#star wars fanfics

[freesia-writes]

Please reblog for larger sample size! 🤓

I’d also love to hear any reasoning — do you enjoy commenting and interacting with the author on the way? Just want to binge it? Prefer to read on tumblr or ao3? Etc!

[floofyroro]

With my ✨golden birthday✨ approaching, I think I’ll finally post part 1 of my Crosshair/fem!reader fic this week. 👀

I’m itching for feedback so I think this will be good motivation to polish and edit this week so that it’s ready to be uploaded by Sunday evening, CST.

Here’s a sneakpeek in the meantime.

Consider it a small taste of what’s to come. 🤫

The Herbalist

Summary: A year after rescuing Omega from Tantiss, Crosshair is still adjusting to life on Pabu. You're the island herbalist who has just returned from a year-long pilgrimage on Naboo. As you familiarize yourself with the island newcomers, you grow close with Omega, who becomes your little helper in the gardens. Somehow, you continue crossing paths with her intimidating brother and you find that you're drawn to his elusiveness. (Slight AU because Tech is alive.)

His name is called amidst the clamor of the crowd and Crosshair squints as he scans his surroundings, only to find Omega waving from a corner stall. The humidity clings to Crosshair as he parts through a throng of people and he’s lost track of how many times he has cursed the climate. The familiar training blacks he’s worn for most his life were recently confiscated by Omega, in the name of ‘relaxation.’ 

You need a fresh start. I think most things hold memories, whether good and bad, she had argued.

After that, their unconventional squad were given the island’s finest garments made of kelpcotton and linenfiber, courtesy of Shep. The boys knew it was all Omega’s doing as it has her fingerprints all over it. Crosshair shoves thoughts of his beloved training blacks aside when he’s met with Omega’s eager energy as she stands next to another stall.

She’s practically beaming as she holds a jar up to him. It’s seemingly filled with an organic mixture of sorts, the contents rolling to one side due to Omega’s tilted grasp on it. She then pops the lid open and a waft of earthy aroma hits Crosshair’s senses immediately. 

“Do you recognize it?”

Before Crosshair can even respond to Omega’s prompt, his brother interjects.

“Our evening tea!” Tech leans in closer to sniff. “We made our last brew just last night. Excellent thinking, we’re in need of a restock.” He winks at her then, and Omega nods in resolve, snapping the lid shut. 

She then motions behind the stall, bringing attention to you. 

That overpowering aroma of tea hits Crosshair's senses once more. You emit an air of quiet confidence as you stand surrounded by what he surmises is your livelihood; hanging foliage, dry and fresh alike strung together, creating a cascading effect around your stall. Vitality is the word that resounds in his mind, perhaps due to the nature of the items you’re offering to sell. 

And maybe due to the healthy glow of your skin.

Omega tugs at his sleeve, drawing his attention from you. 

“You’ve been sleeping better at night, right?” 

He pauses to consider. It’s been evident that the past two weeks have garnered the most restorative rest Crosshair is able to experience. Nightmares still plague him most nights, but considering his sleep over the past three years, the difference is night and day. He ignored Wrecker’s comment the other evening that he no longer resembles a human skeleton and that his skin has lost that dull, transparent sheen to it. 

One could also blame that on the relentless sun, Crosshair had countered. 

Or on the meditation! Omega had chirruped.

So, Crosshair waits for Omega to continue because surely she has some sort of agenda to share. 

“Well, that’s thanks to the herbalist,” Omega finally says, pointing to you. “She’s been showing me how to take care of the island’s garden plots and greenhouses.” 

A connection is made then; when Omega wants a break from training, whether that be piloting with Tech or hand-to-hand with Hunter, she’ll disappear from the household until it’s time to commune for dinner. She almost always returns with tousled hair and a thin layer of dirt coating her skin. Your name is mentioned in passing during their evening meals but Crosshair has never thought twice about you. Now he’s putting face to name and realizing that she’s been assisting you all along.

[rustyanchor36]

I have no idea how SW fic writers (particularly @blue-sunshine-mauve-morning and their encyclopedic knowledge of the EU) manage to find the best thing for each moment.

Is there some massive resource archive I'm missing or is it really just playing the Wikipedia game in wookiepedia and just jumping from article to article trying to get to something useful?

[triptuckers]

undercover - captain rex

Request: nope Pairing:  captain rex x reader (reader has long hair) Summary:  you're sent undercover to get an important data stick from a separatist leader Warnings:  mentions of blood, injuries Word count:  1.8K A/N: give me PINING rex he needs to be YEARNING. love me a pixel man. enjoy reading!

it's an easy mission. a very important one, but it seemed rather easy. anakin's briefing was short as well.

one of the separatist leaders had a data stick with important information about a few new secret bases. they thought it was so important, that the separatist kept the data stick on him at all times.

which is where you came in.

there was a popular summer festival coming up on the separatist's home planet. your job was to go there, have fun, talk with the separatist and steal the data stick.

to avoid attracting too much attention, only anakin and captain rex accompanied you. the three of you arrived via public shuttle, dressed in civilian clothes.

you had traveled to the festival and separated once you got closer.

and now anakin and rex are hiding on the edge of a mountain ridge, looking out over the festival terrain, waiting for you to show up.

rex is glad he's not wearing his full armour for once, because the planet is extremely hot.

'general.' says rex after a while. 'isn't she going to stand out? they're going to notice a jedi general attending a festival.'

while they'd all worn civilian clothes while traveling, your clothes had still resembled jedi robes a little. you claimed you felt more comfortable that way. and if rex could recognise them as "kind of jedi robes", then surely the festival crowd could recognise it as well?

'well, then it's a good thing she won't look like a jedi general.' says anakin.

as if on cue, you enter the festival. rex looks at you through his scope, and anakin was right. you don't look like a jedi general. you look like a girl who is excited to have a good time at a festival. and you had changed your outfit.

you're now wearing a blue skirt that reaches your calves, and it's fluttering in the hot summer breeze. a tight fitting black top and a pair of comfortable shoes finish up your outfit. no jedi robes, no armour. but what catches rex off guard is your hair.

normally, you wear it tied up in several buns or braids, saying it was annoying if it got in your face all the time. after all, you're moving around a lot during battle. but you wouldn't cut if off, you loved your long hair.

now it flows freely down your shoulders and back, and it moves in the wind and shines in the sunlight.

rex knows you're off limits. you're a general, he's a captain. you could be thrown out of the order, he could be removed from duty - or worse.

so he's kept his mouth shut all this time.

but seeing you like this, no armour or weapons or a concentrated frown on your face. your hair and skirt moving in the wind. rex has never had to hold himself back so much. to stop himself from staring at you so many times.

meanwhile, more and more people have joined the festival terrain and the music has gotten louder.

anakin and rex keep an eye on you as you dance and laugh and have a good time in the valley below. they watch you as you approach the separatist leader and laugh this jokes and touch his arm, pulling him to the dance floor.

it sparks a flame of jealousy in rex's chest. that separatist leader with his girl.

no, not his girl.

a respected general of the GAR. one of his superior officers. who is now on an important undercover mission.

still, rex doesn't like watching you and the separatist leader.

after a while, the separatist leader has had enough of the dancing, and orders a few drinks. you sit with him and talk, leaning in close as you're listening to him.

because rex had been watching you so closely, he notices the exact moment when you swipe the data stick from him.

but you don't leave immediately, that would have been suspicious. a couple more minutes pass before you get up and head back to the dance floor. without the separatist this time.

just as rex is looking at you slowly making your way to the exit, the separatist yells out that someone has stolen something from him. anakin and rex hear how he shouts for a girl in a blue skirt.

given that your cover is blown, you give up trying to blend in with the crowd. you run away from the festival as fast as you can, heading towards the meeting point anakin told you to go to if things went wrong.

it's still hot, and within minutes you're sweaty and out of breath as you make your way up to the mountain ridge. but you won't tell yourself to slow down til you've put enough distance between yourself and the festival.

you're running uphill and just as you round the corner of a large boulder, you smack into something solid. before you can defend yourself, a pair of hands grabs your shoulders to stop you.

you look up into anakin's familiar eyes.

'got it.' you say, still out of breath, handing him the data stick. 'let's get out of here.'

you start to move past anakin, but you're stopped again. this time, by rex.

'general, your leg.' he says.

you look down and see your blue skirt is stained with red. you frown. in the crowd and while you were running away, you hadn't noticed you got hit by something. so it probably wasn't too bad.

'I'm fine.' you say. 'I hardly feel it, let's just get out of here quickly while we still have a head start .'

anakin eyes the amount of blood on your skirt, then looks behind you at the festival.

'no, you'll lose more blood and slow us down.' he says. 'rex, bind her leg. quickly.'

'yes, sir.' says rex.

'it's fine.' you say.

'rex, bind her leg. that's an order.' says anakin, with a slightly playful look in his eyes. you all know rex won't refuse a direct order from his general.

rex looks at you. 'sorry general. general's orders.' he says.

