#saber's beads

[critter-of-habit]

Okay so it's not just Natasha, it's the whole scene from Sabine's fake out running towards the ship until she joins the fight - just that one whole scene is flipped

help I can't unsee it

Baffled as to why this one shot of Sabine has her armor correct but her HEAD is mirrored?? Natasha's beauty spot and hair part are on the wrong sides here I'm- WHY.

[adragonsfriend]

Having an incredible vision of a world where "igniting a lightsaber" is a bit more literal of a phrase, and lightsabers are like blowtorches, where you turn on the gas and then light it with another flame.

Please just imagine count Dooku with a fancy metal cigarette lighter for this purpose,

Anakin always loses his lighter and has to ask R2-D2 to light his saber with the flamethrower he installed,

Obi-Wan always just pulls a single match out of his pocket and holds it up like it's the last one he has but it never actually is

Qui-Gon and Yoda have both lit their sabers with a blunt at some point (idk if actually possible i am not a cool kid but shhh they are space wizards)

Initiates all have to line up to have an instructor light their training sabers

Going to Ilum to get your kyber crystal is accompanied by (another) lesson on fire safety

Wookies and other furry species have some kind of safety lighter probably

Aquatic species use some other form of weapon i guess? or have like sci-fi greek fire idk

Some Jedi believe that if there is no naturally available source of flame than it's not the will of the Force to light their sabers at all

A common gift from masters to padawans is their first lighter or maybe there would be a pair of beads designed to create sparks (kept on padawan braid/strings as a back up)

Mace always uses the spark beads (shatterpoint imagery you get me)

Depa does the same as Mace, for the aesthetic (she didn't get a purple lightsaber but she can have this ok), and teaches Caleb the same (he keeps his beads into the empire, even though he has to hide them)

Luke also uses R2,

Pre-war Jedi don't even light their sabers that often, and this is why those rumors about Jedi all using death-sticks started, since very few outsiders know why they actually carry lighters

Sidious lights his with lightning (which sounds cool but actually it backfires and blows up in his face at least 50 percent of the time)

Maul just has an actual blowtorch he uses to light his saber, which

If the Jedi try and deny the death stick rumors than new rumors start that they're all pyromaniacs, so they don't really bother.

[city-of-ladies]

"The individual SH-63 was found within the Sárrétudvari–Hízóföld cemetery, which is the largest 10th-century-CE cemetery in Hungary and contains a large number of burials containing weapons and horse-riding equipment. It was in use during the Hungarian Conquest period, in which many mounted archers conducted and fought battles across Europe.

Despite not having many particularly "wealthy" grave goods, the burial of SH-63 was unique for its grave goods composition, says Dr. Tihanyi. "Male burials often contained functional items, such as simple jewelry (e.g., penannular hair rings and bracelets), clothing fittings (e.g., belt buckles), and tools (e.g., fire-lighting kits and knives). Their most distinctive grave goods included weapons, usually archery equipment, with two graves containing sabers and one grave containing an axe.

"Horse-riding equipment and, in some cases, horse bones (e.g., skull and extremities) were also found. Female burials, in contrast, more frequently contained jewelry (e.g., hair rings, braid ornaments, bead necklaces, bracelets, and finger rings) and clothing fittings (e.g., bell buttons and metal ornaments). Tools, such as knives and awls, appeared less often.

"The grave goods found in the burial of SH-63 contained a mix of these characteristics. Compared to other graves in the cemetery, its inventory was relatively simple, including common jewelry and clothing fittings."

More specifically, SH-63 was found together with a silver penannular hair ring, three bell buttons, a string of stone and glass beads, an "armor-piercing" arrowhead, iron parts of a quiver, and an antler bow plate.

Meanwhile, the three major traumas identified in the upper limb bones were likely the result of a fall onto an outstretched arm or onto the shoulder. These injuries never fully healed and could have been caused in daily life.

However, one factor does speak to the woman perhaps having lived a more active life. Various joint and ethereal (where bones and muscles attach) changes were observed. These changes were most prominently observed in the upper right-hand side of the body, and similar changes have been found in other graves containing weapons and/or horse-riding equipment.

This suggests these individuals, including SH-63, were likely engaged in similar daily activities, which may, in turn, explain the high number of physical traumas seen throughout the Sárrétudvari-Hízóföld cemetery.

While the researchers cannot definitively conclude the female was a warrior, they were able to positively identify this as the first-known instance in which a female was buried together with weaponry in the Carpathian Basin during the 10th century."

[hanasnx]

⋆˖⁺‧₊𓆩𓆩 ❝ stranded. ❞ 𓆪𓆪₊‧⁺˖⋆

-ˏˋ꒰ CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE - ! ꒱ PART ONE ✩ PART TWO ✩ PART THREE MINORS DNI 18+ SUMMARY: be a part of the story! vote on the poll at the bottom. WARNINGS: your vote affects how the story continues | the winning decision affects how the story ends | f!reader | eventual smut | semi-established relationship | romance | suggestive | eventual conflict.

! ── PREVIOUSLY: You and ANAKIN SKYWALKER are stranded on a seemingly deserted planet. He asks you how to proceed because he trusts your judgement.

You consider his question, rubbing your bottom lip thoughtfully with your finger. The responsibility he’s given you is not one you take lightly, and you phase through the options until you decide the smartest route. “Where’s your communicator?”

Anakin's lips press together as he nods. It’s uncharacteristically submissive of him to relinquish control like that, and part of you wonders if this is his way of calming your nerves caused by the situation. He retrieves the communicator in question from his sea of robes, and when his gloved hands brings it to both of your views, it sparks.

He flinches, protecting his eyes from the device if it sees fit to explode in his hand. Fingers fiddle nimbly with its buttons, and its silence doesn’t bode well for your plans. You approach him, watching the little mechanism sit idly in the palm of his hand. “Can you repair it?” you ask, peering up at him. He doesn’t look at you.

“We’ll have to find out.”

As he works on it, you lose track of time, but the sun does not forgive. It beats down on the two of you as you try to shade yourselves in the minuscule shadow of your totaled ship. He remains in his uniform, and beads of sweat fatly roll down his forehead. That concentrated crease in his brow makes him look older than he actually is, glaring down at the communicator as he pinches wiring together with his meticulous touch. You swallow, mouth dry, and you incline into his direction.

“Anakin, maybe you should shed some layers—“ you begin to suggest, laying a familiar hand on his arm. He tenses under your contact, and perks up at attention to hear someone call out.

“You two look a long way from home.” a gutty and baritone voice leers, and Anakin’s jaw sets. His lightsaber is hidden from view by his robings. “Did’yer ship take a tumble?” The joking tone goes unappreciated as the two of you raise your heads to see a native of the planet. Relief washes over you that you aren't alone, but Anakin does not seem convinced, wary this local is unfriendly. He's seated high up on an animal with flat feet and spindly legs, one you don't recognize at all. Its trunk is stout, and wiggles absently as it disinterestedly awaits its owner to decide on whether or not to pass on. The native wears thin clothes with a strap across his chest, the bag of water sloshing at his side as he swings to a halt against his hip.

"Engine failure." Anakin replies, vague and curt. It's a lie, and one you bite your tongue on correcting. Your eyes meander the large stranger, a flat bedded wagon with heaps of fabrics is hauled by his mount, but you know those veils are just to conceal whatever he's got underneath them. "Is there a town around here?"

The local leans forward on his saddle, propping himself up on the grip with an amused and removed grin. "Naw, not for miles." Out of the corner of your view, Anakin's hand slowly disappears under his robe. "Why don't you climb aboard? I'll take you in. S'long as I get what's left of yer ship."

Anakin glances to you, but ultimately decides he'll work on the communicator during the ride. His saber remains clipped to his belt, hidden. However, his senses aren't dulled. There's something about this stranger that tells him he can't get too comfortable, but this is progress. Regardless if there's a town at all. The two of you collect the emergency supplies from the vessel, and climb aboard the wagon. It sinks into the sand from the extra weight, but when he spurs his mount on, she doesn't have a problem in tugging it.

"Sorry I didn't introduce myself, the name's Drice. S'lucky I came through, followed the smoke trail of your ship. Can smell it on the two of you." You and Anakin exchange eye contact, silently agreeing he'll be talkative the entire trip. "Yep, this nose never lies." His finger raises to tap-tap the side of his nostril. "What were y'all headed for? Before, y'know, the 'engine failure.'" You furrow your brows at the way he quotes the statement, as if he's suspicious Anakin was dishonest. "I could'a taken a look at it if it didn't have such a rough landing. S'lucky I want the parts. I'm a mechanic by trade."

Anakin doesn't respond, instead fishes out the communicator to continue his inspection. Its guts spill out, and he carefully pools it onto his lap. "The Adega system." he replies, again another lie.

Drice emits a noise of confusion. "That's a long way to travel for a ship that size."

"That's likely why we crashed." Anakin responds, and you can hear in his voice that growing annoyance.

The reticence from the back of his vehicle unnerves the local, and he continues to try to muster up some conversation. "You two are real cute together, y'know. A real pair. How long have y'all been together?"

Anakin's gaze flickers to you.

@HANASNX 2024 | do not copy, plagiarize, or steal.

[jetii]

Event Horizon

Chapter Twenty-One: Cascade

Chapter WC: 10,188

Chapter Warnings: um? general emotional turmoil

A/N: This one kicked my ass. Like genuinely probably the hardest chapter I've ever written, and I'm not sure why. But I'm very much looking forward to next week's chapter!

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Coruscant, 21 BBY

Yaddle's lightsaber hovers in the air before you, the blade humming softly. It's been a week since the Council's decision, and you've yet to leave your rooms. The lightsaber has become a focal point, a symbol, a reminder of what was taken from you. It's also a comfort.

Your connection to her.

Your eyes narrow, and you focus, the energy gathering in the pit of your stomach, the power building. The saber spins, the green blade rotating slowly. A bead of sweat drips down your forehead, and your hands begin to shake, the exertion taking its toll. 

You're not even sure what you're doing. You're not practicing. Not really. You're just...playing. Trying to distract yourself. Trying not to think.

You've been doing a lot of that lately.

The hilt tilts, and the blade nicks the side of the chair, slicing through the metal. You curse and lower your hands, and the lightsaber clatters to the ground, its light extinguishing. The sound echoes in your rooms, and you grimace, running a hand over your face.

"Kriffing hell," you hiss. You sigh and cross the room, kneeling to pick up the lightsaber. 

You're getting worse. You're barely sleeping, the stress taking its toll, and your emotions are all over the place. You can't seem to focus. It's as if everything you touch, everything you try, is doomed to fail.

You've never felt more useless.

You run a hand through your hair and slump, dropping onto the couch, your head falling into your hands. The tears sting, but they won't come. They haven't for days. There's a hollow ache in your chest, a dull pain that refuses to fade. Your throat is tight, and the guilt is threatening to swallow you whole.

You don't know what else to do. For so long, all you've wanted was to bring justice for Yaddle. To find the truth. But now that the truth has been uncovered, and justice has been denied, there's nothing left. Nothing except this hollow, empty ache. And a lingering feeling of betrayal.

You know you were out of line, but you can't bring yourself to regret it. Obi-Wan shouldn't have kept quiet. He shouldn't have just stood there and watched, his eyes averted, his face impassive. He could have said something. He should have said something. Anything. Instead, he did what he always does. He went along with the Council, playing the dutiful Jedi. Never challenging, never questioning, never speaking his mind. Always keeping his mouth shut. Always toeing the line.

The line of thinking that had been torturing you for days doesn't bring with it the usual anger or frustration now. There's nothing left. No emotion, no energy. Nothing. Just the cold, numbing pain.

You've never felt more alone.

Obi-Wan had tried to reach out, had tried to contact you, had even come to your door. But you hadn't answered, and you know the lack of communication is hurting him. You can sense it. It's a constant nagging at the back of your mind, a tugging in the Force.

The bond between the two of you is frayed, the threads pulled taught, the strain threatening to snap. But still, you can't bring yourself to speak with him. He's reached out to you countless times, and you've refused him. Each time, he's recoiled, the pain and confusion radiating through the bond. It's a physical blow, and each time it hits you, it knocks the wind out of you.

You know it's hurting him, and that hurts you, but you can't bring yourself to end the silence.

Rex has called, too. You haven’t answered. Not once. He doesn’t know what happened, doesn’t know what went wrong. He hasn’t stopped trying, though. 

Every day, multiple times, calls and messages coming in over and over, the light of the screen flickering in the dark of your rooms. After the second day, you buried your comm underneath a pile of dirty laundry. By the third day, the battery had died from its constant use, and the room was cast into silence. You've heard nothing since then. Still, the guilt lingers. And the longing. And the regret. You miss him. You miss him, and you want him here. You want him next to you.

You know what you’re doing. It’s a reflex at this point, as easy as the basic combat forms drilled into you, as mindless as running. Pushing people away. Drowning your feelings. Hiding.

Running away.

Your eyes flick to the saber in your hand, and you run a finger over the hilt, tracing the intricate design, the ridges and curves, the dips and angles. It's familiar. It's comforting.

A part of you is still clinging to the hope that the Council will change their minds, that they'll realize their mistake, that they'll come to their senses and seek justice. It's a foolish hope. A childish hope. But, it's the only thing keeping you from giving up completely.

The truth is, you don't know what else to do. You're at a loss.

Your gaze moves past the saber, your eyes focusing on the viewport, on Coruscant's skyline. The buildings are a blur, a mass of lights and colors, a sea of endless noise. It's beautiful, in a way. An ever-moving, ever-changing kaleidoscope of life. But it's overwhelming, too. A reminder of what's out there, of what you're missing.

You've been cooped up in your rooms for too long. The walls are starting to close in on you, and you can feel your anxiety building, a low thrum in your chest. You need to get out, to go somewhere, to do something. Anything.

You stand, and a wave of dizziness washes over you, forcing you to grab hold of the back of the couch, steadying yourself. You're weak, and lightheaded, and exhausted. You've barely eaten, and you haven't slept, not really.

Not since.

Since.

The images flash through your mind, unbidden, unwanted, and your stomach lurches, bile rising in your throat. You swallow, forcing down the nausea, and the tears well up, hot and burning.

You can't stop it, can't control it.

"Fuck," you hiss. You throw the lightsaber across the room, the hilt bouncing off the wall with a satisfying thud. It clatters to the floor, and you stare at it, breathing heavily, the anger and frustration boiling over. "Fuck. Fuck."

It's not enough. Nothing is.

Your hands ball into fists, and you clench your jaw, a surge of fury coursing through you. It's like a drug, and it's an instant rush, a brief respite from the pain, but it brings with it a shift in the Force. A tremor, a vibration, a change in pressure that's too intense to ignore.

You close your eyes, and you focus, reaching for the energy, letting it flow through you. But the more you focus, the more you grasp, the stronger the energy becomes. You're not controlling it. It's controlling you.

It's too much.

Your eyes fly open, and you cry out, your hands moving of their own accord to the sides of your head. The pain is intense, white-hot, blinding. It's as if someone has pressed an iron spike through your skull, and you scream, unable to hold it back. You can't move, can't think, can't breathe, can't see. All you can feel is the pain, the agony, the torture. And it's everywhere, consuming you, tearing you apart.

One of your hands pulls away from your head, and you watch it happen as if in slow motion, as if through a fog, as if through the eyes of another. The criss-crossing pattern of scars on your palm seem to pulse and glow, the flesh reddening, the skin rippling and bubbling. You stare, mesmerized, transfixed.

And then you turn and release it all. Directed outwards, away from yourself, the Force is a violent blast, a burst of raw energy. It rips through the room, shifting furniture, shattering a lamp, and knocking a shelf clean off the wall. The items go flying, and a vase explodes on impact, sending shards of glass scattering across the floor. You don't notice. You're too focused on the destruction, the release, the relief. It's like a high, and the euphoria is overwhelming, a heady rush of adrenaline and endorphins and power.

"Fuck," you gasp, the word coming out a strangled hiss. You take a step back and stumble, the pain finally subsiding, leaving a dull ache in its wake. Your knees hit the couch, and you slump, falling onto the cushions, breathing heavily. The anger has ebbed, and the adrenaline is fading, leaving behind the familiar emptiness, the bone-deep exhaustion, and a new wave of guilt. 

You've haven't lost control like that in years, and it frightens you. This…whatever it is, this thing that’s been building inside of you since Dooku attacked you a decade ago, it's getting worse. And you have no idea how to stop it. No idea how to contain it. If this is what's going to happen every time the pain becomes too much...you can't keep doing this.

You need to get out. You need fresh air.

You need help.

The thought makes your skin crawl, and you grimace, pushing it away, refusing to acknowledge it. You don't need help. You don't want help. You just want this all to stop. To go away. To be gone. But, the Force isn't listening.

"Get ahold of yourself," you mutter. "You're better than this."

But, you're not. Not anymore.

The words are a familiar mantra, something you've repeated over and over, day after day, since you were a child. Since you first began training. It's not enough. You're spiraling, and you know it, but there's no one to pull you back, to ground you, to keep you from falling.

You grit your teeth and dig your nails into your palms, forcing yourself to breathe. In, out. In, out. You will yourself to picture a serene place, a calm place. Somewhere peaceful. A forest. A lake. A field. None of them work. The images are hazy and distorted, and the pain is still there, a low throbbing ache. You can't make it go away. Can't make any of it go away.

The golden field from your dreams is suddenly thrust to the forefront of your mind, and a strange warmth settles in the pit of your stomach, the pressure slowly easing, the tension ebbing away. You haven't had the dream since Saleucami, and you haven't thought about it since. Until now.

The sun is warm on your skin, and there's a breeze, and you can smell grass and flowers and dirt. The scent is familiar and calming, and it fills your senses. It's real. More real than it's ever been. There's the murmur of voices, children laughing, someone calling your name. You look around, searching for the source, but no one's there. Only the field, the sun, the breeze. And the sense that, somewhere, something is waiting. Someone who needs you.

You feel a hand settle on your shoulder, warm and gentle and strong, and you turn to face the figure beside you. But, the moment you do, the sun fades, and the warmth is gone, and the voices are muffled, the laughter muted. And, then, everything goes black.

You open your eyes, and you're met with chaos.

Your rooms are a mess. The broken lamp is lying on its side, the cord dangling. The shattered remains of the vase are strewn across the floor, the water from the flowers spreading, soaking into the carpet. The shelf is in pieces, and a datapad has joined the mess of objects that were previously displayed. There's a dent in the wall where the hilt of Yaddle's lightsaber struck it, and the door to the refresher is open, the lights on and flickering.

It's a disaster.

You slump, the exhaustion setting in. You're not even sure how long you've been cooped up here, alone. It's been days, at least. Maybe a week, maybe longer. It's hard to keep track. Time seems to lose all meaning when you're locked away like this.

Your gaze lands on Yaddle's lightsaber, and you wince, guilt gnawing at your stomach. She'd be disappointed. She'd tell you to pick yourself up, to get back out there, to move forward. She'd remind you of the Jedi teachings, of the Code, and she'd tell you to embrace the Light.

But she'd also tried to leave. She'd tried to get away from the Order, from the Code, from the war. She'd wanted something else, something more.

Something better.

Your eyes narrow, and the decision settles in the pit of your stomach, sinking deep into your bones. Maybe it's time to do the same.

It's not like you have anything to lose. Obi-Wan will survive. He has Ahsoka and Anakin. And Rex...Rex will be okay. He'll be fine. He’ll be better off without you, anyway. He doesn't need the drama. He deserves better. You'll miss him. A part of you will always long for him. But, he's not yours. And he never will be.

It's a coward's move, and you know it. It's selfish. But, maybe that's what you are. Maybe that's all you've ever been. Maybe that's all you'll ever be.

Maybe it's time to accept it.

You've just finished packing when a knock sounds on the door. You frown, and your eyes narrow as the sound echoes in the room. You weren't expecting anyone. There's no way Rex could get inside the Temple without clearance, and you would've sensed Obi-Wan before he got close enough, even in your state. But the person behind the door is radiating concern, worry, fear. You know that signature, know the energy. It's one you'd recognize anywhere.

The door slides open without your prompting, and the light from the hall filters in, blinding you. You wince and squint as a figure appears in the doorway, a shadow against the light. 

"I locked the door," you say flatly. 

Anakin snorts. "And?"

He steps inside, the door sliding closed behind him. His gaze travels across your room, and his eyes widen, taking in the destruction. You've done what you could to right everything, but there's still evidence of your tantrum. There's water on the floor, a few pieces of glass, a dent in the wall, clothes discarded on the table. You grimace and run a hand through your hair, pulling at it.

Anakin’s eyes fall on Yaddle's lightsaber on the floor, and you quickly summon the weapon, the hilt flying into your palm. It clatters onto the desk in front of you, and you turn, avoiding his gaze.

"And, what are you doing here?" you mutter.

"What am I doing here?" Anakin repeats, and he walks forward, his eyes wide, his voice incredulous. "What are you doing here? You weren't answering my calls. Or Obi-Wan's. Or Ahsoka's. Or anyone's. I thought something might've happened."

"I'm fine," you say stiffly. "Nothing happened."

"Clearly," he deadpans. He reaches down and picks up a piece of glass, and you watch as he tosses it into a small trash bin. "Other than a complete breakdown."

"I didn't have a breakdown," you snap. You wince, and your voice softens, dropping to a whisper. "I didn't."

He raises an eyebrow, and his eyes scan the room again, pausing on the dent in the wall, before moving back to you. The judgement is obvious, and you glare at him, daring him to speak. He doesn't. He just stares at you, his eyes boring into yours, the worry evident. After a moment, he sighs, and his shoulders sag, the concern radiating through the Force.

"I didn't," you repeat. You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself.

"Then, what happened? And why is Rex, of all people, asking me if you're okay?" Anakin asks. He gestures around him, his gaze landing on a pile of dirty dishes, an overflowing laundry basket, an open duffel bag on your bed. "Or, better yet, why are you packing a bag?"

The mention of Rex's name sends a sharp pang through your chest, and you flinch, trying to hide it.

"I'm not," you lie, and his expression turns to exasperation.

"Right," he says slowly. Anakin leans against your desk, his arms folded, his gaze never leaving yours. "Because we both know you're just standing here, in front of a packed bag, for fun."

"Shut up," you mutter as you return to packing. You shove a shirt into your bag, not bothering to fold it, and you turn away from him, heading for the refresher.

Anakin's eyes widen, a strangled sound escaping his throat as follows after you. He rushes to block the door before you can get any further, and his arms cross, his body a wall.

"Oh, no, no, no. You're not getting out of this," he says.

"Anakin, move," you order.

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

"Move," you repeat, and you raise a hand, shoving him aside with the Force. He stumbles, and he lets out a noise of surprise, his eyes wide, his mouth dropping open. You step into the refresher, and you grab the rest of your toiletries, tossing them onto the counter, your movements sharp and jerky.

"Okay," Anakin breathes. His eyes narrow, his gaze darting around the room, taking in the mess. He spots a broken perfume bottle on the floor, the contents dripping down the wall, and he winces. "That bad, huh?"

You're silent, ignore him and returning to packing. The bag is almost full, and you curse, realizing you'll have to take a second. You didn't think this through. You should've started packing yesterday. Or last week. Maybe last month.

"Where are you going?" Anakin asks. He's leaning against the door frame, watching you with an intensity that's unnerving. "Are you going somewhere? Where?"

"Leave me alone," you snap, and you turn, shoving him away, but he catches your arm, stopping you. His grip is firm, but gentle, and he holds you there, his brows knit together.

"Look, I'm not here to fight. I'm not here to yell at you, or lecture you, or whatever it is you think I'm here to do," he says softly, his expression sincere. "I'm here because I care. I'm here because Ahsoka cares. And Obi-Wan—"

"Stop."

"—is worried sick about you," he finishes, ignoring your interruption. "Whatever's going on, whatever's happened, we can help. Just talk to us. Tell me what's going on. Please."

You look away toward your desk, your eyes falling on Yaddle's lightsaber. The sight makes your chest tighten, and you swallow, fighting back the tears.

"Come on," he urges. His hand moves, squeezing your shoulder, his thumb brushing against your skin.

You let out a shaky breath as your defenses crumble. You're tired of holding everything in, tired of hiding, tired of pretending. The fight drains out of you, and you deflate, your shoulders slumping, your eyes falling to the ground.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice low. "You're not usually...this. At least, not lately."

"No," you agree.

"So, what is it? Did you have a fight with Obi-Wan?"

"No," you say, and you wince. "Yes. Not exactly."

"Then, what is it? You can tell me," he says. "I'm not going anywhere. No matter how much of a pain in the ass you are."

You scoff, the noise muffled by your sleeve as you wipe your eyes, and a smile tugs at your lips. "Asshole."

"Brat," he replies, and his hand drops from your shoulder. "Now, talk."

