripping with rage, bellows. 

It doesn’t register as Steve. Only when you roll over, leaning up on your forearms do you realize. His face looms over you, twisted with a dangerous cocktail of emotions. 

“Get up!” His hands grip your jacket, the fabric beginning to tear as he lifts you to your feet. Breaking his grip, you stumble back, unsure what to make of the situation. 

“What the-” You don’t get to finish. 

Steve’s fist cracks against your jaw sending you reeling for a split second. It wasn’t a full-force hit, you sparred with him enough to know that. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell. 

Your power pulses over your skin just once, tingling like static. A flicker of emotion rises in your chest, pushing back on the hopeless void just a bit.

“If you’re gonna hit me, Rogers,” you spit blood from where your cheek and teeth met, “don’t insult me by holding back.” 

Roaring, he charges you. 

Everything after that was a blur. 

As it used to do years ago your power fled in the throws of a fight, that part of your mind shuttering itself lest you lose control. You preferred that. True, he was stronger than you, so your power would have helped, but you were quick, smaller, and Bucky had taught you well.  

You pay no mind to the shouts from the others to stop. Blow after blow you just keep going. Neither of you concerned about the consequences. 

Because this felt… good. There was no denying that. The taste of blood and sweat and adrenaline on your tongue. 

“What did you think you were doing?!” He managed to get you in a lock, pinning your arms against your back with your face in the dirt. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” You ask managing to work yourself free. 

“On that fucking mountain. What the hell-” You cut him off with a solid punch to the gut. 

“He said he reduced them to atoms.” It made sense enough to you. 

“And?!” He recovers but you pivot away from his next blow. “Since when can you-”

“Do you not remember Wakanda? Big fucking crater in the ground?"

You continue to dodge one another’s volleys. 

He shakes his head, “You could have died!” Steve somersaults, landing a kick to your shoulder that you weren’t sure didn’t dislocate it. You hiss in pain. 

“So what if I did?” Grimacing you force the join back, nearly screaming. He seems to notice and for the first time, you see his resolve melt, a glimmer of concern showing. 

“One life-” you pant.

“Your life, Y/N!” 

“My life for trillions.” You get his feet from under him, pinning his arms to the ground with your knees. “Same math you did in 1945.” 

He throws you off and you land in a kneeling position. White-hot rage colors his expression. 

“Oh,” you laugh bitterly, “I forgot, Steve Rogers, is the only one who gets to make the sacrifice play right?!” 

Time blurs. It may have been thirty seconds or maybe an hour before you have Steve on the ground once more, his throat between your thighs. You fight with screaming muscles to keep him down. 

“What was I supposed to tell him?” He wheezes.

The question throws your equilibrium, causing you to lose your hold. He sucks in a raspy breath, grips your thighs, lifting you up off the ground and tossing you over his head. 

You expect your power to cushion you but it doesn’t. Your hands burn as they catch your fall, the ground tearing at the skin. 

Anticipating his next move you roll to the side, barely avoiding the body blow he was about to land. He rolls in the opposite direction from you. 

“Guess it doesn’t matter,” he says as he stands, venom in his voice. 

“What?”

 It doesn’t matter because you’re a failure twice over, a voice in your head whispers. But you want him to say it, want someone to recognize it, to hold you accountable for your weakness. 

“You’re clearly moving on just fine,” he spits. You freeze mid-lunge, gaping at him. 

His voice drops low, “Call me old fashioned, but I figured you’d mourn your husband a little longer before having midnight trists in the kitchen.”

The power that had evaded you comes back in a tidal wave. It crackles beneath your skull, humming in your veins. For a breath, it’s overwhelming, the world, and its multitude of layers rising in your awareness. Then it settles just enough for you to gain control and slam it into Steve.

He sucks in a breath as your power constricts him. 

“How dare you,” you say, so low you don’t know if he can hear. You squeeze, feeling tiny blood vessels burst under his skin. 

“Do it,” he huffs, eyes locked on yours. “Do. It.” His anger slips from him with each forced breath replaced by desperation. 

You release him and he stumbles back. 

“We’re not finished, Y/N!” He screams at you as you turn away. Even without your eyes on him, you feel his rapid approach. 

With a thought you lift him from the ground in mid-stride, taking his body several feet into the air before slamming him back down with ground-shaking force. 

“Yes, we are,” you say without looking back.

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[fallen420]

Rebel Spy - Chapter 13: Trust In The Force

WARNING: major rebels spoiler and ofc mandalorian spoilers

Masterlist

“Right, it’s always nothing isn’t it.”

I see his shoulders stiff as the air gets tenser. I know he can feel the frustration coming off of me. I sit here hoping that he says something, anything to make the tension go away. I want him to tell me what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. I love him and I just want to know if he’s okay.

But of course, that’s not Din. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t tell me anything. Stars, sometimes this relationship feels entirely one-sided.

I feel the crest take off and soon we get into space. With the ship falling apart he doesn’t want to go into hyperspace sooner than we have to or even at all.

The kid falls asleep in my lap as I stare at the stars trying to ignore the tension and - for some reason- the tears that are started to form in my eyes.

I don’t think the tears are from being sad. No, I’m not sad. The tears are from frustration. Is it too much to ask for him to talk to me? I know he’s not used to sharing his feelings so I shouldn’t push him too much.

The sound of him turning around in his chair snaps me out of my thoughts. However, I don’t make eye contact.

“Cyar'ika.” I don’t look up like he wants me to. It’s mostly because I don’t want to explain the tears threatening to leave my eyes.

“What?” The question comes out broken and barely a whisper.

“Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad Din.” I turn my head to look at him, “Honestly.”

“I don’t know how to feel.”

“I know.”

I carefully lift the kid off my lap as I stand up. I sit him back in the chair making sure he’s still fast asleep. Once I’m sure he’s good I take a seat in Din’s lap snuggling myself into him. My head stays under his chin as he pulls me closer to him. I fall asleep listening to his steady heartbeat.

-

“You want me to fit inside there?” I say referring to the very tiny compartment where wires are that we need to get to, to fix the ship.

“Well, I can’t fit.”

“Din I can’t even put my head through there.” The kid’s coo draws our attention toward him. He sits in his pod playing with the stuffed Wookie I got him a few months ago. “You don’t think he could?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

-

“No, don’t put the blue one back. Put the red one where the blue one was. And put the blue one where the red one was.” The kid just continues to look at the wires in his hand.

Din is kneeling next to me as we both try and direct him, “But be careful,” Din warns him, “They’re oppositely charged, so keep them away from each other. Make sure you hold them apart from-” And of course he puts the wires together causing sparks to fly and smoke to fill the compartment.

“That went exactly as how I expected.” Din just sighs next to me, “Are you okay?” I ask the kid and he just responds with a cough. “Okay come on let’s get you out of there.” I motion for the kid to come towards me and he crawls through the compartment and into my arms safely. “So now what?”

“There’s no way we’re making it to Corvus in this shape?”

I look around at the shaky ship that’s covered in fishing nets, “No shit.”

“I think we need to visit some friends for repairs.”

“Back to Nevarro it is then.”

-

We land the razor crest right outside of the city and Greef is there to greet us.

“Looks like someone could use some repairs,” Greef says as Din and I both have to jump off the ramp. Din being extra careful because he’s carrying the kid.

Din and Greef shake hands before Dins asks, “How’s my credit around here?”

“I think something could be arranged. I’ll get my best people on it.” He gets a few people to work on the ship before turning to look at me “Aurora good to see you again.”

I offer him a smile, “You too.”

“And you, come here, little one!” He says referring to the kid. He takes the kid out of Din’s arms and starts asking him all the questions he of course doesn’t have the answer to.

We walk through the city and the streets are full. People are everywhere each booth selling something different. There’s so much life here compared to the last time we were here.

I get pulled out of my thoughts when we stop at the cantina. The one Din almost died in, “Here we are,” Greef says.

“I’m surprised this place is still standing,” Din says.

“Wait until you see what’s inside.”

Din and I exchange a look before following Greef.

Inside is a school. There’s a droid at the front talking about the five major trade routes in the galaxy. “Not what I expected,” I tell Din. It puts a smile on my face to see a place that was once full of death now filled with the next generation.

“We’ll leave the little one here so we can talk business,” Greef says taking the kid to a desk.

“Uh, what?”

“Wait, wherever I go, he goes,” Din also protests.

“Mando please,” Greef says, “Where we’re going, you don’t wanna take a child. Trust me.”

This time Din looks at me and I just shrug my shoulders not really sure if he’ll be safe here or not. “He’ll be fine,” Greef reassures us. Greef puts him in a seat at the end in the second row. “Come on.” Greef walks out.

Din and I linger for a few moments, “Nobody knows we’re here, he’ll be fine,” I say more to myself then Din.

“Right,” Din says and we both walk out.

-

Greef shows up this map of an old imperial base. He says how there’s heavy weaponry and that the black market would love to dismantle and get their hands on. So we agree to help take out what’s left on the base so that Navarro would be completely safe.

Mythrol, one of Din’s old bounties and Greefs bookkeeper, drives us to wherever the base is located. Greef and Mythrol sit in the front while Din and I are in the backseat. Din’s hand has found its usual place on my thigh.

“The whole place is powered by a reactor. So we sneak in overload it and get the hell out of there, “ Greef says.

“Let's be fast,” Din says, “And keep the speeder running.”

We travel a little more before Mythrol stops the speeder at the front door, “Let's go.” I say as we all hop out.

I try pressing a few buttons on the panel but nothing happens, “Controls are using, they’re melted.”

After some convincing, Mythrol decides to get out of the speeder and help us out. He grabs the flange cutter per Greefs request.

While Greef and Mythrol bicker I notice Din is looking up at something. I look up to see a platform above us. And I know exactly what he's thinking.

“Are you gonna…”

“Think it’ll work?”

“It's you, Din, it’ll work.”

“Hold tight,” Is all he says before flying up to the platform. Mythrol tries to use the flange cutter again but all it does is make electricity fly everyone. I look back up at the platform when I hear blaster shots. Then there's screaming and a stormtrooper lands right at my feet. Behind us, the elevator door opens and the three of us pile in.

After a few moments, the elevator door opens and Din is standing there with three stormtroopers laying lifeless around him.

“Good job,” I say to Din as I stand at the edge of the platform looking at the lava.

“The reactor should be set in the heat shaft,” Greef says, “If we drain the cooling lines this whole base will go up in a matter of minutes.”

“Look,” Mythrol says getting our attention, “It's a mint Trexler Marauder. We can get a lot for this on the black market.”