'what if I outrank anakin?' you say.

'do you?' says rex.

'rex.' says anakin, a little more firmly this time.

rex clears his throat and steps closer to you, then crouches down. he pulls out a knife and looks up at you.

'I'll need to cut a piece of your skirt so I can use it to bind your leg.' he says.

'yeah, go ahead.' you say.

rex carefully cuts a strip of fabric from the bottom of your skirt, then puts his knife away. he briefly looks up at you and silently asks permission before he slides your skirt upwards, til it reaches just above the cut on your thigh.

'hold it there, please.' he says.

you take a hold of your skirt and your other hand comes down to rest on rex's shoulder for balance as you take the weight off of your injured leg.

as you feel rex's gloved fingers on your thigh, you clench your teeth to keep yourself from looking down at him. you're fully aware anakin is standing right next to you, keeping an eye on the path in case separatists would show up. you wished anakin wasn't here.

you feel how rex wraps the piece of fabric around your thigh.

'this is going to hurt.' rex warns.

'I can-'

you're cut off by rex pulling the knot tight and a sharp pain shoots through your leg.

on instinct, you groan rex's name, your fingers digging into his shoulder. rex tries to ignore you saying his name like that, and focuses on securing the piece of fabric in place.

rex gives the knot a small tug, and when it stays in place, he stands again. your hand falls from his shoulder and you drop your skirt, which is now knee length instead of reaching your calves.

'thanks.' you say.

rex nods. 'you're welcome.'

'we need to move.' says anakin. 'they would have heard that if they were close.'

you nod and the three of you start your way back to the shuttle bay. rex occasionally helps you climb over rocks, to make sure you don't put more pressure on your injured leg.

when you get to the shuttle, you quickly board it and take a seat near the back of the craft. anakin takes off his jacket so you can wrap it around your waist, hiding the biggest part of your blood stained skirt.

the way back to anakin's flagship isn't that long, but you start to get tired nonetheless. it's probably due to the blood loss, you think. you know if you close your eyes, it's a bad sign, so you stay awake by focusing on rex's presence next to you. you can feel his shoulder against yours.

when you get to anakin's ship, he goes to inform the other jedi masters the mission was a success while rex escorts you to medbay.

one of your arms is over his shoulder while his other arm is around your waist, given that your energy has drained since running away from the festival.

'thanks.' you say, as you and rex walk though the halls of the ship.

'for what?' says rex.

'being a literal shoulder to lean on.'

'you would have done the same for me, general.'

'you know I prefer it if you call me by my name, rex.'

'and you know I call superior officers by their rank, general.'

maybe it's the blood loss. or the dizziness. or the fact rex is so close. whatever the case, you get a sudden burst of courage.

'is that all I am to you? a superior officer?' you say.

you feel rex briefly stiffen besides you.

'for the sake of my rank, yes.' he says.

you feel anxiety and regret growing in your stomach and think of something to say to change the subject, but rex speaks again. softer, this time.

'for the sake of who I am without this armour and the rank of captain, you're more than just a superior officer, y/n.' he says.

you smile as rex walks you through the doors of medbay.

'I'm glad to hear that.' you say.

rex gently places you on a bed and calls over the chief medical officer. he smiles at you.

'sorry your skirt got ruined.' he says. 'I... liked it.'

'of course you do, it's the color of the 501st.' you say.

rex raises his eyebrows. 'is that why you picked blue?'

you shrug. 'I figured it would look great next to the blue of your armour.'

before rex can answer, the chief medical officer arrives at your bed.

'we'll talk about the mission later, captain.' you say to him, with a quick wink, as the medical officer examines your leg.

rex smiles briefly and nods at you. 'certainly, general.'

A/N: If you want to request something, make sure to read my house rulesHere’s the list of characters I write for. Everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. Please don’t repost my work, as I spend much time and effort on it!! Thank you for reading! Much love, Max/Marit

[sinfulsalutations]

𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕥𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕤𝕚𝕩 ⋆*･ﾟ 𝕥𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝 𝕘𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕘𝕠𝕣

⋆ ★ ᴋɪɴᴋᴛᴏʙᴇʀ 2023 ʟɪɴᴇᴜᴘ

➼ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ ☆ ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ ɢʀᴇɢᴏʀ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

➼ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ☆ ᴛʜɪɢʜ ʀɪᴅɪɴɢ, ᴅʀʏ ʜᴜᴍᴘɪɴɢ, ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜᴇꜱ

⋆ ★ ʟᴀᴢɪʟʏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ, ʀᴜꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴀʏ ʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴋɪɴᴋʏ ᴛʜᴀɴ ɪ ᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ʙᴇᴀʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀ ʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʏꜱ. ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ

➼ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ 18+ ᴅɴɪ

⋆ ★ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3 ⋆*･ﾟ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴍ

He’s finally home.

Just when it’d been a beating a month marking Gregor’s latest deployment, he barges through your door, body still covered head to toe in his commander gear, arms wide open awaiting you to fall into them. 

You do. No hesitation coursing through your veins fueled by a pounding heart, you keep him firmly to your chest, breathing in his presence until it finally proves that he’s here, back where he belongs.

Gregor guides you by the hand to the couch, giggling softly as he sits down and pulls you down to him by the waist.

“Come `ere,” he attempts to hoist you onto his lap; you hesitate, gazing down at his lap. Not one piece of his armor has yet found its way to the floor.

“You’re still…” You begin, but Gregor quickly clicks his tongue with a shake of his head.

“So?” He raises an eyebrow with a smile. “Does it discomfort you when sitting on my lap?”

You think upon it for a moment before shaking your head.

“Then I see no problem. I need cuddles sooner than later.”

Rolling your eyes, you finally let him pull you on top to rest firmly on his lap. Your legs wrap around his middle and your hands meet behind his neck, smiling brilliantly. Gregor giggles.

“`Feels nice,” He remarks, kissing the tip of your nose, “to be back.”

“Yeah,” you agree in a hushed voice, savoring the proximity you’ve been robbed of the past month.

Another hearty laugh bursts out of him, his chest rumbling against yours and his knee bumping up. You hum at the sensation, his touch stirring up desires you’ve kept at bay for too long. Gregor’s gaze drifts down to your lips and a smile spreads across his face.

“Really missed you,” he murmurs, trailing a finger down your cheek.

“I know,” you reassure his confession with a soft peck. “Missed you too.”

When he squeezes your hip to pull you into his hold further, you squeak with the slow slide of your clothed pussy over his gear. His thigh plates are sturdy, just a little more solid than his actual thigh. But the end of it flicking against you already sends you to a sense of frenzy, so riled up from lacking his touch for so long. 

You whine. He raises an eyebrow.

“Sensitive?” Another sudden giggle escapes him as he presses his thumbs into the pressure points of your hips, making your knees buckle.

You nod small, raising an eyebrow as he bumps his thigh up again.

“C’mon,” he urges, giggling when your mouth falls agape. “Go ahead.”

With a gawk, Gregor corrects his words to be more clear.

“Take your pleasure.

Stammering, you pull back and gaze down where you sit in his lap, imagining how awkward or uncomfortable he might feel in his position

“You’re–you’re still in all your gear,” you mutter.

He tilts his head as if it isn’t an obstacle.

“Do you think that matters to me?” He pulls you down further into his lap, forcing your spread thighs to press entirely to him. You gasp, and then he states what he wishes firmly.

“I want you to mark it up, mesh’la. So I always remember you when I’m gone.”

How does he manage to be pure filth and sweetness at the same time? You’ve yet to find out, nor spend time figuring as you slowly begin to rock your clothed cunt up and down his thigh plate. Gregor groans pleasantly.

“Yeah, do that,” He rasps. “Don’t stop, never stop.”

He always seems to get off on your pleasure just as much as you. The mere prospect sends you practically grinding shamelessly onto him, gripping any piece of plastoid you can curl your fingers around to steady yourself. Any wrong move and you could slip or fall off of him. He certainly isn’t keeping you the most stable.

You’re depraved, you’re vile, you’re incredibly desperate.

But so is Gregor. Which makes it semble something just a little less singularly embarrassing.

ragu list: @pb-jellybeans @corrieguards @badbatchbabe @ladytano420 @jediknightjana @sleepycreativewriter @shinyshayminflower @secondaryrealm @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @meshlaxbunny @followthepurrgil @wolffegirlsunite @starrylothcat @sev-on-kamino @aconstructofamind @padawancat97 @littlemissmanga @starqueensthings @anxiouspineapple99 @freesia-writes @wings-and-beskar @clio3kantarella @idontgetanysleep @523rdrebel @dystopicjumpsuit @mandos-mind-trick @sunshinesdaydream @clonemedickix @andrakass2 @jesjestraverse @crosshairlovebot @wizardofrozz @dangraccoon @lickylickylicky @urmomsmattress @jedi-hawkins @who-would-want-a-broken-heart @ladyzirkonia @moonlightwarriorqueen @multi-fan-dom-madness @eyeluvmusic21 @mythical-illustrator @imarvelatthestars

[eomereadig]

Snippet: "I don't want to do this anymore."