"It's not that easy," you mumble. You sniff, and your gaze flickers to him, taking in his expectant expression. "There's just...a lot. I don't know where to start."

"Start at the beginning," he says. "Just tell me. Whatever it is, I'll listen."

You walk away and settle back on the couch, and Anakin follows, sitting next to you. He watches you and waits, his silence urging you to speak.

You take a deep breath, and you begin.

You tell him everything. Starting from the moment you met him on Naboo, ending with the Council's decision, the entire story tumbling out of your mouth, the words flowing freely. The only thing you leave out is Rex. Your friendship with him, the attraction, the connection. It's too personal, too private, too intimate. That secret will stay between the two of you.

Anakin listens. He doesn't interrupt. He doesn't speak. He doesn't offer advice or suggestions. He doesn't say anything. He just sits there, letting you speak, listening to every word, hearing every syllable.

Somewhere along the way, you start to feel it again. The anger and the frustration rising up, threatening to break free. It's only when it's nearly pouring out that you realize it's not just your own feelings. Anakin's anger is mingling with yours, and his face is dark, his jaw clenched. The shadows in the room seem to lengthen the longer you talk, and he's breathing faster, his hands curling into fists, his muscles tensing.

By the time you're finished, you're both fuming. The energy in the room is thick, the anger almost tangible. You feel your skin crawl, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end, and you shift, trying to alleviate the discomfort. Anakin's gaze is fixed on the floor, and he's staring, his eyes hard.

"This isn't the first time the Council's done this," he says quietly. "Taken credit. Made decisions behind our backs. Put their agenda ahead of ours."

"I know," you murmur, and you run a hand through your hair, a bitter laugh escaping. "It's not just me. They're always like this. Always."

"That's not how it's supposed to work," Anakin growls. His eyes are narrowed, and he shakes his head, his frustration seeping through the Force. “This is bullshit. All of it. I can't believe they did this to you."

"I shouldn't have expected any less," you sigh, and you shake your head, the tears starting again. You scrub at your face, and your hands fall to your lap, fingers twisting together. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I knew better. I know better.”

"Don't," he snaps. His head turns, his gaze finding yours, the intensity of his eyes almost startling. "Don't do that. This isn't your fault."

"I just...I thought that bringing evidence would make a difference. That it would mean something. That it would actually count," you mutter, and you look away, staring out at nothing. "I didn't want to give up. I didn't want to quit. But it's not my place. It's never been. I'm not..."

Your voice trails off, and Anakin scoffs. 

"If you're about to say you're not good enough, I'm going to punch you," he threatens. "Hard."

You snort, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. "You're so violent."

"I'm serious," he says, and his eyes narrow, his face turning solemn. "Don't let them do this. Don't let them push you around, or guilt trip you, or whatever it is they're doing. You're a Jedi. Just because they're not willing to fight for justice doesn't mean you can't."

"They're not going to change their minds," you say. You rub your eyes, and a shuddering breath escapes. "They won't."

"So what?" Anakin argues. He turns toward you and leans forward, his hands braced on his knees. "So what if they don't? Who cares? You said it yourself. She was a mentor to you. And now, her killer is out there. Free. And you're not going to do anything about it?"

"It's not my place," you repeat, avoiding his gaze. "She's dead. She's gone. Nothing I do is going to change that. What's the point?"

"The point is she was your Master, and she was murdered," he says sharply. "You can't let this go. You can't just walk away. You can't leave it like this."

"Why not?" you mutter. Your fingers twitch, and you clench your fists, trying to calm yourself. "It's not as if there's anything I can do."

"There's plenty you can do," he argues. He sits forward, his hands braced on his knees. His face is flushed, and his voice rises, his words growing more and more passionate. "They gave you a whole legion of troopers, ships, unlimited resources. They gave you everything. So, use it. Do something. Anything."

"They did it because they thought I needed a distraction," you say. You can't look at him, can't meet his eyes. It's too much. "Because they were worried I'd do something stupid."

"Or, maybe they just finally realized that you're more than capable," Anakin counters as he sits back, his tone softening slightly. "They wouldn't have given you a position of power if they didn't think you were worthy of it."

"Worthy?" You scoff, and you shake your head, a humorless smile forming. "That's a first."

Anakin lets out a frustrated noise, and he slams his hand on the table, the noise reverberating through the room. You flinch, startled, and he sighs, running a hand over his hair.

"You're being difficult," he complains.

"Yeah, well, that's me," you say. "Difficult."

"This is serious," he says firmly. His expression is grave, and his eyes find yours, holding your gaze. "Look, I'm not going to force you to do anything. But, I think it's a mistake if you don't."

"I know," you admit. "But, it's not as easy as you think. I can't just go after him. I have no idea where he is, or where to even start looking. Besides, I have a job to do. I'm a general. I'm supposed to be leading my troops into battle, not hunting down one man.”

"And, who said you can't do both?" Anakin asks. He arches an eyebrow, and a smirk spreads across his lips. "It's not like you haven't done it before. Besides, he's made it pretty clear that he wants to get your attention. You might not have to look very far."

You frown, and you bite your lip, mulling over his words. It's true, and you both know it. Dooku's not trying to hide. He's practically taunting you, his presence lingering in the background of every encounter. It's only a matter of time before he crosses your path again, whether you like it or not.

"I can't," you say, but your voice lacks conviction.

"You can," he insists. He's leaning forward again, his elbows on his knees, his face close to yours. "You can, and you should. You have a choice. You can do something, or you can run away. Which is it going to be?"

"Anakin," you say, but you can't manage more than his name, and it falls flat.

"I'm serious," he says. "Make a decision. Right now. Stop sitting here, wallowing in self-pity, and do something."

Your hands ball into fists, your nails digging into your palms. You stare at him, your gaze darting over his face, taking in his determined expression. He's right. He's absolutely right.

"Do something that matters. If not for you, then for her," Anakin presses, his voice quiet, his eyes fixed on yours. "She deserves that much."

"Anakin—"

"What would she want?" he asks, cutting you off. "If she were here, right now, what would she tell you to do?"

You're silent, your mouth opening and closing. Your eyes fall back to Yaddle's lightsaber, and a knot forms in your stomach. You don't have to think about it. You already know. You've known for years. She would've done whatever she could, no matter what. 

As much as you'd like to believe she would've walked away from this, you know that's not true. She wouldn't have turned a blind eye, wouldn't have ignored her duty. She would've fought, tooth and nail, until she couldn't fight anymore. Until she couldn't draw another breath.

And she did. She died fighting. You know that much.

Anakin is watching you, waiting for your answer, and your throat tightens, your eyes burning. You swallow hard take a deep breath, steadying yourself. You're still angry, still hurt, but you can't deny his words. Can't ignore them.

"You're right," you whisper. You close your eyes, and you take a deep breath, centering yourself. "I want to help. I have to."

"Then, do it," he says, his tone resolute.

You open your eyes and find him smiling, a gleam in his eyes. You can't help but grin, a spark of hope igniting in your chest. He's right. You can do this. You have to try. You owe it to her to keep going.

"Thank you," you murmur, throwing your arms around him and pulling him into a hug. Anakin stiffens, and he awkwardly pats your shoulder, clearly uncomfortable. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably go crazy," he jokes, and he pauses, adding, "Crazier. If that's possible."

You laugh and pull back, shaking your head. "I'm serious."

"I know," he chuckles. He slaps his hands on his knees and stands, a grin lighting up his face. "So, do you need a ride to Kamino?”

"Yeah,” you sigh. “I'd appreciate that."

"Consider it done.” He looks around the room and nods. "We're heading back out tomorrow anyway. Gotta pick up some more men before we head out to Bothawui. You can come, meet your troops." He smirks, his gaze dropping to the saber. "See how they measure up to the 501st."

"Oh, I'm sure they'll do just fine," you say dryly. "Thank you."

"Anytime." 

Anakin gives a nod and heads towards the door, his movements smooth and quick. He reaches for the pad, but the door slides open before he can touch it. You sense him at the same time Anakin does, and both of your heads snap to the left, toward the hall.

Obi-Wan freezes, and he takes a step back, his eyes widening as his gaze falls on the two of you. You hold your breath as he scans the room, taking in the bags on your bed, your disheveled appearance, and the broken pieces of glass scattered on the floor. 

His face turns white, his expression stricken, and the bond between the two of you begins to hum, the energy buzzing. It's overwhelming, and it makes your stomach lurch, a lump forming in your throat.

"Ah," he says, his voice tight. "Am I interrupting something?"

Anakin glances at you, and his eyebrows raise.

"No, no. Just leaving," he says quickly, his voice bright and cheerful. He moves forward and claps Obi-Wan on the shoulder, and he glances back at you, giving you a quick nod. "See you tomorrow, Goldie. Bright and early. And, uh, sorry about the lock. I...I'll pay for it."

"Uh-huh," you mumble. Your gaze never leaves Obi-Wan, and his doesn't move from yours. You can feel his anxiety, his tension, and it's a weight in your chest, a physical pressure. Anakin's voice filters through, but his words are lost, and you don't bother to listen. He's moving past Obi-Wan, heading down the hall, and the sound of his footsteps fades until all that's left is silence.

You stand, and Obi-Wan inhales sharply, his eyes flickering around the room, finally landing on Yaddle's lightsaber. You're suddenly hyperaware of the mess, the state of your clothes, the darkness under your eyes, and you cringe, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He walks into your rooms, his steps slow and cautious, and he stops, a few feet away.

"I..." Obi-Wan starts, and his voice trails off, his mouth open. He closes his eyes, his brows furrowing, and he takes a deep breath, collecting himself. "I've been trying to get a hold of you. For a week."

"I noticed," you mutter.

"I came by, a few times," he continues. His hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck, and his eyes flicker around the room, looking anywhere but at you. "I wanted to talk. About...about what happened. What I said."

"Nothing to talk about," you say, and his eyes meet yours, a flicker of anger in them.

"Nothing?" he asks, and his tone is incredulous. "We haven't spoken since—since it happened. The Council's decision, everything, and now, I find you packing a bag? I would think there's plenty to discuss."

"I'm not—" you start, and you bite your lip, stopping yourself.

"You're not what?" he snaps. He gestures around him, his hand waving at your bags, his gaze darting from your desk, to your bed, to your wardrobe, and back. "Packing? Leaving? Running away? Which one is it?"

"I'm not running away," you say, and you can't hide your annoyance. Your shoulders straighten, and you square off, facing him, your hands falling to your sides. "Not that it's any of your business."

"Not my business?" he repeats. Obi-Wan's eyebrows rise, and he scoffs, shaking his head. "Of course, it's my business. You're my friend. You're my—" He cuts himself off, and he winces, his mouth twisting. "I have a right to know what's going on. What happened."

"Why? So you can run and tell everyone else?" you shoot back, and his eyes widen. "So, you can report back to the Council and let them know how unstable I am?"

"Don't put words in my mouth," he hisses.

"Then, stop making it so easy," you snap.

The two of you stare at each other, neither of you saying anything, and the anger builds, the tension rising. You can't tell who's more upset, him or you, and the bond between the two of you is humming, a steady vibration, the energy almost tangible. It's making your head hurt, and you wince, rubbing your temple. His gaze softens, and he takes a step toward you, but stops.

"What's wrong with you?" he asks, his tone low and concerned. "What are you doing? Packing a bag, shutting yourself in here, not answering my calls, not speaking to anyone? Have you lost your mind?"

"Maybe I have," you growl, and his eyes narrow, his mouth falling open, as if to argue. You cut him off before he can. "But, maybe it's none of your business. Maybe I can take care of myself."

"Clearly," he says, and his eyes move over the room, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Yes, you seem to be doing quite well on your own."

"Obi-Wan," you groan. Your fingers press into the side of your head, and you close your eyes, breathing deeply. You can't do this. You can't. You don't have the strength, the energy. You're exhausted, and you just want him to go away. To leave you alone. "Just leave."

"Not until you explain yourself," he argues. Obi-Wan moves closer, his arm reaching out, his fingers brushing against yours. "This isn't like you. I know things haven't been easy, and I'm sorry, I really am. But, this isn't you. I thought you were getting better."

"Better?" you scoff, and his jaw tightens, a muscle twitching.

"You know what I mean," he says stiffly. "The nightmares have been less frequent, the visions. You've seemed more stable. Less volatile. Or, at least, not as bad. You haven't had an episode in months." He pauses, his gaze searching yours, and his fingers tighten around yours, squeezing. "What happened? Tell me."

"Maybe I'm not getting better," you say quietly. You shrug, and your gaze moves past him, staring out the viewport. "Maybe I was just hiding it. Pretending."

"You're not," he says firmly. His voice is steady and sure. "I would've noticed."

"You've noticed a lot of things lately," you mutter, and your eyes find his again, the pain flaring. He winces, his shoulders sagging. "And you've done a great job keeping them to yourself."

"That's not fair," he says quietly.

"Isn't it?"

"It wasn't my decision to give you your own command," he replies, shaking his head. “I know you think it was, but it wasn't." His eyes move over your face, and his voice lowers, a note of regret coloring his tone. “For months, I tried to change their minds. For months, I argued, pleaded, fought, everything. But, nothing I said or did worked. The decision was made. I’d only succeeded in delaying the inevitable.”

"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, your voice breaking, a tear slipping down your cheek. "Why didn't you just talk to me?"

"I was trying to protect you," he says softly, and his eyes close, his face turning away from you. "You'd just started feeling better, and I didn't want to upset you, or set you back." His jaw clenches, and his eyes open, his gaze finding yours, the pain visible in his expression. "And, I was worried you'd do exactly this."

You let out a humorless laugh, and you step away, his hand dropping from yours.

"So, what? You thought ignoring the issue would fix it?" you say, your voice rising, and his eyes widen, his brows furrowing, confusion written across his features. "Keeping me in the dark was going to help? What did you think was going to happen?"

"I don't know," he sighs. He runs a hand over his hair, and his hand falls, gesturing weakly. "I was hoping...that maybe if I could stall long enough...maybe they'd change their minds. Maybe the war would end, or you would find the closure you needed." 

His eyes meet yours again, and the regret is plain on his face, his words coming out a whisper. "I was trying to give you a chance."

"And look how well that turned out," you mutter bitterly, and you can't hold his gaze, your eyes dropping to the floor. You turn and walk toward the window, and you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shield yourself from the cold.

“It was a mistake," Obi-Wan admits quietly. He lets out a frustrated noise, and the room falls silent. After a moment, his footsteps approach, and he appears next to you. “But you can’t leave. Not now. There's a war going on, in case you haven't noticed. There's too much at stake."

"I'm not leaving," you insist, and his expression turns skeptical, his eyes narrowing. You roll your eyes, a bitter laugh escaping you. "Not that I hadn’t thought about it."

"You can't," he says firmly. "Whatever it is, we can work through it. We'll figure something out. I promise."

"There's nothing to work through," you say. You run a hand over your hair and glance at him, avoiding his gaze. "Anakin talked some sense into me. He...he helped."

"What do you mean?" he asks, and his brow furrows. He looks confused, his expression bewildered, and he shifts, crossing his arms. "What did he say?"

"Just...that I can't leave it like this," you mumble. You look away from him and out the viewport. You can see the sun beginning to set, and the sky is painted with hues of orange and red. "I have to do something."

"Something," Obi-Wan repeats, his tone wary, and you nod, avoiding his eyes. "Like what?"

"I'm not sure yet," you admit. “But for now, I’m going to Kamino. I’m picking up my troops. I’m doing what you wanted. I'm getting back out there. Back in the field. That's something."

"Is it?"

"Yes," you say, and the word comes out sharper than intended.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to reply, but his voice catches, and he shakes his head. His gaze drifts to the floor, and his eyes narrow, his forehead creasing, his expression conflicted. You wait, watching him, and you can feel his emotions warring with each other, the battle playing out on his face. It's a whirlwind, and you can't tell which one is winning. Anger. Frustration. Worry. Fear. Guilt.

After a long moment, his face falls, and he nods, his shoulders slumping, his muscles relaxing.

"Fine," he relents, and his voice is low, resigned. "Fine."

“Is that what you wanted to hear?" you ask sarcastically, and his jaw tightens, a flash of anger flickering in his eyes.

"What I want is for you to be safe," he snaps, and he turns, glaring at you. "What I want is for you to be okay."

"Well, tough," you mutter. You move away from the window and cross your arms over your chest, your fingers digging into your arms. "Because neither of those things is likely to happen."

"You have no idea how much I wish things were different," he says quietly, and his face falls, his expression solemn. "That none of this had ever happened. Despite what you might think, I do care about you. Very much. I want what's best for you."

"What's best for me?" you repeat. Your lips twist into a sneer, and a harsh laugh escapes. "I'm not sure that exists anymore."

"You don't believe that," Obi-Wan chides gently. He's staring at you, and his voice is calm and even. "You know better than anyone that the Light is always there, no matter how far you fall."

"I used to," you say bitterly. Your throat tightens, and a lump forms, tears burning your eyes. You can't look at him, can't stand the concern in his gaze. "It's not like it matters, anyway. The Council's made its decision. Yaddle's killer is still out there, and we're just going to pretend like nothing happened. Just like we've been doing for years."

"That's not true," he says softly.

"Isn't it?"

"It doesn't have to be like this," he argues. His voice is quiet, and he steps forward, closing some of the distance between the two of you. His hand reaches out, and he gently touches your arm, his thumb brushing against your skin. You stiffen at the contact, but you don’t pull away, and his fingers move, trailing up to your shoulder, coming to rest there.

"The Senate is building a case," he murmurs. "They're gathering testimony, evidence, anything they can find. Once Dooku is captured, they'll bring him before a tribunal. There will be no denying what he's done. No escaping justice. It may take time, but it will happen. And, when it does, Dooku will pay for his crimes."

Your eyes narrow, and a part of you knows that he's telling the truth. But, it's not enough. You can't just sit back and do nothing, and a dark, selfish part of you wants him to suffer. To pay for what he's done. To hurt as much as he's hurt you. And, a larger, angrier, more violent part of you wants him dead. It doesn't matter if it's justice. Doesn't matter if he's brought to trial. Doesn't matter if he confesses. You want him dead. And if that makes you a bad person, so be it.

"He's a traitor," Obi-Wan adds. His expression hardens, his mouth thinning, his grip tightening. "He betrayed everything we stand for, and he deserves whatever punishment they deem fit. He'll pay."

"Will he?" you ask. You shrug off his touch, stepping back, and his hand falls to his side.

"You don't believe me," he states.

“I believe that it's what you want to happen," you respond, your voice quiet. You move around him, going to your desk and grabbing your lightsaber. You hook it onto your belt, and you reach for Yaddle's saber, your fingers curling around the hilt. The cool metal is comforting, and a feeling of calm washes over you. You take a deep breath, centering yourself, and turn, finding Obi-Wan staring at you.

"You want justice," you continue, and you pause, swallowing, pushing down your doubts. "So, do I. But, we both know how these things end. We've seen it happen, again and again. Dooku will escape, or he'll be released, or he'll plead innocent, or he'll disappear, or—" You cut yourself off, shaking your head. "It doesn't matter. The result will always be the same. He'll walk free. It's how these things work."

"You're wrong," he says, his voice hard. "Things are changing. The Separatists are growing bolder. The Senate is more unified than ever before. Even the Chancellor has taken a stronger stand against them."

"Forgive me if I'm not reassured," you snort, and his mouth twitches, irritation flashing across his face. "Chancellor Palpatine is a politician. A career politician. And politicians aren't known for their honesty or their integrity. Or their ability to put others first."

"Master Yoda believes it," he points out.

"Well, then, I suppose that settles it," you deadpan, and you can't hide your sarcasm. "If Master Yoda believes in it, then, it must be true. Because he's never been wrong about anything. Ever. In his entire life. Certainly not his Padawan. Right?"

Obi-Wan's expression hardens, and he crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing. "Now, you're just being difficult."

"Maybe," you concede. "Or, maybe I'm being realistic. Maybe, just this once, I'm seeing things for how they are, instead of how I wish they were. Is that such a crime?"

"No, it's not," he says. His stance relaxes, and his arms fall to his sides, his shoulders slumping. "It's not. I understand why you're frustrated. You're allowed to be. But, this isn't like you. You're not usually this...this..."

"This what?" you ask, and his brows draw together, a crease forming on his forehead. "Say it. You'll feel better."

"Selfish," he snaps, and his gaze holds yours, his eyes searching yours, trying to understand. "Is that what this is? Are you angry because the Council decided not to pursue the killer of your Master? Because you didn't get to hunt down and kill him yourself?"

"What if I am?"

"Then, it's a good thing we stopped you from running away," he mutters, and you scoff, turning away from him. You pace around the room, trying to quell your anger, and his eyes follow, watching as you move, his mouth pressing into a thin line. "It's a good thing Anakin was able to talk sense into you."

"Sense?" you snort, and you stop, facing him. Your hands fall to your hips, and you lean forward, your gaze hardening. "How is this making any sense? How is letting a murderer go free make sense? How is sitting around and waiting for justice make any sense? How is any of this making any sense?"

"It's not," he agrees. "None of this is making sense. None of this is right. But we're doing the best we can with what we have."

"And, what if that's not good enough?"

"It's going to have to be," he says softly, and his head shakes, his gaze drifting to the ground, his expression weary. "That's all we have. All any of us has. It's the best we can do.

"I know," you mutter.

"Do you?"

"Yes," you sigh. You rub a hand over your face and run a hand through your hair, tugging on the strands. "I'm just...frustrated."

"I can see that," he says dryly.

"I want him dead," you confess. You can't look at him, can't meet his eyes, can't face his judgment. "I know that's not right. I know that's not how it should be. I know that I should want him brought to justice. But, I don't. I just want him gone."

"I know," he murmurs.

"But it's not going to happen," you continue. Your eyes find his, and his face softens, his gaze gentle. "Is it?"

"No," he admits. "It's not."

You nod and avert your gaze, your eyes falling to the floor. You can't keep looking at him. Can't stand the disappointment, the sorrow, the guilt. You’re exhausted, the conversation draining what little energy you have left, and your shoulders slump.

“You should go," you whisper. "I'm not good company right now. And I have a long day tomorrow."

"You need to eat," Obi-Wan says softly. His footsteps echo on the floor as he walks towards you. His hand brushes against your cheek, his palm cupping the side of your face, and he tilts your head, forcing you to look at him. "And sleep. Please."

"Not hungry," you mumble, and you step back, breaking the contact. "Not tired either."

"That's not the point," he argues, and he takes a step toward you, reaching for your hand. "You need to take care of yourself."

"Don't," you snap. You move away, and his hand drops, his expression stricken. "Don't try to pretend like you care. Don't try to act like you know what's best for me. Because you don't."

"I..." Obi-Wan trails off, and he frowns, his jaw clenching, his eyes narrowing, his gaze darkening. He takes a step closer, closing the distance between the two of you, and he stares down at you, his face inches from yours.

"I do know," he hisses. "You're the most important person in my life. I've cared about you since the day I met you. I've fought for you. Loved you. Supported you."

"Obi-Wan," you start, but he cuts you off, his eyes blazing, his face turning red, his tone sharp.

"No. You don't get to pretend like I haven't been here, every step of the way. You don't get to act like this is all on me," he says fiercely. "Because it's not. This is both of us. This is our fault."

"I never said—"

"You didn't have to," he snaps. He's shaking his head, his voice rising, and his hand lifts, gesturing wildly. "You've made your opinion quite clear. You blame me. Fine. I can take the blame. But, you have to admit, this is partly your fault."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about," he says. He's moving, pacing, his voice rising with each step. "We've been doing this dance for years. Going in circles. You and I. We've been playing this game since we were kids. Since the day we met."

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do," he cuts you off, and he stops, turning toward you, his eyes flashing. "You've been doing this, using me, for as long as I've known you. You know that."

"Using you?" you repeat incredulously. "I'm not the one who used our friendship as a tool."

"I never—"

“You mean you haven’t kept tabs on me? Or monitored my activities? Or reported them to the Council?" you snap. "Or tried to control every aspect of my life?"

"I have only ever wanted to help you," he insists.

"And, that's all this is, isn't it?" you mutter. Your hands fall to your hips, and your eyes narrow, your gaze fixed on his. "You're trying to fix me. You've always been trying to fix me."

"Of course I am!" Obi-Wan snaps, and his eyebrows rise, his expression incredulous, as if you've said something ridiculous. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because it's not your responsibility," you say through gritted teeth. "You can't fix me. And you certainly can't save me. No matter how much you might want to."

"Maybe not," he agrees quietly. His eyes find yours, and his shoulders sag, the anger fading from his expression. "But, that doesn't change the fact that I care about you."

"You say that," you mumble.

"And, I mean it," he replies. “You're one of my closest friends. My only friend, really. And if you're hurting, I want to be there for you. I want to help. I can't do that if you won't let me."

