#there's a GALAXY'S worth of stories to be told

[insomnova]

god i wish they hadn't retconned maul's death. i get wanting to explore more of his character because he was, objectively, one of the coolest star wars characters to ever hit the big screen and didn't get much screentime prior to his death, but also his role was fulfilled perfectly within those constraints so i wasn't too upset by it.

but by retconning it and making it so he never died it's like. okay. what now? the whole point (well, to me, ymmv of course) of the theed generator fight was that it was the first ever fight between the jedi and the sith in thousands of years, and that in the end even though the jedi (obi-wan) won the fight, a jedi (qui-gon) and a sith (maul) still died. a master and an apprentice dying together to herald the start of a new age/the return of the sith. perfectly paralleling the way in rotj a master (palps) and an apprentice (anakin/vader) died together to herald the return of the jedi. in both instances, a father figure (qui-gon/vader) dies in the arms of their son (obi-wan/luke) as a sith (palps/maul) is cast down into the abyss to their deaths. (palps being alive in the ST and retconning his death in rotj is also annoying for this reason)

i mean i like maul. don't get me wrong. he's an incredibly compelling character and i enjoy seeing more of him... but there's always the thought hovering in my mind like "he should be dead though. he should 100% be dead. this wouldn't be happening if he was dead, but i honestly would rather it not if it meant that maul was dead."

like the tpm fight just doesn't hit the same knowing that canonically he's just. going to become a robot octopus at some point. (shoutout to palps becoming sith glados in the ST) it cheapens the moment for me. it was supposed to be a moment of triumph marred by the deep and soul-crushing loss of a loved one and it's just... not, anymore. or at least not to the same extent. AUGH i'm just. frustrated. wish star wars as a whole wasn't constantly reframing/retconning what's been established. just puts a bad taste in my mouth.

[jinmukangwrites]

I had a debate with my coworker about the Jedi not being crib robbers, regardless of the outcome of our argument, it has got me feeling ill about the parents who gave their children to the Jedi before or even during the Clone Wars. I'm watching Rebels and Kanan sounds so sad when he says he didn't know his parents. And then replaying Survivor, Cal has a conversation with Mosey about parents, and I remember that Cal is from Coruscant.

Like, imagine you're a parent. You probably live in the more poverty stricken levels of Coruscant. It's only a few years before the Clone Wars, but there's no way you could know that. All you know is that you have a baby in your arms, and there's Jedi in your home telling you that your baby is gifted, and that if you are willing, you can give your child up to a higher purpose. You'll probably never see your baby again, never see him grow, but... he'll grow up on the surface of Coruscant, in the Jedi Temple. He will not suffer poverty like you and your family, he will grow up to understand the mysteries of the Force and he'll become a peacekeeper of the galaxy and for whatever reason known only to you... it seems worth it.

You give your baby up.

And you wonder about him. Visiting the upper levels, you do the math in your head of how old he must be, and then you look out into the crowd made of trillions and wonder if you'll ever see a shock of red hair.

You never do, but that's fine. Your son is a Jedi, and maybe that's enough for you.

But then the Clone Wars come. And, not only do you see the Jedi join and lead their side of the war, but you begin to see the adult Jedi bring their young children with them on to the battle field.

Do you feel nothing? Do you feel anger? Acceptance? Do you think your baby is a hero? Do you go to the protests?

You watch the news, and perhaps you feel sick wondering if your baby will ever show up as a corpse.

But you never see him. And you're not sure if that's fine.

Years pass. The Jedi are branded traitors.

You hear about the masses of deaths, even the children are not spared from being branded as traitors and marked for execution from your new Emperor. Your baby is 12, or perhaps, was twelve. Perhaps 12 is the oldest he got, if he's lucky. That sticks with you.

You carry on.

Maybe you make a life for yourself within the Empire. Maybe you suppress the grief you must feel for the baby you gave to the Jedi all those years ago. Maybe you wallow in it. Maybe, on dark nights, surrounded by the never ending sounds of Coruscant, you think back to those simpler days, when there was no war, and you held your baby for the last time, and you think about what if. What if you held him tighter, and told the Jedi to leave. What if you worked harder to give him a better life yourself. What if you watched him grow, and he wasn't made a soldier, and he didn't die before he could become a teenager.