For the @whumpril prompt 'stoicism breaks'

Fandom: Star Wars

Pairing: Commander Fox & Commander Cody

Rating: M

Tags: panic attacks, anxiety, corporal punishment, hurt/comfort, Cody is a good brother, angst, Fox needs a hug

Full fic now avaliable here

“Oh, Fox, what happened?” That had the other commander looking at him sharply. 

“I have everything in hand here, Sir.”

A polite way of asking him to leave. With anyone else, Cody would have done so, respecting their right to privacy, but this was Fox - his closest batchmate. 

He opened his mouth to argue back in that equally polite, passive-aggressive tone that all Commanders seemed to possess, but was stopped when Fox let out a wheezing gasp.

“Thire!” 

Fox reached out towards the other Commander, Thire, with shaking, clammy hands that Thire dutifully took into his own once again, even as he shot Cody a glare. 

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” Fox declared, eyes darting around blindly in his wild panic, voice wobbling precariously in a way that had Cody’s heart clenching in despair for him. “Please don’t make me, I can’t do this anymore!” It was all too clear that wherever Fox was, it wasn’t in the present. 

“Hush now,” Cody was moving in to comfort the other before his mind had caught up with it, paying no heed to Thire who looked as if he wanted to bite Cody’s head off. “Thire and I will keep you safe.” He might not have known Thire, but that fact enough was plain to see. 

Fox only blinked rapidly, more fat tears rolling down his cheeks, but gave no indication he’d heard. 

Thire nodded along, seemingly having reached the decision that Cody could be trusted with this. He began to talk in that low, soothing tone again. Cody reckoned that if he’d been in Fox’s place, that alone would have been a real comfort. Thire had a knack for this, it seemed. 

Humming affirmatively in all the right places but otherwise not interfering too much, Cody took the opportunity to take in Fox’s appearance, to really take it in now that his original shock had worn off. 

He’d lost weight since Cody’s last visit - that was the first thing he noticed. Fox’s cheeks were all but hollow, gaunt with dark shadows beneath his eyes that he knew from experience would take more than one good night’s sleep to vanquish. His hair hung in a limp, greasy mess, partially obscuring his eyes and Cody spied a large bruise forming along his jaw, more in the shape of a boot than a fist. 

Had Fox been kicked in the head?

Cody doubted he’d get an answer any time soon, but what he saw still concerned him. Bruise aside, it was clear that Fox hadn’t been taking care of himself. For as long as Cody had known him, he’d prided himself on his neat and proper appearance. To have let such a thing slip spoke of a much deeper issue than Cody had time to rectify. 

Despite his best efforts, Fox made a desperate clutch at Thire again, apparently blind to the fact that he was already grasping both of the other man’s hands tightly. 

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” He repeated as if it were the only thing he remembered how to say. 

“I know… But you’re doing so well, I promise. “Just try to focus on my breathing.” Thire began to take in deep, exaggerated breaths and Cody was once again made aware of how practised it seemed, as if Thire had done this a thousand times. But why would he need to in the guard? It was well known how safe and relatively stress free the battalion’s posting was.

Full fic now avaliable here

[dathomirdumpsterfire]

~Chapter 3: Haunted, Hunted, & Other Fun Hobbies~

[Ao3 link below the read more, at the end.]

It begins the day after Maul makes his return to Dathomir. 

The sith is elbows deep in datapads trying to gain background knowledge on the Crimson Dawn's next venture: an escargot farm, of all things, for a particular breed of shellfish. One that acts as a nearly universal aphrodisiac when eaten. Vos had declared the market for it 'an untapped niche' with projected gains in the 'I could buy a moon every other year' category. 

He already has a planet. Dathomir is more or less his, but Maul thinks he might like a moon or two. Besides, one never knew when they might need a spare astral body in his line of work. Perhaps for trade, perhaps for crashing into things. He is flexible. 

One minute he is reviewing zoology documents made by a mon calamari, and then gently, like a cloud over the sun, he is being watched.

His spine straightens and the sith pulls his sense of self tight to his skin, guarding himself while attempting to observe the observer. The presence slips through his fingers, but he too slips through theirs. They go round and round like two predators in the night, stalking each other through the flow of the force. 

Eventually the feeling fades, and Maul is left alone in his office space, perturbed. He waits an hour or more, patient and wary, but the sensation of being sought does not return.

He exhales heavily through his nose and returns to reading about aquarium keeping, stopping only to make snacks, refresh the tea pot, and stretch his back.

Dathomir's red star sinks below the horizon. Domir takes with it the light that had been coming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, leaving the spectacular view of the sunrise canyon in deepening purple hues. Maul takes this as his cue to end the day.

The sith stalks out of his simplistic office, and heads to the end of the hallway. The decor transitions from plasteel to roughly carved redstone at the doorway, from the soft orange glow of sodium-vapor bulbs to flickering oil lanterns and magelight. He had appointed the bedroom den at the end of the hall with far more dathomirian aesthetics than the modern office space. 

Some furniture he had been able to scavenge from the temple, mostly of carved stone, though there were a few precious wooden pieces left unburnt by the droid army among them. A small table, a few mismatched chairs, and a hefty trunk. The rest of his furnishings Maul had collected from offworld. 

The result is… functional. Quiet and dark. The bed space is large and comfortable, partially carved back into the wall for extra protection. Nowhere is too open. Everything he wishes to be reminded of has a place to sit, somewhere he can see. 

Dim candles light all the cracks and corners without hurting his eyes. There are books and scrolls to read, an orb recovered from his mother’s temple, projects to tinker with in idle moments. It is… good, he thinks. Though he might reorganize his memory items again. Later. 

For now, he plans to undress, bathe, and-

w

  a

   t

    c

     h

    i

  n

g

 

l

o

  o

    k

      i

       n

       g

          f

               o

                      r                                                      ?

                                     y       o       u           ?

Maul whips around, expecting a physical presence, but there is no one and nothing there. He coats himself in a basic spell of obfuscating mist and draws his force presence close to his hearts, under his skin. 

The observer tries to catch him up with a searching pattern that feels like smokey claws and gossamer hairs, winding ribbons and closing jaws. Threads, deceptive in their affectionate creeping. 

"One?" he rasps in the empty hallway, "No… more. Several." 

There are so many aspects of force trying to locate him that surely it must be a ritual, fueled by multiple people. Four or five, at bare minimum. He would guess it was his former master's doing, but surely Sidious would not need to look for him so much as come for him if he decided to spare the effort. 

So who? Who?

But to look with that part of him which can See is to open himself, and Maul is not certain of the wisdom in letting this coven of force users near him just for the chance to find them.

Sweat beads on his scalp, dripping down and sliding off his chin. The effort to remain untouchable, hidden from these hunters, is intensely taxing, but the force vibrates in warning whenever he starts to slip.

Then, suddenly, he is alone again. 

He waits, just as before, shoulders high and breathing hard as he remains watchful. The air remains still, lacking that dark innervation. Maul falls back against the wall, and presses the heel of a palm to his forehead. The effort has earned him a headache and shaking fingers. 

The sith returns to moving down the hall, but changes destination. His den, while comfortable, is not the most secure location available here. That title goes to his mother's sanctum, riddled with runes and steeped in ichor fueled protections. He has not yet deciphered the nature of even half of the witch-made wards from the books and murals that remain of her teachings. 

Maul slips into the sanctum, touching his chest where once her spirit had anchored itself. 

"Mother," he begins, searching for an acceptable explanation for intruding. "I seek… shelter, in your sanctum. I am hunted by a power unknown, and the force warns me to avoid its touch." 

That is an understatement. The force buzzes with indistinct warning, a vibrating drone so deep and ubiquitous it feels physical. Bumblebees underwater, crawling anxiety like marching ants. 

No reply comes. He counts that as permission.

The sith goes to sit on the stone floor at the center of grooved patterns and runes. He will meditate now and gather his strength, assuming that eventually-

It returns! So quickly the threads descend again.

Vitriolic green light bursts to his left, then forward, then above him. Sharp eyes survey the room as sections of sigils light and dim along the walls, like fireworks. The grooves in the floor begin to fill with-

"Ichor," he murmurs, watching the luminous waters fill in the circling patterns. He cannot identify the source of where it flows from. 

This… is not magick Maul has witnessed before. Savage had, reluctantly, described his own rituals, and the healing the Nightmother had done for Maul after Lotho Minor, but this is… different. Carved into Dathomir’s living stone, commanding the planet’s power even in the absence of a witch to direct it. It is wonderous.

The feeling of being looked for slides away from him with so much more ease, and he sighs in relief.

Maul ends up sleeping there, curled in on himself on the stone floor. Every few hours the cloying tendrils return again, and he wakes to watch the wards and push away the hooks that stretch for him.