"You can't help me," you say, and his expression shifts, hurt and confusion crossing his face. You shake your head, trying to gather your thoughts. "It's not your fault alone. I know that. And you’re right. We’ve been playing this game for years. I've relied on you too much. But that has to stop. I can't let myself depend on you anymore. I have to...to fix myself. If I don't...if I don't..."

"What?" he presses.

"I'm going to lose myself," you finish. You take a deep breath and close your eyes. When you open them again, he's staring at you, a sad look in his eyes. “I think you know that already. That's what scares you."

"Of course it does," he sighs. He closes his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, fixing you with a firm stare. "I've seen what you're capable of. What you can become. What you're still capable of. I've felt it, and I'm not going to lie, it’s frightening. The things I've felt...from you...from within you."

"You're scared of me," you state, and it's not a question.

"Aren't you?"

"Yes," you answer honestly.

"And, yet, here we are," Obi-Wan says softly. His eyes are locked on yours, and he shakes his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Neither of us can walk away."

"I tried," you murmur. "You can't imagine how much."

"I have a fair idea." His hands fall to his sides, and his shoulders sag. He lets out a weary sigh and shakes his head, his mouth turning down, his brows drawing together, a troubled look on his face. "This isn't...what I wanted. It's not what either of us wanted."

"What did you want?" you ask. Your voice is soft and low. "When we were kids. When we first met. What did you want?"

"You know the answer to that," he says.

"Tell me," you press.

"I wanted...more," he answers, his tone careful, measured. "I wanted us to be more than friends. More than...this."

"So did I," you admit.

"I know."

"Do you?"

"I hoped," he confesses. His eyes meet yours, and his mouth twitches, his lips pulling into a grim smile. "I hoped for a lot of things."

"Me too," you whisper.

"Things have changed," he continues. "I know that. I understand that. You're not the same person. And neither am I."

"No, we're not," you agree, and a part of you is sad, a bittersweet ache forming in your chest. "We're not the same. And I think it’s time we stopped pretending otherwise."

"I suppose it is," he concedes quietly.

The two of you are silent, neither of you speaking, neither of you wanting to break the spell, the fragile moment. The bond between the two of you hums, the energy vibrating, and you can feel his emotions, the conflicting feelings, the war raging within him. You wonder if he can sense yours. If he can feel the pain and sorrow and longing that's swirling through you.

After a moment, Obi-Wan clears his throat and runs a hand over his hair, straightening himself. He steps back, putting some space between the two of you, and he crosses his arms, his eyes meeting yours.

"You'll be careful," he states.

"I will," you promise.

"And if anything happens—"

"You'll be the first person I call," you finish.

He nods and looks away from you, his eyes finding the ground. His gaze falls to Yaddle's saber, his forehead creasing, a hint of worry flitting across his face. He stares at it for a long moment, lost in thought, and when he looks up again, his expression is resigned.

“Have you heard from Rex?" he asks, and his voice is light, his tone casual. It does nothing to assuage the sudden spike of anxiety in your chest.

"What?"

"Rex," Obi-Wan repeats. He turns slightly, facing you. "He cornered me after a briefing yesterday. Asked if I'd heard from you. He seemed very concerned. About you.”

"Oh," you mumble, and you glance down, your cheeks burning. You fiddle with your lightsaber, avoiding his gaze. "Yeah, um, no. I haven't talked to him. Not since the diner."

"Really?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm, and your stomach flips, a lump forming in your throat. "That's surprising. You seemed quite...cozy, when I called on you."

"We were just talking," you say, and it's not a lie, not really, but the words sound weak, even to your own ears. "He...he knows about Yaddle.”

"I'm not surprised," he murmurs. "He was quite upset. It was almost amusing, watching him try to act professional and hide his concern." He pauses and gives you a pointed look, his eyebrow arching, his tone teasing. "You're lucky I didn't tell him about your propensity for running away."

"Lucky," you repeat weakly. "What did you tell him? About me. About what happened."

"Nothing," he replies. His eyebrows rise, and he shrugs, letting out a small laugh. “I told him you would speak with him when you were ready. Why? Did you want me to say something else?"

"No," you say quickly, and his smile widens, a knowing glint in his eye. You bite your lip, a sigh escaping you. "I mean, it's not that I don't...it's not that I wouldn't want..." You trail off, frustrated, and your shoulders slump. “He's worried about me. I get it. It's just...not necessary. That's all."

Obi-Wan stares at you for a long moment, studying you, his eyes narrowed. After a minute, his face softens, and he gives you a wry smile and shakes his head.

"You're an idiot," he declares, and you scowl, your mouth opening to argue, but he waves a hand, cutting you off before you can start. "Don't even bother. It's pointless. You know I'm right."

"I'm not—"

"If there's anything I've learned in all the years I've known you, it's that you are the most stubborn, single-minded, foolish individual I've ever had the displeasure of meeting," he says flatly. "It's exhausting, being around you sometimes."

"Gee, thanks," you mumble.

"And, yet, despite your many, many flaws, you have the uncanny ability to draw people to you," he continues. His gaze meets yours, his expression serious, and his tone turns thoughtful. "You've always had that. Even as a youngling, before the incident, you were charismatic, charming, and people gravitated toward you. You could make anyone like you. And I think it's the reason you have so many people that care about you. Including me."

"Obi-Wan—"

"What I'm trying to say," he interrupts, his voice rising, "is that I know Rex cares about you. Very much. That man is completely enamored by you, and has been for a long time. Anyone can see it. Anyone except you."

"That's not true," you argue weakly, but it's a lie, and the both of you know it.

"It is," Obi-Wan retorts. He shrugs, and he glances over his shoulder, checking the hall. When he speaks again, his voice is lowered. "You should talk to him. Before you leave. You might not get another chance."

"Why would I...I don't..." you stammer, and your hands fidget, twisting in front of you. “You know why I can’t—why it can't...why I can't do that. You know."

"I do. But, maybe that doesn't matter," he says. His eyes meet yours, and a sad smile forms. "Don't forget, we're in a war. Anything could happen. You should be happy while you can."

"Obi-Wan," you mutter, your tone scolding.

"You should talk to him," he repeats. His gaze moves, scanning your rooms, and he nods toward your bags, his voice becoming softer. "While you still have a chance. Take it. While you can."

"You're a romantic," you joke, and he laughs.

"So, they say," he replies. He sighs, and his expression shifts, growing serious. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Yeah, I'm set," you nod.

"Then, may the Force be with you," he murmurs. He looks at you one last time, and then turns, heading for the door.

You watch him walk away, a heavy feeling settling in your chest, and you open your mouth, about to call after him. To tell him that you'll miss him. That he's been the best friend you've ever had. That you don't know what you'll do without him. That you wish things could be different.

But, you don't.

The door opens, and he walks through it, disappearing down the hall. The bond between the two of you flickers, and a dull ache forms in your stomach, spreading outward. It feels strange, like an emptiness. A hollowness. You take a deep breath and exhale, pushing the feelings aside, and the ache dissipates, the pain fading.

You're not sure what you expected. This is how things are between the two of you. Maybe this is how it should be. Maybe this is what's best.

You're not sure. But, a part of you knows it's better this way. That, as much as you care about him, as much as he cares about you, the two of you have come to an impasse. He can't help you. You can't help him. And trying is only going to hurt the both of you.

You take a deep breath and let out a long sigh. Your eyes fall on Yaddle’s lightsaber, the metal glinting in the dim light.

Tomorrow, you'll pick it up, and you'll leave. You'll go back out into the field. Into battle. To save lives. To win the war. It's a noble goal. Something worth fighting for.

Maybe the Council was right. Maybe this is what's best. What's right. Maybe this is what's needed. What the Republic needs.

Maybe.

You can only hope.

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[ricadiazarts]

i was obsessed with Saber Marionette when I was 9! I rewatched it recently and I definitely picked up my love for chunky shoes and oversized beads, bells and bows from this show. I hope this triggers some deep core memories for some people...

[1-have-no-idea]

But hate is so close to love

(Image not mine :))

authors note: this is the fic I’ve been talking about! Finally something long! Let me know what y’all think, this is my first time ever writing something really ‘long’, apologies for the wonky spacing, kinda rushed-

Character(s): Maul, fem! reader

Genre: angst, romantic, comfort

Overview: you, being a civilian that Maul originally took with him to be an ‘example’, aka, killing you, but at the last second, takes interest in you because he can use you. You made a wonderful slave. But slave’s aren’t supposed to forgive their captor, much less love them. Sith couldn’t love. Maul couldn’t love. He couldn’t care less about you. So why did it scare him so much that one day, you’d realize how bad he was for you and leave him?

Warning(s): death, mentions of torture, starvation, dehydration, cruelty, fear, bleeding heart reader, slavery, slight age-gap (reader is implied to be somewhere in her early twenties, Maul is around mid-thirties), corruption, Stockholm syndrome (?), violence, panic attacks, abandonment, manipulation (?), degradation

6519 words

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The dust under you was smearing your pants a rust-brown. You felt a bead of sweat on your temple slowly run down your face, the faint heat of a lightsaber near your face. It burnt your skin, felt as if you were on the planet of Tatooine in the middle of the day. An understatement of a testament of how scorching it really was if it made contact with your flesh. You kept your eyes trained on the saber, the one casting a red glow upon your face. The one wielding the lightsaber was none other than one of the most infamous Nightbrother’s, Darth Maul himself. His face held no emotion other than dispassion as he held the lightsaber close to your face, fiery yellow eyes boring into your own.

Oh, you knew this was a bad idea! You should’ve never hijacked that ship, should’ve stayed at home and not have letten your curiosity take over you! ‘Curiosity killed the loth cat’ wasn’t just a saying, you realized. You just wanted to get off your own planet and explore a new one, that was all! But of course you just happened to crash into one of the most godforsaken ones, Dathomir. Everyone warned you of the planet. Apparently, the dark side of the force resided there strongly, and the residents who lived there were… not exactly the most welcoming. And guess what? Young and dumb you left your own planet out of curiosity, and now young and dumb you were going to be beheaded while down on your knees from a powerful Sith everyone feared. You didn’t know whether to start sobbing and begging for your life, or maybe in the heat of the moment, you could roll away and make a run for it.

…No, you knew that both of those would be futile. Maul could sense your fear, your anxiety. Could see it in those doe eyes peering up at him nervously. He almost pitied how pathetic you looked, but honestly, he couldn’t care less. It irritated him how weak and soft you looked. Didn’t you know Dathomir was filled with ruthless savages who wouldn’t think twice about taking advantage of a dumb thing like you? Obviously not. You seemed a bit airheaded to him.

“You’re a daft one, aren’t you?” The tattooed Dathomirian crooned down at you, cocking his head to the side slightly. Excuse him? He then sighed, raising his lightsaber, holding it taut and ready to strike at you without any mercy. Immediately, a choked gasp left you, and your eyes widened in horror, before, without thinking, you flung yourself onto the dust-covered ground before him. Bowing now. Like you were kneeling at an altar, your hands moving into a pleading position. How pathetic.

“Wait, w-wait-!” You stammered, lifting your eyes to look up at him from your place on the ground. “Please don’t kill me, I’ll do anything!” Wow, didn’t that come out desperate? This was cliche. “I- I know that sounds super desperate and cliche, but honestly, I don’t really care–” bold for someone who was face to face with a Sith. “You can just take me in, and I’ll- I dunno- I can, uhm, I can-” a click of his tongue was your breaking point, and just before he could bring down his weapon and plunge it into you, you flinched and shut your eyes tightly in fear. “I’ll be your slave-!” You cried out desperately, bracing yourself for the hot pain to tear through your flesh, but it never came. Your heart was banging against your ribcage, and cold sweat dripped down your body, eyes clenched so tightly you started to feel a tad lightheaded. Then, a marred hand came down and rooted itself in your hair, before tugging you up so you were back sitting up straight. A small yelp left you at the action.

“...Look at me, girl. Open your eyes.” Maul demanded, and you complied, opening your eyes to stare at him warily. The Sith regarded you intensely, sizing you up, a hint of interest present on his stone cold face. “My slave? For your life, in return, you’d agree to be my slave? A slave to a Sith?” He sneered, tone almost sardonic. Like he found the idea funny. In all honesty, being a slave to a Sith was worse than death. Regardless, however, you bobbed your head up and down, swallowing down your fear and nervousness. “Yes sir,” you agreed in a shaky murmur. He looked you up and down once more, before a twisted grin of cruelness split on his lips. “I believe that can be arranged.” He droned, before tugging you up on your feet by your hair.

The good thing was that you escaped partially unscathed with your life. The bad thing? Your life was in the hands of Darth Maul himself, and he didn’t come with the title ‘gentle.’ And you were a fragile little thing.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Your hands were worked raw at this point. Your body aches everywhere, and you haven't slept a wink ever since Maul took you in. He was high maintenance. Your tasks were to fix his ship whenever he spotted something wrong with it, to clean every nook and cranny inside of it too, he wanted you to take apart his lightsaber, clean it, and then piece it back together. With no safety gear, mind you. The tasks were dangerous as they were tedious and difficult. But you knew better than to complain. You wouldn’t. If this was your life from now on, then so be it.

He didn’t really talk to you. Not unless it was about your chores. “Have you finished the floors, pet?” He’d ask, giving you a condescending smile. And you’d nod, and straighten your back, and it’d give a small pop. “Good. Now, do the windows, I need you to make the beds and sweep, and do not forget to make the bunks and clean all the rooms.” He’d remind you, despite it being the unholy hours of the morning and you’ve been awake the entire day and night before.

Weeks passed, and weeks turned into months with him. You had gotten used to barely getting any sleep, you were used to not eating that much, not needing him to tell you what he wanted and when he wanted it. You had completely memorized everything.

As of late, however, your tasks have become well… more, domestic. Maul had entrusted you with cooking his meals, with his eyes on you of course, just so you didn’t try to sneak anything in it, you started to wash his robes, he liked when you filed his nails and his horns from time to time. It confused you, why your tasks were getting easier and less harsh each day. It was as if he was… giving you a break, for your weary body. But then he started to feed you, too. Allowed you to eat and sleep, to regain your nutrition. A part of you thought that maybe it was a trick, to give you a false sense of security. But another part, a more trusting and altruistic part, believed that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t all that of a sadistic Sith that most people believed him to be. You knew that was just your heart talking, not your mind. He didn’t care. Not one bit.

And that’s when you started to realize. This Sith, this Nightbrother, Darth Maul, was starting to lower his guard around you. It made sense, really. You weren’t a Separatist or one of the Republic. Just a citizen. A mere stranger on the side-lines. You posed no threat. That’s why you were here currently, his hand in yours as you delicately held his fingers while filing down his nails. Sharp, how he liked them, but short. He insisted that when he grew his nails out, although it was beneficial, he didn’t like the grime that collected underneath. He sat on his throne, legs spread, one bent at the knee with his foot on the seat, and the other down on the floor. His eyes were downcast, flickering across the words in his book. You were sat next to the arm of his chair, only sometimes glancing up to look up at him or peeking at his book. His expression was soft, softer than it ever really was. He always had that look while reading. Where the scrunch of his nose smoothed out, the way the corners of his lips that were usually naturally tugged down evened out into a soft line, and his eyes were less clouded over.

“It’s rude to stare, pet.” Oh. Immediately, you snapped out of your daze, clearing your throat. “Sorry.” You mumbled, eyes falling back down to his nails. He didn’t look up at you when he said that, still reading, but once you looked back down, his eyes slowly fixed on you. A soft huff left from his nostrils, and he looked to where your small hands were on his. Your soft palm against his rough one, the way you held his fingers so gently. It made him sick. Like he wanted to curl away from you. But it also made him want to relax. He then resumed to look back at his book, but not before posing a question. “...would you like to know what I am reading, girl?” He asked softly. He always was soft-spoken towards you. At least, nowadays. Scaring you and putting fear in you became less entertaining for him. You hummed and stared up at him quizzically, before nodding shyly. As if you were flustered at his offer. Another huff. “I am reading poetry. I find it most interesting… I enjoy how it is like a puzzle. Something to figure out. Yet, the feeling is expressed so vividly and clearly. It is just so easily looked over sometimes.” He explained in a quiet voice. You were surprised at how open and attentive he was to the book, and how pleased he seemed to be to share it with you.

The life of a Sith was as dangerous as it was evil. The one thing that people never mentioned about taking that path, however, was how lonely it was.

“You like poetry, Maul?” You questioned, tilting your head a little while he blew on his fingers to rid of the dust that was his keratin. He gave a small hum of agreement. “I do. Very much so.” He affirmed. And then you gave him a faint smile, a quirk of your lips, and in return, his expression turned a little wary. “Me too,” you admitted. That made Maul relax once more. It was silent for a moment, before he spoke up. “If you would like, I could read out loud to you.” He offered. That made you pause, a look of surprise growing on your face, before you nodded, giving him another smile.

“Yes, please.”

When he opened his mouth and started reading out loud, you tried to focus on his words, you really did, but you couldn’t help but be distracted, watching how his lips moved to form his words, how his voice was so smooth. He was softer. He was less violent towards you. He was reading to you. The way your heartbeat quickened is where you started to slowly become more aware of your thoughts. And also became aware of what was happening.

No. No, that couldn’t be, he was your captor! You should hate him! …So why did you feel so safe with him? Why did he make you smile? Why did he make you care? You shouldn’t care for him, not when he almost took your life. But he didn’t, your heart cried out. He’s lonely, your heart defended. There’s a reason for that, your mind retorted. He’s a Sith. Sith can’t love. He can’t love. So your heart and your mind were at war with each other, and you yourself were gazing at Maul in uncertainty. In the end, your heart won. He can be good. I know he can.

You couldn’t fix him, no. But you could at least try to be there for him.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Today, Maul came back to the temple tense. There were multiple lines on his forehead from frowning, his breathing was coming out in harsh huffs, and his lips were twisted into a nasty frown. He was muttering under his breath, words quick and indecipherable. He was rambling incoherently under his breath, before collapsing on his throne, one hand moved to his head, fingers moving to grip ahold of one of his horns, while the other slid down to cup at his jaw, before holding the side of his neck. He was hunched over, slightly rocking back and forth in his chair.

You exited your chambers to greet him when you heard him come back, but seeing him break down like this made your heart fall to your stomach. “Maul-?” You called out in concern, padding to his side quickly, brows furrowed in concern and eyes showing nothing but care and worry. “What’s wrong-?” You tried asking, but he just continued to whisper under his breath. He looked like he couldn’t even see you. Slowly, in confusion, you sank down into a crouch. “...Maul?”

When he didn’t answer, you carefully reached out a hand to him. Your finger brushed against his wrist. Brushing against his wrist gently, a feather-light touch. Barely, but that’s all he needed. Like a spider when it feels that single movement in its web, he lunged forwards to you, shoving you off balance.

You yelped in shock, being shoved off balance and almost tumbling backwards, before feeling your throat tighten. Your air was being cut off, and there seemed to be some invisible pressure around your neck that lifted you off your feet to where you hovered above the ground. You let out a strangled cry of his name, hands moving to claw at your throat despite nothing being there. He walked toward you, and each step he took, you were pushed backwards by the force, his lips twisted into a snarl, teeth bared and right hand extended with his palm facing towards you. He growled at you, a guttural sound, and it sounded so pained. He looked at you as if he didn’t know you. Your lips trembled, and you felt yourself getting lightheaded. “Maul—” you gasped out.

“You’re– ack– you’re hurting me—”

And just like that, all that fear and hate and anger left his eyes, leaving a confused awareness. His arm dropped, and he took a shuddering breath as he fell to the floor, choking and gasping for air, gulping it down greedily. Your hand moved to gently prod at your throat that felt bruised now, eyes moving to look up at him in a fearful and confused question. A hint of regret and shame flickered in yellow orbs, but as quickly as it was put there, it left. A frustrated shout left him, and he whipped away from you, fleeing the temple quickly, leaving you alone on the floor confused and hurt.

Questions flooded your mind. The most prominent one being why? Why would he do that? Why’d that happen? Why’d he leave? Or, what, happened?

Maul himself had to leave the temple. Move outside and just take a walk, kicking up the sand beneath his boots. That simple brush of your fingertips to his wrist made him want to hide. And when he didn’t want to hide, he wanted to bite. Words could not explain how when you made contact with his skin, it burned. Made him recoil away from you, but Sith do not recoil and curl away, no, they fight. So that’s exactly what he did.

It was encouraged, you should’ve known your place and never decided to get close to him in the first place, it was your fault. You were nothing but his slave, that was it. …So why did he feel bad? Why did he have that sudden sting in not one, but all three of his hearts? He was growing too soft. That was the problem. He was actually starting to relax around you.

Maul gritted his teeth in anger, head shaking in disbelief. This was all a part of your plan, wasn’t it? You were tricking him– yes, that was it! You were trying to trick him to lower his guard around you, so you could take advantage of him! That was the only reason. That made the Zabrak let out a deep sigh of relief. Yes, that was it. You were a small, dumb thing, but Maul had to applaud you for being so bold and more cunning than he gave you credit for.

…Yet, at the same time, he had entrusted you with cooking for him, even going as far to not watch you. If you had planned to escape him, wouldn’t you have tried to poison him the moment he took his gaze off you? Maybe kill him in his sleep? You could’ve impaled him whenever you desired while filing his horns, but you never did. You weren’t malicious, not one bit. Not even violent. Maul almost thought that maybe you were incapable of feeling such things as hatred or anger. You couldn’t harm a fly. Literally. He’s witnessed it. Despite flinching and almost running away when you first saw it, it didn’t stop you from running around in the temple trying to catch it inside your cupped hands before releasing it outside. The entire time, he had watched with a slightly baffled expression, eyes wide and brow ridges furrowed, once quirked up with parted lips.

He spared you from the fact that the minute you released the small insect outside and walked away from the window it got eaten by a small reptile. He’d hate for you to be whining about it, he could imagine how much of a nuisance that’d be.

Or maybe he was sparing himself the fact that he didn’t tell you because he didn’t want you to be upset about it.

That made Maul freeze where he was sitting atop of a small boulder, eyes widening. He couldn’t deny that he enjoyed having your presence around. He enjoyed you. He liked how you would let him read to you, how you would cater to him so gently, how you were softening around him. You were making him feel something.

You made him feel less of a burden on his shoulders. Released some of that darkness inside of him. You made him feel warm, soft. And Maul, oh, he hated that. He hated the way you made him feel. Maybe it was just temporary, though. It would pass, surely.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

When Maul got home that night, he was quiet. He ignored you for the first couple of hours, not sure how to interact with you after his actions. You would glance at him in concern, not fear. You were worried, he could see that. He hated how you didn’t look at him in fear like how you should, he just strangled you! It annoyed him, made him feel that same weird pang in his chest, but he didn’t say anything. Neither did you, not wanting to set him off again. That silence lasted until when you were about to retire into your chambers. Before you could, though, Maul called after you.

“Pet.”

Your head perked up and you looked over to him, a small nervous look on your face which made him want to grimace. He pointed to the space in front of him, looking at you expectantly. “Come here.” He demanded. Tentatively, you approached him, until you stood in front of him while he sat. The Nightbrother made a soft grunt, before beckoning you even more down. “Kneel. I do not bite.” He said in a tone of annoyance. Liar.

However, you cooperated, moving down on one knee so you were looking up at him, his knees on either side of your face. With a curled finger, he made you sit up slightly, before leaning down so he was face to face with you. His eyes flickered down to your throat, seeing the slight bruising there and redness of where all the pressure had been. Then, silently, he reached inside of his robes and pulled out a thick plant, (that he collected on his way back to the temple), breaking it in half while keeping his eyes on your neck. A slimy string connected the two broken halves, but Maul made no movement to swipe it up. Instead, with the tip of his finger, his claw poking into the supple and sensitive flesh of your throat, he tilted your face up so your throat was bared to him. He peeled the plant of its skin, only the clear and slimy flesh left, before scraping the gooey slick off it, and picking it up. It dripped from his hands, and he placed the cool slimy gel on the bruises. It was wet, and kissed your skin, dribbling down and sending a shudder down your spine from the coolness. Once he was done applying it, he looked at his now slimy and sticky hands distastefully, and wiped them on his pants legs. But then he pulled his lightsaber out, igniting it. Immediately, you flinched backwards, brows knitting together, but Maul stopped with you by placing a firm hand on your shoulder.

“Calm yourself, star,” oh, that was a new one. You couldn’t help the way it made your heart flutter. You wondered why he decided to call you that. “I have no intention of killing you. I would’ve done so already if I did.” He reassured, if you can even call it that, just letting the lightsaber hover near your skin so the heat of the saber could warm the area. “Oh.” You relaxed, breath evening out. “Heat helps get rid of bruises.” He explained, and you nodded. He was taking care of you, you realized. It was a silent apology. A way to make up for it.

Was it bad that it made you love him even more?