“And it's gonna get vaporized like the rest of this base. Now, let's go,” Din says.

-

Din leads us to the command center. He goes in first and takes out the imp that's in there. The rest of us go in after. I go to the panels, looking through the cameras to find the heat shaft, “Okay I found it, let's go.” Din looks to see where it is before leading us there.

We get there successfully without being spotted. Mythrol opens the door using the code cylinder they swiped on the imp from earlier.

The door opens and we stand on a platform right above a pool of lava. We all look over the edge and Din puts a protective arm out making sure that I don’t fall over.

“That's it,” Greef says pointing to a panel which will make this place blow, “Get on the reactor controls, drain the coolant lines, we’ll watch the door,” Greef says to Mythrol.

He protests at first but Greef threatens to put him back in carbonite. He gets to the pannel and starts pressing buttons but nothing seems to be working, “Hurry up!” Greef tries to rush him. I don’t know what he does but alarms start to go off and the lava below us bubbles.

“All right, she's gonna blow,” Mythrol says getting away from the panel.

We start running down the hallways trying to get out of there as fast as possible.

“How long do we have?” I ask.

“Ten minutes at the most,” Greef answers.

We turn the corner and Din puts his hand up stopping us. In the distance, we hear stormtroopers running to fix what we did.

Din leads us down yet another hallway which brings us to two guys frantically trying to fix what we did. “Destroy it!” one of them say as we walk in. The three of us start shooting them while Mythrol hides behind us.

Din gets one and I get the other. When the shooting stops I look around to where we are exactly. Behind the glass, there are what seem to be like failed clones.

“What the…” Greef says

“I thought this was a forward operating base,” I say still staring at the disfigured body in front of us.

“I thought it was.”

“No, this is a lab. They’re doing some type of experiment, I don’t know exactly but we need to figure it out.” I ask Mythrol if he can get into the system and like always he protest but I get him to do it.

“I don’t like this,” Din says.

“Me either.”

Mythrol gets a Holocron appears at the desk the imps were trying to destroy, “Replicated the results of the subsequent trails, which also resulted in catastrophic failure. There was promising effects for an entire fortnight, but then, sadly, the body rejected the blood. I highly doubt we’ll find a donor with a higher M-count, though. I recommend that we suspend all experimentation. I fear that the volunteer will meet the same regrettable fate if we process with the transfusion. Unfortunatley, we have exhausted our initial supply of blood. The child is small, and I was only able to harvest a limited amount without killing him,” Din and I look at each other and I’m sure under that helmet hes just as shocked as I am, “If these experiments are to continue as requested, we would again require access to the donor, I will not disappoint you again, Moff Gideon.”

Hearing his name makes my body freeze up, my breathing gets shallow, and my heart thumps a mile a minute.

“This must be an old transmission. Moff Gideon is dead,” Din says.

“No, this recording’s three days old,” Mythrol confirms that Moff Gideon is alive.

I fight the tears that want to leave my eyes and I push back all the memories, “Din if he’s alive we have to get to the kid and we have to go now.” He grabs my hand as we ran out of there to get our kid.

-

“You got your eyes on it?” Din asks as I aim the gun at the tiefighter in front of us.

“Hell yeah, I do.” I press the trigger and it hits the fighter directly making it go down in flames.

After getting back to the city and grabbing the kid, we assumed Greef and Mythrol were in trouble considering they weren't back yet. So we got into the new and improved crest and headed over there. We found them in the Trexler Marauder Mythrol pointed out earlier.

“Hang on kid,” Din says but he's very distracted by the blue cookies I’m sure he stole from someone at the school.

Din pulls the lever making the ship go up after the tie fighters and the kid starts to giggle.

I shoot at the fighter but all the shots miss, “We need to get closer.” The ship somehow goes even faster. I hear the beeping meaning that the guns are locked in at the target, again I pull the trigger and the second tiefighter goes down, “One more.” The kid has his hands up cheering us on.

Din turns off the engine making the ship fall for just a moment before turning them back on again so we are right behind the last tiefighter. The tiefighter shoots at us but with Din piloting skills none of the shots hit us. We keep getting closer to the fighter and right before we collide I shoot and it goes down.

“Not too bad huh?” Din says turning around to look at me and the kid. I laugh and the kid throws up. It's blue from the cookies he hasn’t stopped eating.

“Oh stars,” I say in disgust. While Din talks to Greef on the coms I grab the end of Din cape and I try to clean the kid off as best as possible.

After saying bye to Greef Din turns back to us. I unbuckle and kid picking him, “I should get him changed.”

“Wait,” Din stands up placing his hand on my arm, “Are you okay?”

“I’m scared,” I tell him honestly my voice breaking a little, “He scares me, Din. He's not gonna stop until we’re dead.”

Din puts his helmet covered forward against mine, “I’m not gonna let that happen, cyar'ika.”

I nod my head letting a single tear fall before climbing down into the hall to get the kid changed.

-

“Alright so tell me everything you know about Jedi,” Din sits on the cot with the baby in his lap. The ship is on its path for Corvous so we should be there by tomorrow. Din and I are both getting ready for bed after a long couple of weeks.

“Like I said before I ran with a crew. By the time they picked me up they were basically family but they never treated me any different.” I pull one of Dins shirts over my head and I sit down next to him, “There were two Jedi. One master and one padawan.”

“Where are they now?”

“One um- one died so we could live and the other, he- he just went missing. Also so we could live.” Din puts his hand in mine, “I knew another. Fought with him in the rebellion. After the empire fell I lost contact with everybody. I have no idea where he is. I don’t know a lot about Jedi. But I do know they have strong connections to the force and the things they would do, the kid can do.”

-

Din and I step on the ramp looking out at the planet of Corvus. It's dark and gloomy. There's no color in sight. None of the trees have leaves on them. There's no life here.

“This place gives me the creeps,” I tell Din both of us looking around.

“Better than the ice planet.”

I scoff, “Yeah that's for sure.”

Din and I hear cooing and we both turn around to see the kid holding the little metal ball he must have stolen again.

“What did I say about that?” Din takes the ball from him, “This needs to stay in the ship,” and puts it in his utility belt.

He picks up the kid and stands next to me again, “I’ve never had dealings with a Jedi before, so you do the talking.”

“I got you,” I saw with a smile.

“Let's head into town. See if we can pick up a lead.”

-

After walking for a little while we make it to the town. There are stone walls all around it with guards in imp uniforms at the top. The guards have masks that I’ve never seen before. A man in armor asks us what our business is here and Din lies by saying that we’ve been tracking for a few days and that we're looking for a layover. He agrees to open the gate letting us into. The kid is in the bag that's around Din's shoulder this way he stays hidden.

Inside the town, it's just as lifeless. People are around there's just no life in them. Even five years after the empire fell they still find a way to make people miserable.

We walk through the town and neither of us really know what we're looking for. Din tries asking a vendor but they just walk away. We see a man in the alleyway with two children, “You there,” Din says getting the man's attention, “We need some information. We’re looking for someone.”

The man tells the children to leave and then walks up to us, “Please do not speak to them or any of us.” He's scared. It's obvious that everybody in this town is scared.

“Look,” I say softly hoping I can gain some trust since Din is a little intimidating, “We just need to know-” but I get rudely interrupted by two guards saying that the magistrate wants to see us. Giving us really no choice we follow them to wherever this magistrate is.

They lead us to another gate, Outside the gate people are strung up, “Help us,” One of them say as we walk by. The chains electrocute him and he screams out in pain. I wince angry at the fact that I can’t help them at the moment.

The gate opens and inside is the only place on this planet that has green. The trees have leaves on them. There's a bridge over a pond which is also the first water I’ve seen on the planet.

The magistrate asks us to haunt down a Jedi that is after her in exchange for a pure beskar spear. Obviously needing to find Ahsoka Din and I agree.

-

“These are the coordinates, keep your eyes open. We must be close.” We’ve been walking for a while now and so far there are no signs of life. Din hears something in the distance so he places the kid on a rock to be safe.

Looking around we decide that it's a false alarm of course that's before someone jumps out of the tree attacking Din.

Din pushes me out of the way. Once I get my senses back I realize that the flash of white I saw were lightsabers and that this must be Ahsoka Tano. Luckily lightsabers can’t cut through beskar. Din is a great fighter probably the best I’ve ever met but he's no match for a Jedi especially one with lightsabers. There's no point in me trying to join the fight considering a lightsaber could cut through me with ease. So I do the seconded best thing I’m good at. I talk.

“Ahsoka Tano!” I get her attention. She looks at me both her white lightsabers still up, “Bo Katan sent us. I’m Aurora and we need your help.”

She looks down at the kid still sitting on the rock next to me, “I hope it's about him.”

-

Ahsoka and the kid are sitting by a lantern. She requested that she speaks to the kid alone for a moment. So Din and I are away but not too far. I sit down on a rock while he paces back and forth.

“Would you stop pacing, you're making me nervous.”

He stops and looks at me, “You’re not?”

“Trust in the force Din.”

“That means nothing to me.”

I chuckle, “He’ll be fine.”

After a few moments, she picks up the lantern and the kid and walks over to us. She sets the lantern down and hands the kids to me and he sits peacefully in my lap. She sits down on the other rock. They both look at each and she nods while the baby makes what sounds like grunts.

“Is he speaking?” Din asks, “Do you understand him?”

She puts her hands under her robes thinking about her answer, “In a way. Grogu and I can feel each other's thoughts.”

“Grogu?” Din and I say at the same time. The kid coos immediately looking up at Din then at me.

“Yes,” Ahsoka says, "That's his name.”

Din takes a small step closer, “Grogu,” he repeats. He coos again looking at Din. It brings a smile to my face to finally know his name. To see him and Din connect even more.

“He was raised at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. Many masters trained him over the years. At the end of the Clone Wars when the Empire rose to power, he was hidden,” Din sits down as he listens, “Someone took him from the Temple. Then his memory becomes...dark. He seemed lost. Alone.” I can feel his slowly falling asleep in my lap, “I’ve only known one other being like this. A wise Jedi master named Yoda.” The name gets Grogu to look up at Ahsoka. They seem to communicate in their own way before his head drops back down again. “Can he still wield the Force?”

“Yes he can,” I answer, “We’ve seen it.”

“To wield the force it takes a great deal of training and discipline.”

“Our task was to bring him to a Jedi,” Din says.

She pauses for a moment, “The Jedi Order fell a long time ago.”

“So did the empire, yet it still hunts him.”

“He needs your help Ahsoka,” I say hoping we can convince her.