It is only after a week of being chased back to his mother's room, day and night, that he realizes he is trapped on Dathomir until the hunt is ended. Until he ends it. To do that, he will have to learn to hide all on his own. Without becoming an unhinged, sleepless mess incapable of hunting these new enemies.

Maul faces this reality with easy acceptance. He has survived harsher challenges before, and will again. Mustafar, Lotho Minor, Hypori- the dark sustained him every time. 

This will end no differently.

[gia-batmm-crickle22]

I have yet to read a Thranto and Kalluzeb fluff fanfic where they get along and don't kill each other or they go one some double date or smth 😭

[solrika]

Quick doodle to celebrate finishing the first and second coherent fics for Mikita's story.

[staycalmandhugaclone]

400 follower celebration!

Ho-ly hell. Hiya everyone. So, I kinda did a little something for 300, but I want to do a little better about doing something for 400 (which we're all of 2 people away from!) because it feels so much bigger! I'm finally making good progress on the finale to Breaking Point and should have that posted later tomorrow (unless something goes horribly wrong), and I still have an Ask I'm going to spend some quality time playing with, BUT BUT BUT

Here's my thought for this milestone! Send me your OC (with as much detail as yuh can) and a clone and/or scenario. I'll do yuh up a fun little something something! (Make sure you note if you want sfw or nsfw!) I think I'll limit this to the first 30, otherwise I'll never get through everything! That being said, any additionals that come in after that limit, I'll keep in my Ask box for moments when I need a break for the main story-line.

Thanks so much for all the love and support, and I'm sorry I've been a little slow these past 2 weeks, but I hope this makes up for it!!

(This is going to be my pinned post for a bit, so here's my Masterlist for those looking for it!)

[the-kittylorian-writes]

"All The Little Foundlings"

Rating: General Audiences Type: One-shot Word Count: 6.5k+ Summary:

After Ragnar’s harrowing experience which sent his father Paz and a rescue party to come after him, the boy grew more fears and lost his confidence. The clan of two decide to help him in their own ways— but how will Ragnar take it?

Set after events of s03ep04 or Chapter 20 “The Foundling.”

Spoilers for s03ep04

Read on AO3 or here:

Trigger Warning: Discussion of phobias, exposure therapy, a scene of kids bullying each other

"All The Little Foundlings" 

“Ragnar?”

Ragnar Vizsla burrowed himself deeper into his blankets. He’d shot the fabric over his head until it tented all over him and he was cocooned. He let the light of his antiquated datapad shine on his visor as he ignored his father’s call for the fourth time today. It was not even noon.

“Ragnar!” Paz’s bounding steps drew closer to their shared quarters as well as his booming voice, but the call wasn’t forceful or cruel.

“I’m studying, Dad!” was Ragnar’s brief reply. He’d yelled it once, certain that the thick blankets would muffle the words out.

He hated how his voice quivered. He’d skipped classes for a day as the Covert’s baar’ur suggested it after giving him a thorough once-over. Ragnar had suffered minor gashes and scrapes, but the real wounds which the baar’ur saw weren’t on the surface, Ragnar figured. He remembered how he’d respond seconds late to all the questions the good-natured medic had asked him; some questions Paz had to answer himself as Ragnar remained silent and uncooperative. 

“He’s still in a state of shock,” Ragnar heard the medic tell his father, as if he weren’t in the examination room with them. “An entire day’s rest would do him good.”

Ragnar couldn’t sleep that night. The medic had given Paz something to administer to Ragnar should the boy be unable to get any restful slumber before the daylight hour struck. Whatever it was, it tasted like taffy. It made him drowsy but his mind raced and his insides trembled. His father had been by his side throughout the ordeal. Before he knew it, Ragnar had awoken from sleep he never knew overtook him. The flickering chrono on his datapad showed he’d only dozed for two hours.

The child would rather stay awake, in all honesty. When he shut his eyes, he’d feel the world tilt around him. He dreamt that the water had bubbled with all sorts of misshapen monsters, and the sky swirled and from a vortex of blood-red clouds spewed out another host of even more misshapen creatures. He’d wake up sobbing, but his father had been there at the foot of his cot. He was there when he awoke from that nightmare, and Ragnar had flung his arms around his father and wouldn’t let go. Paz had allowed it, but not right after the hulking Mandalorian was shaken awake himself by the abrupt weight thrown at him which was his son in frantic need of comfort.

He’d sleep and wake and sleep in a maddening cycle of instability within a span of a day and a half. Ragnar avoided the sleep-inducing taffy and snuck in some caf from the grown-ups’ table at first meal. One sip was enough to keep the child on edge, but Ragnar would rather endure small jitters than the dark dreams of being helplessly trapped within the raptor’s food pouch, stuck between throat and belly. It was sticky and disgustingly humid, with just enough air to sustain him without getting delirious. The pouch’s thick mucosa had kept him from thrashing no matter how hard Ragnar tried. He’d cried for long hours. It was the first time he’d heard himself wail piteously underneath the helm. He sounded like a disembodied soul.

Then, Ragnar knew he’d heard his father’s voice a few moments before the beast decided to cough him out into the open to feed its young. 

It was his indeed father, and in a riotous burst of euphoria and then utter fright, Ragnar had thought he’d seen the last of himself and his beloved dad.

“Ragnar,” Paz called once more, pulling Ragnar back to the present. His father’s gruff voice encompassed the room. 

Ragnar didn’t budge. He knew his father stood in front of him, but with the bundle of blanket all over his person, he also knew he was but a grey and shapeless mound in the eyes of one of the Covert’s best fighters.

“I’m studying Mando’a, Dad,” Ragnar insisted underneath his cocoon. The words on his datapad began to blur; he’d been staring at the same page mindlessly as the minutes ticked by. “I missed yesterday’s lessons.”

Paz released a chest-deep sigh. “You’re excused from lessons for now, ad’ika. Baar’ur would like to see you again. Would that be all right?”

The boy froze. Despite his general misgivings, he couldn’t exactly refuse his father. Paz had sacrificed so much to get to him and rescue him. The silver Mandalorian and the Nite Owl whose names escaped Ragnar had been with his father during that rescue along with a squad of others. It was the silver Mandalorian who’d brought him back to the safety of Paz’s arms. The ship which brought them home belonged to the Nite Owl.

Ragnar couldn’t look at both of them in the eye, so to speak. He’d run straight to the baar’ur as soon as he’d clasped arms with his fellow foundlings in a joyous greeting party. He’d never as much veered out of his way to chance upon the two Mandalorians since then. He avoided the little green foundling, too.

Ragnar sulked for a second. With a resigned frown, he unbundled himself from the blanket pile. 

Paz was just a mere foot away; the giant of a warrior had taken a low wooden seat in a posture which spelled patience. His father may have been calling him multiple times, but his body language exuded a great degree of understanding.

The child marveled at how wonderfully gentle and relieved his father’s voice sounded. “Come on. Off we go.”

-*-*-

The baar’ur was a woman with deep orange and dark crimson armor. She had Ragnar hold both his arms out for a few seconds; she studied his posture.

“Are you still feeling unwell, Ragnar?” asked the medic matter-of-factly. For a split-second, the boy turned to Paz who stood a few paces behind him on the examination table. His father gave him a small nod of assurance.

“I guess I feel much better now,” replied the boy. 

The lie caught up with him quickly. Ragnar felt disappointment in his gut when he saw what made the baar’ur seem dissatisfied with his answer. His arms held aloft were quaking of their own accord. Ragnar couldn’t believe it at first; he’s always had great control over his body after long months of training—his arms betrayed him. He suddenly felt cold and his hands grew clammy. 

“Hm,” said the medic thoughtfully after instructing him to take it easy. Impulsively, Ragnar crossed his arms around him; his mind went blank. The medic had set Paz aside and confided in him for what seemed like a stretch of hours.

Ragnar hated himself at the moment. He didn’t mean to be a handful. He didn’t mean to seem so weak, when he’d been told time and again that the Mandalorians valued strength. But above all, as the Armorer had drilled into their lessons: survival was their strength. As far as Ragnar knew, he’d been the first foundling who’d been successfully retrieved from the literal jaws of death. The others hadn’t been so lucky.

The baar’ur was speaking to him again before Ragnar realized that his mind had drifted off. 

“What is that you’re most afraid of now, Ragnar?” she asked. 

Ragnar flinched. “W-what?” When he turned to Paz for guidance once more, a chill struck him to the core when he saw that his father had stepped out of the room. The medic must have noticed that he boy kept relying on Paz’s approval for every move he made or every word he spoke. 

Ragnar needed to be honest.

“I hate the water,” spat the boy at last. “I hate the sky. I hate… I hate this planet!”

He couldn’t reel himself in for the last one. He did feel a colossal wave of relief after admitting to those fears; it had taken a huge weight off his shoulders. An infernal ball of shame that overcame him trickled in seconds after.