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

The next couple of weeks passed by quickly. You were growing bolder each day. Maul soon came to the realization that if he got you talking, you’d never shut up. You were treating him like a friend. And with the title of friend, comes the affection. In the beginning, you’d be scared about it. Maybe an accidental brush against him, and he would immediately whip towards you, teeth bared and snarling at you. A silent but expressive and aggressive don’t touch me.

You didn’t listen, though. Not to purposefully try him, no, sometimes it really was an accident, and others you just weren’t really thinking about it. Soon, snarls and growls turned into flinches and grimaces, until it turned into tensing, and now, he would just let it happen. He wouldn’t shove you away. He would just glance at where you were touching, and move on with whatever he was doing. That made you happy. He was comfortable around you. And that made you happy. You know what else it made you? Made you feel closer to him even more.

There was no use in hiding how your relationship with the Sith was definitely not fearful like how it was in the beginning, and your feelings definitely weren’t what a ‘slave’ should be feeling. Of course, you were ashamed of it at first, but after realizing he really wasn’t a bad person, and just did many bad things, it made you accept it. He was hurt, and he was angry and hateful. And he was lonely.

In return, it was no secret how Maul was softening up to you too. Allowing your touches, listening to you talk, he even smiled at you. Multiple times. Not those mean ones either, a genuine smile. Not to mention the couple of more sweet terms of endearment that escaped his lips whenever he really was relaxed and not thinking.

You supposed that’s what led you here, now. It was dark outside, all the close by planets and stars visible from where you and Maul sat. He had found you stargazing, and decided to join you. He didn’t quite understand why you were so enthralled by them when it’s something you see everyday, but you were like that. You just loved life. He almost envied you, because he didn’t understand it.

“I don’t understand why you look up there like it isn’t something you see everyday.” He commented suddenly, making you let out a soft chuckle.

“They’re pretty. I just can’t get enough of it.” You responded with a shrug, and that made an amused hum leave him. “You never fail to confuse me.” He muttered under your breath, and you turned to smile at him. “But ain’t that the nice part? Means you’ll always be surprised by me, and it’s like a big puzzle. You like puzzles, Maul.” He sighed deeply, and shook his head. “I resent you, sometimes.” He said, but it was a lie. He didn’t mean that.

But it made your smile soften, and your heart tighten.

“I love you.”

And those words escaped you before you could stop them. Maul froze, and so did you. You were about to stammer out an excuse, but it was far too late. Maul didn’t look at you, and you couldn’t tell whether he was angry or shocked.

“...You what?” He whispered. You could lie, but there was no point in that. He’s already heard you, and there was no going back now. Swallowing, and clenching your hands, you took a deep breath, before repeating yourself. “I… I love you.” You said in a hushed tone. And he tensed, claws digging into his pants legs. “No, you don’t.” A whisper.

“What-? Yes, I do—”

“No, you don’t.” More firmer this time. Okay, now you weren’t scared, you were just concerned. Why was he denying this? “Maul, I do–”

“No, you don’t!” He finally shouted, standing up and seething at you, shaking his head. “You don’t love me! You don’t, you don’t, you don’t!” He screamed at you in fury, trembling. You looked at him with hurt and disbelief, getting up with him, but as you did, he started to pace away from you back to the temple. “Maul, no! Why-? What do you mean-?” You questioned, not understanding why he was so upset with you as you ran after him. But then, a guttural growl which borderlined a gritted noise of pain escaped his throat, and he turned around and shoved you to the floor, chest heaving. “Do not speak.” He spat out venomously. “I’ve heard enough.”

And that was the last thing he said to you before disappearing from the temple, slamming the doors shut as he left you. You laid there on the floor, bewildered, before standing up on shaky legs and stumbling to open them. “Maul-?” You called out, eyes flickering around to find any sign of where he went, but you found none. “Maul! I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you!” You cried out, hoping that maybe he’d come back if he heard you. “Please come back!” And yet he never did. The only response you got was some chitters of the nightlife and a small breeze that made you feel even colder.

The next few days, you were left at the temple alone. You’d frequently look back towards the doors whenever you heard the slightest noise from outside, hoping that maybe it was Maul returning just like how he always does, but it was always just the wind or a little critter. You’d wake up early in the mornings to go and check his quarters only to find yourself being disappointed that he didn’t decide to come back the night before, and during the evenings, you’d still cook food for two despite it just being you, and unsure of what to do with the leftovers afterwards, and at night? That was the worst. You would move to sit outside of the temple, on its stairs, waiting for him to come home, or at least, what felt like home. Not anymore. Not without him in it.

This cycle repeated itself over and over again, every day, with no trace of him. At this point, you were starting to actually believe he had… abandoned you. All because you said, ‘I love you?’ You guessed so.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Finally, after days of desertion, he returned. You were overjoyed, bounding up to him and going in for a hug, which he begrudgingly accepted but stayed silent nonetheless. You cooked for the both of you and tended to him eagerly, but the both of you never dared mention your little confession. Thankfully, at least he still accepted your affection. So it wasn’t like you guys had to start back at base one. In brutal honesty, ever since that happened, you felt as if you had to start walking on eggshells whenever around him. Anything could set him off, and you didn’t want that. Not after what you had seen, what he did. You didn’t want that.

Though, you did recognize that ever since he came back, he was more… tender, if you could put it that way. He read to you more often, and invited you to sit with him whenever he sat somewhere. So it wasn’t all that bad. And you started to get more comfortable with him again, and vice versa.

And soon that led to the both of you sleeping in the same bed.

In all honesty, you didn’t know what you guys were. Definitely not just acquaintances, and you definitely weren’t just a slave to him, you were something more, but what? It was quite obvious you were harboring a huge affection for him, with him harboring an affection towards you, but he never brought it up. So neither did you. But, you’d suppose you’d go under the title of lovers, finally. Or, well, partial lovers. He’d still have his moments, and push you away, and sure, it hurt, but you knew not to take it to heart. He was still getting used to it. So, it wasn’t that much of a surprise when he suddenly was faced away from you, the breakfast that you made him, that he asked for shoved away from him, a cold look of disdain on his face.

Oh. Okay.

“Are you not… hungry, anymore?” You asked quietly. The Sith shook his head, lips twisting as he took a deep breath in. “I don’t want it.” He stated. Your fingers curled into your palms nervously and you nodded. “Do you want me to save it just in case you do feel hungry later—?” “Get rid of it. I don’t want it.” He repeated, more firmly this time, hardening his stare to you. Immediately, you grabbed his plate, a small noise of agreement leaving you as you sighed softly. Once you left the room, Maul settled back in the bed, trying to relax, but seeing that disappointed and tired look on your face hurt him. He knew it was hard for you. He knew you didn’t deserve this. Not in the slightest.

Truth be told, Maul knew exactly how he was affecting you. During the night, when you thought you were being quiet and careful of not waking him, he could hear the small sniffles escaping you and the shaking of your shoulders. He saw how your face would fall when you noticed how he was switching up again. He could feel your hurt. And he’s never hated himself more.

Curling in on himself, Maul buried his face into his hands. You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve him. He didn’t deserve you. His hearts tightened, and his hands gripped his sides tightly, claws most likely digging into his tattooed flesh. He didn’t deserve you.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

“Oh, no, hey, hey, hey, Maul…” You called out his name softly, gently pulling him to you and cradling him to your chest as sobs wracked his body. Ugly sobs. He clung to you tightly as he cried. He was definitely having one of his moments. “It’s okay, s’okay, I’m here, s’okay…” you comforted, rocking him soothingly. He seemed like nothing more than a child who was lost and had no idea what he was doing while in his arms.

“It’s not okay, it’s not okay, not okay, never okay–” he uttered under his breath over and over again, voice thick with tears and trembling. You cooed to him and held him even closer to you. “It is,” you assured. “We’re okay.” And not knowing what else to say, you said the same words he never echoed back, the ones that made him shove you away and shut down.

“I love you.”

He froze in your arms, sobs dying down, but he didn’t shove you away or shut down like usual. “...It’ll pass.” He responded quietly. Your heart broke for the broken Sith, and you shook your head. “No, it won’t. I love you, Maul. I do.”

“You don’t. You shouldn’t.”

“But I do.”

“Why?” He finally asked, pulling away from you with puffy and teary eyes, nose scrunched up and lips twisted into a frown. “Why do you love someone like me? I tortured you. I almost killed you. I’ve abandoned you. You shouldn’t love me.” He explained, tone slowly evening out.

“I’ve forgiven that. I’ve forgiven all of that-” you responded, but he cut you off, voice almost flat.

“I hate you.”

…What?

Your eyes widened, and your heart dropped to your stomach. Surely not, right? He didn’t mean that. Maybe he– maybe you misheard him?

“I hate you.” He repeated, voice hollow. “I hate how caring you are. I hate how you treat me so gently. I hate how you act. I hate that you love me. I hate that I care for you. I hate that you make me feel so bad. I hate you.”

Oh, but hate is so close to love.

“You should just leave.” He stated, not even batting an eye at his own words. You forced back the tears that threatened to prick at your eyes and shook your head. “You— you don’t mean that. You’re just saying that-” you basically tried to convince yourself, eyes tracing his face for any lie or deceit to tell you that he didn’t mean it. You couldn’t find anything. His face was blank. Like he was on autopilot or something.

And he was. Right now, it was his insecurity talking. In reality, what he wanted to say was I’m sorry you have to deal with me. What he meant when he said he hated you was that he loved you. He was angry with you because you weren’t angry with him. He wanted you to hurt him, yell at him, get mad, because that’s how he felt for himself. He just didn’t understand why you didn’t feel the same way. You were the victim after all. He didn’t want to taint you any more than he already has. You were a young thing, a sweet thing. And Maul was an old, rugged, and cruel and unfeeling, broken bastard. He couldn’t burden you with that.

“Just leave!” He finally shouted. “I don’t want you here! It was better when you were gone– I was better off without you!” He screamed at you, trying to push you away, because he loved you. It was for your own good.

Slowly, you let go of him, hurt written all over your face. You looked as if you didn’t know what to do, you didn’t. Because how are you supposed to respond to that when it was the man whom you loved yelling it at you? But he said it’d be better, right? That he rather that? So, swallowing dryly, you gave a tiny, imperceivable nod and slid away from him.

Oh.

Oh- you were actually leaving-?!

He’d pushed you too far this time, he was too mean, he said too much–

“W-wait, where are you going?” He asked, sitting up and looking at you with wide eyes. “Leaving.” You responded quietly, standing up from the bed, and he immediately grabbed for your wrist, pulling you back. “I didn’t mean it, I swear, I didn’t–” he started to ramble, and you tried tearing yourself from his grip.

“Let me go, Maul! You can’t just take that back, you’ve already said what you said, now let me go-!” He should, shouldn’t he? He didn’t deserve you, you didn’t deserve him, he was being selfish. But couldn’t he? Couldn’t he be selfish? Just this once? He’d already lost so much. He couldn’t lose you too. Not from over those stupid, ugly words that left his lips in a fit of insecurity.

Holding you to him, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, embracing you to him like he was losing you, because he was. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, darling, please-” he pleaded, feeling you writhing against him and hearing your protests. It absolutely broke his hearts. As if to make up for it and convey silent apologies, he started pressing soft and fluttering kisses to the skin of your shoulder and neck in whispered apologies, mumbling his regret and shame through each kiss.

“Maul, please.” You finally choked out, falling limp against him and just weakly pressing your palms to his chest. “You don’t love me, you don’t. Let me leave.” You begged, and he shook his head, nuzzling into you even more and taking a shuddering breath. “No, no, that’s not true, darling, I- I do– I just- you don’t deserve me, I don’t deserve you, and I was just hurting you and I–”

It was all coming out now. The guilt. The pain. The insecurity. The self-loathing. The love.

Your eyes slowly softened, and you relaxed against him, understanding now. “I love you.” He finally choked out, cupping your face in his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it before, that I couldn’t, but know now, I love you. I’ve never hated you. I don’t. And by the Force, I don’t want you to leave. I don’t.”

And you cried. You cried in his arms, like the many times he cried in yours. And he pressed your foreheads together, cradling you like you were glass while pressing kisses to your face to prove to you he really was telling you the truth. Because nothing scared him more than the thought of losing you.

After all, hate is so close to love.

[wickedwitchofthegalaxy]

☞𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒞𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈 𝑅𝑒𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒☜︎

☠︎ 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝓌𝑜: 𝑅𝒾𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 ☠︎

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: 𝑨𝒏𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏(𝑪𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒔)𝑿 𝑭𝒆𝒎𝑷𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒏!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: Physiological Manipulation, Mature Themes, Mentions of Past Events

𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 5.3K

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: This chapter teeters on the edge of transformation, where the promise of something greater begins to feel more like a curse than a gift.

𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: Soooo this was totally unplanned but I thought I’d give it a go and see how y'all felt about continuing this storyline and possibly expanding it. Let me know what you think!

As always, banners done by @cafekitsune !

Enjoy 🖤

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the training room as you wiped your sweat-drenched face off. The room was crowded, more than usual, as trainees gathered in small groups, chatting quietly as they ran through drills.

“Come on, I didn’t even hit you!” Your friend, Lex, called from across the mat, her grin wide as she swung her training saber, trying her best to make the saber move effortlessly. Trying, being the hint word.

“Lex, you’re a maniac.” Your other friend, Abby, calls out from your side, her face also covered in beads of sweat. She takes deep, dramatic breaths, her back hunched over and hands on her knees as her head falls.

You gave her shoulder a gentle nudge as you passed her, stepping onto the mat.

“You’re getting more and more cocky, Lex. It’s actually becoming quite toxic.” You joke, swinging your own saber around in a quick, fluid motion, mimicking what Lex was attempting to do.

Lex scoffs, watching the way you swiftly twisted the saber in your hand before she blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Toxic? Me? I’m the least toxic person here. I’m like... the chamomile tea of this group.”

“Chamomile tea?” Abby repeats, arching a brow as she dusts off her robes. “Lex, you’re more like... a bottle of spice syrup someone accidentally knocked over into their drink. Chaotic and hard to swallow.”

“Wow, rude,” Lex shoots back, feigning offense as she takes a mock swing in Abby’s direction. “But that was three years ago. If I was so toxic, wouldn’t I have caused more… I don’t know… damage?”

Abby sidesteps easily, throwing her arms wide. “If we’re talking about damage, I’d like to remind you of the time you thought it’d be a great idea to duel Master Purn to ‘test his reflexes.’”

Lex cackles, the sound sharp and unrepentant. “In my defense, his reflexes needed testing. How was I supposed to know he’d use the Force to flip me into the meditation pool?”

You grin, sliding into your own stance and raising your saber, bringing Lex’s attention back to you. “I don’t know, maybe because he’s a Master and you’re... well, you?”

Lex points her saber at you, her grin widening. “Bold talk for someone who got ‘accidentally’ locked in the supply closet last week. Who was behind that again?”

“Oh, definitely an accident,” Abby threw over her shoulder as she walked around the edges of the mat, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “Totally not orchestrated by someone who thought it’d be hilarious.”

Lex shrugs, clearly unbothered as you both start circling. “Hey, you needed some alone time to reflect. Consider it... a gift.”

You roll your eyes. “Some gift. I was in there so long I memorized the Jedi Code backward.”

“Wow,” Abby says, clapping her hands slowly. “A true scholar emerges. Next thing we know, you’ll be reciting Master Purn’s lectures for fun.”

“Okay, let’s not go that far.” You reply, spinning your saber before faking a quick step towards Lex. She takes the bait and quickly steps back, giving you a small look when she recovers. You grin as you continue, “At least I didn’t blow up the training dummies during practice.”

Lex holds up a hand. “Hey, those dummies had it coming. I was innovating.”

“You overloaded the power cells,” Abby says flatly. “They exploded.”

Lex lunges at you, her saber coming down in a wide arc. You block it easily, the clash of the sabers sending a soft clunk echoing through the room. You push back, stepping into her space as you twist your wrist, forcing her saber downward.

“Come on, Lex, who taught you that move?” you taunt, grinning as she huffs in frustration.

“Give me a minute!” Lex retorts, stepping back and resetting her stance. “I’m just warming up.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” you reply, glancing at Abby, who’s watching with an amused expression.

“Admit it—you’d miss me if I wasn’t here to spice things up.” Lex adds, beginning the circling again.

You follow her lead, as Abby sighs dramatically from the side. “It’s like being friends with a hurricane. A very talkative hurricane.”

“A hurricane with style.” Lex corrects, striking a mock heroic pose.

The banter was easy, familiar—a rare pocket of normalcy in a routine that had grown more intense with each passing week. You could feel the eyes of the instructors watching from the edges of the room, their silent appraisals heavy with expectations.

It had been four weeks since you snuck out to the Underground with Lex and Abby. After the long and painful solo walk home, you had given the two of them a call to let them know you got back to your room before you let the anxiety of the upcoming trials and tests for graduation overtake and consume your thoughts, pushing down anything to do with that man or that bar.

You knew you were close to graduating, closer than most of the others here, and that only made the pressure more tangible. Every step forward felt like a test of its own, every glance from your instructors a challenge you had to meet.

Starting your training late hadn’t done you any favors either. Most Padawans began their journeys as young children—eight, maybe ten if they were late bloomers. At eighteen, you were among the oldest in the academy, and though your peers shared the same delayed start, the stigma wasn’t easy to ignore. It was a constant reminder that you were running out of time to prove yourself.

Before Lex can make another move, the door to the training room slides open with a sharp hiss, and a mechanical voice erupts in the large space.

“Apologies for the interruption,” the protocol droid states, its metallic tone cutting through the lively chatter of the room and echoing off the tall walls. Its polished bronze exterior gleams under the overhead lights as it strides forward. “Trainee Y/N, you are requested to report to the Council Chamber immediately.”

Silence.

You freeze mid-motion, lowering your saber as every eye in the training room turns toward you. Even Lex and Abby look momentarily stunned, the playful energy dissipating like smoke in the air.

“Uh…” Lex starts, lowering her own saber and glancing at Abby. “What’s this about?”

The droid doesn’t answer, its expressionless face making the moment feel draining.

A few whispers broke out among the other trainees, but they were quickly silenced with a sharp look from the instructors.

You shift uncomfortably, a knot forming in your stomach. “Is there a problem?” you ask, directing the question to the droid.

“I am not privy to the Council’s intentions,” it replies curtly, its head tilting slightly as if to gesture for you to follow. “You are to come with me immediately. No delays.”

Abby takes a step forward, her brows furrowing. “We’ll come too,” Lex offered quickly, Abby nodding in agreement as they both moved toward you.

The droid swivels its head toward Lex but doesn’t answer directly. Instead, it turns back to you. “Only Trainee Y/N is required. Please proceed now.”

Lex steps closer to you, her hand brushing against your arm. “Y/N…” she starts, her voice uncharacteristically uncertain and strangely quiet.

You force a smile, masking your own unease. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” The girls exchanged a worried glance, but they stayed where they were, clearly reluctant to let you go.

You nodded, offering them a small, reassuring smile even as your mind warred. You could feel the collective gaze on you as you followed the protocol droid out of the room. The absence of their warmth feels immediate, almost jarring, as if you’ve stepped into another world entirely.

The door hisses shut behind you, leaving the hum of training sabers and soft murmurs far behind. You’ve walked these hallways a hundred times, but now every detail feels magnified, every shadow stretching farther than it should.

The halls are quieter than you’d expected, the usual foot traffic subdued as you walked in step with the droid. “What’s going on?” you asked after a moment, unable to keep the question from slipping out.

The protocol droid doesn’t stop or slow its pace; its polished exterior gleams faintly under the breezeway lights, which is your only form of an answer until its robotic voice speaks up.

“The Council has made a decision regarding your future,” it replies simply, its tone infuriatingly chipper. “How exciting!”

You barely register its response, its tinny enthusiasm clashing with the growing tension in your chest. A decision? Regarding my future? The possibilities churned in your mind as you followed it through the long, polished hallways of the Temple.

The soles of your boots echoed softly against the smooth floor. Each step feels heavier than the last, the sound amplified in your ears like the steady beat of a drum, like each stride was a chance, a choice.

You force yourself to breathe evenly, to concentrate on the familiar surroundings: the intricate carvings lining the walls and the faint scent of incense wafting through the air. The arches and curves loomed larger than usual, their designs etched in stark relief against the soft glow of the lights.

Calm. Control. Focus.

The mantra comes unbidden, but now it felt like trying to hold water in your hands. Your thoughts were as scattered as the low chatter of the trainees you’d just left behind.

The Council’s decision could mean anything—had you done something wrong? The twisting in your stomach tightened with each passing thought as the droid led you around a corner, the Council Chamber doors now in sight.

They appear more daunting than ever; the entangled carvings in the wood glow vaguely, and for some reason this was the first time you had really given it a good look. They seem alive, almost springing with the burden of the decision waiting on the other side.

The droid stops a few paces from the entrance, turning to you with its usual brisk formality. “You may enter. The Council awaits.”

You hesitate, your pulse quickening. For a moment, you think of Lex and Abby, their worried expressions still fresh in your mind. I hope they’re not freaking out too much, you think, a faint smile tugging at your lips before it vanishes.

The heavy doors slid open with the familiar faint hiss, revealing the ominous circular chamber. Your heart rages in your chest as you step inside, the air noticeably cooler.

The semicircle of Council members sits before you, their faces calm but indecipherable. Master Yoda’s small frame is centered among them, barely filling the chair’s width. Beside him, Mace Windu’s gaze scrutinized you with a discreet vigor. Other familiar faces—Obi-wan, Kit Fisto, Plo Koon—flank them, their postures serene and suave while their eyes oozed judgment.

Your steps falter as your eyes catch movement. Seated beside Obi-Wan, arms crossed, is Anakin. His presence was unmistakable, a magnetic pressure that bends the air and shifts the room’s energy, or perhaps just your own. His expression is a collision of smug satisfaction and simmering impatience, the corners of his mouth hinting at something unspeakable.

He wouldn’t be thinking about that right now, would he?

The question roams in your head, but it’s quickly snuffed out by flashes of that night. The scent of bitter blood of the past erupts; you can practically taste it. With a swirl of your tongue, you find it’s not your imagination—the taste of copper is real; you had bit down into your cheeks, the red liquid pooling in your closed mouth.

“Step forward, Y/N,” Master Windu’s voice breaks through the silence, his tone firm but sympathetic as it echoes off the high, windowed chamber walls.

You obey. What else can you do? Taking measured steps, you stand at the center of the room, the Council’s combined stare resting heavily on you. The circle of them feels infinite; their eyes are oppressive as a black hole—nearly strangling, leaving you choking in its merciless pull.

And then there’s him.

Anakin’s eyes are magnets, pulling, trapping, forcing. Though he says nothing, his peering eyes are impossible to ignore. The memories of those eyes—the appetence, the control—crawl over your skin like insects. You resist the urge to recoil, but every step toward the center of the chamber it feels like stepping deeper into his shadow.

Master Yoda begins, his voice low and cracking, as if he were whispering a prophecy. “Decided, your future has been.” His ears twitch slightly as he regards you with wise, ancient eyes.

Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and ragged.

Decided? Already?

You fight to keep your expression neutral, the words and thoughts racing wildly in your mind.

Acid boils up your throat, dissolving the soft tissue it touches, as if your body is rebelling against the air itself. It takes everything in you to swallow it back down.

Master Windu leans forward, his words unforgiving in their clarity. “Your performance has been exceptional, Y/N. The Council recognizes your dedication and skill, and after much deliberation, we have decided that you are ready to take the next step in your training.”

The phrases landed like a gavel.

Ready. The next step.

You blinked, trying to process what this meant.

“You are to be assigned to a Jedi Master,” Windu continues. “A rare honor, especially considering your age and the limited number of Knights available to train Padawans at this time.”

Your heart convulses—a sudden, erratic spasm of exhilaration and disbelief. This is it. I’ve been chosen. The toll of the moment presses hard against you, grounding your excitement, and the master’s next words only bring the cold reality crashing down even harder, the bile rising back into your throat.

“However,” Windu says, the single word slicing through the fragile shell of your nausea as his voice dips, “it has not been an easy decision.”

Your eyes flicker toward Anakin, a mistake. His jaw tightens, the muscle twitching as he shifts in his seat. His eyes trace you—not with curiosity, no, he knows exactly what’s under your robes. He’s cataloging you, committing every movement to memory. His earlier smugness has curdled into something darker, the edges of frustration sensuous against his expression.

“Suggested, Master Skywalker did,” Yoda said, his tone soft but pointed, “that to him, assigned you be.”

Your gut tightens, a vehement twist of nerves, as your blood pummels through you. Your skin suddenly starts feeling unwelcoming, and each breath is a chore, the air scraping against your lungs—a visceral rejection of the words as they take root in your mind.

“But we’re not entirely in agreement on that.” Windu interjects, his hand rising, gesturing broadly around to each of the Council members.

You barely have time to process what Windu’s words might mean before more movement draws your attention.