There's another long pause before she sighs,” Let him sleep. I’ll test him in the morning.”

-

With it being dark and both of us too tired to walk to the ship we decided to camp. Din made us a fire. Grogu sleeps on the rock as Din and I lay on the floor, my head on his beskar covered chest.

Din and I are relaxed until of course, we hear a branch breaking in the distance. Both of us stumble to our feet grabbing our blasters. It's silent for a moment and all you can hear in the crackle of the fire burning.

Out of the darkness is a small animal. The closer it gets to us the more obvious it is that it's a loth-cat.

I put my blaster down. I bend down near the cat, I put my hand out and it slowly walks to me smelling it. I start to pet him and he purrs at that, “I haven’t seen a loth-cat since well I was on Lothal.”

“You were on Lothal?” Din puts his blaster away sitting back down.

“Yeah, my Jedi friend was from there. You could almost say Lothal is where the rebellion started.”

“We’re not keeping it we have enough pets.”

“You’re so lame.” He laughs at me before laying back down. I join him as we both try to get some rest.

-

In the morning Ahsoka tried getting Grogu to move a rock but when he wouldn’t she asks Din to do it. After he wouldn’t lift the rock he took the metal ball he stuck in his utility belt. The kid pulls the ball to him instantly.

Din and I both walk over to him telling him that he did a good job. I smile at the fact that he was able to do it and at Din’s excitement.

“That's right I knew you could do it,” Din grabs the ball from him.

“He's formed a strong attachment to you,” Ahsoka says, “Both of you. I cannot train him.”

“What?” Din says standing up, “You’ve seen what he can do.”

“His attachment to you two makes him vulnerable to his fears.” I pick Grogu up, “His anger.”

“All the more reason to train him.”

“No,” she steps closer, “I’ve seen what such feelings can do to fully trained Jedi Knight. To the best of us. I will not start this child down that path. Better to let his abilities fade.” She starts to walk away, “I’ve delayed too long. I must get back to the village.”

“The Magistrate sent us to kill you.” This gets her to stop and face us again, “I didn't agree to anything.” Normally I’d be trying to help Din but I don’t want to leave the kid, “We’ll help you with your problem if you see to it that Grogu is properly trained.”

-

Din and I are able to help her get the imps out of this town and free the people who were imprisoned.

We stand outside the gate walls, “I believe this was your payment,” Ahsoka says, holding the beskar spear.

“No. I can’t accept. I didn’t finish the job.”

“No, but this belongs with a Mandalorian.”

“Just take it,” I say and Din grabs the spear from her.

“Wheres your little friend?” She asks.

“He's back at the ship,” I answer her.

“Wait here we’ll go get him.”

-

“Do we have to?” I ask as we approach the ship.

“Yes.”

“But why? She said herself training him was dangerous.” Din presses his vambrace dropping the ramp.

“Because we were tasked-”

“Fuck that. What do you want to do Din?” As usual, he doesn’t answer me he just walks into the hull of the ship.

When I walk in Din has Grogu on his lap as he sits on the edge of the cot leaning against the wall. I lay my head on Din's shoulder trying not to pretend this isn’t breaking my heart.

-

Din carries him as we start to walk out of the ship, "You're like a father to him,” Ahsoka is outside of the ship, “You his mother.” Din and I walk farther down the ramp, “I cannot train him.” I feel a weight get lifted at the idea that I don’t have to do goodbye just yet.

“You made a promise. We held up our end.”

She walks up to us and gently holds Grogu’s hand, “There is one possibility. Go to the planet Tython there you will find the ancient ruins of a temple that has a strong connection to the force. Place Grogu on the seeing stone at the top of the mountain.”

“Then what?” I ask.

“Then Grogu may choose his path. If he reaches out through the Force, there’s a chance a Jedi may sense his presence and come searching for him. Then again, there aren’t many Jedi left.”

“Thank you,” Din says.

“May the force be with you.”

-

taglist: @tortles​

[gerbiloftriumph]

The Silence Between Snowflakes

(also on ao3) ~ 7/8 - The Ice Queen

~*~*~

Rosella wanted to be the first down the tunnel, and she was annoyed that Number One insisted on taking the lead. “I rescued you,” she said. “I’ve got this.”

“Even still, Princess. Should something attack, then you shall be able to step in and rescue me, instead of the other way ‘round,” No1 said. “You’ve already proven you’re quite good at that.”

“Well. I suppose that’s right,” she said, glumly. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought it sounded a bit like No1 was hiding a grin behind his helmet.

The lower they descended, the louder the clanging sounds got, and the less well-defined the walls became. At some point they’d passed beyond dungeon carved blocks into what felt like either natural caves or something that had been scraped out by hand tools. The guards spread out a bit behind Rosella, watching their backs carefully, hands on swords, ready to defend at a moment’s notice. They weren’t going to be caught flatfooted again, not now that they knew what they were facing.

No1 threw out a hand, a gesture to stop, and Rosella almost walked into him. She frowned, about to complain, when she realized they’d reached the end of the corridor, into a cave that swooped out around them. The Daventry team huddled against the wall, peering around the corner.

It appeared to be a tidy little mining operation. There were a large number of rock goblins with shovels and picks carving out huge chunks of snow and ice, widening the tunnel into twice, thrice its size. They were yanking stalactites from walls, shoveling huge and heavy snowman-ready globs of snow into hampers and wheelbarrows. Another team was pushing the snow laden carts up a huge ramp, feet slipping and sliding as they strained beneath the load, vanishing around a corner but probably going some distance up into the castle, while others with empty carts were sliding back into line, waiting for a fresh fill.

Graham always kept her away from the goblins. Rosella stood on her toes, as far out into the tunnel as she dared. The chance to finally see some of this species up close probably wouldn’t come again. No1 cautiously held his arm in front of her, keeping her back, and she leaned against it, inspecting the activity before them. She was eager, longing to get closer. She remembered the stories, the famous tale of the prison with its glittering fungi and be-costumed captors.

But these goblins just looked tired, not at all pouncy and fun like Graham described. They dragged their shovels along the ground between snow piles, picks rattling off walls in shaky hands. A small number of ice guards stalked among them, criticizing work, directing steps, keeping the work moving at a flurry. One of the goblins had simply stopped and was pouting in the middle of the floor, leaning against its shovel and not working. Rosella watched an ice guard march up behind it and backhand the little creature, yelling at it in that odd backwards language, and the goblin scrambled away, its tattered leather slippers failing to find any purchase on the slick floor.

“What are they doing?” No3 whispered.

“Nothing good, I’d bet,” No2 said.

No1 was glaring. “I have a suspicion,” he said. “A blizzard, from a central point. And here’s the central point’s starting point.”

“That’s what I said, nothing good,” No2 repeated.

No1 shot him a stern glance.

Rosella watched. The hampers’ wheels skittered over slick patches on the floor, and the goblins kept losing their footing, falling against the hampers and sending them spinning across the floor. They scrambled after the carts, crying out in their gravely language, while the ice guards made no movement to help. Icicles stacked like firewood logs clattered and rang against each other, accompanied by the click of guards’ feet on the floor and the scrape of shovels.

The ice curse was turning Daventry into fuel to take, to crush and chip apart, to feed to the castle. To keep the ice curse going. To keep the weather cold. To make more ice. To feed the castle. These working goblins, a likely recent addition, increased the intensity of the resulting weather, increased the power of the castle. Suffocating countries under snow as the castle traveled. Including Daventry.

“We should put a stop to it,” she declared.

“Pardon?” No1 drew back a little to look at her.

“We should stop them.”

“M’Lady,” No1 said, “I do not believe this is an operation we”—he glanced over his shoulder to confirm he still had everyone—“seven can safely control.” At least he counted her in the ranks, Rosella thought. That was more than he’d done in the past.

“We’ve already spent half the day in a cell,” Kyle added cheerfully.

“You’re defenders of the crown,” Rosella said. “And I’m the crown. And I might just need defending.” She started to step forward. A few steps more and she’d be in the mine.

No1 and No2 had known her all her life and could anticipate every silly too-tall-tree-climbing/too-high-cliff-jumping/too-deep-river-swimming/too-big-opponent-fighting move she could make. They both reached out and grabbed her arms and pulled her back instantly, fluidly, without hesitation. “Princess Rosella, please. Direct action is not the right idea here.”

She couldn’t beat either of them in the Battle of Wits board game, either.

“Oh, all right, fine, not that way,” she grumbled. “Fine. But I still say this needs stopping. You know Daventry can’t survive much more snow.”

“I agree. But I count six ice guards and at least thirty goblins. We would be able to take care of the guards if they were alone, but certainly not the others.”

The others. The goblins. Rosella sagged. This wasn’t what she’d hoped to see after her dad’s stories. He’d described them as being so vibrant. Violent and lazy, but clever in their own ways, and eternally creative. These goblins were slow, exhausted. Instead of fairy tale costumes they wore scarves and mittens, and even still she could tell they were shivering. In normal times, they probably burrowed deep in winter to stay cozy warm.

She watched the one that had been slapped picking through ice chips on the floor, throwing them up onto a cart. It kept its head low, slyly eying the ice guards, before ducking out of sight behind the cart and slumping down, curled up with its arms wrapped around its knees. It miserably huffed a little cloud of air, sulking. It was close enough to the Daventry team that Rosella suspected she could have easily called out to it without being heard by anyone else.

“I do have an idea,” she said, very slowly, trying not to scare the shreds of her thought away like the concept was wispy and delicate and easily shredded.

“Not running in swords blazing.”

“No, not that.” And she told them what she’d thought of.

“That’s just as risky, Rosella. If not more so,” No1 said sternly.

“No, I don’t think so,” Rosella said, watching the little goblin behind the cart. It had decided it was safe enough and alone enough to pop off its helmet, revealing huge drooping ears pierced with iron bangles and a scrambly tangle of black hair, and it was rubbing its eyes and wiping its drippy button nose on its arm. “I think he would like to hear a good story right about now. We simply need to convince him to come over here to hear it.”

~*~*~*~

The throne room in Daventry’s castle was warm and comfortable. Rich tapestries hung along the walls, and the carpet leading up to the throne itself was the plushest the castle had to offer. Huge twisting metal candelabrums illuminated the corners and gave the whole place a soft glow.

The throne room of the ice palace was the opposite: freezing and unwelcoming, with light that danced through the reflective walls until it was a bitter sort of bluish white, almost clinical. It had tapestries, yes, but frozen ones, arching down from the high, high ceiling. Torches cast cold flames. The throne was the most ostentatious thing Graham had ever seen, huge shafts of ice sticking out from it like piercing thorns.