“I—I didn’t mean…”

The medic gently motioned him to silence. 

“It’s all right, Ragnar,” she said soothingly. It flowed like clotted cream from her vocoder. “We know this planet has brought us great challenge, but that was why we had chosen it. Trials and adversities sharpen us like tools. As for those fears—I believe we can get to the root of that. Every warrior has their fears, and we’d like to defeat those fears, yes?”

Ragnar’s voice was lodged in his throat. With a mute nod, he acceded.

The medic’s voice sounded hopeful. “Very well.”

Ragnar wasn’t sure if he was indeed amenable to the implications of those words.

-*-*-

“ STOP!! STOP IT!!”

Two other foundlings much older than Ragnar held him fast on either side as they slowly dragged him out into the open, straight to the embankment. The suns overhead were suddenly a blight over his skin, despite being covered from head to toe. The world was tilting around him again and the droll laughter of the two helmed teenagers gripping his arms, keeping him from breaking free suddenly felt like a shroud licking at his consciousness.

Ragnar shouldn’t have told them what he was up to. 

The baar’ur had called it “exposure therapy.” His father had agreed to it as much as Ragnar believed he did so himself—he wanted to get better. Exposure therapy was gradual, but these two truants hadn’t taken him seriously. Ragnar had the spotlight for only one morning, on the day he returned in one piece with the rescue party. They’d showered him with praises: how brave he was, how steadfast his spirit was for weathering the night close to the belly of a raptor beast. There were pats on the back, clasps on the arm, warm head-butts and warmer cheers.

The novelty of it quickly eroded away. Now, he was just Ragnar the scaredy-Tooka.

“Little Vizsla can’t get near the water without wetting his underpants,” one of the older boys jeered.

“His dad’s gonna disown him ‘coz he’s nuna poodoo!” hollered the other.

Children can be cruel. Ragnar had always known this. He’d played with them and fought with them long enough to recognize power play among the foundlings. The more scathing the teasing, the better. He’d tried his hand in it himself, and with a heavy heart, he realized that he didn’t possess a knack for overly brutish insults. 

“LET ME GO!” cried Ragnar as he planted himself heavily on the sand to weigh the teenagers down. 

He began to tremble like a feeble newborn pup. The sky was so vast around him. He could hear the lapping of the shore nearby. 

No adult Mandalorians were within earshot, it seemed. It was foolish for Ragnar to try to take the medic’s advice without proper protocol. From now on, Ragnar felt doomed to always learn the hard way. It seemed as though he’d become wired towards his own downfall. 

Under the helm, Ragnar shut his eyes tight. An unbidden sob escaped his throat. The teenagers were prevailing over his strength. He thought he felt the weight of water jab at his boots…

Then he heard the shocked and vexed screams of his persecutors—they’d suddenly released him and to his own shock, Ragnar saw them fly out on either direction as if they’d been taken out by an unseen grenade blast.

They trailed forcefully over the sand, leaving jagged marks amidst a puff of golden yellow grains. They swore and coughed, and swore some more. “What the hell?!”

Ragnar felt bare, but his senses had suddenly become sharp as he’d been trained to, when he could be in real danger. He’d become more attentive now, especially after mistakenly letting his guard down which had allowed the raptor to snatch him up.

He’d turned to the source of an angry string of babbles.

There, standing under the shadow of a crest of sandstone was the little green foundling, both of his tiny clawed hands upright. He was wearing a very determined look on his crumpled little face.

“What the—“ The two teenagers seemed to have caught the drift of things. Even through their visors, Ragnar could feel raging disbelief emanate from the two older boys. Dusting themselves up, pinning the little green child with their helmed gazes for a second, they began bolting for the sanctuary of the cave.

“Yeah, that’s right!” roared Ragnar shrilly at the two. “Touch me again and you’ll get what’s coming to you!”

There were no replies of retaliation. Ragnar was panting from the adrenaline surge of his earlier panic. He calmed his heart down, and when all was quiet, he turned to the green baby.

He felt heat course over his cheeks. He’d had a bit of contempt towards this child before. Rumor had it that this kid was special, other than the fact that he was of a different, rare sort of species.

“Th-thanks,” Ragnar finally told the green baby after a lengthy standstill of him and the kid just staring at each other in uncertainty.

The kid’s face was suddenly alight. Ragnar was mystified. The child was grinning, baring his tiny sharp teeth and pink tongue. Then, he giggled and waved in glee.

The baby didn’t toddle away. Ragnar didn’t know how else to continue this interaction, but he couldn’t linger out in the open. When he took a few steps forward, the child waddled awkwardly to the same direction, his beige robe hampering his steps. Ragnar took a few steps to another direction; the baby followed.

Where’s the kid’s dad? Ragnar wondered.

The suns were beating down on him again, and once more Ragnar felt his pulse race.

The baby seemed to understand his inner dilemma. The green child’s head tilted and made a sound of inquiry. “Baaah?” 

Ragnar was dumbfounded. This kid’s dad was right—he didn’t know how to speak. Without words Ragnar could understand, he was at loss.

“Grogu!”

Ragnar gasped; the green baby squealed in delight in reaction to the voice. 

Out from a rocky bend emerged the silver Mandalorian. “Grogu,” the man called again, and said child immediately broke into an even more gawky run towards his father.

Ragnar hardly moved a muscle as the silver Mandalorian took notice of him. 

Grogu, Ragnar thought, memorizing the kid’s name.

The Mandalorian had picked his boy up, and Grogu settled easily on the crook of his father’s arm. The man regarded Ragnar for a while. 

“You alone out here, kid?” inquired of the silver Mandalorian.

Ragnar shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “Wasn’t. Roarke and Joff tried to bully me but—“ Ragnar talked fast and was out of breath when he pointed at Grogu. “He saved me. How does he do that? Does he have powers?”

The words came out the moment Ragnar thought them. He’d become too excited and flustered. Maybe that’s why they’d told him the kid was special. He’d been told that Grogu once trained with sorcerers. Did that make Grogu a baby sorcerer? That would be… wizard.

The silver Mandalorian didn’t beat around the bush. “He does.”

“That’s so wizard!” Ragnar remarked aloud. He didn’t mean to sound as though he choked in his own fascination. “So what else can he do?”

Grogu made a sound of what seemed like a squeak of protest. The kid’s father chuckled in response.

“You’ll see. Grogu and I were on our way to feeding the raptor hatchlings when he knew you seemed to be in some kind of trouble. We’re going there now. Wanna come with?”

Oh gods, Ragnar thought, breaking in cold sweat. He forgot to mention this to the baar’ur. What else did he fear? 

Those raptors.

He forgot all about the baby raptors. He hated being in storage within their mother’s food pouch. He hated the way he’d been flung about in the clawed hold of the beast at breakneck speed. Now, there were three of its babies the Covert needed to manage and tame. These beasts were too wild and this planet seemed too frontier. They had little experience with such savage creatures.

Exposure therapy, Ragnar also reminded himself, and this time, he was in the presence of a grown-up. Maybe he’ll be okay—and his dad seemed to trust the silver Mandalorian enough.

Ragnar gathered all his courage before he replied.

“Okay.”

-*-*-

The hatchlings’ enclosure had been quickly welded together. It was wide and high but tucked over a large stone outcrop where it would not be too exposed to the elements. The enclosure was reinforced by beskar, it seemed. Ragnar held his breath as he heard the raptors’ little shrieks again, and with their small beaks tried to nibble at the enclosure frame. The frame rattled but held fast.

Ragnar trailed his gaze upwards. A sentry watchtower was positioned nearby where a Mandalorian guard can keep an eye on the hatchlings in shifts.

They were, after all, now part of the Covert as foundlings. Ragnar had scoffed at the thought. Their mother had tried to make her babies eat him, for Maker’s sake! And who knows how many bits of unfortunate foundling made their way to these babies’ bellies? Ragnar grew squeamish.

Ragnar stilled his quivering breaths. He gingerly followed Grogu and his dad, who approached the enclosure in very calm and sure strides.

Grogu uttered a series of melodious babbles that reverberated through the enclosure.

What followed shortly took Ragnar in complete and utter awe.

The hatchlings ceased all their frenetic squawking and flailing. They quieted down as Grogu held out his three-fingered hand over them. 

The raptors eyed Grogu curiously with their beady eyes on their skeletal-hollow features. 

“Easy, Grogu. Remember—easy does it, kid. Like last time. All right?” encouraged his father.

Soon, the raptors were trilling happily after cautious sniffs and attempted bumps of their equally skeletal beaks on Grogu’s hand.

The silver Mandalorian turned to him. 

“Here,” said the man, propping Grogu into Ragnar’s arms with little warning. Grogu giggled and wiggled in his arms. Ragnar hissed nervously; he didn’t want to drop the baby. In that vein, Ragnar was surprised that Grogu weighed no heavier than a Loth-wolf pup of about a week old.