Anakin’s fingers flex and uncurl against the armrests of his chair. He leans forward slightly, the tension in his shoulders coiling.

“You’re making a mistake,” he says. His voice was hushed and venomous, carving through the space with a lingering chill. “She belongs with me. You all know that.”

Wait—what did he say?

You glance at him, your eyes widening despite yourself. There’s a moment of silence, a heavy pause as the oxygen is eaten up by electric tension. Anakin’s eyes burn into Windu’s, his anger visible, and Windu returns it with a narrowed gaze.

“The decision has been made, Anakin. Your role now is to focus on the war. Not on training a Padawan.” Master Windu’s voice cuts in, his tone stern and slightly annoyed, like this isn’t the first time he’s had to tell Anakin this.

Anakin doesn’t flinch at the rebuke, but his knuckles whiten as he grips the armrests. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, barely contained fury leaking out in the subtle tremors of his movements. His eyes twist to Yoda’s, “I can do both,” he insists, his voice pointed and more stubborn. “I’m more than capable.”

The Masters exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them.

“Capable you are,” Yoda replies, his tone taking on an unyielding undertone to his usual laid-back manner. “Ready, you are not.”

Master Windu’s eyes grow empathetic as he tries to find a middle ground. “Anakin, you know we’re considering another master for her. One who has more time and is better prepared for this—”

Anakin stiffens in his seat, his head snapping toward Windu. “No,” he roars, his voice sharper this time, his frustration growing and becoming even more obvious to the other Council members. “You’re shipping her off to sit on the sidelines; she’ll never reach her full potential without the guidance of someone willing to—“

“Assigned you are—to Eeth Koth. Final, it is.” Yoda insists, his voice rising and eyes stabbing daggers into Anakin. The whole room seems riled by his defiance, and the feeling seems to be directed at you.

The room tilts slightly as Yoda’s words sink in. Eeth Koth? You’ve heard the name in passing, but you’ve never met him. The thought is disorienting, a crack splintering through the precarious balance of your emotions.

“Master Yoda,” Anakin persists, his voice rising slightly, and he half-stands, his body looming like a storm cloud ready to erupt. “you can’t just—”

“Enough, General Skywalker.” Yoda interrupts sharply, his eyes burrowing deeper on Anakin, “Strong in the Force, you are, but in check, your influence must be. Your path in the Republic is not to train Padawans at this time.”

“At this time,” Anakin repeats in a low mock, barely above a whisper, as his expression darkens while looking between the Masters. “This isn’t about my ability to focus; this is about her and her future—”

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan’s voice is like a whip crack, startling in its incisiveness. He rises from his seat, his hand raised in a silent command for Anakin to stand down. You glance at Obi-Wan, your heart hammering. His posture broadens and his eyes flash with warning as he continues, “This isn’t the time or place for this argument. You know better.”

Anakin doesn’t back down. His gaze flicks to Obi-Wan, then back to Yoda, his jaw tightening further as if clamping down on whatever he wants to say next.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin snaps, his head swiveling back to Obi. His vexation is evident in every muscle, every twitch. He looks like he’s about to snap. “I’m insisting.”

“No, I’m insisting.” Obi-Wan steps forward, his body angled slightly toward Anakin as if preparing to physically block him from advancing. His voice is low and punctuated as he follows up, “You need to step back. This isn’t about you or her right now.”

Your breath catches as Anakin’s eyes sweep back to you, searing into you with an intensity that feels almost physical. For a moment, the room fades—the Council, the chamber walls, even the low hum of air. All that remains is the haze of his stare and the unspoken promise it carries.

What the hell is he thinking?

“General Skywalker,” Windu cuts in, his voice colder now, expression solidifying into stone as he leans forward, like he too is getting ready to physically stop Anakin. “This discussion is over. You are out of line.”

Anakin straightens to his full height, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths as his cold edge sliced through the room. For a moment, it seems as though he might say something else, his lips parting—but then he stops. His breath hisses through his teeth as he crosses his arms. His rage coils beneath his skin, snarling, seething to break free, primed to explode.

You swallow hard, your throat dry as sandpaper. You’ve seen that look before; you’ve seen it up close. You wish you could disappear into the stone beneath your feet, to be anywhere other than here.

“You’re wrong,” he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words slam into the room, and they’re thick, as if they were made of lead and everyone was being forced to breathe them in. “All of you.”

For what feels like the longest five seconds of your life, Anakin doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just stands there, his eyes flickering between the Council members before finally settling on you. The room holds its breath.

And there it is again—that unspoken promise.

Your feet feel numb, like you have a gaping wound and are too far gone; the pins and needles feeling of blood loss. If the Council dismissed you right now, there would be zero chance you could pick up your legs and actually walk. That’s what his gaze did; it made your knees jelly and your spine snap in on itself. You weren’t sure if it was the Force or something deeper, nor did you have time to think about what reasons Anakin’s gaze was so different.

He exhales sharply as he lowers himself back into his seat, the large chair scraping against the floor with a dissonant screech. He rolls his shoulders, relaxing them as if dismissing everything that just happened, brushing the entire encounter off, as if the air didn’t crackle with the residue of it.

It's like he’s discarded the weight of the confrontation like a loose garment—yet there’s no mistaking that it’s still there, a rancid pulse between you all, stifling every breath. The others exchange looks, the tense stillness now broken only by the soft shuffle of robes as they all settle back into their seats.

You want to scream; you want to cuss him out like you should have that night; instead, you break the everlasting silence the rest of the council has been stunned into, your voice surprising even you with the confidence it carries behind it.

“If I may,” you state, not waiting for their full attention as you continue, “I’m honored to be assigned to Master Koth, and I don’t take this recommendation from the Council lightly. I will serve the Republic with everything I have. The stars will bend if those are my orders.”

Shock carves itself into the faces of the Council members, all their eyes dawning in on you. Anakin’s eyes are the harshest; you can feel them burning into the side of your face like twin suns. You keep your focus forward, refusing to turn toward him again.

“Strong words these are. Confidence you show, but prove yourself, you must.” Yoda’s tone carries no reproach, only an obstinate expectation, like the galaxy itself will hold you accountable.

“Indeed,” Master Windu adds, his presence back to the practiced ease that all the generals and masters plaster on their faces. “Serving the Republic is not just a matter of bending stars or showing resolve—it requires understanding, discipline, and the ability to make difficult choices. Master Koth will demand nothing less from you.”

You nod quickly, instinct taking over as you bow your head. “I understand, Masters. I won’t fail.” The words spill out, firm but automatic, and you’ve never been more proud of yourself.

Master Obi-Wan, still recovering from the heated debate, sits forward slightly. His tone softer than the others, but his words carry no less gravitas. “Master Koth is a man of principle and precision. He’s demanding but fair. Under his guidance, you’ll learn to navigate not just the battlefield, but the intricacies of what it means to truly be a Jedi.”

And then, like clockwork, Anakin shifts in his seat. His posture is casual, almost disinterested, but his energy is anything but. His gloved fingers drum once against the armrest before his voice cuts through the Council's focus on you. “She’ll be fine,” he says, his tone deceptively glassy. His eyes flick toward you, and you feel the sting of his stare as he adds, “After all, she’s earned it.”

The words stick to you like barbs, digging into every insecurity you thought you had buried. You didn’t want to think it, didn’t want to have it confirmed that the exact and only reason you’re standing in the middle of the greatest Jedi of this century is because you were a slave for a night.

It’s not praise. Not really.

You feel your heart thud painfully against your ribs, and for a split second, you wonder if this is what a heart attack feels like.

Earned it.

The phrase clings to your thoughts like oil on water. His words weren’t an endorsement; they were a reminder, a branding. A mark that would be with you forever, no matter what path you take.

You hold yourself still, despite your mini heart attack, your lips forcing a polite smile, and the quiet resolve in your chest swells just enough to remind you that you are here for more than just Anakin’s twisted perception of you.

The silence stretches until Master Yoda speaks, his voice cold and drained. “You may go. Prepare for your meeting with Master Koth. Tomorrow, it will be.”

You bow again, a little deeper this time, feeling every eye in the room on you. The finality in Master Yoda’s voice motivates your previously jellied legs into a half jog until the heavy doors close behind you. Even then, you don’t stop, your jog turning into a full sprint. Your arms pump furiously, pushing your body forward.

Earned it. Earned it. Earned it.

His voice—the phrase—is a poltergeist, a haunting in its own right. You try to push it away, but Anakin’s words seem to cling to you, like a shadow you can’t outrun, but you’ll be damned if you won’t try. Your feet put more distance between you and the Council’s chambers, but your mind is still trapped in the middle of it.

As you round a corner, you come face-to-face with your two friends. Nearly toppling over them as their arms secure you, both of them speaking too quickly for your already racing mind to grasp.

“Whoa, slow down, Y/N. What happened?”

“Yeah, are you ok? Did they find out about us sneaking out?”

You want to tell them everything—the drunken spill, the velvet-lined back rooms, the violence, the desire, the new position—but the words never leave your lips.

Tell them! Why are you questioning their intentions? They’ve never betrayed your trust. They’ve never done anything to ever insinuate that they would be anything but forgiving.

“Yeah,” you say, the smile you force out too tight, too strained. “I’m fine. Just… just…”

Tears prick at your eyes, and within seconds both girls are steering you to the dorms, both their arms wrapping tightly around either side of you like a blanket of protection.

The familiar, comforting warmth of their embrace is almost enough to make the tears pour out, but the words still lash at your insides, louder now than before.

Earned it.

Your blood pumps furiously through your veins, pulsing in your ears to the point where your friends voices are muffled, their words a jumble of vibrations. You feel the walls closing in, your lungs shrinking with each breath. But you can’t say it. You can’t tell them everything; you can’t shatter what little remains of your dignity. You need to keep it together.

Lex’s voice cuts through the haze, and though her words are soft, they pierce the growing fog around you. “You don’t have to hide it, you know. Whatever happened in there… you don’t have to keep it all in.”

You stiffen, a rush of panic flooding your chest.

How did she know?

But before you can respond, Abby adds, “We’re here for you. Screw them.” Her voice is quieter than Lex’s and holds a hint of humor but is equally concerned.

You find yourself retreating even further inward, madly trying to build barriers, to lock every detail away where they can't see it. Where you can’t feel it. You want to tell them, to let them help, but you can’t bring yourself to. You don't know how to explain the tangled mess inside you.

Your throat feels tight as you give them a small, weak nod, not trusting your voice to sound anything but broken. “I know... thanks, I just... I need some time.”

They guide you to your bed, sitting beside you and just letting the silence fill the space between you.

But even in your safe spot, next to your best friends and a good distance away from any higher up, Anakin’s words continue to reverberate through your mind.

Earned it.

Each time it echoes, it feels like another wound is being sliced into your back, like the physical embodiment of betrayal.

“Whatever’s going on... we’ll figure it out together.” Lex’s hand rests on your shoulder as she shuffles closer to you. You want to believe her. You want to, but you don’t. It’s like your body is trying to protect something, some part of you that’s still... untouched. Maybe it’s your pride, maybe it’s the fear of being completely vulnerable, but either way, the words won’t come out, and you can’t seem to shake the feeling that your life has just been uprooted in the worst way possible.

Instead, you lie back against the bed, your hands gripping the edge of your blanket, and just stare up at the ceiling.

Abby leans in slightly, her face in your view blurring as your eyes unfocus. “We know something’s up. You don’t have to tell us what happened in there, but if you ever want to talk... we’re not going anywhere.”

The words don’t land as they should. They don’t wrap around you the way they always have. They just make you feel heavier, more guilty. It’s almost worse, in some ways—being so close to the answers you can’t bring yourself to give.

Anakin’s words continue to torment your dazed mind, like a private torture session.

I bet he’d love this. Love to know how completely frozen you were. How fucking pathetic.

You turn your head slightly to the side, staring at the wall as if it could give you some reprieve from the chaos in your mind. But it doesn’t.

Earned it.

With every second that passes, that feeling of being trapped deepens. There’s no escape from his voice in your head, no hiding from the truth that it’s now a part of you. But somewhere, deep in the hollow ache in your chest, something else stirs. A sensation, too fresh to name, but oh so familiar.

It’s the flicker of something perilous, something dark and twisted, something that has been waiting for this moment. You try to ignore it, but it's there now, and maybe it always has been, crawling just beneath your feeble ego. It fills the space in your veins that his words froze with a fever that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

Earned it.

For the first time, you let yourself wonder if there's truth in it. Not the way Anakin intended, not the way he made you feel small, but a different truth, a truth that’s far more unsettling: What if you did earn it? What if everything that happened—that night, the Council, even this—was a consequence of destiny, true destiny?

What if you were already changed, and you just didn’t know it yet?

You sit up suddenly, the movement enough to make them both jump. The words you've been holding back, the questions, the doubts—they spill from your lips as they form in your mind.

“I don’t think I can be the person I was anymore,” you whisper, not meeting their eyes, because you know if you do, you’ll see the pity. You can’t bear that.

Anakin’s words have taken root in you, not just as a form of self-torture but as something far more insidious. A seed planted in the fibers that are you, ready to grow into something more dangerous than any of you can imagine.

Something alters. Not in the room. Not in them. But in you. It’s a momentary flicker, a beam of clarity—a glimpse of a hunger that was deeply buried.

You straighten your back, standing abruptly. You feel the energy change, like a charged current is propelling you forward. You turn and face the two of them, their eyes two pairs of shock and confusion as you speak, your voice more confident and certain than ever before.

“But I feel good. Yeah, I feel great.”

[wenclairly]

of fainting spells and gentle hands | wenclair

wednesday addams x enid sinclair

description: enid's world has been tilting lately, and even her fencing can't quite steady the ground beneath her. when a dizzy spell turns into something more, an unexpected carer steps out of the shadows – and wednesday addams isn't one for leaving things unattended. tags/warnings: hurt/comfort, fainting, dizziness, sickness, post-canon. wc: 2.5k a/n: hi guys, so this is jes. i wrote this as a part of a new wenclair hurt/comfort oneshot series i'm going to be posting on my ao3 ('enidsunclair'), but we didn't want to leave you hanging with not posting yet... so i thought i'd post it to feed you all. enjoy.. hope it doesn't suck!

The blades clashed with a sharp ring that echoed off the high, vaulted ceilings of the Nevermore Academy fencing hall. Enid Sinclair’s usual grace and agility were noticeably absent this morning, her movements lagging as if she were wading through molasses. The metallic taste of adrenaline mixed uncomfortably with the hint of nausea that had been her constant companion these past few weeks. The dizzy spells had started as minor nuisances, easily brushed off as lack of sleep or perhaps skipping breakfast. But now, standing under the oppressive glare of the morning sun, Enid found the room tilting dangerously with each advance and retreat of her blade.

Her opponent, Divina, seemed unaware of Enid’s faltering state. She continued to lunge, and Enid’s responses were sluggish, her parries weak and off-center. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, mingling with strands of hair and plastering it to her skin. The weight of her saber felt tripled, and her grip on the handle was clammy.

“Enid, focus!” Coach Larue’s sharp voice cut through the muffled sounds of the hall, where the air was thickening with each moment. Normally, Enid thrived under the demanding gaze of their coach, her performance peaking when pushed. Today, however, each word felt like a leaden weight added to her already burdened shoulders. Divina paused, tilting her head with a frown. “You okay? You’re usually not this…” She waved her hand vaguely, her expression one of concern.

“Just didn’t sleep well, that’s all,” Enid lied smoothly, forcing a grin that felt more like a grimace. She adjusted the grip on her saber, determined to shake off the encroaching dizziness that blurred the edges of her vision.

As they resumed, Enid tried to concentrate on Divina’s movements, the predictable rhythm of attack and defense. But the room spun faster with each step she took. After missing another block, the tip of Divina’s saber tapped lightly against her chest.

“That’s a point!” Divina declared, though her voice was tinged with reluctance. 

From the sidelines, a dark figure watched with an intensity that missed nothing. Wednesday Addams, usually detached from the exploits of her more athletically inclined peers, noted the slight tremor in Enid’s stance. The too-bright smile, the way her eyes narrowed slightly as if focusing took more effort than it should. It was unlike Enid to show weakness, to allow any imperfection in her performance.

Wednesday’s observation was interrupted as Coach Larue clapped his hands, signaling the end of the bout. “Take five, everyone. Hydrate,” he commanded, his gaze lingering on Enid a moment longer than the rest.

Enid nodded, relieved, and made her way to the benches where water bottles and towels lay scattered. She grabbed her bottle, hands shaking so visibly that she almost dropped it before securing her grip. The coolness of the water was only a small relief against the heat flushing her cheeks. She glanced around, hoping no one noticed her unusual clumsiness, but her gaze accidentally met Wednesday’s. There was something unsettling in Wednesday’s scrutiny, something that made Enid’s stomach twist—not from sickness, but from a strange, unwelcome vulnerability.

Taking a deep breath, Enid tried to muster her usual cheerful demeanor. “Just a bad day, right?” she murmured to herself, closing her eyes and leaning back against the wall. She could hear the other students chatting, and the clinking of sabers as they clattered to the floor, the normal sounds of a typical morning that felt anything but normal to her.

As the room steadied slightly, Enid opened her eyes, only to find the world tilting alarming once more. The warning signs she had ignored were now impossible to dismiss, and as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her, the fencing hall dimmed into darkness. The sounds fading into a distant echo as she slumped sideways and the world went black.

Meanwhile, Wednesday’s attention had been frustratingly divided during the break. Xavier had chosen this exact moment to regale her with a strange encounter which, according to him, had happened just the other night in an abandoned wing of the school. “And then, the temperature dropped, just like that,” he was saying, snapping his fingers for emphasis. 

Wednesday’s response was a noncommittal grunt. Her eyes, under the guise of watching the general activity, remained subtly but unwaveringly fixed on Enid. Even as Xavier’s voice grew louder, a peripheral blur of motion caught her attention—the unmistakable stagger of someone about to fall. It was Enid, her body faltering precariously as she slammed to the floor.

Without a word, Wednesday abruptly left Xavier mid-sentence, her legs carrying her across the room with a swiftness that betrayed her outward detachment. As she moved, her face was set in an unamused expression, masking the surge of adrenaline that was sharpening her focus. Students milling around the fallen figure of Enid parted with both  surprise and irritation as Wednesday’s elbow nudged them aside, brooking no argument. 

She reached Enid just as others began to notice the seriousness of the situation. Dropping to her knees, Wednesday’s usually steady and precise hands trembled as she checked for Enid’s pulse. It was there, strong but rapid, a small comfort that did little to ease the unusual tightness in her chest.

“Move back,” she ordered sharply to the gathering crowd, her voice carrying a cold authority that had several students stepping back immediately. “She needs air,” Wednesday continued, her gaze scanning the surroundings for anything that might aid in her efforts. Spotting Enid’s water bottle, she snatched it up, pressing it into the hands of Yoko who appeared nearby. “Keep this ready,” she said, the command clipped and precise. Yoko nodded and clutched the water bottle. 

The commotion had attracted more attention now. Bianca hurried over, her expression tense, with Ajax following close behind as he pushed through students, and Divina approached with a worried frown.

Wednesday assessed them with a critical eye. “Ajax, go fetch Coach Larue. He just stepped out. Move!” Her command sliced through the air. Ajax pivoted immediately, his footsteps a scurry echo in the now quieter hall.

Bianca knelt beside Wednesday, her eyes wide. “What should we do?” she asked, ready to follow any instruction.

“Just keep back and give her space,” Wednesday snapped, her usual stoicism fraying at the edges. Turning her attention back to Enid, she noticed the faint flutter of eyelids, a sign of Enid stirring, though still not fully conscious.

Wednesday’s hand, though trembling slightly, was surprisingly gentle as she brushed against Enid’s forehead and swept away damp strands of hair. “Sinclair, why must you choose now to be overly dramatic?” she muttered, the words tinged with a brittle veneer of annoyance that barely masked her concern. “If you don’t wake up shortly, I’ll ensure all your meals are accompanied by an excruciatingly detailed analysis of your medical state, along with a risk assessment of every historical plague for the next month.”

Divina, hovering anxiously, wrung her hands. “Is she going to be okay?” Her voice was barely a whisper, gaze fixed on Enid.

“She will be if she follows the sensible course and wakes up now,” Wednesday retorted, though her eyes remained solely on Enid’s face, watching for any sign of improvement.

As the infirmary nurse, whomst had been summoned by Ajax, finally entered the hall, Enid’s eyelids flickered more noticeably, her consciousness teetering on the edge. She mumbled something incoherent, eyes attempting to focus on the crowd of faces.

Wednesday’s voice softened imperceptibly as she leaned closer, her hand now resting lightly on Enid’s cheek. “Enid, this is neither the time nor the place for a nap. Consider the lack of comfort,” she said bluntly.

Yoko, still holding the water bottle, looked from Enid to Wednesday. Her expression was torn between concern and slight amusement at Wednesday’s unusual and sudden display of attentiveness.

Enid’s eyes fluttered open, her vision setting hazily on Wednesday. “Wha—?” she murmured, disoriented.

“Stay still. You fainted,” Wednesday informed her, the clinical detachment back in her voice as if she had never left it. She straightened slightly, allowing the nurse space to enter the crowd. But her gaze remained intensely focused on Enid, ready to intercede if necessary.

The nurse, a brisk no-nonsense woman named Ms. Thorn, knelt beside Enid, her hands moving efficiently as she checked her vital signs. “Pulse is a bit fast, but strong,” she murmured, mostly to herself, as she placed a cool hand on Enid’s forehead, then shone a small flashlight briefly across her pupils, which responded sluggishly.

Enid blinked against the light, her consciousness waxing and waning like the phases of the moon. Ms. Thorn straightened, turning to address Wednesday and the smaller crowd that lingered. “She’s stable, but I’ll take her back to the infirmary for observation and further treatment. It’s best we keep her under watch for the next few hours.”

Wednesday’s eyes followed every move. As the declaration settled over the group, she rose, her decision made in the span of a heartbeat. “I’m accompanying her,” she stated, the edge in her voice daring anyone to challenge her.

It was then that Coach Larue entered the hall, Ajax trailing behind him. The coach’s brow furrowed as he took in the scene—the nurse, the anxious students, and Wednesday’s stance. “Addams, you need to stay. We have drills—”

“I’m not asking,” Wednesday interrupted, her tone cold. 

Coach Larue’s mouth pressed into a thin line, the authority he wielded so confidently seemed to waver under Wednesday’s intense stare. There was a tense beat before he finally nodded, a slight, reluctant jerk of his head. “Very well. But return once she’s settled.”

Wednesday’s response was a terse nod, her attention already turning back to Enid as the coach walked away.

Ms. Thorn, having witnessed the exchange, merely shook her head at the usual absurdities of Nevermore students. She spoke into a small phone, requesting assistance from the infirmary. “We need a stretcher to the fencing hall,” she announced crisply.

Wednesday remained by Enid’s side, arms folded, and watchful gaze never straying. The earlier tremor in her hands had stilled, replaced by a calm that seemed almost out of place in the chaos of concern.

Enid’s awareness flickered once more, her eyes opening slightly to the sound of distant footsteps and the approaching murmur of voices. She tried to speak, a faint whisper escaping her lips. “Wednes…day?” Her voice was a shadow, barely audible over the growing hum of the gymnasium.

“Quiet now. You need your strength,” Wednesday instructed softly, more gently than anyone might have expected from her. The corners of her mouth twitched, the ghost of a reassuring smile.

The arrival of two additional nurses with a stretcher broke the momentary calm. They moved efficiently, gently lifting Enid onto the stretcher. Wednesday stepped back just enough to give them space, but her eyes, those deep wells of guarded emotion, remained locked on Enid’s face; watching her every breath, every flutter of her eyelids.

She had to be there. The raven had to protect her wolf. * * *

After what felt like an eternity later, Wednesday was sitting beside Enid’s bed, looking the epitome of boredom. Beside her, on a small table, lay Thing, whom Wednesday occasionally whispered to. They were thoroughly discussing the symptoms of various diseases that could have caused Enid’s state.

But a faint groan from Enid broke the monotonous quiet, drawing Wednesday’s attention away from her morbid conversation. Enid’s attempt to sit up was feeble, her movements sluggish and pained.

“Don’t move,” Wednesday commanded softly, her voice low and unexpectedly gentle as she placed a firm hand on Enid’s shoulder and eased her back onto the pillow.

Enid complied, wincing slightly, brow furrowed in confusion. “What happened?” Her voice was weak, The events leading up to her current predicament were a muddled haze in her mind.

“You fainted during fencing. Dehydration, or perhaps something more sinister,” Wednesday explained, her tone matter-of-fact, stripping away any hint of the depth of her earlier anxiety. “You’ve been out for a few hours.”