What if.

Years pass. You continue.

There's rumors of rebellion. You have your opinions on the Empire, on the rebels, some are deeply buried secrets, a bias you cannot escape, no one can know but that connection to the Jedi lingers.

Years pass. About a decade.

And you walk out one day, and you stop in your tracks, because you did not expect to see anything continue from your grief, the end of his story you told yourself.

A billboard shines in the darkness of the Coruscant lower levels, which isn't new, but this billboard stares at you.

A head full of red hair. Eyes that remind you of your partner. Scars scratch his features but his cheek bones remind you of your father.

Jedi terrorist.

About 22 years old.

Wanted by the Empire, and you don't know what to think but you know exactly what you're feeling.

And time moves on, and you're not in his life, but he's alive. Fighting against the Empire, while you continue to exist under the ruins of the Jedi Temple you gave him to, glancing up every once in a while, to see his face staring back in the light of wanted posters.

[callikari]

──────── 💼 WE HUG NOW, LACY

。i have a feeling u got everything u wanted, and ur not wasting time stuck here like me.

... 沉在允 x fem!reader 🥂 angst 。 jake is an idol, reader isn't .. 4200 wc (·•᷄‎ࡇ•᷅ ) emotional neglect , implied cheating , no comfort , mentions of social media

【 more like this 🌙 】

• part 2 | ceilings

you used to love tour season.

it was the time he was his most alive—posting little updates from different cities, rambling in excitement over every performance, voice cracking from rehearsals, face glowing under stage lights. and you? you were always there, in the background. the one he texted after every stage. the one he called when the hotel room got too quiet.

you’d wrap yourself up in his voice like a blanket, whispering goodnights across time zones, promising to wait just a little longer.

“i miss you,” he would say.

but somewhere along the way, that stopped.

and you can’t remember when the shift happened—when the texts started getting shorter, when the replies took hours, then days. when your name stopped showing up in the small ways it used to: no more blurry selfies captioned “missing someone.” no more late-night facetime calls where he asked about your day before venting about his.

he became busy. too busy.

and you told yourself it was okay. he was on a world tour, after all. things were hectic. he had a million things pulling at him from all directions—staff, rehearsals, fans. you were just… one of them.

but it didn’t stop the ache. the coldness that crept in when your messages were left on read. when your good mornings went unanswered. when his instagram stories showed him laughing with people you didn’t know, in places you’d never been invited to.

and then came her.

lacy.

that wasn’t her real name, of course. but it was the only one your brain allowed you to give her—the only way to put a label on the ghost haunting the corners of jake’s life.

a new member of le sserafim. a recent addition. pretty, popular, and everywhere he was.

you first saw them together in a fan edit.

at first, it was just the usual nonsense. stan twitter being delulu again. “they looked at each other for 0.2 seconds!!! they’re definitely dating!!!”

you rolled your eyes, laughed it off.

but then the videos kept coming. then pictures. then interviews, where their names were brought up together just a little too often. jake smiling when hers was mentioned. her giggling at something he whispered during an awards show.

you wanted to trust him. god, you wanted to.

but the silence kept growing. and so did the disappointment.

you tried asking him about it once.

he was in paris. you were sitting in your apartment, curled up in the hoodie he left behind last winter.

“have you been… hanging out with someone new?” you asked, careful, quiet.

there was a pause. static on the other end.

“you mean the new le sserafim member?” he chuckled, and you flinched at how easily he said her name. “we’re labelmates, babe. we see each other all the time. nothing’s going on.”

“okay,” you whispered.

he didn’t say i love you that night.

you started seeing her everywhere after that. maybe she was always there and you were just now noticing. in the background of tour vlogs. tagged in stories. always two steps behind jake. always smiling.

and the worst part?

she was beautiful.

no, not just beautiful—she was unreal. effortless. the kind of girl who floats through a room and makes people stop mid-sentence. skin like porcelain. eyes that held galaxies. every photo of her looked like it had been dipped in gold.

you hated how she made you feel. how every scroll through your feed left you questioning your worth. how you started avoiding mirrors. how you downloaded and deleted every editing app on your phone just to blur out the imperfections you used to never notice.

she became the person you couldn’t stop thinking about.

not jake. her.

how could he look at you, and then look at her?

it was raining the night you found out.

you were on your way home from work, drenched, exhausted, heart heavy. you hadn’t heard from jake in two days. your last text—“call me when you can? miss you.”—was still unread.

you stopped by a corner café, phone in one hand, umbrella dripping rainwater onto your shoes.

and then you saw it.

a blurry photo on some gossip page. not even a dispatch post. just grainy enough to make you hope it was fake.