“Sir?” Ragnar didn’t know what else to call Grogu’s dad.

“It’s Din,” the silver Mandalorian told him. “Just call me that. I’ll be back in a jiffy. The raptors’ food should be ready.”

Grogu wriggled some more in Ragnar’s arms. The boy stared at the green baby, then at the raptors, then at the baby again.

“Let me get this straight,” Ragnar said thoughtfully. “So, you’re a kid sorcerer who’s now a foundling who has magic powers, and your dad’s name is ‘Din.’ Did I get that correct?”

“Bwahhh! Baa!” said Grogu.

Ragnar shrugged. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ You really should learn how to speak Basic soon, so you can swear the Creed like me and the other kids, and get a pretty amazing helmet. And soon after that, they’re gonna teach you Mando’a. It’s part of our six tenets so that part sure is coming.”

“Ooooohhhhhh,” bawled Grogu in seeming affirmation. He held a hand again and the raptors had sat on their haunches, behaved, peaceful as peas on a pod. This certainly didn’t escape Ragnar’s attention.

“And I suppose you can—like—I don’t know, tame creatures and make them like you?” 

Ragnar felt a little doltish speaking to a child who can’t communicate normally as other foundlings did. 

“Eh, eh!” replied Grogu with a grin. His huge green ears arched in what Ragnar believed was pride.

Ragnar found himself giggling in spite of himself. His giggle morphed into a more nervous one when he realized that Din hasn’t made his way back yet.

“What’s taking your dad so long, Grogu?”

Abruptly, the three raptor babies shot out in unison, seemingly freed out of their serene mood. Ragnar had been close to yelling in fright, but in embarrassment, he soon spotted Din hauling a large sloshing vat full of dinosaur turtle meat. There had been so many left over from the kill Din himself had done over a fortnight ago. They’ve already been swimming in dinosaur turtle broth and jerky for days. 

The irony was that the monstrous creature had tried turning Ragnar into food then, and these raptor hatchlings’ mother had been outright dinner for another dinosaur turtle in the churning, horrid waters. That was as much Ragnar saw as Din had scooped him out of plunging into sure death. 

Ragnar’s blood turned cold. He couldn’t imagine his father Paz all alone again, mourning for him for Maker knows how long. Other parents were still grieving over the foundlings they’d lost.

“Okay, Grogu. Ragnar,” Din breathed, settling the vat down.

Ragnar’s heart leapt when he heard a familiar grunt of effort not far behind. Sure enough, Paz’s towering form appeared seconds after, the heavy gunner hauling two vats in his wake. 

The boy silently chuckled at how Din seemed to feign disinterest over his father’s feat of strength. The silver Mandalorian was heaving over one vat. Paz barely broke a sweat over two.

“Dad!” Ragnar called happily over the ruckus caused by the hungry hatchlings. Their bony avian wings flailed about in anticipation over a hearty meal.

Paz was spiritedly huffing. “Thought it’d take you a good minute to finally face this sort of fear, Ragnar.” The large man plucked a couple of feeding spikes from the side of the outcrop where implements to care for the hatchlings were stored.

“Dad!” Ragnar protested in annoyance. Not in front of Grogu and Din!

“Now—careful, don’t get too close,” Paz boomed without skipping a beat. “These guys need to be fed twice a day with moderately large feedings. This would be their first meal of the day.”

“We don’t know much yet about these raptors,” Din added. “This species seems native to a couple of systems, but we haven’t encountered one this close before, let alone one adult and three babies.” “I bet,” Ragnar piped up without much thinking. He stiffened when he caught Paz shooting him a look through the visor. The boy quailed a little. Grogu was still buzzing like a bee in his hold.

When feeding proper began, Ragnar didn’t feel too inclined to release Grogu from his hold. The green baby seemed to be expertly keeping the hatchlings at bay. The boy only held his mettle for as long as he did because he’d felt that Grogu was shielding him from danger. However, Din was motioning Ragnar to return Grogu to his hold… the boy hesitated.

“Ragnar,” came Paz’s tone of gentle reprimand.

“Um…” 

Din appeared to consider something. The man turned to Paz in some sort of wordless comprehension. His father gave Din a curt nod.

Din had popped open his vat of hatchling food. Taking a feeding spike, the man drove it through the vat, successfully spearing through three large pieces, arrayed like barbecued steak.

He had such a fearless, devil-may-care stance as he moved ever closer to the hatchlings. Ragnar swallowed hard; Din was no farther than a meter away. He held the feeding spike up, and like famished womp rats, the hatchlings hacked at the meat with their bony beaks. Din held his ground, keeping the spike in place as the babies ravaged their meal. 

The hatchlings were oddly quiet, chomping at the meat in bliss, their eyes half-closed in contentment.

“Ragnar,” began Din, to the boy’s surprise. 

“Yeah?” Ragnar had begun to find comfort in Din’s timbre. It was unlike his father’s, but there was truly something… paternal about it, all the same. A father’s voice held a secret kind of wisdom. Ragnar couldn’t place it; he just knew that such phenomena existed, as evidenced by Paz’s own voice.

The silver Mandalorian’s helm hadn’t turned to him as he spoke, but it was somber and respectful. Ragnar felt oddly peaceful.

“When I was your age, did you know what my biggest fear was?” Din continued.

Ragnar exchanged glances with Grogu, but the green child only stared back at him with the same wide-eyed expression. He fought the urge to turn to Paz and ask for assurance as he would often do in times like these.

“No, um, Din, sir,” replied the boy. He couldn’t just address someone else’s dad at an overly comfortable first-name basis.

“It was droids,” deadpanned Din.

Ragnar was seized with puzzlement, coupled with the curiosity of knowing the rest of Din’s story. “Droids, Din, sir?”

Din spaced out the conversation by taking the spike to the vat once more and provided the hatchlings with their second serving. As the raptor babies munched on, Din’s stance further relaxed.

“I lost my birth parents to battle droids. I was orphaned at a very young age, like you. And like you, the Mandalorians rescued me, welcomed me into the Tribe, gave me a family and a home. But I never forgot the droids. They frightened me, and it didn’t matter if they were battle droids or not. For years, I hated droids.” 

That was when Din slowly turned to him. “I’ve undergone exposure therapy too. It’s never easy, but it had to be done. I struggled, I cried, I threw up.”

Din didn’t seem perturbed over Paz’s small chuckle. Ragnar wondered how far Din and his father heralded back. Did they grow up together? There appeared to be common memory of what Din was relaying to him. There was still so much to know.

“You can’t go into battle half a warrior, kid,” Din went on. “You’ll do fine. You’re handling it better than I ever did.”

To Ragnar’s surprise, and very much to his suppressed delight, it was Paz who punctuated today’s lesson on courage:

“Learn to face the fire that burned you,” Paz said, tone regal and low. 

Oh great, Ragnar thought, however brimming with elation he was over his dad offering him more of his fatherly wisdom. The dads are tag-teaming me about my fears.

The hatchlings were growing restless again after chewing on the last meaty bits scattered all over their makeshift nest. 

Din then handed him the feeding spike. “Now you try.”

Ragnar breathed out a thorough sigh to unravel his nerves. He turned to Grogu again, and the child gripped his arms once, as though giving him a bit of reassurance. 

“Thanks, Grogu,” gulped Ragnar. With another heaving sigh, he exchanged Grogu for the feeding spike from Din’s outstretched hand. 

“Here goes nothing,” muttered Ragnar as he dove the spike into the vat, and the slosh of still-fresh dinosaur turtle meat met his ears.

-*-*-

In three days, Ragnar felt he’d known Grogu all his life. At least, that was the reason he gave himself to justify always keeping the green child by his side. Grogu was indeed like a literal shield. Roarke and Joff had ceased to pester him whenever Grogu was around, and when Grogu wasn’t, they were in training where no one was allowed any form of miscreant behavior. 

Grogu was with him when Ragnar would train closer to the water. He still broke in cold sweat, and he thought he’d even unfortunately developed a temporary stutter, but all it needed was Grogu’s melodious little babble to keep him grounded.

When they’d feed the hatchlings, Grogu would always be there. At least either Din or Paz would supervise them; eventually, Ragnar felt the trail of minuscule disapproval from his father which quite saddened him. He knew Paz wouldn’t shock him with a scolding over not fully facing the fire. Ragnar soon wondered if his “gradually” was “too slow.” He’d been told that everyone healed at their own pace, but what if he were deliberately stunting the journey?

Four days, then five. A full standard week, and nearly not a single waking hour had passed without Ragnar stringing Grogu around. Din couldn’t even get a minute with his own son as Grogu appeared to have become quite comfortable with Ragnar’s company. Another irony, considering that they didn’t exactly start off on the right foot.

One afternoon, as the suns set, Grogu had led Ragnar much closer to the edge of the water. The child motioned Ragnar to sit beside him, upon the wet sand. 