Currently, the throne was unoccupied. The ice guards pushed Graham and Alexander forward anyway, depositing them in front of the empty chair. Graham supposed they were meant to wait for the owner of this castle to swoop in and make a tremendous entrance.

The throne wasn’t completely empty, Graham realized after a moment. A black cat preened there, lounging on a cushion. Cats often looked smug, but this one had a certain glowering triumphant nastiness to it. That was probably just its face, though. Graham liked cats, as a general rule. Their no-nonsense purrrrsonality was sort of endearing. A cat may look at a king, as the old saying went, and no one could tell it otherwise. He was fond of that sassy, adventurous spirit.

Alexander, though, was petrified. He was staring at the cat with open faced fear, and Graham wondered if the young man was dreadfully allergic. Maybe someone on Valanice’s side of the family? No one on Graham’s side had allergies. He tried to speak words of encouragement, but instead of comfort, another voice said, “Ahh, the brat returns, dressed in fancy airs and still short of decent manners. Moron.”

And that was Manannan’s voice.

Graham stepped back, startled, into the ice guard standing behind him, staring at...at the cat.

“And his idiot high and mighty father, too!” said the cat. Said the cat. “Now, this is too lucky. I wasn’t expecting you, Graham. The whole family, here! And I didn’t even have to do anything but show up and open the doors!”

Graham’s heart sank. Manannan knew Valanice and Rosella were here. He’d feared as much. He glanced around, nervous he’d see them tied and silent somewhere, but the room was empty other than the ice guards lining the walls, watching them.

“Manny?” he said, warily, staring hard at the cat, certain it was a trick.

“In the fur,” the cat confirmed, and he flicked his tail. “Of all the curses, I suppose this one makes being in an ice castle the most tolerable. You, Graham, look half frozen. That stupid cloak not warm enough for you?”

He ignored the cat, looking at his son instead. “Alexander, when you said ‘couldn’t do much more than scratch.’ Back when you first came home. Did you...do this?”

Alexander nodded mutely, staring at the cat, clearly wishing he was somewhere else.

“How?”

“I’ll tell you how,” Manny interrupted. “Your brat doesn’t understand boundaries. I tried to beat some sense into him, but that awful Cracker curiosity, ugh. Couldn’t hit that out of him with a thousand switches. Not that Mordack and I didn’t try. Well. Mordack didn’t try, after I ordered him. I found more...compelling methods to try and shake that abundant curiosity, right, Gwydion?”

“Don’t call him that,” Graham snapped, the anger blazing up again.

“He’s been Gwydion so much longer than he has Alexander,” the cat purred. “It’s his name. The greatest gift I gave him, birthday to birthday. You weren’t even there to celebrate a single one, Graham. My dear little Gwydion. It suits you much better, you know. Alexander is so stuffy and spoiled sounding. Not at all reflective of the hard work you used to do so well.”

“He will never be Gwydion again,” Graham said.

“Graham. You weren’t there. You didn’t raise him. Your opinions just don’t matter. In fact, I’d rather like it if you stopped talking.” Manny nodded sharply to the ice guards, and one of them clamped a hard hand over Graham’s mouth, yanking him back and pinning him, pulling him up on his toes to keep him off balance and helpless.

The king grabbed at the ice hand with his good arm, struggling, pulling, feeling the cold in his cheeks, in his teeth, but the guard was as sturdy as a glacier. He clung to the guard’s wrist, but he could do nothing. It was like being held by a marble statue.

“Isn’t that so much nicer?” Manny said, after a minute of watching Graham struggle uselessly with frightful glee. “This conversation should be between you and me, Gwydion. You’re the reason I’m here, you know. You’re the reason I bothered to come back to this drainwater ditch of a country. Daventry, ha. Piddling and useless in the scheme of the world. I’d moved on to greater countries. Llewdor has so much more to offer.

“I couldn’t imagine anything better to do to Graham than watch him destroy his own country through misplaced grief while I was privileged to raise you. Once I knew you were properly ready for it,” (beaten into utter submission, Graham thought miserably), “I was going to teach you magic. I was going to use your anger and loss and funnel it. You didn’t need to steal my magic. I was going to give it to you freely, and then I was going to set you on Daventry. It was going to be yours to rule, Gwydion. I was going to give you all the rights and power, and you would have been so much happier with my guidance. We all would have been happier. Me, with Llewdor, and you, with Daventry. We would have made it something great.”

Manny flicked his tail irately, “But you got bored, didn’t you, Gwydion. Perhaps my lessons weren’t good enough. You wanted to learn magic on your own. This curse is bad enough—what else did you steal from me? Gywdion, you’ll never be a good ruler if you steal things.”

Graham made a muffled protest behind the ice guard’s hand, which Manny ignored.

“There is still a chance, Gwydion,” Manny said. “If you return me to a human form, we could go back to Llewdor. You’ve begun your magic training already, even if it was by your own power, but you show incredible aptitude for it. My training, austerity and precision, has sharpened your mind and made it receptive. I have molded you perfectly for this.”

Again, Graham complained, and again, Manny ignored him.

“This cat curse,” he continued, “is very impressive magic. I haven’t been able to figure out its counter, despite all my searching. But I’m sure you have an answer. I had to seek you out. You took the spell book with you—did you bring it here to Daventry? I must have it. I must have you reset this. Mordack doesn’t have any magic. I suppose that’s my fault for not teaching him anything, and I can’t teach him anything in this shape, but you, you clever observant twerp must have learned from watching me. Gwydion, you must fix this.”

Alexander said nothing.

“I have been forced to call upon the services of the lady of this castle for assistance,” Manny continued. “But I’m afraid she can’t restore. She only seems to have ice-based skills, which doesn’t help me. I don’t want her to freeze Daventry solid, Gwydion, at least not at this exact moment. I want you to have a reward at the end of all of this. But if you do nothing, then I can do nothing, and the castle will remain here, and the snow will get deeper, and I’m afraid that your citizens, your Feys and your...oh, I suppose the Hobblepots are probably dead by now, aren’t they? Not even those bats could live forever, and good riddance. Well. The rest of the citizens would soon join them. It would be a pretty poor country, then, boy.”

Graham said, “Mmnhff!”

Alexander said nothing.

“I can have her move the castle away,” Manny continued. “She can go away, and we can be at peace together in Llewdor again. You needn’t be a slave, now—not that you were in the first place,” he added, thoughtfully. “You were a servant, learning patience and perfectionism. And now you’ve learned enough to move to apprenticeship.

“But if you don’t help me, Gwydion, I think she will have to leave the castle here. I’m sure by now the kingdom is struggling under the snow—but when the spring comes and it never melts, what then? What will the little lanes of the town look like? The farms? All that...ah...” he hesitated, apparently looking for something a peasant might like, “farmland?”

Gwydion said nothing.

Manny waited, tail thumping the cushion impatiently. In other shapes, he probably had a decent face for gambling, but that tail was giving away all his thoughts.

“Perhaps you need to think about it,” he said, after a very, very long pause. “But I don’t think there’s enough time for that, Gwydion. I’m sorry you’re so slow, so thick, can’t make easy choices—I can’t improve the speed of your mind, as much as I would love to. Perhaps that’s something we can work on together in Llewdor.” Somehow, Graham could hear the promise of rope and nails and various vile potions in that sentence. “But maybe we can do something else? Perhaps your father could convince you? He should try, of his own power, before I add my own pressure. Although, Graham, you should know...I do really want to add my own pressure. Specifically, to you. As a method of persuading your son, of course, no other reason.”

He nodded to the guard, and the weight on Graham’s mouth eased. The guard let go, stepped back, and Graham sagged, rubbing his mouth with his good hand. The chill from the ice creature had settled deep into his bones, and he felt his knees threatening to give out. He would have fallen, but the guard caught him again, supported him. Graham clutched at his bad arm, the dizziness only growing stronger with the persistent cold.

The cat’s face twisted into as like a frown as its features could get. “You weren’t held that long,” Manny said, suspiciously. “You’re very pale, Graham. Is something wrong?”

“No,” Graham said.

“What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Nothing,” Graham snapped, shifting his weight so that his cloak fell forward, hiding his entire right side.

“Then you wouldn’t be holding it like that. What’s wrong? Something painful, I hope. I want to see,” he ordered. The ice guard shifted its grip from support to captivity again, yanked Graham's arm forward—Graham yelped involuntarily, and they all heard ice crackle as his shoulder straightened, that same strange ice-in-lemonade sound his fingers had made earlier with Valanice—and the guard ripped Graham’s gloves off, revealing one ordinary hand and one clear, blue, sculpture-like hand. The digits were as inflexible as icicles, and the wrist and elbow were completely locked in place. It caught the light, reflecting chilly shadows across Graham’s chest. The ice guard released Graham’s arm after showing it to Manny, and Graham, breathing raggedly, the pain only adding to his dizziness, cradled the cursed arm close, leaning into the guard and hating his helplessness.

“Oh,” Manny said, and startled cackling. “Ohhh, look at you. And is that it there, too, spreading up your neck?”

Graham’s good hand immediately reached to check, and the look that crossed his face as his fingers brushed the hard blue surface just barely visible above the collar of his cowl made Manny curl up on the throne with peals of shrieking laughter. His tail thumped a terrible beat.

“That’s excellent!” Manny leapt down and padded near Graham—not near enough that he risked getting kicked. He inspected the ice. “That looks like the same curse the dear lady of the castle suffers, but it’s spreading so much faster. You’ll be surprised to know this wasn’t my idea, although I rather wish it had been. Look how stiff your fingers are! You, if you’ll pardon the petty little joke made at your dreadful sense of humor’s expense, are becoming a pop-sicle. I do wonder if it’s survivable if it’s spreading so quickly.”

“I came here to find a way to lift it,” Graham muttered through gritted teeth, trying to coax his stiffening shoulder back so that he might hold it more comfortably.

“Aaaah. What a pointless waste of time. There isn’t.”

Graham said nothing.

“Every pitiful second you have left must be purrfectly agonizing,” Manny said. “How delightful. I do wonder how fast it spreads. Perhaps we should pause” (paws, Graham thought, automatically) “this conversation and reconvene in a few hours to see the changes. For scientific reasons, of course. Gwydion, consider this lesson one: we shall evaluate the speed of this curse, dissect it, and then increase its power.” He barked an order, sharp and odd in his cat’s throat, and the ice guards again clamped their hands tight on Graham and Gwydion’s arms.