Before Enid could process this information, the curtain around her bed rustled and a dramatic flair followed that only Yoko could manage. “That’s only half true, Enid!” Yoko proclaimed as she strode closer toward her best friend’s bedside. She flashed a conspiratorial grin at Wednesday, who merely raised an eyebrow in response.

Yoko continued, unabashed, “Wednesday was like a rabid dog protecting you, I swear! She was barking orders at everyone, and man, you should have seen her face when you were being wheeled away—like, you’d think someone had stolen her favorite knife or something.”

Wednesday's gaze on Enid shifted subtly, a flicker of embarrassment—or was it annoyance?—crossing her features. “Exaggeration is Yoko’s primary language,” she injected coolly, but the slight flush on her usually pale cheeks suggested otherwise.

Enid looked between Yoko and Wednesday, a slow smile forming on her lips as she absorbed the words. The image of Wednesday, so fiercely guarding her well-being, was both amusing and warming. 

“Really now? Protecting me?” Enid’s voice carried a teasing lilt, her early discomfort momentarily forgotten.

Wednesday sighed, a sound of resignation escaping her as she met Enid’s gaze. “Perhaps I overreacted in my state of… unsettlement,” she conceded, her words clipped. “But let’s focus on your recovery. We wouldn’t want a repeat performance.”

Yoko laughed. “Oh, come on, Wednesday. Admit it. You’re all soft for E!” she teased, winking at Enid. 

But Wednesday didn't reply, instead turning her gaze away to hide the ghost of a smile that threatened to betray her true feelings. 

Yoko then playfully rolled her eyes. “I’m going to grab some juice,” she announced, already halfway past the curtain. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it.” With a wink and a final laugh, she slipped past it.

The room fell into a sudden, thick silence. Wednesday, whose gaze had followed Yoko out, now found herself alone with Enid. She turned slightly, her eyes locking with the wolf. The atmosphere felt heavy with everything that remained unsaid.

Enid’s heart thudded uncomfortably loud in her chest. With a shaky breath, she shifted on the bed, the simple white sheets crinkling under her movement. Painstakingly, and mindful of her still-dizzy head, she sat up and edged closer to Wednesday.

Wednesday watched her, motionless, her expression unreadable. The usual barriers she erected, the walls that guarded her thoughts and feelings, seemed momentarily thinner, more translucent.

Reaching out with a tentative hand, Enid’s fingers brushed against Wednesday’s. Gathering her courage, she leaned forward and, with a gentle, almost reverent touch, placed a kiss on Wednesday’s cheek. 

The contact was brief, a soft press of lips against cool skin. But it held more weight than any word could.

For a long moment, Wednesday remained frozen, her eyes wide. The mask that so often clung to her features had cracked. A flush, rare and startling, crept up to her cheeks and painted a bloom of color that was usually absent from her pallor.

The world seemed to hold its breath. Things were changing. 

And Wednesday Addams, for once in her meticulously curated life, would not have it any other way.

[the-scandalorian]

like a moth to the flame, part III

Pairing: monster!Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 10.8k Content Warnings: dark!Din, stalking, predatory/obsessive/possessive behavior, body horror/painful physical transformations, violence, gore, blood and hunting and monstery shit, verbal argument turned smut (finger fucking, cum eating, etc.), nightmares

DIN

The dreams started as soon as the kid left.

Angry vermilion dreams, fractured dreams—a flurry of images as sharp as shattered glass—played any time Din so much as dozed. He couldn’t make much sense of them, but the visuals seared into his mind. Pearly white incisors caught in thick, hot viscera. Rent flesh. Deeply gouged burns. The smell of scorched skin.

A war-ravaged planet. An empty gray-washed throne.

A pile of discarded Mandalorian helmets coated in ash.

As soon as they began, Din knew something was wrong with him. These weren’t normal nightmares, not like the quiet, melancholic blue of the dreams he’d always had about his parents, the ones that stayed tucked safely in his sleep. No, these…lingered. They slunk past the edges of his sleep to haunt his daylight hours. He’d wake up and taste blood on his tongue. All day, he ached in strange places: his shoulder blades, his teeth, his hands and feet, a spot behind each of his temples. Every one was a concentrated, bone-deep ache, like the growing pains he remembered vaguely from his teenage years.

The kid was gone, and something was wrong with him.

Din knew loss too intimately to mistake it for grief alone. He knew this was something else too. It was physical. He was ill. He told himself it needed to wait. He had to find the covert. Then, he could deal with whatever was happening to him.

So he put his head down and did what he does best: he hunted.

For two months, he searched. He took jobs for credits and jobs for information. Finally, finally, he tracked them down on Glavis.

He can still remember the fetid reek of the butcher where he went to find the final bounty, Kaba Baiz, the key to the covert’s location within that ringed maze of a city. Even through the filters on his helmet, the smell was an assault—raw flesh and congealed blood, singed bone and burnt marrow. All at once, it made him sick…and, to his own horror, ravenous. He should have been disgusted, but his mouth watered even as his stomach soured. Cold sweat beaded between his shoulder blades. He itched to peel off his armor.

He was most definitely ill.

The last thing he wanted was a fight. The last thing he needed was a fight. He wanted to take the bounty and leave, to find what remained of his covert and be still. But the Klatooinians closed in around him, and he knew he wasn’t going to get what he wanted.

It was the first real fight he’d been in since the dreams had started, and it was…different. He was different.

One of the Klatooinians lunged forward and bit him. The pain was sharp, and as he tried to wrench his wrist out of their grasp, all Din could think about was how much he wanted to sink his teeth into something that bleeds. Behind his beskar, he bared his teeth.

It only devolved from there.

He slipped so far into the flow of the fight that it felt like a fever dream.

He didn’t make an active choice to reach for the saber. It just happened. His blaster had been knocked out of his grasp, and there were too many of them. The beskar spear was strapped to his back, but his hand fell to the saber’s hilt as naturally as it falls to his blaster; his finger flicked the activation as naturally as it finds a trigger.

He lifted the humming blade, and for one short moment, it had sung for him.

The saber slipped through living and dead flesh alike, rending breathing bodies and hanging animal corpses just the same. He felt good. He felt strong. He moved with an ease he hadn’t felt for years, not since he was younger, before he had a tight back and knees that cracked. He felt distant from himself, distant from the fight, as his body fell into a controlled sequence of moves.

Somewhere in the back of his fogged mind he finally asked himself why? Why was it suddenly easy?

Then the saber grew heavy in his hand, and he faltered.

He stabbed one of the Klatooinians straight through the gut, and when he wrenched it back, the flat of the saber sizzled and spat against the flesh of his own thigh. The searing pain pitched him into a red haze, and he dispatched the rest in short order. He cleaved through two, took a hail of blaster fire, and stabbed Kaba Baiz between the ribs with his vibroblade. He lifted his dead weight with one hand on the hilt, and Din knew he was different.

Without thinking, he took up the saber and sliced clean through the Klatooinian, even though he was already dead, and Din knew he was different.

*** He was half delirious with pain and exhaustion by the time he found the Armorer.

“What weapon caused such a wound?”

“Paz Viszla, bring it to me.”

The moment Paz touched the hilt of the saber, Din’s body went cold, every part of him snapping to high alert. His hackles raised.

He knew then there’d be a challenge. A duel.

Sure enough, after he’d given himself enough time to assess Din’s state and skill with the blade, Paz had thrown the gauntlet, and something reared in Din’s chest in response. Something eager. 

The fight passed in a blur of scarlet. Smoke encroached on the edges of Din’s vision as they grappled, and something outside himself took control. By the end of it, by the time he had Paz on his knees with a blade to his throat, Din was barely conscious. He felt far away in his own body.

He heard the Armorer’s dismissal faintly, an echo of words through his hollow ribcage.

“Then you are a Mandalorian no more.”

He could barely stand, let alone process the devastating reality of her words.

He doesn’t know how he made it back to the surface of Glavis and all the way to the public transport. He has no memory of stripping himself of his weapons, signing them over to a droid, and stumbling on board. He has no memory of upgrading to a private room.

He remembers the room, though.

By the time he got there, he knew he was going to be sick, his insides roiling and churning. As soon as the door closed and locked behind him, he ripped his helmet off and paced the tiny space, massaging his temples and willing himself to calm down. His blood pumped hot and furious through his veins as he replayed the duel, as he remembered the Armorer’s words. 

He felt trapped, pent-up and weighed down; he needed to be out of his beskar in a way he hadn’t felt since his first days of wearing armor—back when he was just a kid and the weight was stifling and restrictive and unfamiliar.

And then the real pain came. Like a fever, it took him.

He buckled to the floor of his private room, collapsing to his hands and knees, his thigh guards clattering against the durasteel floor. Against his better judgment, slouched pathetically on the ground, he peeled off each of his layers—his beskar, his soft underarmor, his flight suit. He stripped to his boxers and stretched out in a prone position, face turned to one side. The shock of the cold metal floor felt good on his feverish skin. Din lay there and counted.  

He lay there and tried to compose himself.

Over and over, he watched his hot, panted breath leave a temporary shadow of condensation on the gelid floor and dissipate. Spread and evaporate. Spread and evaporate.

Just when he thought he was starting to get control of himself, it felt as though two hot blades pierced his shoulders, and he reached back reflexively, rolling onto his side as he convulsed in agony, his spine curling and straightening. He shoved his clenched-white knuckles against his teeth to muffle his scream, and he felt something hard protruding from his back.

Paz must have followed.

He writhed and pitched.

The door was locked. The room was empty.

Nothing made sense.

I’m dying.

Two points of white-hot pain sprouted behind his temples, his vision going gray and bile rising in his throat.

Then, blissful darkness.

*** Things are good. Things are calm.

Din has fallen into a routine, a sustainable routine for the foreseeable future. It will get him through the time period between now and whenever you leave—whether that’s a few weeks or a couple months. And that’s all that matters.

He lets himself hunt once a week. He’s finally accepted that concession lends him more control. He’s less on edge after he allows himself to turn and feed. So, once a week, he sheds his armor and changes. It’s just enough freedom to quash the urge to go armor-less when he shouldn’t. Plus, he has a clear purpose for it now. He stalks through the forest, kills a beast, and reinforces his territory.

He’s picking off the pack one by one, just as he planned. They’re onto him now—they’re wary and hyper-vigilant. They move constantly, retreat higher and higher into the hills. They place scouts along their flanks. Din picks off the scouts.

First, it’s a gray female.

Next, a tawny male.

The third, its mate.

And so on.

He hunts. He keeps tabs on you from afar. He trains with the saber.

Yes, everything is good.

You haven’t sought him out again, not since the market. His rejection was enough, apparently. He’s relieved.

He’s miserable.

Truly, he’s sick with it, and his regret is showing up in all sorts of tangible ways. 

All the tiles of his shower, every single white square at his eye-level, where he leans his weight on a clawed hand once a week, are scored now. The deep lacerations don’t bother him anymore though. Each one is a mark on stone instead of flesh, a tally of his self-control.

He breaks things more often, when he’s changed and when he’s not. He feels like some kind of adolescent animal, just learning the limitations of his own strength. It’s ridiculous. He figures it’s the incompatible combination of his new strength, his burning frustration, and the age of the house.

He’s had to repair his headboard, the door frame to the bathroom, and two door knobs. He’s had to fully replace his front door, hinges and all. He came back from a particularly grisly hunt, pent up and brimming with violent energy, and pulled the thing clean off.

It’s been weeks since he’s talked to you. Summer has had enough time to wane into fall, but this unexpected penance he’s enduring for the way he treated you doesn’t seem to be going away.

*** The next time he goes out for a hunt—in the early evening because he can’t seem to make himself wait out the few hours until nightfall—Din can tell you’re out walking in the forest before he’s even a mile from you. The wind shifts, and he can smell you as if you’re standing right next to him.

He could turn for home. He could skirt you completely. He could follow you from a distance until you make it home safely. He could do anything that ensures you have no chance of seeing him like this.

He’s not in the condition to make a rational decision.

Din continues on the same path, until you’re so close that in full daylight you’d be able to see his towering shape moving beyond the lattice of low tree limbs, and he scales the largest tree he can find, pulling himself lithely up into its high branches.

He waits, silent and still, as you wander through the trees far below him. You look so tiny from up here, like something too insignificant to draw his attention on a hunt, the perfect prey for some creature that’s one rung lower on the food chain. 

Possessive longing embeds itself somewhere tender behind his ribs and tugs: You look like something that needs to be protected.

The little fawn is trailing behind you like an obedient duckling. She notices Din’s presence right away, her tiny head craning upward to find him in the murky gloom. She goes skittish and fragile when she sees him, blundering ahead of you on precarious legs.

You look after her with mild concern. “Where are you going?”

If you were to glance up too, you might be able to make out his hulking shape, crouched in the tangle of the canopy, but you wouldn’t be able to discern the details. You wouldn’t see his face. His silhouette would be obscured by the wide, swooping contours of his wings, all detail lost to shadow.

There’s a part of him that wants you to look up, a part of him that wants to leap down and block your path—to make you look at him like this. He needs to know what you’d do.

You’d scream.

And then what?

Would you freeze or fight or flee?

You’re not one to flee on instinct. You’re too smart to fight something more than twice your size. His credits are on freeze.

And when you stood there staring at him, how long would it take you to tear your gaze from his clawed hands and pointed wings and sharp teeth to meet his eyes? How long would it take you to look up from the threatening bulk of his body to his face? Would you put it together? Would you recognize the unzipped flightsuit tied loosely at his waist? 

Would you hate him?

He doesn’t want to think about the possibility of disgust reflected in your features. As hard as he’s tried to convince himself that it would be easier if you feared him, he despises the idea of you seeing him like this and being scared or repulsed.

It would be the final confirmation that he’s a monster.

You’re almost out of sight. You could still look up. All you’d see is a dark void—a space that swallows more light than any of the surrounding shadows.

You don’t look up, though; you wander on. You’re close enough to your home, headed back in that direction, that he’s not worried about you. He’ll be attending to the potential threats elsewhere anyways.

He jumps down when you’re a safe distance away, falling gracefully and with control, and the thick bed of pine needles muffles the thud of his landing. But he’s so heavy like this, so dense with muscle, that the forest floor vibrates just for a moment when his feet touch down.

Din turns for the hills, where he knows the pack is waiting. 

He thinks he’ll kill two tonight. 

When he returns home hours later—sweaty and fed and sticky with blood—he heads right for the shower, reaches for the knob, starts the hot water…and the metal snaps off in his hand. 

Fuck.

*** All the necessary repairs mean that Din is in town more often than he wants to be.

The next evening, fuming, he heads there for the replacement part for the shower. With the newly purchased knob slung in a bag over his shoulder, he starts for home. He’s skirting the main roads in town, sticking to the side streets and alleyways to avoid people, but Din pauses when you step out the door of the cantina. 

Alone.

No, not alone.

A quiet growl escapes the modulator when that boy that bothers you at the market comes stumbling out the door behind you, tripping over his own feet as he calls your name. Din has noticed every time this boy lingers too long by your stall on Saturdays. You always have the same vague, disinterested smile plastered on your face until he leaves. He annoys you, and that annoys Din.

Din waits in the shadow of the alley, out of sight, to ensure this boy doesn’t do anything more than annoy you.

The urge to protect you isn’t a want for him anymore. It’s a physical imperative.

“Wait, wait up,” the boy pants when you turn at the sound of your name. “Let me walk you home.”

You turn and give him a pacifying smile. “I’m good, Terek.” You wave him off amiably and keep walking.

Terek follows.

Din starts forward as soon as Terek reaches for you. He covers the short distance in a few strides, coming up behind both of you. Neither of you hears his approach.

“Don’t,” Din says, his voice low and threatening, just as Terek grasps your wrist.

You and Terek freeze and whip your heads around, surprise apparent on your faces. When you both register Din’s presence, Terek’s surprise melts into fear, yours into…disappointment?

That stings.

In an attempt at chivalry, Terek hesitates for a moment then steps all the way in front of you, putting his body squarely between yours and Din’s, swallowing audibly as he looks up at his visor.

Din sighs.

“What do you want?”

“Release her.”

Terek splutters for a moment, trying and failing to form a sentence that expresses his utter disbelief, but you save him the trouble by wrenching your hand from his and stepping away.

“I’m fine,” you say to no one in particular. Then, to Terek, “Go home.”

“I’m not leaving you with him,” he says, disgusted, eyeing Din warily.

“I’m fine,” you reassure him, adding, “Just go,” when he hesitates.

Terek leaves, his pride sufficiently wounded by the dismissal. He mutters under his breath as he does, disappearing around a corner. Then it’s just you and Din.

You look up at him for a moment then turn abruptly on your heel and stalk away.

You waited to be alone with him just so you could leave first. The pettiness of it almost amuses him.

You’re upset with him. Hurt. For good reason. He doesn’t blame you, and as much as he should be thrilled that you want nothing to do with him, he’s suddenly desperate to fix it. Now that you’re standing in front of him again, he can’t help himself.

“Wait,” he says, following you instinctively. “Let me walk with you.”

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. He sounds just like Terek, who obviously annoys the shit out of you. Sure enough, you reject the offer. 

“No,” you reply, tossing the word carelessly over your shoulder.

Din watches you walk away, disappointment coiling in his chest like thick smoke.

He makes an impulsive decision, overtaking you in a few strides, turning around in front of you to force you to stop walking. “Please.”

You’re surprised, caught off guard by his plea, but you recover quickly. You deliberate for one painful, infinite moment.

“Alright,” you say, your expression softening. “Come on.”

He’s so relieved he sighs audibly. He’s so relieved he doesn’t even let himself think about what a bad idea this is—how it’s going to completely erase the progress he’s made in keeping you away from him. He shoves those thoughts aside and falls into step beside you. 

Din looks down at the reluctant smile pulling at your lips, and he smiles behind the helmet.

In that moment, everything changes. His resolve evaporates. Nothing about this could be wrong, he decides. It feels too good. Even more importantly, you look happy. 

That means he’s doing something right.

YOU

Summer gifts you a final handful of warm days as fall pushes in.

Your weekly harvest shifts from the best of the summer fruits and vegetables to what fall has to offer—pears and apples, squashes and pumpkins, leafy greens and broccoli crowns. A chill slips in at night, first a light breeze, then more insistent until it’s enough to necessitate shut windows and drawn curtains.

In the forest, the deciduous trees are just starting to turn. The tart greens of summer have waned to a muted olive in the heat and the drought, and they’re beginning to give way to the first golden hues of autumn, heralding the oncoming winter months. It’s your stark annual reminder of the transience of the growing season. In a few months, the weekly market will all but close, reduced to a handful of stalls selling preserved and prepared foods. Your part in it will be over for the year. 

You’re even more relieved than usual. You’ll miss the finer weather, of course, but not the work. Or the weekly slog to the market…and the constant reminder of the Mandalorian’s rejection.

The memory tastes like sweet cherry gone sour on your tongue.

You try not to think about it—how stupid you made yourself look, flirting with him when he wasn’t interested. Pursuing him outright and cajoling him to come to your stall when he’d made the choice to avoid you. You’d made some bold moves, and they hadn’t paid off. No, they’d backfired rather spectacularly. 

You’re grateful that the Mandalorian’s constant radius of solitude—the area around him that his intimidation keeps clear—means that no one else witnessed the whole embarrassing scene up close. A small blessing.

The last Saturday markets of the season pass without event. Just like the previous handful, Mando walks by. You see him coming and avoid his gaze; you avoid looking at him altogether in fact—you don’t even sneak a sidelong glance to see if he’s willing to spare you a nod. You don’t want to know.

You both act the part of the strangers you are. Whatever nascent thing flickered between you for a moment has been snuffed out completely.

You pack up your kiosk and head home from that final Saturday, knowing it’s time to get to work on the necessary preparations for winter: some repairs, the work in the orchards and gardens, tending to the chickens. The final push feels extra hard this year.

You’ve never been more ready to leave this planet. 

So naturally, when you head into town a few days later to check on the progress of your ship, you find out that the last few parts are back-ordered. Everything slows down here when the first chilly winds start to pick up the fallen leaves—everything. People hunker down preemptively, incoming shipments of all goods slowing to a trickle. It doesn’t help that your ship is an old model, out of production. It already takes extra time to find the right parts.

The mechanic estimates an early spring completion date.

You’ll have to wait out the cold months patiently. Knowing he’s still out there. A small comfort is that you probably won’t see him at all now that you won’t spend hours at the one place you reliably crossed paths. Maybe you’ll pass each other when you’re visiting the tiny winter market briefly for necessities. Likely not, though, when you know exactly the time he shows up and therefore just how to avoid him.

You wish he’d leave the planet entirely so you could stop thinking about him.

No, you wish he’d seek you out. Just so you could reject him.

Who are you kidding? That’s not how that would go. 

What you really want is for him to seek you out, explain that the whole thing was some kind of misunderstanding, whip his helmet off to reveal his handsome face, and kiss you full on the mouth.

It’ll probably happen. Any second.

*** Right away, you’re proven wrong. It’s not so easy to avoid him. But you don’t run into him at the market—no, you’re in town, coming out of the cantina, when you see him next.

A slightly drunk Terek is trying to talk you into letting him walk you home, and the Mandalorian appears out of nowhere.

Again, the absurd idea that he follows you seems not entirely improbable.

“Release her.”

The protective tone of Mando’s voice makes your stomach clench. Terek is perfectly harmless. You’ve dealt with him for years, and he’s never done more than offer his company, sometimes too insistently. Some deep, vicious part of you wants him to get uncharacteristically angry and brave right now—to escalate the situation by refusing to let you go.

You want to see how effortlessly Mando would put him down. 

Fuck, what is wrong with you?

The man does things to your head. 

You pull your hand out of Terek’s loose, sweaty grasp and step away. He protests when you tell him to leave, but eventually, reluctantly, he listens. And then it’s just you and the Mandalorian. As you wanted.

He got protective over you, and your curiosity is unyielding. You have to know how this is going to play out.

He stands there like a metal statue and says nothing.

So you turn and walk away.

“Wait,” he says belatedly, his footsteps picking up behind you. “Let me walk with you.”

It’s embarrassing how easily the request makes your irritation disappear. The reality of just how much his attention means to you cinches uncomfortably in your gut. You remember your last encounter, and the combination makes you defensive.

So you say the opposite of what you really want, an ugly satisfaction settling in your chest: “No.”

He rounds on you. “Please.”

He sounds well and truly fraught—even though the modulator, the sharp emotion comes through.

The Mandalorian seems to be someone else entirely tonight: you think he’s the man you’ve glimpsed behind the armor, sweet and real, the one he usually tries to keep hidden. It’s intoxicating.

“Alright,” you say, relieved. “Come on.”

He falls into place beside you quickly, a little eagerly.

You pass the entrance to town, and the wind whistles through the dry leaves in the forest, tugging the last few hold-outs from their branches to join the rest. They skitter across the hard-packed dirt road.

As much as you’d rather avoid the topic altogether, it feels necessary to address the awkwardness between you before diving into anything else. It doesn’t feel so daunting at this moment. His energy tonight has changed the dynamic completely. 

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable that day at the market. I didn’t mean—”

He surprises you by stopping abruptly in his tracks and turning toward you. You pause too. He extends a hand like he wants to reach for yours then decides better of it and lets it drop.

“I was rude,” he says. “I’m sorry, it had nothing to do with you.”

You scrunch your nose. That doesn’t seem true. “Really? It seemed like—”

“Forgive me.”

It has the quiet desperation of a plea, and he says it with so much sincerity that you don’t feel any qualms about agreeing.

“Of course,” you say. “It’s forgotten.”

He nods once, decisively, then turns to keep walking. Apparently, the matter is settled. You let him change the subject when he tries.

“How’s the progress on your ship?” he asks.

You let out an annoyed huff. “Delayed. Again.”

You explain the specifics to him.

It feels like a gift to be alone with him for this long, to finally have an uninterrupted, prolonged, one-on-one conversation. You’re learning so much about him, his quirks, already. He has a way of keeping you talking without saying anything. He gives you a look, cocks his helmet, hums. Not talkative but not aloof. He wants you to keep talking, and he communicates that openly.

You like it—like learning him—and at the same time, you can’t help but want to wheedle more out of him. You want the man behind the mask, all of him. You tell yourself to settle for this. This is easy. This is comfortable. You’ll give him time. You’ll let him unravel you a little before you start in on him.

So for now, he goads; you answer.

Ten or so minutes pass like that.

“So, it looks like I’m stuck here through the winter,” you conclude. 

That fact is starting to feel less bleak by the minute.

“Yeah?”

Either there’s a faint glimmer of potential in his question or you want it to be there so badly you’re projecting. It feels real, though—real enough to press a little.

“What about you, Mando? How long are you here for?”

“Still deciding.”

“And what’s informing that decision?”

He looks you over for a long moment. Leaves crunch under his boots, and you feel exposed under his naked attention. 

“Several…factors,” he says finally, perfectly cryptic.