“You sure this is a good idea?”

Grogu patted the space close to him.

“Okay,” Ragnar dubiously complied.

The boy stilled his breaths. He felt his insides turn to ice as the water and the sky beat on him again, and he was a kettledrum, beat until his inner world was bruised. But Grogu was here. He kept his heart rate at a steady pace. One can control one’s inner workings with discipline. Those were one of the many lessons during training. 

Upon the warm sand, Ragnar continued to settle from within as he had settled without.

He felt Grogu’s clawed hand drape over his own. 

Something like a fizzle of unexplainable energy sparked from Grogu’s little hand to his. Ragnar described it afterwards as he reviewed the day before bed that it felt like he’d swallowed a huge mint and now his insides were all… minty. It wasn’t a bad sensation at all. He remembered how calm he’d become, how secure he’d felt even as he sat barely inches away from what was still one of his worst fears.

Ragnar thought he’d imagined rocks dancing all around him. Wow, had I lost my mind or what?

Grogu sputtered out in bursts of laughter as the rocks grew spindly legs. They walked sideways and all-the-ways, but never bumping into each other and flitting over the two children. 

“Crabs?!” Ragnar marveled aloud.

The crabs this time of year had shinier mother-of-pearl shells. They all crawled patiently into the water, and the suns had shone on their bodies. Soon, the water appeared to be filled with a million faceted diamonds, or stars; the water shimmered in glorious colors. His HUD registered it tremendously, and perhaps even enhanced it. He was transfixed. 

Ragnar tried to hide the exhilaration in his voice. “Hey—that’s actually pretty,” he told Grogu simply. He didn’t want to sound that this experience was knocking his equilibrium off-guard as well as strangely stabilizing it, all at the same time. 

This was the longest he’d stayed at the edge of the water as he watched the crabs gradually disappear into the depths. Nary a massive creature shot up from the waters or shot down from the sky. 

When they’d both left the bank, the suns were close to setting. The horizon was a thin veil of rippling orange and purple. 

“Hey, Grogu,” Ragnar nudged at the green child as he walked at the baby’s pace. He’d decided not to hold onto Grogu this time like a shield.

“Bwaaah?” asked the child.

“They’re totally right. You are magical.”

Grogu giggled.

-*-*-

By the end of another standard week, even the Armorer was impressed. 

So far, Ragnar and Grogu were the only two foundlings who had begun to feed the hatchlings by hand. The rest of the kids still hung on to their feeding spikes as though those tools, in turn, were their shields. 

Judge had vocalized the very words which the adults had wanted to convey: 

“It can take months to be able to feed wild creatures by hand. It takes endless patience. That’s a very viable sign that a wild beast has been tamed—when they can finally eat from your hand with no sign of aggression.”

Ragnar and Grogu, this time, claimed the spotlight in tandem. Ragnar knew that such glories were fleeting, as he’d witnessed before. But soon the rest of the foundlings were a gaggle around him and the green child. The smaller ones who hadn’t sworn the Creed yet looked up to them like he and Grogu were the embodiment of Kad Ha’rangir themselves, whom they learned in school was the ancient Mandalorian god of destruction and rebirth. 

“A little extreme,” Ragnar had commented to Grogu, “but yeah, we’ll take it.”

Grogu agreed.

-*-*-

The hatchlings were soon tame enough to be let out of their enclosure. The Armorer had forged for each of the three juvenile raptors a collar which identified the creatures. They were all young males but still looked fairly identical. The little mythosaur-embossed collars were draped on the creatures by none other than Ragnar and Grogu. Their respective fathers had the honor as well of adjusting the collars to each raptor’s size, until they were comfortably custom-fit but left enough room for growth, before adjustments would commence again.

“One day, we’re gonna ride these guys,” Ragnar had suggested to Grogu. Grogu made huge motions with his stubby arms.

“I’m not sure what you just said, honestly,” Ragnar admitted, “but if you said you’re claiming Lotho, nope, too bad—I’ll be riding Lotho! You can ride Argo or Buck!”

Lotho, to Ragnar’s eyes, was the handsomest of the raptor brothers—considering how skeletal and sharp and leathery they all looked. They were starting to grow the tough hide of their mother. 

On one feeding session, Ragnar hardly believed his own ears when he’d specifically apologized to Lotho over having their mother killed. 

“I’m sorry, Lotho. It was either me or your mom. I don’t think I’m sorry that I ended up alive, but I’m sorry all the same that you lost your mom. I think she was a good mom, all things considered.” Ragnar shuddered at the memory; there were still vestiges he knew would not leave him for a longer time. “I hope you’d forgive the Mandalorians for that.”

He also remembered how silly he’d become, confiding in non-sentient creatures which only acted according to their respective natures. When Ragnar was kidnapped to be turned into raptor dinner, he’d made peace with the fact that it was nothing personal. He was visible prey and was taken because he’d let his defenses down, crushed by his defeat to Grogu at the time.  

Lotho had bumped its beak over Ragnar’s outstretched hand.

Grogu had been at a farther end with Din, and they had been adjusting Buck’s collar. The raptors’ names weren’t their idea, moreover. He giggled at the thought of the Nite Owl, whom he now knew whose name was Bo-Katan, had provided the monickers to the raptors.

“I’m just naming them after the Corellian hounds my dad had when I was little. They were seven, but I’ve named them after my best three.”

There was warmth to her voice which Ragnar had grown accustomed to, as well.

-*-*-

A standard month had passed. The Covert was abuzz with all sorts of news but Ragnar and Grogu had their own affairs. They were prepping another of the foundlings, Alia, to swear the Creed. 

On the other hand, Ragnar and little Alia were trying to make Grogu repeat some words after them, parts and parcels of what Ragnar remembered was the Creed he needed to declare during his own verd’goten.

Grogu wasn’t repeating words. He repeated inflections, but he continued to babble and buzz. He sounded like intermittent com-link static sometimes. 

“You’ll learn to speak Basic eventually,” Ragnar insisted. “There’s no way I’d grow up and maybe start a family and all that, and your dad’s grown much older, and you don’t have your helmet yet!”

Something struck Ragnar after a while. Alia had skipped to her parents in further preparation as  the Covert had gathered close to the water once again, just as they had when Ragnar had earned his helmet, to never take it off again in front of any living being. 

The boy bent over to Grogu, and with a kind whisper, asked the child—

“Grogu… is speaking Basic one of your worst fears?”

The green baby looked very hesitant. Grogu fidgeted; he shot his wide-eyed gaze everywhere save on Ragnar. 

Ragnar instantly felt regret of bringing it up. He tenderly laid a hand on Grogu’s fuzzy head. 

“Don’t sweat it for now,” he advised his friend. As an afterthought, Ragnar added with a sagacity he’d siphoned from his father, Paz Vizsla: “One day, you’ll learn to face the fire that burned you.”

That afternoon, it was Grogu who’d insisted on staying in Ragnar’s arms instead of Din’s during Alia’s verd’goten. Even Lotho, Argo, and Buck were there, charmingly obedient by Bo-Katan’s side. Ragnar gave out a wide smile at the sight, certain that no one would see that stupid grin on his face underneath the helmet.

Close to the water and under the sky, Alia repeated the Creed after the Armorer, and nary a beast shot out of the ocean’s depths or shot down from the burning bright horizon. 

“This is the Way,” Ragnar recited in unison with the Covert, when Alia’s helmet had been secured in place. Grogu recited in his own vibrant stream of inflections. 

Ragnar smiled wide again and held Grogu Djarin tightly.

-*-*-*-

Paz had come to Din one morning as the latter was making maintenance repairs on his N-1 starfighter. 

The hulking Mandalorian knew Din sensed his unmoving, towering shadow over him as Din needed all the daylight he could get whilst in the middle of his tinkering—and Paz was blocking the glare.

“You know, you can talk whenever you want,” Din had told him, and said no more. He buried himself back into his work, allowing Paz to take his time as he’d conveyed.

Paz heaved a sigh, then chuckled. 

“You and your son have done so much for Ragnar and me than we can ever repay,” Paz spoke at last. “We are eternally in your debt, my brother.”

Din seemed to hardly believe what Paz had proclaimed. He popped his gleaming head out from under the N-1 for a second before drifting back to his repairs. 

“This is the Way,” replied Din at length.

Paz leaned on his haunches so that Din had his daylight back and Paz had sight of Din, in respect towards his brother to be at his eye level as best as he could. 

Before Paz could utter another word, it was Din who broke the silence.

“Where did you learn that?”

Paz blinked under the helm. “Learn what?”

“That… proverb. Or whatever that was.” Din let out his own chuckle. “Learn to face the fire that burned you.”

It was Paz’s turn to be confused. “Din—that’s odd. You haven’t heard of it before?”

Din had fully slid himself out from under the N-1, his silver armor losing some of its sheen from engine grime. “I don’t think I ever have, Paz.”

Paz mused for a moment. 