Before the ice guards could start hauling them out, though, a door near the throne opened and the queen of the castle swept in, her icy skirt skating over the floor. Her dress’s train twinkled behind her, little ice specks arrayed like diamonds. She looked over Graham and Gwydion with a practiced royal haughtiness, and said, “Cat, you did not tell me we had other guests. There are so many visitors to my castle today, and I fear I am being an impolite host with my attention so divided.” She flicked a hand lazily at the ice guards, and they instantly released their captives, though they did not step away.

Graham realized he was staring. Her voice had an odd resonance to it, like it was laced with an echo from the deepest, coldest cavern, but he knew that voice nevertheless. Her face was sharply lined, frozen with clear blue ice in the same way that his arm was transforming, but flexible, with features that he knew without a doubt. Her high cheeks and button nose and large eyes were features that couldn’t be hidden even under a veneer of magic.

“Valanice,” he breathed, blinking at her.

“Pardon, sir, but do you address me?” the queen asked, her voice cold as a blizzard.

“Valanice,” he repeated, louder.

He remembered. A castle, walking through the clouds. Warm blankets and pillows banked up in piles near the cooking fire to stave off the chill. Two princesses sharing the same regal name and the same trapped fate, doomed to wander until true love broke an antiquated curse. Cuddled together around a book, around a puzzle, laughing together while he tried to make pancakes.

One princess in particular lounging in a sunny patch with her chin propped on her hands as she told stories, one princess in particular slapping down the winning card in a game with exaggerated triumph, one princess in particular dancing in the starlight and the reflective glow of the spell holding them all captive. A dear friend who had slowly drifted away once they had all escaped, had cut herself off, had stopped answering their letters.

A dear friend who, Graham suddenly realized, had been still trapped by one curse even as they escaped another.

“Valanice!” Graham stepped forward. The guard behind him raised its hand ever so slightly, to catch him and drag him back again should he act aggressively.

“I’m afraid, sir, you may have me confused with another, somehow,” the ice queen said. She tossed her snow white hair over her shoulder, her blue crown glittering on her brow. “That is the name of my other guest. It is a delightful name, though. I do feel rather fond of it. I wanted to speak with her, but Cat said we both ought to rest before enjoying an official audience.”

“V-Valanice,” Graham said, uncertainly, pressing down panic starting to bubble in his chest. His queen, his wife, his Valanice, locked away in some freezing room awaiting ‘hospitality.’ With Manny as host, that probably meant something very nasty. “What have you done to her?”

“Let her sleep, of course. Cat said she must be worn out after coming all the way to my home. She was so exhausted, she could not keep her feet when we met. She couldn’t even finish the lovely tea Cat ordered for her, so I told her we would speak later and left her to her rooms.”

Graham had a pretty good idea what sort of tea Valanice had been given. Probably forced to drink at knifepoint. Chamomile almost certainly was not involved. He could only hope that the wizard, in this be-clawed shape, couldn’t craft any more of that rare but potent hypnosis powder. “Manny, if she’s hurt, you are going to pay.”

“A good night’s sleep helps us all,” the cat said. “I should like you to sleep, too.” Never had an innocuous sentence been spoken with such venom and threat.

“’Tis true,” the ice queen said, and she gracefully settled into her throne. “My name, sir, is Queen Icebella, and I welcome you to my home. May you find it a warming balm on your soul after your travels, for I fear that my home is very far from civilized parts. You may introduce yourself and your ward.”

“You know me,” Graham said. “You know me very well already.”

She frowned, her imperious expression frostier than ever. “I find that impossible, sir. We have not met.”

“I am King Graham, ruler of Daventry, and you are Princess Valanice of Kolyma, and we have traveled together in the past, together with my wife Valanice, whom you have drugged and locked up somewhere. Valanice, please! You must remember me! Remember her!”

“I do not take kindly to presumptions and liars,” Icebella said sharply. “You must be king of a very poor country indeed, unless you are lying about that as well and have stolen airs for yourself.”

Stolen airs. Stolen heirs. Stolen lives.

“Valanice,” he began again.

“My name, Graham,” she snapped, biting out his name with no trace of remembrance, not a hint of warmth, “is Queen Icebella, and I do not tolerate impertinence.” She looked like she wanted to strike him down, beginning to rise out of her throne with all the unstoppability of a glacier.

“My sweet lady,” Manny cooed, breaking her focus so easily, drawing it back to himself. He padded back to the dais and leapt onto the throne arm, tail swishing gently against her wrist. “Do not waste your temper on rabble. He certainly is not worth your effort. You are intended for better, dear Icebella.”

“Dear Cat, you are always so wise,” Icebella said, and she gently stroked the silky black fur, her frozen fingers catching the light. “This audience goes poorly.”

“My Queen, I was going to have these two ruffians removed until their tempers are more refined. I thought a brief stay in one of the guest rooms would relax them; I suspect they are as tired as your other guest. And then, perhaps, we can all meet together with manners befitting royalty. Although, perhaps, these two are entirely unmannered. It may be best, My Queen, if you did not have to look at them again. They can be removed permanently if you command it. I shall have the guards remove them from your sight, esteemed lady. Guards!”

“No, Cat, wait,” she said, raising a hand. “Permanently? I find that displeasing. We have so few guests. I do wish to speak with them and learn of what they have seen outside.”

“My Queen, if you desire that, we may. However, they are very unrefined. Another guest would be better. These two should be escorted away and replaced with someone more appropriate for your level of royalty. Guards!”

“No, Cat, I rather do want to hear more from them. The one in red is annoying, but interesting. If he believes himself a king, he may have some information for me about his country that I should like to know. Do not have them permanently removed.”

Manny’s face twisted and his tail thumped hard as some unconscious sign of his displeasure at being overruled, at having his sly manipulations ignored, although Icebella didn’t notice as she was too busy studying Graham. He said, voice tight with politeness, “As My Queen commands. They shall return for a brief audience with you later, after they have rested. Guards.” The order was flat and bored and disappointed sounding.

“Graham,” Icebella mused, blissfully ignorant of Manny’s irritation. “It is a nice enough sounding name. Pleasing. I should enjoy your company as a guest in my home, but next time we speak, do not anger nor insult me, or I shall indeed lose my temper, and that is unbefitting. In a few hours, Cat, I should like to set the appointment, and I look forward to it. Do see to it, my friend. You are so good at commanding my guards to work quickly and precisely.” She spoke with pure open honesty, not a trace of irony or sarcasm. And with that, she left the room, skirts ringing as decorative ice droplets dripping from the fabric clattered against each other.

[headfulloffantasies]

Nesting

The Mandalorian- 2146 words

Read it on Ao3

Something was stalking Skywalker’s Jedi Academy. Din saw its lanky shape from the sky as he brought his ship to land beside the garden patch. It lumbered away, a huge shadow vanishing beyond the tomato plants into the trees.

Din inquired about it immediately to Skywalker.

Skywalker sighed. He held Kat, his newest recruit, on his lap. She played with the edges of his cape. “Yes, I’ve seen the creature for the last few weeks. It killed some of our animals.”

“What have you done about it?” Din demanded. It looked like a massive mountain lion. If the creature was bold enough to attack penned animals next to a settlement, it wouldn’t hesitate to kill a child.

“It knows me,” Skywalker answered. “It runs when I get close.”

Well, it didn’t know Din. “I’ll handle it,” he promised.

The creature proved wily. It moved silently on padded feet over the dry leaves between the trees. It hid in the treetops when Din finally got a bead on its footprints. Din came to the end of its trail and pulled up short. He could see the Jedi school through the gaps in the foliage. The kids were playing a game in the grass. If the creature had gotten this close in broad daylight then Din needed to eliminate it fast.

A huge weight dropped onto Din’s back. He slammed into the ground. His teeth clacked together. Claws screeched over his beskar backplate, shredding his cloak. The creature growled, frustrated at the shell its prey had encased itself in. The stench of its foul breath penetrated Din’s helmet.

Din couldn’t roll over with the creature’s paws pinning him to the ground. He activated his flamethrower. The creature leaped away from the fire Din threw over his shoulder. Din pulled himself to his knees. He reached for his holster. A massive paw swiped at his chest. Din tumbled backwards, crashing out of the trees into the blinding sunlight. For a second he lay still on his back while his lungs remembered how to inhale.

A shrill scream sent Din into overdrive. He stumbled to his feet. He stood between the creature and the children. He would not let the monster get past him. Din freed his blaster. The creature prowled the edge of the trees. Its poisonous yellow eyes narrowed at Din. Its haunches bunched, prepared to pounce.

Din set his feet. The monster leaped. Din shot. One two three. The blaster bolts caught the creature in its soft underbelly. It smashed into the ground; all the power leeched from its muscles. Din advanced warily. It looked dead; its fur singed where Din had shot it. He put another blaster bolt through its head just to make sure.

“Woah.”

The voice startled Din. He hadn’t heard the huddle of kids approach. They clung to each other and stared at the creature’s body. The smallest one turned her wide eyes on Din. Fear filled her tiny face.

Din held his breath. He’d never used his weapons in front of the children before. He’d never hurt anything in front of them. Were they afraid he’d hurt them next?

“That was so cool!” Holden, the oldest child pumped his fist. “You were like blam, blam!” Holden mimed shooting a gun and making blaster noises. “And the thing was like- ugh.” He flopped on the ground with his tongue hanging out. The other kids giggled.

Din watched this dramatic re-enactment in bewilderment. They weren’t scared. The kids crowded closer. Din had to stop them from poking the dead monster.

“It might have parasites,” he explained lamely.

“Can I try your blaster?” Holden asked.

Din’s mind went blank. How young was too young for a blaster? His own education held no answers. He’d been years behind his fellow clanmates as a child. His earliest memories of the covert blurred with indistinct impressions of struggling to learn Mando’a and spending most of his training with children younger than himself. His buir hadn’t meant to isolate him from his peers, but Din couldn’t be expected to hold his own against kids he couldn’t speak to and who’d known how to kill a man by age six. Instead, Din’s buir had spent long hours training Din himself to make up the lost time. Din shot his first blaster at age nine, but he knew his peers of the same age could sharpshoot at fifty paces.

Din looked Holden up and down. He was one of the older Jedi trainees. Twelve? Ten? Old enough, Din decided.

Tatiana piped up. “I want to learn too.”

Absolutely not. Thank the stars for sending this child to remind him what a horrible idea a kid with a blaster was. Tatiana could not be counted to carry a tray of food across the room without spilling it. She could not handle a weapon. And if she couldn’t, then it wasn’t fair to let any other kids try.