“rumors spark as jake of enhypen is spotted leaving a parisian hotel with le sserafim’s newest member. insiders say the two have been ‘close’ for months.”

your heart dropped.

you stared at the image—him in a black cap, hand on the small of her back. her leaning into him, soft smile, like she belonged there.

like you never did.

you didn’t cry. not at first. just sat there, blinking at the screen, watching as the rain painted streaks across the glass window.

your phone buzzed.

it was jake.

finally.

you answered, voice already cracking.

“hey,” he said, breathless like he’d just been running. “you okay?”

you didn’t know how to respond. your throat felt tight. your hands shook.

“you’re with her,” you said.

silence.

then a sigh. “look… i was going to tell you. i swear, i just didn’t know how—”

click.

you hung up.

days passed.

then weeks.

he tried to call. once. then twice. you never answered. there was nothing left to say.

your room still smelled like him. your playlists still had songs he sent you. your hoodie still held his warmth.

but you were done waiting.

done shrinking yourself to fit into the corners of his life.

because lacy might be everything you weren’t—perfect, polished, adored—but she didn’t have you.

your loyalty. your patience. your quiet love that wrapped around jake even when he didn’t deserve it.

you weren’t lacy.

and for the first time in a long time, you were okay with that.

维维安的 taglist : @ash-engen @cheruphic @jungwonbropls @chrrific @ijustreallylike2read

© callikari — all rights reserved

[spcherryygirl]

✦ . 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄, ᯓ mark grayson didn't want you. but at the same time, he wanted to want you. you became his want. & eventually, you became his need.

ᝰ ┆ 𝓓rabble .ᐟ : : gn!reader

⨟ ooc (?) grammatical errors

notes : : 𓏔 fbi!reader x dc p2 will be out,, soon !( hopefully ) && will try my best to make it gn!reader this time

he doesn't say it the first time that he knows it.

he doesn't even really notice it's love until it smacks him right in the middle of something ridiculous, like you laughing at yourself over your own joke at the food court, mouthful of fries, while he's still just trying to wrap his head around how to be a superhero & how not to flunk physics.

& you’re just there. smiling at him like he’s not a complete mess. like he didn’t just show up ten minutes late with a black eye & ketchup on his shirt. & he thinks, god, i’m in love with you.

but he doesn’t say it. he just reaches for your hand & holds it like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating off into space.

he loves you the way he describes his mom to you. not the grand announcement sort of thing. not like "hey i'm in love now."

but the little things. you pop up in his stories by accident.

"they sent me this meme in class, i almost laughed."

"they like this band, i think you would like them too, mom."

"they made me take a break today. told me i was doing too much."

& debbie just smiles, always, like she knows he's head over heels before he does.

he loves you when he takes off to get your go-to takeout at 11pm because you're fretting over a paper( it was your chapter three for research ). when he gets it exactly right with how you like your coffee.

when he leaves you voice memos that begin with "hey," & continues with "okay, uh… never mind. i just wanted to hear your voice."

he loves you in the silences, too. such as when he passes out on your floor, injured, battered & silent, & you do not ask questions. you simply bandage him up with hands softer than he believes he deserves.

& when he does finally speak, it is in a whisper. "i didn't know where else to go."

& you tell him, "you're home." & that word lingers in his ribcage for hours. days, even.

mark grayson is a mess of a human being.

he runs behind schedule. he loses focus. he bites off more than he can chew & occasionally attempts to save the world before responding to your text.

& he knows that. he despises that.

he tells you, one evening, voice trembling,

"you shouldn't have to wait for me. you shouldn't have to worry all the time."