You roll your eyes at him playfully, prompting him to expand with an open hand. 

“I’ll…be here through the winter too.”

It feels like he’s just deciding right now. And you want to believe that—that your timeline is somehow, improbable as it is, affecting his. 

You can’t help but smile at him. “Good.”

You walk in companionable silence for a few minutes—until something howls mournfully into the night.

“You walk this alone at night?” he asks. There’s concern there.

You shrug. “I’ve lived here all my life—long enough that I know what to expect, long enough that nothing on this planet really scares me anymore. I know how to deal with it.”

A grunt of acknowledgement, then he goes thoughtfully quiet.

You’ve reached the turn-off for your house. You expect him to leave you here. He doesn’t. He walks with you all the way down the path, all the way to the stairs that lead up to your front porch.

You turn to him, he turns to you, and you’re painfully aware that in any other situation, walking home with someone you’re interested in might culminate in a kiss. If you wanted it to.

You look up, meeting his visor, feeling shy under his gaze again. “Thanks for walking with me.”

He nods and reaches into a pouch on his belt, fishing out something small. He hands it to you. “In case.”

You look down at the little silver device, closing your fingers around it. A com. A direct link to him, given freely. You’re surprised. And pleased. “I—thank you.”

“Use it if you need it.”

“I will.”

“...if you want to,” he amends, a little hesitantly.

“I definitely will.”

He bids you goodnight with a final nod, but he waits to leave until you let yourself in your front door and lock it behind you.

From the window, you watch him go, watch him turn and melt into the syrupy darkness like he’s always been part of it.

*** The next day, you’re buoyed by the hope of last night’s conversation. He was friendly. He wanted to spend time with you. He was protective. You float through your work mindlessly, daydreaming. 

The little silver com feels heavy and significant in your skirt pocket.

The air smells earthy, and there’s a chilly bite to the morning breeze. Luna follows you as per usual, moseying behind as you graduate from one task to the next. Her ankle is fully healed. She wanders in your vicinity, searching out the best food sources without leaving your sight. 

You replay your conversation with Mando—the questions, the interest, the amiable silence—while you work. 

You pause in the middle of pruning an apple tree, clippers poised over a branch to be cut: you might actually be friends with the Mandalorian.

Of course, what you really want is to be fucked raw by the Mandalorian every day. But being friends is probably a good first step.

When you’re done in the orchard, you move the chickens from their outdoor enclosure inside, counting each feathery butt as they titter their way through the door of the barn. The last one meanders away, pecking at the ground in search of bugs, and you have to herd her back toward the waiting warmth. 

“Come on, silly.”

You usher her inside, check the feed levels, and latch the door behind them. All accounted for. You haven’t lost a chicken in months. 

It’s odd, honestly.

It’s usually a constant battle to keep them from being picked off. You always factor in an expected loss each year. But for the past few months, you haven’t lost a single one, haven’t seen a single offending footprint of a predator—large or small—anywhere on your land. Even the rats have stopped coming for the eggs.

It makes you curious.

You venture into the forest early that evening, slipping under the patchwork of fall colors: amber and olive and burnt orange. Luna follows close at your heel. You’re not sure what you’re looking for until you find it.

A ways into the forest, quite far from the edge of your clearing, you come across a large tree, its trunk wide and thick, and the bark is shredded. It’s cut with long, deep lacerations. And lying at its base is a sizable ladder of vertebrae. Mammalian. Something big. The bones have been picked clean, left almost pristine by the elements and hungry critters.

You’ve never seen something like this so close to your house.

And you haven’t seen any live predators lately. You’ve heard them, far off.  It doesn’t make sense.

You circle the trunk and notice a little way off, there is another tree just like this one—ribboned bark, an offering of bones gathered at its foot. And then, from that tree, you spot another. There’s a series of them, one after another. You follow one to the next, marked tree to marked tree, and find that they form a massive ring around your property. 

A halo of slashed trees hemming you in. 

You can tell they’ve each been marked repeatedly, newer lacerations scored across older ones, newer kills piled atop older ones. There are scattered bones everywhere—husks of shattered skulls and splintered femurs, the pristine skeletal structure of a paw as big as your hand. Some are stripped, but decaying muscle and flesh still cling to others.

Dread has dropped into your stomach like a stone, growing heavier by the minute. Something is…stalking you?

Has been stalking you.

For weeks. Maybe months.

Something that’s large enough to kill the largest predator on this planet.

Something new.

Someone new.

You know.

You’re almost back to where you started; you’ve almost completed the full circuit when you find one spot that’s more disturbing than the rest. The kill that sits at the base of this tree looks fresh, maybe a day or two old. It hasn’t rotted yet, and you can smell the coppery tang of dried blood. You can see it too, dripped like black ink across dead, curled oak leaves.

There’s something else in the air too—something strong and alluring—

You turn abruptly when you realize you haven’t heard the quiet crunch of Luna’s steps in a minute, haven’t felt the gentle press of her nose and the warm chuff of air when she exhales against your leg. Your tiny companion is several steps behind you, completely stricken. She looks as terrified as the day you took her home—trembling legs splayed, eyes huge, ears alert.

She is not pleased with the grisly scene. For good reason.

You scan the area, listening intently. There’s no movement, no immediate threat you can discern. You know this kill is abandoned.

But you’re not going to subject Luna to this fear. You scoop her up, trudge back through the forest to bring her home, and put her inside. And then you head back to the spot.

Something aside from the macabre mystery of it all brings you back.

The smell of blood is overpowering, but there’s that other scent lingering on the still forest air, something warm and pungent and vaguely familiar. You can’t put your finger on what it is, but it smells good. Mouthwateringly good. Not like fresh baked bread, not something benign like a food or flower or early morning. 

It’s something overtly sexual, something personal.

You can’t remember ever being this attracted to a scent, but it conjures images of intense coupling. It smells like tangled limbs, like burying your face against the hollow of a sweaty throat. Like skimming the tip of your nose up the inside of a thigh. Like having two thick fingers thrust into your mouth, pressing in, pressing down on the wet muscle of your tongue until you choke. Like those same spit-wet fingers slipping out of your mouth, streaking a glistening trail down your chin, and closing around your throat.

It’s leather and sex and smoke and salt and…so many more unnameable things.

It has you wet between your legs.

It has you following a faint trail of dripped blood and remnants of dismembered carcasses across the pine-needle strewn ground—a path that leads away from your property. You wander from one trace to the next, a little dazed, searching the forest floor for more signs of the violence that took place here.

Every step you take has you moving a little faster, until you’re all but running through the maze of tree trunks.

You pass cracked ribs, stripped almost completely clean.

The smell is getting stronger, more magnetic. You barely have to seek out the trail of the blood and scattered viscera to find your way; the smell itself is enough. It keeps you on track.

You know it’s crazy. But you need answers.

Halfway there, you’re sure of where the path leads. There’s nothing else this far in the forest. You know who will be waiting at the end of it.

You step over the sharp angle of a jaw bone, shiny teeth lined up like snow-covered mountain peaks.

No wonder the nights have been loud with desolate howling.

You’re vaguely aware that dusk is gathering quickly, spun like silk between the tightly packed trees. It’s dangerous to be out this late, in this part of the forest, in the dark.

You keep moving, fingers clutched tightly around the com in your pocket.

*** The Mandalorian is waiting for you.

He’s standing comfortably, leaning against a tree, as if he’s been expecting you for some time, like he’s known you’ve been on your way. His house lurks somewhere in the blue mist behind him.

How could he possibly have known?

When he straightens, his body language is stiff. Something is off.

He greets you with a gruff, “You shouldn’t be out here.”

You hesitate. “What—why?”

“It isn’t safe.”

“It’s not—”

“Don’t come here again.”

The contrast to how he spoke to you last night is jarring. You’re speechless for a second. He turns on his heel and starts to walk away. He’s gone mercurial on you again—retreated fully behind his armor.

You find your voice before he’s disappeared between the trees. “I told you—I’m not afraid of anything on this planet.”

He stops in his tracks and turns slowly to face you, his silver armor glinting dully in the gloom. 

“I know,” he says, “but you should be.”

You bristle. “Why are you acting this way? Yesterday—just yesterday you gave me a com link.” You pull the thing out of your pocket and hold it up. “And told me to use it. You wanted me to.”

“That…was a mistake.”

“Don’t say that. It wasn’t.”

“I shouldn’t have been so familiar. It won’t happen again.”

He turns and is almost completely lost to darkness, the looming outline of his roof just barely visible beyond the trees.

“Why is there a trail of carcasses leading from my house to yours?”

He stops in his tracks. Silent.

“You owe me an explanation,” you press. “I’m not leaving until I get it.”

He stands there for a long moment.

“Come in,” he growls finally, jerking his helmet toward his front door.

You follow him inside. The house is old but beautiful—hardwood floors and sky blue walls. It’s clean and uncluttered, just as you expect his space to be. He nods toward his kitchen table, offering you a chair, and leans against his kitchen counter, thumbs tucked into his belt.  

“Explain the bodies.”

He’s not looking at you. He chooses his words carefully. “They…were a threat.”

“They were a threat…?”

“So I eliminated them,” he says simply.

Eliminated feels like a generous euphemism for the way the beasts were obliterated, ripped to shreds and scattered. To be honest, though, you’re less concerned with the details than you should be. You care more about the reason. You want to hear him say it. 

“Why?”

“I’m a hunter. It’s what I do.”

“There was a bounty on those creatures?”

He tilts his helmet in a way that feels like an eye-roll.

“They weren’t bothering anyone,” you say. “It wasn’t necessary.”

“They were stalking you.”

The lake. The fight. Here it is, finally: the truth. You’re going to have to drag it out of him.

“And how do you know that?”

He tips his helmet up, his visor finally meeting your eyes, but he says nothing.

“You’ve been following me.”

Again, nothing. He fixes his gaze downward again.

“Why, Mando?” you prompt, some mixture of dread and desire pulsing through your veins. “Tell me. You owe me that.”

“You know,” he says quietly.

Your heartrate kicks up. “I know what?”

He says it begrudgingly, like it’s an ugly reality: “That I want you.”

You laugh. He can’t be fucking serious. “How would I know that? Should I have guessed when you stopped talking to me? Or when you refused to look at me? How could I possibly have known when you can’t seem to decide whether to let me in or push me away?”

“You’ve known,” he says, addressing none of your questions. “You flirted with me.”

“I did,” you admit. “But that had more to do with my feelings than anything I assumed about yours. I didn’t know what you were feeling. I just knew what I wanted.”

“Mmm.”

You’re going to kill him if he doesn’t start giving you more than monosyllables.

“If you want me, why do you keep pushing me away?”

He rolls his helmet to the side, annoyed. As if he has any right to be annoyed. You can hear how tightly his jaw is clenched when he speaks. “Because I can’t have you.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one who gets to decide that?”

“Not in this case.”

“And why is that?”

“It’s…complicated.”

“Fine. Explain it to me.” You make a show of settling back in your chair. “We have all the time in the world.”

He bunches his shoulders, rubs a heavy hand down the back of his neck, uneasy. “You’ll get hurt.”

“What does that even mean? How would I get hurt?”

He ignores that, deflecting. “This isn’t your decision to make,” he spits. “It’s mine.”

“That’s insane—we both want the same thing—”

“I won’t let you get hurt.” His voice is low, his visor pointed at his boots—almost as if he’s talking to himself, trying to convince himself.

You stand, frustrated, your chair squeaking on the hardwood floor when you shove it backwards. “Why would I get hurt, Mando—how? What are you going to do? Or is it me you’re worried about? Is this how you really think of me? As something fragile? Do you just think I’m that fucking weak?”

He breaks.

The sound he makes is brutal and anguished, a dull roar, and you can’t help but flinch when he slams his fist against the counter behind him. The windows shake with the impact. He laughs when you flinch, something low and dark rumbling through his chest, a sound tinged with vindication.

“Good,” he says. “I said you should be scared.”

“That sound startled me,” you say, rolling your eyes. “It doesn’t mean I’m scared of you.”

He moves like a gunshot. 

He shoves your empty chair away, and his massive metal frame forces you backwards with faltering steps. You stop when your back hits the wall, looking up at his visor defiantly. He’s trying to provoke you, to orchestrate a situation that forces you to push him away, that justifies his own worry. 

“What will it take?”

He gets so close that his chest brushes yours, so close that you can feel the cold metal of his armor through your clothes. He looms over you, dropping his helmet toward your ear.

“Hmm?” he prompts. “What will it take to convince you?”

“Of what?”

“To leave this—leave me—alone.”

You open and close your mouth, at a loss for words, overwhelmed by his closeness.

He dips his head again, his helmet nudging your temple, his voice pitching low and dangerous. “You want me to hurt you?”

“You won’t hurt me.” You say it so quickly, with such conviction that it surprises even you.

Mando lets out a quiet sound like a wounded animal and looks away, his visor fixed on the ground as his chest heaves in deep breaths. You’re about to speak again when he looks up and cradles your cheek in his gloved hand.

He’s gentle suddenly. Reverent.

“You’re right, sweet thing. I won’t hurt you. Not on purpose.”

“See?”

“Not on purpose,” he repeats, the words heavy with significance.

“I trust you.”

You reach for his helmet with a tentative hand, waiting for him to stop you—fully expecting it. He doesn’t. You trace the sharp relief with light fingers, running them down what would be his cheek.

“I want you. Let me want you.”

A low growl rumbles through his chest, but this one is different from the others. This one sounds pleased. You’ll take it.

You tuck two fingers into the soft leather of his belt and tug his hips forward those last few inches, guiding him close until his whole body is flush to yours, until you’re caught between his unyielding metal and the wall.

You let your hands wander to the spaces between his armor, let them run up his sides, let one slip under the layered fabric at his neck. Your fingertips find warm skin, and you sigh at the feeling.

He’s real. He’s here. He’s not moving away. 

He’s leaning into your touch, his breath coming thick and fast through the modulator. His hands, though, are hovering by your hips, uncertain.

“Touch me,” you beg, grabbing them and moving them to your sides. 

His fingers tighten against your middle, and he presses the solid length of his body harder against yours. He’s half hard against your hip.

“Please.”

He’s considering. He’s drawing out the longest moment of your life.

You can feel the moment he decides to give in, to let himself have what you both want so badly. He sighs and curls himself around you, dropping his helmet toward your shoulder, slipping his arms around your waist to hold you tight.

It’s achingly tender. Intimate in a way you weren’t expecting.

You breathe together.

And just as suddenly, everything shifts again. He pulls back and fixes you with a hard look. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You need to be sure.”

“I’m sure. Just—please—”

His fingers follow the line of your jaw, his thumb settling on your lower lip. At the merest hint of pressure, you open your mouth.

“Bite,” he whispers, pushing just the tip of his thumb past your lips.

You graze your teeth lightly over his fingertip, catching the seam. The potent taste of leather and blaster residue invades your mouth, sitting heavy like ash on your tongue. You want to taste his skin, not his glove.

You’re desperate to know what sound he’d make if you wrapped your lips around his bare thumb and sucked. But before you have the chance, he eases his hand out of his glove—revealing golden brown skin—and drops it to your side, squeezing your hip so hard it makes you gasp. The leather slaps quietly against the floor when your jaw falls open. He yanks his other hand free and lets that glove fall too.

Your hand slips down his chest plate, skates over his belt, to settle over—

His bare hand covers yours, clamping it in place over his cold metal buckle.

“No.”

You look up at him. “What—?”

“No,” he repeats.

“Why—?”

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks again. “Are you sure you want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “But why can’t—?”

Before you can finish your question, Mando is spinning you around and ushering you backward toward the table. When the edge nudges your back, he turns you again, pushing your shoulders down until you fold forward over the oak top. 

He arranges you to his liking: a boot kicks your feet wider, and rough hands grip your hips to shift them backward so he has enough space to work open the button on your skirt, shove it down, and let it pool at your feet. He takes your underwear with it. 

Your gasp melts into a moan when he fits himself behind you, bent over you with his hips bracketing yours, and drags his warm, dry hands up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You can feel him through his clothes—his cock is hard against the small of your back—and you’re on fire with the thought of trying to fit him inside you.

You’d take it. You want that burn.

But he doesn’t reach for his belt. He stays like that, folded over you, the edge of his helmet sharp on the back of your shoulder, and slides one hand further up into the v of your legs. He grunts and presses his hips harder against your ass at the first feeling of your wet heat on his fingers as he parts you. 

The pad of his finger finds your clit and skims it, applying barely any pressure. Teasing.

He speaks softly, his helmet close to your ear. “Is this what you wanted? Is this what you needed?”

You push your hips back against him, seeking. “Please, Mando—I need—”

“You’ll take what I give you, pretty thing. And you won’t ask for more.”

He goes torturously slow, clearly unconcerned with your urgent need. He’s enjoying the build-up, you think, enjoying feeling you squirm against him. He lets you whine for a couple minutes while he plays with you as he pleases. Until finally, he decides to give you the pressure you need, two fingers rocking gently against your clit, his other hand dipping lower.

Out of all the things that have happened tonight—all the weird, improbable shit—what shocks you the most is this: Mando can be a talker. As soon as he sinks two fingers into the warmth of your pussy, he starts to run his mouth. And he doesn’t stop.

In his sinful voice, he tells you how much he’s wanted this, how good you feel around his fingers.

He groans deep. “I’ve thought about this tight little cunt every night for months.”

With both his hands between your legs and a steady stream of filth murmured in your ear, he takes you apart in minutes. He pauses only to rip your shirt over your head, palming your breasts with a quiet oh fuck, and then resumes.

“I’ve imagined the sounds you’d make—the way you’d cry for me when I make you come.”

He fucks you with two thick fingers, stretching you open in a way that’s making your arousal seep down his palm.

“Fuck, you’re even wetter than I thought you’d be—hngg—you’re dripping on me.”

He flicks your clit with his other hand, a little mean, then soothes the sting with just the right touch, the right rhythm. You come like that, spasming around his fingers, and he growls when he feels it. 

“Oh fuck, come for me, just like that.”

He pulls his hands away too quickly.

“Let me—just let me—”

He guides you into a new position with gentle but hurried movements. There’s a frantic air to them that has you obeying without a second thought. He draws your shoulders up and spins you around; his hands slide down your back and over the curve of your ass, gripping the backs of your thighs to lift you onto the edge of the table.

He presses you backwards until you lie flat for him, and he parts your knees and slides his palms up the insides of your thighs, forcing your legs apart so you’re completely spread for him. You don’t have time to be startled by the depravity of it because he does something you’re not expecting. He drops to his knees with a clank of beskar and lets his helmet fall forward into the v of your thighs.

You gasp at the cold shock of metal, flinching away instinctively, but his hands curl around your thighs and keep you in place.

He presses the front of his helmet against your sex.

There’s no way he can see anything at all with his visor shoved up against your skin, no way there’s enough light to make out the details of your cunt.

Then you realize, he’s smelling you. His fingers are digging into your thighs as he tries to drag you closer to his face—as if he could drag you any closer when you’re already pressed up tight against him, as if he could pull you straight through the mask of beskar if he tries hard enough.

He’s making sharp, animalistic sounds: growls and huffs and desperate inhalations.

You watch in fascination as his shoulder starts to shift and roll, the dim light glinting on his pauldron, and you push yourself up onto your elbows and drop your head to one side to discover he’s palming himself over his pants where he’s kneeling, rubbing the erection straining against his zipper.

He’s touching himself to the smell of you.

It makes you desperate to touch him. You reach for him.

“Mando, please.”

He lets you pull him up, but when you go for his belt, he swats your hand away. Instead, he grips your thighs and yanks you further down the table; you slide easily over the wooden surface until the solid weight of his body stops you—until you can feel the hard bulge of his clothed erection against your core. You must be leaving a gloss of slick arousal on the front of his pants, but something tells you he likes that.

His hands cup your breasts, run roughly down your stomach, and pause at your hips. His helmet snaps up to your face.

“Can I taste you?”

You don’t even know what he means—don’t know how that will be possible with the impediment of the helmet—but you truly don’t care. You’d let him do anything he wants to you. 

“Yes.”

Mando slips a hand between your bodies and teases you open again, easing his fingers inside where you’re hot and leaking for him. He gives them a few leisurely pumps, curling them against you in a way that makes sparks skitter up your spine. And then he pulls them back.

He shoves his hand under the lip of his helmet and lets out the filthiest groan yet, his head tipping back in bliss as he sucks your taste off his fingers.

You brace yourself on your elbows to watch. It’s a deeply erotic sight. It makes you throb for him.

You’re about to reach for him again, to pull his body down over yours when he steps back and suddenly looks…disoriented. Caught off guard. His hands hang loosely by his sides, like he’s… waiting. Something foreign wracks through him—a shiver, no, more violent than that. A tremor shakes his body; he jerks his head to the side sharply and pulls his shoulders up tight, tensing, resisting something. It passes in a moment, and when it does, he leans his weight on slightly bent knees, catching his breath as if he just sprinted up a hill.

What the—?

“Are you alright?”

He shakes his head in a quick jerk. “I’m fine.”

He brushes past it as if nothing unusual has happened.

You don’t have time to question it because he takes his place between your knees again and leans over you, bracing a forearm above your head, the side of his smooth helmet sliding against your cheek. His fingers are still wet with his spit when he slides them home. He presses in close, and you can see the evidence of your slick smeared across his usually pristine visor. You can smell yourself on his helmet.

And you like it, like seeing him undone for you. By you.

He knows it’s there. You’re sure he can see the hazy smudge that extends across the vertical line of his visor.

“Fuck,” he says, breathless, resting his forehead lightly against yours, his hand moving between your tense thighs, “taste it.”

It takes you a moment to understand. His fingers press deeper, the feeling of him curling and stroking radiates outward.

“Lick yourself off my helmet.”

You don’t even think about it. Your mouth falls open obediently, and you drag the flat of your tongue up the glass, cutting through the taste of your own arousal.

He loves it. He lives for it.

You’re not sure if it’s the fact that you’ve just shown him you’re wiling to do whatever he says, without question; or if it’s the idea of you tasting yourself; or if it’s the filthy visual he must have of your mouth, up close and personal—maybe the closest thing he will ever get to a kiss; or if it’s something else entirely.

Whatever the reason, he likes it.

He mutters a string of praise so panted and broken that you can’t follow it. It somehow manages to communicate his meaning even better than if it were intelligible.

Mando shifts the arm braced above your head lower so he can press the pads of two fingers against your lip, a question.

Just what you wanted earlier.

You part your lips, and he coaxes another orgasm out of you. With one hand, he moves two fingers inside you, his thumb slipping over the tender pearl of your clit, and the other is cradling your chin, his fingers pressing down on your tongue as you moan around them.

It takes no time at all to work you back up to that same precipice.

“You’re—fuck—you’re choking my fingers.”

The broken pant of his words is enough to push you over the edge.

And all you can think about while you’re coming on his hand is how impossibly full you’d feel if he was fucking you with his cock instead of his thick fingers. And how much you want to know what that feels like.

You lie there, trying to catch your breath for a few moments, Mando braced over you, his breathing just as labored as yours. Eventually, he straightens.

“Up,” he invites, offering a hand.

You take it, and he pulls you into a sitting position on the table, your spread legs snug around his hips. You both look down between your bodies, and you hope he’s thinking the same thing you are.

This table is the perfect height for him to fuck you.

He could take himself out and sheath himself inside you so easily. Or you could do it for him. You’re hesitant to reach for him again, the echo of his unyielding no still loud in your head.

But you can see the rigid outline of him straining against the dark fabric of his pants. Your mouth waters at the sight. You’re itching to touch him—you can almost feel the weight and heft of him against your palm, hot and hard. He must be riding the edge of painfully aroused by now, absolutely aching for relief. And based on where his gaze is fixed—on the inches of space between your body and his, the meager distance that feels like a gaping chasm—he’s definitely thinking the same thing you are. 

He wants it.

You’re seconds away from throwing caution to the wind and reaching for his zipper when he clears his throat, and you look up to his visor. His tentative fingers brush your cheek, and your filthy thoughts are successfully derailed by the only thing that could possibly derail them: Mando being sweet to you.

“You’ll stay here.”

It’s neither an invitation or a question, just a fact. Stated warmly and firmly.

He finds your discarded clothes for you then leads you to his bed and waits for you to climb in. You settle under the thick quilt at the far end so he has enough space to lie down beside you. Which he does. Awkwardly. On top of the covers. In full armor. He’s even pulled his fucking gloves back on.

You’ll push him on that at some point—the armor thing. Not now, though. You’ve just barely gotten this far with him. You feel like you’ll spook him if you push too hard.

He leaves a gulf of empty space between your bodies when he settles on his back, his hands clasped together over his belt. A safe, respectful distance away. Hands completely to himself. As if he hasn’t just made you come on his fingers twice, buried knuckle-deep inside you as he whispered filthy things in your ear. As if he hasn’t just tasted your cunt.