So how to appease a gaggle of children? Din lied through his teeth.

“I promised Grogu I’d teach him before anyone else.”

Everyone collectively groaned. The blaster weighed more than Grogu did. They all knew it would probably be another fifty years before the youngling could even hold the weapon without toppling over.

“Why don’t you ask Master Skywalker to teach you his lightsword?” Din suggested. That would keep the kids off his back for a while.

Din shooed the kids back to their classes and spent the afternoon dragging the corpse into the forest to bury it.

He came back at sunset, sweaty, exhausted, and hungry. Skywalker intercepted him at the ramp of his ship.

“Thank you for handling the beast,” Luke said. “The kids are all buzzing about it.”

Din shrugged. He’d only protected his son. It was nothing to get excited about.

“The kids keep asking for you,” Luke continued. “Will you join us for dinner?”

Din had planned on showering and having his own meal before fetching Grogu for a quiet night. But he supposed he owed the kids for scaring them in the first place.

“Alright,” Din nodded.

“I have to warn you,” Skywalker said. “Ivy has started asking Why.”

“Why what?”

Skywalker sighed. “Why everything.”

Din did not know which slimy child was named Ivy. If he had, he might have avoided the headache.

“Why do you have armour at dinner?” The little one with curly hair sitting beside Grogu asked.

Din startled a little bit. The kids normally didn’t bother him during their evening meal. They ate quickly so they could go out and play before bedtime. The rows of tables for the communal meal were loud, but mostly focused on scarfing down the rice and vegetables.

This child held her spoon clutched in her fist and smeared sauce all over her face. She stared up at Din, waiting for his answer.

“I always wear my armour,” Din explained.

She nodded and went back to moving her rice into piles on her plate.

Grogu babbled and held out a piece of vegetable for Din. He took it politely and waited until Grogu wasn’t looking to sneak it back onto his plate.

“Why do you have buttons on your clothes?” The girl asked.

Din looked down at his vambraces. “They’re controls.”

“Why?”

Something clicked. “Are you Ivy?”

She nodded.

Din sighed in the privacy of his helmet. “The buttons control lots of things. Weapons, my ship, Grogu’s basinet.”

Grogu cooed at his name.

“Why?”

“I don’t understand,” Din admitted. “What are you asking?”

“Why are the buttons on your arms?” Ivy demanded.

“That’s where it goes.” Din answered.

“Why?”

“Why what? You can see this is where it is. There is no why.”

She cocked her head. Got you there, kiddo.

“Why not?”

Dank ferrick.

Luke swooped to the rescue. “Ivy, you haven’t finished eating. Save your questions for after dinner, okay?”

“Okay.” Ivy scooped up some rice and spilled half of it in her lap on the way to her mouth.

Din retired to his ship after the meal. Grogu went straight into his hammock above Din’s berth. The kid snuggled into his blanket and fell fast asleep. Din spent some time going over a few minor repairs. Din finally gave in to the call of his bunk.

Din removed his cloak first. He hung it on the hook on the wall. He wiggled his hands out his gloves. He unstrapped his vambraces and the pauldrons followed quickly. Din kicked off his boots. He reached to free his blaster holster from his belt. He checked over the weapon and laid it on top of the growing pile of beskar. Din reached for the Darksaber dangling from the other side of his belt.

It wasn’t there.

Din froze. The clip where the Darksaber usually hung was empty. No ancient Jedi sword presented itself. Din turned a confused circle, searching to see if he’d dropped it. Nothing.

Ice ran down Din’s spine. He checked under the bunk, and on all the shelves. No Darksaber. He opened the berth door and checked where he’d been working.

Din tore the ship apart. He stood in the middle of the carnage with his hands on his hips.

Dank ferrick. Din had to admit the Darksaber was not aboard his ship. He sighed to the heavens.

Din grumbled as he tugged his half-removed armour back on. He stomped out of the ship and headed back to the Jedi Academy.

Din moved silently through the slumbering school. He knocked softly on a door at the end of the hall.

The door slid back. A disheveled Luke Skywalker blinked up at Din.

“What’s wrong?” The Jedi asked.

“I lost the Darksaber,” Din confessed.

“Congratulations,” Luke yawned.

“No, I lost it. I can’t find it,” Din explained.

“Oh kriff.” Luke shook himself awake. “Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s start looking.” Luke grabbed a cape to cover his soft sleeping robes. “Kriff only knows what will happen if one of the kids finds it.”

They searched all night. Luke used his magic powers to listen for its frequency or whatever the kriff Jedi did. To no avail. Din retraced his steps all the way to the dead beast’s final resting place. He drew the line at digging the creature up.

The sun pinked the horizon by the time Din stumbled back to the school. The kids would wake for their morning meditation soon. Din needed to head back to his ship and fetch Grogu.

Din lifted his head. He startled. Grogu moved across the school yard in the pale light. He dragged a screwdriver along the ground behind him. It was such a bizarre sight that Din didn’t immediately call out to his son. Grogu moved intently to the side of the building. He stopped and peeked his fuzzy head around the corner. Satisfied, Grogu shuffled out of sight. The screwdriver left a furrow in the dirt behind him.

Din followed Grogu at a distance. The kid waddled out back to the vegetable patch. He passed into the squash plants and vanished.

Din experienced a mini heart attack, thinking Grogu had fallen in a hole. He hurried forward. Din pulled back one of the massive green leaves. Din let out a surprised laugh.

“Luke,” Din shouted. “I found it.”

“What in the stars is a lightsaber doing in the pumpkins?” Luke came trundling up beside him. He peered over Din’s shoulder.

Grogu squeaked at being discovered. He sat on a pile of pilfered items half covered in dirt. The hilt of the Darksaber poked out of the ground. A single boot Din assumed belonged to Luke flopped on top of an empty box of crackers. Other bits and bobs stacked on top of each other in some kid of nest Grogu had assembled. Grogu gripped the screwdriver like a weapon. His wrinkled face scowled at his father and teacher.

Din and Luke laughed.

“Come here, womp rat,” Din lifted Grogu. He squealed, wriggling to free himself and get back to his treasure trove.

“Is that my boot?” Luke poked at the collection. Grogu whined.

Din held his son at eye level. “This is stealing. We don’t steal.” He faced Luke. “I’m sorry. He knows better.”

Luke tugged the Darksaber out of the mess. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm done. So long as it doesn’t happen again.” The Jedi held eye contact with Grogu. The child huffed a grumble.

“Hey,” Din admonished.

Grogu pinned his ears back, but he relented and gave Luke a nod.

Luke beamed. “Good. All better.”

Luke extended the Darksaber to Din. “I believe this belongs to you.”

“Nope.” Din backed away. “I lost it. It’s yours now.”

Luke squawked. “That’s not how it works. Take it.”

“No, thank you.” Din spun on his heel and walked away.  He heard Luke chasing. Din broke into a run.

“Hey!” Luke shouted. “Get back here!”

[booksforevermore13]

Sherry Lips and Crystal Stars (Part II)

Summary: 'So, when they break away, and he looks at her, green to brown, she knows that he's the one. That in the end, he had always been the one.'

Ginny Weasley works on a strict owe-to-owe basis, but it's one person she can never fully repay. And she's always running from him. Always. Until Kaz Brekker needs her to recruit him for a highly coveted kidnapping.

Again, no knowledge of Shadow and Bone is required to read this :)

Part I is here.

Read it on Fanfiction or AO3 if you prefer!

...

PART II

v.

"Harry," she calls. "Harry, we need to go."

"No."

She turns, impatient, annoyed, irritated that he's stopped her just when they're just a metre away from the finishing line.

"What the hell do you mean by no?"

"You're not going with me, Gin," he says and frowns. "I'm sorry, Ginevra, Ginny…I-I can't let you come with me."

Her anger flares up at that, part of it because time's running out, and the other part because it's been years since she's been the girl who's stayed back and watched. Watched while everyone around her died. She's not about to bring that girl back anytime soon.

He doesn't have a right. He had absolutely no right telling her what she could or could not do.

"You don't get to tell me that," she scoffs and she's trying so hard to not yell, scream, curse at him. "You don't get to do that anymore."

"Do what?"

It's not the Harry she's used to, the Harry who doesn't fight back, who lets her do whatever the hell she wants. In a way, he's always done that.

"This," she points at her, then at him. "This, this whatever complex you have, to save me, to be the hero, I don't care about that, I don't give a shit about that, because I'm going to do whatever I damn well want to. And because I can."

"Hero? No-what, I," he stammered, "this is too dangerous, and I-I can't let you, you need y=to understand, Gin-"

"I don't understand. But what I do, is that, I'm not weak Ginny Weasley anymore, not the girl that needs protecting." She scoffs and steps forward. "I could kill you and no one would ever know."

She's saying whatever's coming to her mind, whatever crazy, pent-up thought she's thought of while alone with only herself as company, whatever pathetic, petty threat that's coming to her mind now and she doesn't know if it's her speaking or just that sick part of her telling her to hurt the boy who's only ever cared.

"Why don't you then?" he asks, and even though his face gives nothing away, it's his eyes that tells her he's hurt.

Ginny glares at him, for she doesn't know. If it had been anyone else, she'd have done it. But she can't kill him. Not because of the deal, but because she… she didn't know.

"I," she grits, "I hate you." It's her anger which fuels her as she cracks the wall, and she uses it, channels it, until she feels that familiar pull in her gut, and she knows it's close. It's that one brick she focuses on, and when she finds it, she wills it to break.

Ginny feels Harry's arm over her, pulling her towards the ground as the wall over them explodes into a thousand tiny million pieces.

She's up in a flash, and Harry's right behind her, and when she sees the first guard, it's Harry who acts first.

His fingers flick, and they hear the guard fall to the floor as they rush inside, through the rubble. It doesn't take them long to figure that they're surrounded, but they'd expected it. Planned for it.

But the only thing she's set on about is killing the man who had killed her.

Ginny hears a crazed cackle and turns around, and almost all out of a sudden, she feels her throat closing up, and it's unnatural, caused, and she gasps, her fingers clawing at her throat, gasping for air, and through blurry eyes, she can see, no, hear a woman laughing. Ginny hears Harry calling her name from behind her, but he's in a fight of his own.

She yells now, an animalistic roar, and it's sickening when she hears the ceiling crack, and relieving when the ceiling gives away. She gasps, falling to the floor as the ceiling falls in over the woman. She can breathe, she can, and when she hears Harry, calling her name again, she answers back.

"I'm fine."