“Your adoptive father told me that.”

When Din couldn’t reply, as though suddenly his life before the loss of his own Mandalorian father flashed before his eyes, Paz felt a wave of compassion flow through him.

“I’m glad, Din,” Paz finally said, his gruff voice breaking with the rare emotion he displayed through cadence.

Din’s helm settled upon Paz. “Glad of what?”

Paz chuckled with an easy air as he lifted himself up and began to stride away casually. 

“That you became our foundling. This is the Way.”

Din sat there as Paz walked back to the training grounds, readying the equipment and laying out the barricade which separated the glistening, dark ocean from the children. 

From afar, Din heard the joyful squeals of children at play. Ragnar and Grogu were at their fifth round of training darts outside of Judge’s jurisdiction. Din sighed. The kids could be well covered in those bright green paintball splotches from head to toe after all that racket.

“This is the Way,” he said softly.

******

Mando'a words: *baar’ur - medic *ad’ika - little one; a term of endearment for a son, daughter, or a young person *verd’goten - lit: “warrior birth;” a coming-of-age Mandalorian ceremony

Authors Notes: I’ve been gathering info on how Ragnar could’ve survived in the raptor’s “belly” overnight as the raptor had to regurgitate Ragnar out to feed her babies, but Ragnar wasn’t only whole, he was still alive. Turns out that they may be based on real world avian species which do have a “food pouch” (an enlarged part of their esophagus) to store their prey (perhaps relatively unharmed). I just added some details to make it more harrowing for our poor Vizsla child. x’D

Grogu’s fear was a random idea I entertained, considering a few factors that Grogu seemed to not want to speak Basic even though it looks like he can clearly understand it. Let’s pretend he’d witnessed something bad in relation to learning Basic which made him reluctant about it. ;_;

P.S. Forgive this little slice of life. Seems like reclaiming Mandalore and/or finding the Mythosaur has been momentarily delayed. ^^;;

*****

Read more stories on Clan Vizsla's own clan of two: Paz and Ragnar 💙:

"A Future Yet Unknown" (also on AO3)

"Only One Creed" (also on AO3)

"From The Ashes" (also on AO3)

[freesia-writes]

Master List

During the Clone Wars, the Bad Batch is tasked with a variety of missions across the galaxy. An unexpected addition to their team throws a wrench in the mix, particularly for Tech, who finds a particular connection with this disillusioned Padawan-turned-mechanic named Vel throughout the events in this action-adventure romance. COVER ART BY @zaana 🧡🧡🧡

Chapters:

Interference

Indignation

Interdependence

Instigation

Insight

Interest

Invitation

Intentions

Interception

Injustice

Intellect

Injury

Ingenuity

Incitation

Undercover

Untraditional

Undermined

Unrequited

Unpredictable

Upended

Unveil

Return

Revelation

Revilement

Repentance

Refreshment

Relentlessness

Resonance

Reactivity

Costuming

Conspiracy

Catastrophe

Contentment

Cohabitation

Completion

[floofyroro]

Okay fuck it,

I’m writing a Captain Rex/f!reader one shot.

*looks at my other WIPs nervously*

[write-and-wander]

Touch: Epilogue

Pairing:  Kylo Ren x Fem!Reader

Warnings:  Non-canon AU

Word count:  1K

Author’s note: As much as I loved the ending of the last chapter, I can't resist a little epilogue to show where I imagine things would go in my version of the sequels.

(Part 1)

(Part 2)

(Part 3)

(Part 4)

(Part 5)

(Part 6)

(Part 7)

Epilogue: Future's Path

“General Kenobi?”  You hear Poe call out to you.

“Be there in five!” you call back, looking back down to your journal.  It’s been a while since your last entry, and you just wanted to finish recording things before The Path Forward’s first meeting for Project Rebuild.  With a deep breath, you think back on all that has transpired since the Final Victory.

The first order of business was to repair what had been broken.  For the Path- which, at the time, was still the Resistance- that meant tending to the wreckage of the bases we had built in the past.  They settled on rebuilding in D’Qar as, for most of those who stayed after the Victory, it felt like home.  Though many people left the Resistance after that final battle was won, feeling satisfied with having achieved what they had set out to accomplish, some still remained, determining that the work was not yet finished.  Those that stayed reached out to those that left and other allies to raise funds and gather supplies, and while the Resistance itself was gone, the spirit of working together to make the galaxy a better place yet remained.  We all had managed to gather enough not just to rebuild the base we once had, but to also improve upon it with the hope that future generations would be using this place to continue to strive for better.  In fact, reconstruction and renovation just came to completion- hence the meeting I’m about to attend.

General Dameron seamlessly took over the Path after the Victory.  Those of us who joined prior to Leia’s passing knew that it was exactly what she would have wanted- and seeing him lead now confirmed that it was for good reason.  He really was the perfect choice for the head of the organization.  Poe, having grown up with the group and being- well, himself- made for a natural leader.  While some members, new and old alike, still disagree with the risks he’s willing to take, it’s hard to argue against his decisions when they always seem to work out.  I don’t want to discount his natural talents, but I also believe that none of it would be possible without the force’s favor over him.  Regardless, he really is the best we’ve got.

General Storm would agree with me- and, being as force sensitive as he is, I trust his word (admittedly, sometimes more than I trust my own).  Finn’s wisdom is unparalleled, and his bravery and even head makes for a perfect counterpart to General Dameron.  I’m still getting used to calling him General Storm; it was the last name he had taken for himself while Ben, Poe, and I were working out logistics for the Path.  We were shocked when it was the first name he offered for himself, being a reference to his time with the First Order as a Stormtrooper.  However, he said it best himself: “It’s who I am.  It can always mean something new.”  It was a short deliberation, then, on how we would be referring to Finn upon his promotion to General: ‘Storm’ it was.  Shortly after, Rey took the same sort of inspiration, having found out the truth of her past- though, there was no concern about a proper title, as she would not be stepping up into any sort of leadership for the Path.

Now make no mistake, Rey was still working in a close alliance with the Path- which I believe is at least in part due to General Storm.  Instead, she had also taken on her own mantle moving forward.  She had kept both Luke and Leia’s sabers, as well as some of the ancient Jedi texts- which, I just recently learned, were otherwise turned to ash on Ahch-To by Jedi Master Yoda; meaning that the ever-resourceful scavenger managed to recover some before the fiery incident.  With those few relics, she determined that the Jedi tradition should not so easily die.  She decided to try again what Luke had failed to do in his lifetime- rebuild the Jedi Order.  While we disagreed with her decision, we’ve also decided to respect it; with the caveat that the Path would be keeping a close eye on her new Order.  Understanding the hesitation and wanting to be held accountable for the sake of the galaxy’s security moving forward, she easily accepted the conditions.

General Solo- my beloved Ben- took a similar path for himself.  While he was more invested in the Path than Rey was- enough to be given a proper title and position- he also still pursued more, taking the last words of his uncle to heart.  Actually, it’s a project we’ve both been working on for a while now.  We want to forge a new future; to pave a new path for those who are strong with the force.  It will be a way of balance, where the dark cannot exist without the light, both in the galaxy and within ourselves.  We hope to honor our ancestors with the work we do- and, having taken advantage of the presence of their force ghosts to seek out guidance from them, we can confidently say that we’re off to a good start.  Together, we began to teach new, young force-wielders what true balance and harmony with the force might look like, and how one can harness the power within that.

Finally, both sides of the force are intertwined into one, just as intended; and to think it all began when the light first touched the darkness.

You jump at the sound of the door opening, but relax when you see Ben walking in.

“If you show up any later, they might think you’re nervous,” he teases.

“Nervous?” you scoff, “Never.”

Ben laughs.  “The journal can wait, my light,” he says with a kiss to your temple. You stand.

“There’s just so much to record, I wanted to at least start-”

“Will you two stop making out in here?” Poe butts in, “We’ve got a project to start.”

You laugh and give Ben a kiss.  “Okay,” you say, taking a deep breath.

Ben grabs your hand.  “Together?”

You nod as you both follow Poe to the meeting room.  “Together.”

[xinambercladx]

Me. Totally not keyboarding for hours on my day off and researching star wars characters and planets and weapons to end up writing 6 more chapters pages of my fanfic and forgot to finish laundry so it all got wrinkled...

[rustyanchor36]

Emboldened by re-reads of my favorite fanfics (Reprise by @elfpen and Desert Storm by @blue-sunshine-mauve-morning) I'm trying to start the ¿WIP? (Is it a WIP if it's just a collection of very detailed ideas I never actually put down to paper?) It's just... Whoof. I have a fair bit (I know when it's set, the basic premise, characters involved at first, and a few locations and set pieces along the way of the first hurdles) but FORCE Can't find a way to kick things off that I like, and I find some bits of the outline awkward and I really don't know what to do about it And since I have nobody to yell at about it rn I'm doing the next best thing and yelling at the Tumblr void ;)