If it wasn’t already perfectly clear, this drives the point home: He doesn’t know how to do this—how to be close to someone. If you want this to be anything else, anything more, you’ll have to show him.

You close the space between you, shifting toward him, guiding him closer with a hand on his arm, and he makes a quiet, surprised sound as he turns onto his side, into you, his arm instinctively circling your back. The instinct is there—the desire too—just not the how.

You curl into his metal chest, and one of the very good reasons he had for staying so far away from you on the bed becomes immediately apparent.

Ow.

He murmurs what you’re thinking: “I know the armor can’t be comfortable for you either.”

He makes no offer to take it off, extends no apology for its presence, just acknowledges that you’ll want to move away because of it. It’s not that he doesn’t want this; it’s that he’s accepted he isn’t suited for it.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, afraid he’s going to pull away. 

You tighten your fingers in the duraweave at his side. The hard lines of his beskar press into the front of your body, cold and pinching, in all the wrong places. He’s right. It is absolutely uncomfortable. You try to adjust subtly, try to get more comfortable without confirming that you’re really uncomfortable in the first place. You nudge your face further into the fabric bunched around his neck, chasing one of the few soft, warm parts of him that you can reach.

The tip of your nose brushes skin, and he sighs.

That scent. The one that lead you to him. It’s strongest here, heady and potent. You think you could get drunk on it. Live in it. Right now, though, it’s not so urgent. It doesn’t compel you; it’s not the catalyst it was before. It’s simply…comforting. Sweet and soothing, like the cloying edge of a sedative. No, it’s less demanding than that. More of a gentle suggestion, a reassurance.

The warm embrace of safety.

“It’s fine,” you mutter again, and this time you really mean it. “I don’t mind.”

His arm tightens around you, his hand traveling up your back to cup the nape of your neck, holding you in place where you’ve nuzzled in close. The gesture feels protective. Intimate and familiar.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you register how difficult it will be to give this up, but you release the thought as soon as it comes. No good can come from thinking like that. The end is inevitable: neither of you are meant to stay here forever.

You’ll enjoy this while you have it. Enjoy him while you have him. However brief that is.

You start to doze off, tucked comfortably against him, your thoughts spreading out and losing their shape, like ink bleeding across a wet page. It allows several things to click into place at once, settling into a recognizable pattern like puzzle pieces.

The bloody path. The dismembered carcasses. His unwillingness to let you touch him. The trees around your house. His inner conflict—his worries about hurting you. The armor. The odd physical reactions. The scent. Luna’s fear.

You’ve suspected for a while. You’ve known for sure since you saw the bodies, and in the liminal space on the edge of sleep, you finally let the truth surface.

He’s not human.

[juststoriesintheend]

II. Bulabird

Chapter Pairing(s): Master Sol x f!Reader; Osha Aniseya x f!Reader

Chapter Content: reunion, unrequited to requited feelings, love admissions (kind of), sex pollen, consent talk

Word Count: 3,846

《 [series masterlist] 》 《 I 》 《 III 》 《 IV 》

Your eyelids make an awful scratching sound when they open and your vision is flawed, blurry as if filtered through a screen, but the image you fix upon remains as familiar to you as your own reflection.

“Hey, bulabird.”

There are few things in this galaxy you know as well as you know yourself. The Force, the Temple, the way Sol’s hair spirals in on itself when damp, the weight of your saber in your palm… But you never thought you would know the sound of Osha Aniseya’s voice again.

“‘sha?” Your voice comes out garbled when the weight of your tongue proves too heavy to counter.

Through the haze, you think you glimpse a smile and the sheen of artificial lighting on nut brown skin. It’s hard to tell. Everything feels confused, as if the galaxy has been painted over with a great brush and left only smudges of reality in its wake. The light catches on something vaguely hand-shaped, and your body confirms it moments later when Osha’s knuckles brush your temple. It burns like a brand on your skin, but it brings with it the aftertaste of pleasure like candle wax on your fingertips or an itch scratched just right, and you chase after it, face dipping low to catch her palm when she starts to withdraw.

“What happened to you?” she murmurs.

You wish you knew. Your mind has been lost to itself for what seems like an eternity, but then, anything that exists outside of this singular moment feels as unreal as a dream. There’s only the fever raging beneath your skin and the bite of relief that Osha’s touch brings.

“Don’t,” you rumble when she tries again to extract herself. Your fingers are desperate in their attempts to wrap around her arm, to twine themselves with hers, anything so long as she stays. “Hurts.”

Something shifts above you and a whiff of her scent floods your senses - sweat and sand and everything Osha. It takes you a moment to realize that the strange sound of moaning is coming from you.

Her hand smacks against your cheek when you finally manage to drag her back to you, the force of your need nearly flattening her atop your body, and the sweetness of it shoots ice through your veins. This is what you needed, this whisper of skin on skin to soothe the agony of your clothing and the heat and the eternal suffering of this Force forsaken planet.

“Woah, hey, easy there-”

“You make it better,” you try to explain, all while rubbing your face into the rigid flatness of her palm.

A few fleeting seconds of tranquility shudder through your bones before Osha is retreating again, though she doesn’t go far. Her palm shifts to your forehead where sweat has beaded so heavily that it’s pooling along your hairline, dripping slowly down the back of your head to your neck. She exhales through her nose and it hits you just below your eyes. Another strange sense of relief floods through you. Like the kind when Sol had caught you at the base of that sand dune, when he’d saved you. Something so deep within you that it might as well have been stitched into your flesh.

Sol…

It’s the thought of him that brings you clarity enough to start analyzing your surroundings. Metal and light, somehow both cold and scalding hot. It’s the Polan, you realize belatedly, but it looks so unfamiliar to your eyes, almost alien. Perhaps it’s Sol’s absence that feels so off-putting. You’re so used to his presence that to be without it when you feel so lost, so sick to your stomach, is almost debilitating.

“Where… is he?” you croak.

Osha’s face swims before you, in and out of focus, in and out of thought, but you think she looks sad. Or unsure? It’s so hard to tell when everything inside you seems to be on fire.

“Sol?”

You nod frantically, moaning as another wave of heat crashes over you and beats you back into submission. “He was… He said…” Acting on its own instinct rather than any sort of conscious thought, one of your hands reaches for Osha while the other… “Need ‘im, Osha, I-I…”

Pleasure spikes up your spine when your hand rubs a few soothing strokes against the storm between your legs. And by then, the rest of the universe just falls away. Whatever coherent thought you had, whatever you might have said or done, it’s nothing compared to the blinding relief of steel-hot pleasure and the driving need to take take take until there’s nothing left but your heartbeat and your hope.

Leaving the Jedi behind had been the right thing to do, no matter how it broke her to do so, but leaving Sol and leaving you had hurt the most. It’s why she ran when she realized Mae was alive, though she may not have understood it at the time. More than anything, Osha wanted to avoid all of this - the pain a reunion would carry, the guilt of what once was fading into obscurity because of her, the emptiness of a lifelong yearning for something she could never have. But the Force, it seems, has other plans. At least, that’s what Sol might have said to her once.

Now, though, she looks upon your face, twisted and pained, damp with sweat, and she feels a surge of memories wash over her. The scent of your skin in the mornings when you would walk into the courtyard, meditating together under the shade of the Great Tree. The flash of your saber reflected in your eyes, bright and brilliant. Every small and fleeting moment spent pining after you, hoping you might notice her…

In the present, stuffed into containment within the walls of the cockpit, Sol’s presence flickers in and out of the corner of her eye. She can’t feel him in the Force anymore, but she doesn’t need to. She knows exactly how worry looks on him, she knows it from the years spent inflicting him with her own particular strain of chaos.

“Sol,” she starts, some last ditch effort to talk him down, but the glint of panic in his eyes when he rounds on her is enough to stifle that need.

“No.” He says it in the same tone he used on her once before - just once, so many years ago. It’s a glimpse of something un-Jedi that persists deep inside him, something angry and fierce. Osha thinks he might call it attachment. “Find another way.”

Irritation flares in her chest. “There is no other way.”

“There is always another way,” and she thinks she sees fear in his eyes, some unknown terror that claws at his gut the same way it claws at hers.

He has always been the one to hope, clinging to his Jedi tenets as she once clung to her mother’s skirts. But Osha learned long ago that hope is a fickle thing. She knows what ails you, what pulls you apart at the seams and stokes its fire in you, and she knows there is only one way to save you from its flames.

She sets her jaw. “You know there isn’t. Not this time, Sol. We have to help her.”

“Not like this. It’s not right.”

No. It isn’t. Guilt is a ghost that’s haunted Osha her entire life, but it flares to life now in the face of your predicament because this should never have happened, and it wouldn’t have happened if she’d never run in the first place. Like she might have once been a Knight, a Jedi standing tall and proud at your side if she had only chosen to be a good Padawan. Like Mae wouldn’t have burned their home to the ground if she had chosen instead to be a good sister. This isn’t right, but it’s the only way she knows to save you. And she would rather condemn herself to a lifetime of guilt for saving your life than a lifetime of guilt wishing she had tried.

“I can make something, a drink with a low dose that she can share with- with one of us.” She lowers her eyes at the thought of Sol being the one to take care of you, how it would burn in her chest knowing that he would be the one to… when she knows it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. “And you can burn the pollen off together like you’re supposed to.”

Sol’s face is wrinkled in horror. “No,” he says again, disgusted.

“It’ll save her,” and she finds that she’s trying to convince herself as much as she’s trying to convince him.

Sol pivots so his shoulder is all she can see, but his face is turned toward the door, toward you. She wonders for a moment if he can feel you the way she once did. Like it was second nature. Like you were an extension of the Force, of her own heart, a beacon in the starlight.

His voice is broken when he speaks. “I know it will.” If she didn’t know any better, she would think he carried the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders.

Osha thinks she understands. “Then we have to try.”

Several seconds tick by. The ship is quiet, save for the creaking of the hull when the wind picks up and the muffled, labored sound of your breathing trickling through the door and into the cockpit.

“She asked for you. She wants you, Sol.”

The entire galaxy seems, for a moment, to stop, frozen in place as her words sink into her Master’s skin. She can see understanding swirling across his face, burning him alive as he processes it. “I can’t.”

“Then what? You want me to do it? She doesn’t… She doesn’t want me like that.” Though she thinks of the desperation in your bones and the frantic need to touch her body to yours, the way your heat and glassy eyes and soft, wanton cries set her body aflame, and she feels shameful for wishing that you did. “It would be wrong to force that on her.”

Sol takes a breath that rattles in his chest. “I can’t, Osha,” he says as if the entire universe might collapse in on itself if he dared to sacrifice his pride in return for your survival. “And I won’t.”

Something bitter and icy-hot scalds its way from her stomach to her throat, bile built from the ashes of the love she’s harbored for you all these years and the stench of regret and the festering wound of a child begging to be heard. Sixteen years he’s known you, and for the past six of them she suspects that both of you have become close - close enough to work together on a mission, to stand side by side on an alien planet and seek her out. Do those six years mean nothing to him? Is the devotion that lights your heart not enough for him? Does he not love you enough to try?

“Don’t you understand?” Her fury bursts from her chest like a saber igniting in the dark. “She’s dying! And you won’t even try? Not even to save her life? Sol, she needs you!”

“It is not saving her life that concerns me, but the consequences of my actions if she survives.”

The consequences? Osha stills. A part of her wants to demand a better excuse than that, because what consequence could be worse than letting you die? But another part of her, a part that feels so alive and raw that it hurts to breathe, finds that a half-reflection of itself in the depths of Sol’s dark and distant eyes.

She swallows. “What do you mean?” But somehow, she thinks she knows.

Familiar, umber-blackened eyes flicker with uncertainty and shame, eyes that Osha has known nearly all her life but have never been so heavily tormented as they are now. At least, not since the day she left Brendok. A chill creeps down her spine.

His mouth parts to allow space for words that never come. She loses count of how many times he seems to start a sentence only to silence himself before a single thought is spoken. The torment in her Master’s eyes spreads far and fast like a wildfire, leaving destruction in its wake until Sol is so knotted up in his despair that he stands before her now as little more than a shell of the man she thought she knew. And there’s only one thing she’s ever known that could shake him so deeply. The same thing that’s shaken her to her core a thousand times over.

The realization strikes her in the gut, punches the air from her lungs. She diverts her eyes, desperate to give Sol his privacy in this moment and also to find a reprieve from the shock, but all she can think is that there are too many threads tying the three of you together, too tangled to make any sense of. Because she loves you. And you’ve always loved Sol. And now she knows that he loves you back, but it’s too much too late and all at the wrong time.

Ten years’ worth of growing up a Padawan, of growing up his Padawan, awakens an instinct in Osha that she thought she had matured past in her last few years of freedom. She feels the burning need to ask - for permission? Guidance? Advice? Each idea is more ridiculous than the last because he’s as compromised as she is, both of them struggling against their selfish desires in an attempt to fix an impossible situation. A situation with no right answers and no clear winners. Because even if Sol had agreed to help you, it wouldn’t be in the way you’d want. It wouldn’t mean anything, couldn’t mean anything, not to a Jedi. And now, to save your life, Osha must place one foot in Sol’s shoes and the other in yours. Keeping her love for you in check while also knowing that consummating her most intimate desire with you will ultimately lead to nothing. Because you are a Jedi. Because you won’t allow yourself attachments. Because she is nothing more than a memory compared to the shining brilliance of the Order.

Accompanied by only the pulsing of her heart and the shaking hesitance of her breath, Osha closes her eyes and makes a choice. The only choice she can make.

“I need you to stay with her. I’m going to find those flowers.”

The unfortunate side effect of being a Jedi is the awareness of one’s surroundings that the Force supplies. Sol can sense the atoms of starlight as they beat upon the Polan’s hull, warming it. He can sense the crashing of the waves along the distant shore and the surge of life that swims below its surface. He feels the breeze as if he were outside, bare to the world save for his skin. He can sense Osha as she retreats, farther and farther away, rushing for the nearest cluster of purple flowers that she can find. And, more prominently than anything else on this planet, Sol can sense you.

Now that he understands what it is that clouds your mind and rips your better judgment from your consciousness, he feels frozen. Because he can feel every. Single. Thing. That you do to yourself, every desperate attempt to soothe the ache that racks your body. It doesn’t matter that he’s isolated himself on one end of the ship and left you behind closed doors on the other. Your arousal is so strong that it permeates the very air he breathes, it seeps into his skin and brands him a traitor.

His teeth grind together, his hands ball up into fists, and Sol employs every meditation tactic he knows to fortify his mind against the onslaught of your Force signature, but in the end, he finds that his own worst enemy is neither the flower that poisoned you nor the desperation in your body, but the selfish desires of his own soul. A selfishness he thought he left behind on Brendok.

Because he would rather not have known. The rest of his life could have been happily spent at your side, even if he could never pursue the secret longings of his heart, the things he only ever dared to dream of. For he would have seen your face in the mornings before classes with the younglings. He would have heard your laughter over dinner. He might have touched his essence to yours in the rare moments of mediation spent in each other’s company, and it would have been enough for him. But now that he knows, now that his love has been almost-spoken and your own feelings practically confirmed, Sol finds that its existence is a blade to his gut.

Horror, guilt, and shame coil up in the base of his stomach, rattling like a snake as he attempts to find peace in the battlefield of his mind. You’re in pain. And when you’re not in pain, you’re pleading for relief from the chaos raging through your bloodstream. It would be so easy to make excuses, he knows. To accept Osha’s offer, such as it is, and claim that he is doing his duty as your friend, as a fellow Jedi, putting your life before honor, before the Code. It would be easy because it would be true; Sol would do anything for you, and there was once a time where he would have done anything he could to get what he wanted. But the last time he’d been so careless with his dreams, an entire coven had been wiped out and Mae…

Indara’s words come to him then, unbidden but a blessing all the same - do not confuse her feelings for your own - and it solidifies his resolve. Your feelings for him do not matter, neither do his feelings for you. He cannot and he will not allow himself to be blinded by something that could never be. It would be taking advantage of you when you have no chance to speak coherently for yourself, and Sol could never forgive himself for taking that from you.

Decision made, he pulls up the hood of his cloak and stalks for the ship’s main exit. He needs to put as much distance between you as possible. He doesn’t want to hear you crying out his Padawan’s name in the throes of your pleasure. He doesn’t want to know what you sound like when you beg. He can’t. He can never, ever know.

“I need you to listen to me, okay?”

Your head lolls to one side as you struggle to maintain some sort of eye contact. A blob of color shaped vaguely like Osha swirls before you, but your head is so dizzy and your throat is so dry, it’s too difficult to focus on anything but the endless, mindless, bone-crushing ache. Still, you try.

“‘sha…” It’s the best you can do.

The top of the Osha blob bobs - a nod, maybe. “I know. I know it hurts, just stay with me, bulabird.”

There’s a ringing in your ears and a mess of damp, sweaty cloth under your back, between your thighs, bunched up behind your shoulder blades. And the ever-present, ever-consuming need to slake your thirst no matter the cost. Your hands slither down your stomach to try and dull its bite, but Osha’s hands are quicker and stronger.

“Stop,” she grunts as she pins your arms down. “Just stop and listen to me.”

You feel your entire face wrinkle with the force of your frustration. “Don’t. ‘sha, it hurts, I need-”

“I know what you need and I’ll give it to you, but have to fucking listen to me first! Okay?!”

A more logical you, more sound of mind and body, might have listened, especially with that tone. But you’re so far beyond logic now. As it is, all you can think about is the fact that she’s manhandling you and it feels really good. Too good.

“You’re sick,” she says some heartbeats later. “There’s a flower here, a purple flower, and the people here use it for their marriage rituals. By itself, the pollen is lethal. It jacks up your blood pressure and gives you a fever that’ll kill you, but when it’s combined with liquid, it becomes an aphrodisiac. Okay? Are you with me? Do you understand?”

You only manage to catch every few words. You’re too busy bucking your hips up into Osha’s leg to properly pay attention, but you catch something about a flower and marriage, and that sounds nice to you. It sounds like something you might have dreamed of as a child, before the Jedi, before the Code.

“Hey.” Fingers wrap around your chin and maneuver your head until you’re forced to look the Osha blob in the eyes. At least, what you think are eyes. Your vision’s been swimming in and out of focus for longer than you can recall. “Answer me. Do you understand?”

You nod lazily, not for any real reason other than Osha told you to and you want desperately to please her. It’s a strange sensation. New and unknown, but you think… maybe you like it.

“There’s only one way I can keep the pollen from killing you, and it’s by making us a… a pleasure potion. Like the locals do for their weddings. And then I…” Osha’s head bobs as she comes sharply into focus. “We have to work the pollen out of our blood together. With sex. Do you understand?”

With her thumb still pressing into your chin, you find it impossible to open or close your mouth without great effort. Or perhaps it’s not her thumb at all but the sudden rush of adrenaline that screams through your veins at the mere mention of “sex”. Suddenly, it all makes sense. You’ve known, of course, that shoving your hands down your pants and rutting against empty air isn’t exactly normal, but it hadn’t clicked in your mind that the animalistic urges pooling in your belly and the flame blazing in your chest were one in the same. You’d sort of thought that maybe you were losing your mind.

“I need to know you understand me.”

Sex. Anticipation pounds hard and heavy behind your eyes. Blood. It burns. Flower. Wisps of purple swirl at the edge of your vision, casting Osha in undulating shades of violet. Wedding. Like new life, new beginnings. Death. Reunion with the Force. You think you understand.

When Osha speaks again, she speaks with the thickness of sorrow and fear and the watery sound of tears. “I don’t know how else to save you,” she whispers.

But your body knows. Moaning softly against the pressure of her weight as it presses you into the floor, you wriggle an arm free and grab at whatever you can reach. “Save me,” you beg with what remains of your sense. “Osha...”

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[ahhfear]

Adolin Kholin Cosplay FINISHED!!

i’m so so happy with how it all turned out!! i felt very princely wearing my full ensemble. the final things were his kholin glyphs and a piece of jewelry to represent maya :)

i think i may switch back to the black sword earrings they are a bit easier to spot

close ups on sword and belt chain and below cut

ID of the first image: [a picture of a person (me) in a blue lacy shirt with white lace on the cuffs and collar. the sleeves are poofy. on top of that is a darker blue vest with gold trim and buttons. the trim is on the bottom edge and the neck line. the buttons are in 2 rows of 3. attached to the front is a panel of fabric embroidered with the kholin glyph pair. it also has trim. the pants are navy almost black slacks. the shoes are brown high heeled boots that match the belt. the accessories are: a sword belt with a metal color guard saber in it, a belt chain with 3 charms a sword a blank horse and a white horse, silver sword earrings and a white turtleneck with a bit of lace in the middle, 2 necklaces one dark metal, one silver with a few oval white beads.]

[gremoria411]

The following post contains spoilers for the first two episodes of Mobile Suit Gundam: Requiem for Vengeance

Alright, I figured I’d give Gundam: Requiem for Vengeance a shot, and if I had any opinions after the first two episodes, I’d do a small post as a first impressions sorta thing.

Ah, just before I get into it, I should note that I’ve been somewhat looking forward to Requiem for Vengeance for a while now.

I’m gonna be using bullet points, mostly because I really don’t want to spend a whole lotta time on this, but in a nutshell; Consider me unimpressed.

The character animation and voice work is really bad. The lip-synch is terrible (likely for ease of dubbing into other languages), and so many of the characters just move so stiffly. It’s not like, all-over bad - there’s some really good scenes (like where three characters are chatting in the Zaku Tank) where they either managed to make it work or were able to put the effort in. I’d guess that they put most of the budget into the mobile suits and didn’t care too much about the human characters (or they didn’t have anyone on staff that could animate humans convincingly).

The battle scene that takes up the second half of episode 1 just kinda feels bad. Iria survives because she is the protagonist, there’s no moment that made me feel like she was in genuine danger, since every time something has a bead on her there’s always this dramatic pause, then something distracts them. This happens something like five times.

The actual models for the characters and mobile suits are genuinely gorgeous, they’re just dripping with personality. Unfortunately, this only throws the bad voice work into even sharper relief.

Reid “chubs” Ghela dies about seven minutes in, to show off the power of the gundam’s new beam weapon. Now, I wouldn’t mind, if he wasn’t the only character with any semblance of a personality. He’s also the sole exception to the bad voice work, so it’s really annoying that he gets killed off so soon.

Relatedly, there’s so many odd pronunciations here. It really takes you out of things, because it would’ve been so easy to check this stuff.

I complained previously about the “my girlfriend, in space” line, but it’s weird, because there’s a scene later that actually stresses how odd it is for the Zeon Mobile Suit Pilots to find themselves on earth. It’s really quite well-done and it’s a nice character moment.

The opening’s absolutely gorgeous, it’s really good.

Some of the music choices make me think of studio ghibli. Fairly neutral on that.

I have two really petty complaints that I’m only mentioning because they’re fresh in my mind - the Gundam’s beam saber seems really stiff here, it should have at least a little bend and, JUST USE THE NEWTYPE CHIME SOUND. WE ALL KNOW WHAT A NEWTYPE SOUNDS LIKE JUST USE THAT. It’s really irritating me for some reason.

My main issue is that it feels like they made a Gundam series, without watching any other Gundam series first. They had the designs, they had the themes, they had cliff notes, they just didn’t watch any other show first. There’s the shape of good ideas here, the execution’s just bad.

It feels like that line that always gets trotted out when someone tries to launch a new mecha property - “unlike those other shows, this one’s actually about the mecha”. Gundam: Requiem for Vengeance feels like an example of why actually doing that is a bad idea, because it’s so obvious that’s where the budget went, but the show can’t be mech fights 24/7, so we just don’t really spend any time with the characters.

I will follow this up later.

[s1lv3rp4w3dc4t]

THE II BRACELET IS FINISHED!!!!!

Each bead represents a character, and they're in order alphabetical by season (I got it from the wiki). If a character shows up once, they don't show up again and are skipped in their other appearance(s). It is only contestants and as you can see there's a loop for inanimate insanity infinity characters (and it's next to test tube!!)! It can be removed.

left out characters: dough, egg, minor and non-contestant characters (including saber spark </3).

ying-yang is two separate beads, traffic light is three and cherries is one.

It's a little bigger than my wrist so it wraps around part way. Try to name every character!!!!! Nickel and silver spoon are smaller metal beads because I don't have gray ones (they're VERY hard to see).

That's all, I'm excited for s2ep15!!!!!!

[imsodishy]

This is kinda niche, but I really love the variety of ways that fanartists render Billy’s dangly earing.

Like, is it just a straight spike? Or is it flared like a wedge? Or a leaf? Or a diamond? Is it curved like a saber? Does it attach to a hoop or a stud? Are there beads on it? Matte, or do they sparkle? Is it delicate and slim, or is it basically a whole-ass dagger hanging from his ear?

I dunno, small joys I guess. 💜