Her nose feels wet, her mouth is filled with the taste of blood, and she has no idea if it's her own. But she keeps moving, her wrist snapping in harmony with the rubble.

And when she feels she's run out, she takes out her pistols, and they feel comforting against her palms, familiar, and when the revolver clicks into place, the familiar jerk backwards fills her with a sense of adrenaline she had run out of.

"Go," she shouts at Harry, and she curses when he keeps on fighting, ignoring her, as he flicked his fingers and stopped yet another man's heart.

"Go," she yells again. "For once in your life Harry, trust me and go!"

He doesn't look at her, but she knows he's listening. And then he's running, and she's glad he's decided to. It's one step in the right direction. To what, she didn't know.

Ginny doesn't know how long she keeps fighting, how long her bullets find aim, how long it's been since she'd run out of bullets, and she's coughing, struggling to breathe and she's tripping over wires, over broken bricks, parts of the wall.

Her limbs ache, her head's spinning, and she's running out of air. Blood's dripping down her nose, over her hands. They'd got her, but while fighting, she hadn't noticed. She's in pain, but she doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad.

The pistol falls out of her hand, and her knees buckle when she sees him. Running. Fleeing.

It's the last guard she sees, but it's one she knows. It's one she's wanted to kill.

And kill she was going to.

She doesn't use the rubble, doesn't use her powers. For him, she stumbles forward, the Wraith's knife in hand. It's the first time she's taken it out, and she's kept it away, for him. For the Worm who'd killed her parents. For the Worm who'd destroyed her life.

He doesn't have time to run before the knife's lodged in his skull, and then it's out again, back in his heart and out again. She wishes she could do more, but her body's done. It's given up.

"I hope Marya," she gasps out, "sees you in," she falls, "in hell."

And as her eyes close, she wonders if she'd see her too.

vi.

"Let me down."

Her left side fires up as she tries to move, an action that only results with him tightening his hold on her. Ginny grunts, glaring up at Harry.

"I said, let me down."

He ignores her, and in a fit of anger, she slaps him, regretting it soon after, for it's her right side aching now. Harry looks down at her, and his eyes, this time, are clouded with anger, and for a moment there, Ginny realizes that if he wanted to, he could very well snap her spine before she knew it.

Leave her to die.

He'd be doing her a favour.

But he only adjusts his grip on her, taking the weight of her right side. "I don't get you," he mumbles, and his hands are careful as they slowly lower her to the ground. She grunts as her sides collide with the hard floor and pain shoots up her ribs, spreading to her chest, her arms. She feels Harry lifting her up again, and tries to glare at him, but this time, she's too weak to do so.

Ginny struggles as Harry gently pats her sides, even though his hands cause her no added pain. But she couldn't let him help her again, couldn't let him save her again.

"Can you stop doing that?" he barks, and his voice is rough, commanding, nothing like she'd heard before.

"No."

"Well, if you don't, your ribs might just rupture your lungs," he said, and Ginny frowns, freeing her hand and feeling up her sides.

To his credit, he's right, and a fresh wave of pain wracks through her body and she gasps as her hand falls limply by her body.

"Hey, hey," he lifts up her chin, her concerned green ones peering into her own. "Don't die on me, okay? Don't do it."

"At least then you'll be done with me," she gasps out and she can't bring herself to slap his hand away from her face. His hand is soft against his cheek, warm. Feels like home.

No.

It's his eyes which catch her attention for it's not concern that's shrouding them, like what was typical of him, it's anger.

"There's something very wrong with you."

"Tell me about it."

"Why are you so against me helping you?" he asks, and if she hadn't spent the last few years asking herself that very question, she would have not known the answer. So, this time, when she hears the question, said out loud, she ignores the red cuts littering his face, the bruises on his arm, brushes away her concern for him, and answers him, like she had answered herself, ages ago.

"Because you saved me," she says and she feels her eyes burning, just like everything else in her body. "Because you keep saving me over and over again – "

"I am allowed to save you. I am allowed to save you as many times as you need it," he roars. She feels something wet slide down her cheek, and realizes it's one of her tears. For the first time in a long time, Ginny struggles to keep the rest in place.

"Well, maybe," she says, and she hasn't ever hated herself more. "I don't want you to."

Harry looks away, and then he's squatting and picking her up again.

"What-what're you doing?"

He doesn't answer, and she doesn't have the energy to ask him the same question again.

Ginny lets her head fall back, and when she feels Harry going, she looks up to see a ramp.

"A ship?"

"A deal's a deal."

And perhaps, it's that statement that makes her head fall back again, because in the end, she knows that they were after all, just part of a deal.

vii.

The next time something wakes her up, it's the familiar lulling of the waves and the splash of the water against the ship's hull that does.

She's burning and the pain in her ribs and sides have lessened to a roaring hum. It's better than it was before, but it still hurts.

Ginny groans as she gets up, and in the dark, she can see Harry sleeping next to her in a chair, and just slightly stirring in his sleep.

It's the familiarity of the situation that overcomes her, and perhaps, his sleeping figure. Tousled raven hair, his hand keeping his head in place, his glasses a bit lopsided. But it's mostly because for a second, she feels that the Ginny she knew had come back.

"Go back to sleep," she whispers. His eyes snap open instead, and once again, he's alert.

"How do you feel?" he asks, and unconsciously, she gives him a once over for injuries. She knows he can handle himself, but even so, she can't help but look.

"Fine."

"I know, for a fact, that you're not 'fine'," he says, and she shakes her head, laughing slightly.

"You act as if you've figured me out, but you really haven't," she says, "I'm fine."

"Why do you keep lying to me?"

She doesn't answer, and he sighs, as if he hadn't expected her to. She's disappointed, hurt, and she doesn't know why, and when he checks her side again, it's not the first time she realizes he's only ever cared.

In all sincerity, he always has, even after his parents were killed, even when hers were too. He's always just been there, and she thinks that perhaps, she'd not been running from him, she'd been running from her.

"Why do you keep doing this?" she whispers to him, as he gently lifts her shirt to check underneath the bandage. He's never given a reason, not once.

Harry looks up at her at that, and it's only now she's realising how close they are. Once, she had been taller than him, but that had been forever ago.

"They need me up there," he whispers back, and then he's gone, her bandages in place, her shirt pulled down to her waist.

Or perhaps, she hadn't been running from her or him, she had been running from both of them.

viii.

When the ship stops, he comes back again. Ginny's awake, she's been awake for the past hour, going in and out of consciousness. It's the sound of the Volcra that keeps her up, but because she's been lying so alert, she knows that none of them actually come near the ship.

Once, she'd considered going up above deck, and she had very nearly done so, before she'd realized that her going up there would just make her a liability, much less an asset.

It's why they travel without Fabrikators. One: because they make too much noise and two: because they can't kill Volcra unless it's with part of the boat.

It's a wonder how Harry's managed to smuggle her in, that too, with her identity kept secret, but she supposes, it's what one got with killing a mercher with influence, one who had left people in debts for decades, adding interest at a rate considered impossible to wipe off the records.

This time, when he comes back and offers his hand to her, she takes it, but doesn't know why.

He's there when her knees buckle upon contact with land, and he's there by her side, every time she winces in pain.

Ginny feels guilty he has to do this, look after her, when they could be doing so much more but it's the thought that they'd never have to meet again after this, that keeps her going.

But it's the same thought which makes her heart clench, and her throat jam up.

It's terrifying.

"What's next?" Harry asks when they are a few hundred metres away from the ship. She's insisted on walking, even though every time she steps forward, her right side fires up.

"We meet up with Brekker and his girl."

"Where?"

"The cemetery."

She remembers her promise to her. Inej's knife is tucked in underneath her belt, the blood cleaned from it.

Ginny feels Harry's hand on the small of her back, steering her away from the crowd and she looks up at him, an eyebrow raised.

"I don't know the full story yet," he explains as the Cemetery comes into sight. For a second, she's surprised yet again at how trusting he could be, choosing to follow her, even when he didn't know what was happening.

She doesn't know if she should be furious or grateful.

"What do you think?" she says. "It's Brekker."

"He wants our help stealing something."

She laughs, for when said like that, it sounded ridiculous. Or perhaps, it's just her nerves acting up, or her going barmy. She wonders how he'd react when she tells him what happens next.

"We're going to break into the Little Palace."

"Oh. Hang on. We're going to break into….," he stops, grasps her upper-arm, keeps her in place. "What?"

Ginny laughs and then covers her mouth. "Sorry, it's just," she snorts. "I'd expected that."

"Why are we going to break into the most guarded place in Ravka?" he hisses.

"To kidnap the Sun Summoner."

"What?"

She realizes they'd never really discussed this new buzzing area of interest, one she'd done with Kaz. Them two had shared the same equation; they both didn't believe, but maybe Harry did.

"Gin," Harry says, and she felt she needed to laugh again, by the panic in his eyes. He'd killed the one of the most influential merchers in the land, but it didn't make him any less shocked. But what surprised her was the fact that her name, it didn't bother her anymore. "Sorry, Ginny," and her face falls again, "just….how does he expect us to do that?"

"We're the backup plan."

"We're the what?"

"He'll explain," she says, and she begins pulling him to the cemetery. He's stumbling behind her, and she knows that there's a thousand different possibilities going through his head now, but it was unlikely he'd arrive at the right one.

After all, it was Kaz.

When they reach there, they are the first ones to. Kaz is nowhere in sight. Ginny can't help but worry, for she knows he's travelling with a bunch madder than hers truly, and can't help but wonder if they'd well, died.

"I can't think of anything," Harry admits, and she laughs. Ungraciously (and disrespectfully), she sits atop a white slab, completely and utterly mindful of the fact that there might be a rotting corpse beneath it.

It's crude, but she doesn't care. The man, no, the woman, was dead, and she might have liked her when she was alive, but she was dead.

Harry raises an elegant eyebrow at her, and she shrugs, offering her a place beside her.

"It's either you sit, or you do whatever you're doing right now."

He shakes his head in exasperation, hesitates and then takes the seat.

"Can't always be chivalrous now, can we?" she teases lightly and he smiles.

"I'm sitting on the grave of a dead man…..woman, I think chivalrous is a bit far-fetched."

"Oh, I beg to differ."

She can't think of anything more to say, so she stays silent, hoping he'd continue talking. But he doesn't, and she's disappointed, because oddly, she just really wants to talk.

And then he does.

"Do you?" he asks and she looks at him, and he continues. "Do you hate me?"

And then she's back in her sorry corner of the world, wondering how the hell she should answer that.

"I…." she admits, "I don't think so."

And then, because she wants to keep talking, she asks. "Do you?"

When Harry looks at her, his eyes shining with sorrow, she wonders if he'd say yes. She wouldn't blame him.

But when he finally speaks, she feels that hating her would have been easier to face. "No," he says, "I don't hate you. I just hate that after all this, you're still trying to lie to me."

"Y-you think I'm lying to you about hating you?"

"No. But you lie about a lot of things.

Ginny can't help but look away. She couldn't bear looking at him.

"What-what happened between us?"

We grew apart, she wants to say.

We grew apart, so that I couldn't get close to you, so that I couldn't get hurt when you decide to leave me. When you die.

But that last part? She couldn't even begin to think that without screaming at someone.

"We grew apart," she finally says but she leaves out the rest, her voice cold, unforgiving. "And at this point, I'm glad."

He doesn't react to that, but then after a while, he says. "You're lying again."

She doesn't look at him, because he's right, she is lying and it…hurts. Ginny keeps her eyes on the roses growing by them and then feels his finger gently cupping her chin, lifting her face to face his. She doesn't struggle, but she's taken aback by the ferocity in his eyes, waves bashing against the rocks.

"This will be the last time you lie to me."

And it's once again her eyes burn with unshed tears, and she suddenly knows why she hates him.

It's because he keeps making her feel like this.

Ginny clears her throat, gets up, and she's not facing him when they hear footsteps. When she turns around, it's Kaz, arriving too late to be considered passable.

"Where's Inej?" she asks, relieved they'd made it here in one piece.

"Where's her knife?"

She's passing it over to him before he has even finished his question. Ginny's aware of Harry standing behind her, and even more so when Kaz's eyes travel up to him.

"Potter."

"Brekker."

It's a bare acknowledgement, but at the moment, that's all they have time for.

"I trust you've told him everything he needs to know."

Ginny nods.

"Then you two are going to play a game of Quidditch."

[sie-werden-nie-vergessen]

So I’m at work currently, but business is slow today and I was just doing some light desk work when I realized something.

The children that were poisoned by the mercury runoff from the Bellows family mill probably weren’t just random children from Mill Valley. They were probably mill workers. I wasn’t sure if this was historically plausible though, so I did a bit of research and found out that children were indeed employed as paper mill workers in 19th century England*, so it’s fully plausible that child laborers worked in paper mills in 19th century America. We generally only hear about textile workers or child cotton mill workers, however, because those were very widespread industries in 19th century America, whereas paper production wasn’t as widely spread across the nation. According to philadelphiaencylcopedia.org, “Philadelphia was the nation’s primary papermaking center through the early nineteenth century.” It also goes on to mention that paper mills spread throughout greater Philadelphia area, and many were family owned**. Often times, families grew empires around their paper mills and expanded and purchased many more mills (aka it is entirely plausible that the Bellows mill was actually an extension of an older family mill that started in or around Philadelphia in the early 1800s, or even earlier). The first paper mill in America was actually the Rittenhouse Mill, established in 1690 around the Philadelphia area.

{Side note: I am now willing to forgive the many historical inaccuracies in this film for the simple fact that their research on the Bellows Paper Mill was evidently very well done. So far, all historical accounts line up with movie canon and this history nerd is very pleased with that.)

So, knowing that child laborers in paper mills was common in England, we can assume that it was likely done in Pennsylvania as well.

Victorian attitudes on child mill workers were as follows:

(Keep in mind, this is referencing southern cotton mills, NOT paper mills, but the general attitude towards the rationale of child laborers and their perceived benefits would have most likely been the same).

“Just as the mill was important to the individual family, it was similarly important to many Southern towns in supporting the entire commercial ecosystem.74 The mill owner provided schooling, stores, and housing for the mill families.75 When workers fell into debt, they could put their children to work to pay the mill owner their living expenses. Despite this arrangement, according to the records from one early 19th century cotton mill, families frequently were in debt to the mill once store purchases and rent payments were deducted.76 Large households, however, increased income to the family and were seen as a benefit to the mill owner. Even children too young to work were viewed as an investment in the future productive capacity for the mill. Oftentimes, contractual arrangements with the head of the household bound the family to provide labor.77 In many cases, that agreement included a set quota for the amount of labor the family was to provide.78 The mill might provide schooling for children from the ages of 5 to 12, but at the age of 12, the children were required to start their working life in the mill. Not just mill owners insisted upon this arrangement. Many parents believed that they should begin receiving some money back on their investment once a child reached the age of 10 or 12.79 Thus, the actions of both the mill owner and the parents contributed to the widespread use of child labor in cotton mills. While owners were attempting to pull children into the factory, parents were eagerly pushing the children out of the nest and into productive employment.

This push of the children into mill work started even before they were old enough to competently work on their own. Children who were too young to work independently assisted others as helpers. This “helper system” enabled children younger than 10 to assist their mothers with any minor chores required at the mill.80 These children, though, did not earn their own wage. Because of their limited skills, they were frequently seen as being unprofitable to employ at any wage.81 Mill owners, however, saw that the presence of these children in the mill benefited the parent. This welcoming of children in the workplace was also in the long-term interest of the mill owner because the children could familiarize themselves with their future workplace.82 At recess during the school day, other children helped by bringing their parents and older siblings meals.83 In many cases, these same children soon made their way to the mill working full time. Usually the boys started as doffers and sweepers while the girls were spinners.84 Doffers replaced the full bobbins filled by spinners with empty ones and often had hours of free time in between their required tasks at the mill.85 These tasks were usually seen as children’s work, whereas other heavier work, such as oiling machinery, was seen as “men’s work.” In the mill, as in most other factory industrial settings at the time, work appropriate for children was clearly differentiated from work seen as appropriate for adults.86 Although mill supervisors oversaw the children who performed these child-appropriate tasks, they were often reluctant to discipline the children. In many ways, the mill was seen as an extension of the family unit. Therefore, for any trouble that the children caused at work, mill owners usually left their discipline up to the parents.87 This approach illustrates just how closely the mill was integrated into the family structure.”***

So, while the children would have been treated decently enough, the Bellows family still saw them as expendable in the sense that they did nothing even as the children died of the mercury run off from the same mill where they were employed. However, at least they would have been decently respected and not mistreated during their employment (because remember, Mill Valley did love the Bellows family, so they most likely did semi-charitable work for the children and the families of Mill Valley).

“The industry’s transition from rag to wood pulp production coincided with Philadelphia’s decline as the nation’s preeminent papermaking center. Much of the paper industry’s growth in the late nineteenth century occurred in New York and New England, particularly Holyoke, Massachusetts, which became known as “The Paper City.” While no longer the national leader, the Philadelphia area continued to support a significant papermaking sector. In 1880 there were seven paper mills in Philadelphia, employing 452 workers; in 1912, there were eight, four in the Roxborough-Manayunk area. Among the largest were the McDowell and Dill & Collins mills. The latter firm had a mill in Port Richmond and also took over the Flat Rock mill. There were also dozens of paper mills operating in the surrounding counties in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.”

A paper mill existing in a surrounding county and town like Mill Valley is completely possible in the late 1800s. By this time, the mills would have been steam powered, but they continued to be built by water even when they were no longer water powered operations. Handmade paper was no longer a viable option, and all mills were mechanized by this time.****

Long story short, the mercury runoff into the water is still fully plausible, even in the steam powered mills of the late 1800s.

(Again quoted from philadelphianencylopedia.org)

“Although the industry declined in the twentieth century and operated at a fraction of its nineteenth-century heyday, Philadelphia played a key role as the birthplace and longtime center of early American papermaking.” (philadelphiaencyclopedia.org)

Considering the fact that the Bellows family were living at the cusp of the turn of the twentieth century, and that the mill was their source of wealth and security, it makes perfect (albeit tragic) sense that they would do anything to preserve that sense of security and wealth, even if it meant allowing innocent children to die. The Bellows family were most likely on good terms with the children who worked at the Mill. Considering that both Deodat and (most likely) Harold would have worked at the Mill, they were probably fond of the children and possibly even close to them. At the very least, they were kind enough to them that the townspeople were more likely to believe a story of black magic (in a time when American spiritualism and the belief in the paranormal was fading. The height of spiritualism and a belief in the paranormal was in the mid 1800s*****) than to believe in the much more realistic story of mercury poisoning, considering the mercury was used in paper production in that day and age.

The children most likely went to the river after work to play, or maybe even between their tasks in the mill.They could have eaten by the riverside, and they most likely drank from the river as well, hastening their poisoning.

This is probably why Sarah tried to escape so much, and why she was so desperate to save the children. Not only were innocent children being poisoned,but they were exposed to the river daily, and it was literally a race against time to save them.The movie gave me the impression that Sarah suddenly ramped up her number of escape attempts (considering that Ephraim specified that if she tried it AGAIN, they would send her to the asylum, implying that this wasn’t the first attempt), and this would certainly explain why she would suddenly increase her escape attempts because she knew how little time she had before the children would be dead.

I think Sarah wanted to escape to save the children, not herself. I get the impression that she hadn’t ever attempted escape until the children started getting hurt. I think it was a case of someone not being able to summon the courage to do something solely for themselves, but being willing to risk it all to save others.

Sources:

* - paraphrased from this quote “The voices of children as young as five working in paper mills, iron foundries, bleachfields, potteries and factories are vividly revealed in transcripts of interviews for the second report of the Children's Employment Commission.” from this article by The Guardian.

https://philadelphiaencyclopedia.org/archive/paper-and-papermaking/

https://docs.lib.purdue.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1124&context=charleston

** “Among the major paper producers in this area were the Flat Rock Paper Mill, owned by the Nixon family (descendants of William Rittenhouse); the Wissahickon Paper Mill, owned by the Megargee family; and the McDowell Paper Mills. All were family-run operations that were established in the 1820s through 1840s and continued in various capacities into the early twentieth century. Family members built new mills or established partnerships with other mills in the region over the years, resulting in a web of interrelated family-run paper businesses throughout the greater Philadelphia area.”

*** taken from a  U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics article on child mill and factory workers in the 19th century. Find it here.

**** “The demise of handmade paper finally came in the late 1830s with the invention of the tandem  dryer. The tandem dryer combined drying and pressing of the paper emanating from the paper machine, and it produced a sheet of great smoothness that was superior to that made by hand. The market soon became flooded with machine-made writing paper, and all the remaining hand mills were now forced to switch to the machine or go out of business.” Full article found here

***** austintexas.gov slideshow on spiritualism. Found here