& you simply shake your head & say to him, "you're worth it." & he stares at you like you just rewrote every law of physics.

like perhaps this ━━ you & him ━━ can't actually break.

he loves you like the world is ending. because sometimes it is. sometimes he's out there, seeing buildings fall & skies burn red & people scream, ,& die, & get hurt. the only thing that keeps him sane is thinking of you.

your voice.

your ( not )stupid texts.

the way you got him to watch pride & prejudice despite him swearing he'd hated it, & then found him rewatching the hand flex scene three days later.

he loves you like you are human.

like him, too.

like the suit & the powers & the viltrumite blood don't count when it's just you sitting beside him, stroking his hair & saying he smells like the wind. he chuckles at that.

"what does the wind even smell like?"

& you smile,

"you. it smells like you."

& the galaxy doesn't seem so large all of a sudden.

“sweaty.”

“hey!”

he doesn't tell you "i love you" until it's almost bursting his ribs.

he whispers it. barely audible.

not because he doesn't mean it, but because he means it too much. because it frightens him.

how real it is. how real you are.

how this isn't a comic book moment, not a save-the-day line. this is him, raw & bleeding & full of emotions he doesn't know how to carry.

"i love you."

he says it like an apology & a vow at once. he says it like he's giving you every broken piece of himself.

& you don't flinch. you take it. you take him.

& you say it back.

& that's what shatters him, honestly.

not a villain.

not an alien.

you. loving him back.

choosing him.

the version of him that's still figuring it out.

him who is still learning.

him who is still scared.

he loves you like it's the only thing he knows how to do right.

& maybe, sometimes, it is.

© spcheryygirl

[robot-roadtrip-rants]

The Reunion of Lion and Guilliman

It’s a big deal, of course. The primarchs, resplendent in their armor, formally greet each other and shake hands on a dais. Lights flash around them as pict after pict is taken, servo skulls hovering close as they furiously record the occasion. Thousands of their sons stand to attention, organized by chapter in perfect parade formation, a rainbow of colors and heraldry buffed to an exquisite sheen. The great and good of the Imperium fill the audience, each weighed down with garments and jewelry worth whole planets. Speeches are given, glorious words about brotherhood and friendship and strength in the darkest hours. Outside, pilgrims swoon in ecstatic frenzy at the glory of the moment.

The real reunion takes place after the festivities die down. The primarchs remove their armor and retreat to a room that has been hastily cleaned after millennia of disuse for just this purpose. It is a humble room, no more than a lounge, made for casual conversation and socialization. Its unique quality are the dimensions of the furniture, for this room was made for a very specific group of brothers—brothers who, bar two, are now gone.

Lion sniffs at an arrangement of bottles on one of the tables. “Mjod,” he growls.

“The Space Wolves were generous,” Guilliman says.

“Is this really necessary?” Lion frowns.

Guilliman says nothing, only raises an eyebrow at him. Him, and the rest of the galaxy, and the state of humanity, and the crumbling Imperium. Lion considers his life and the future awaiting him. Then he seizes a bottle and downs it in one go.

Hours pass. There is laughter, and there are tears. Stories old and new are shared. There is considerable commentary on the current Imperium—commentary that, should it have come from lesser men, may have been described as complaining. A full ten minutes are devoted to cherubs alone. (“I spent a week shooting them down until someone told me what they were.” “I swear by Terra herself, I thought they were Chaos abominations.”)

There is no fighting. That will come, eventually; tomorrow, or in a week, or a month. They are very different people, with different ideas and plans, and both are proud men disinclined to compromise. Conflict is inevitable. But not tonight. Each has lost too much to sacrifice this rare moment with his only surviving peer.

The night winds on. Bottle after bottle is consumed. Lion’s tabard lies discarded on an armchair. Guilliman’s laurels hang from a lamp. Both are flushed with mjod, hair flying free of carefully coiffed hairdos. Lion is lying on the floor, hands folded neatly across his chest, staring into the middle distance at the ceiling. Guilliman is facedown on a couch, muffled muttering emanating occasionally from his body.

A thought dawns on the Lion. It is a joke he heard once from M’kia. Lion is ambivalent on the topic of jokes, but this one fits the current situation too well to be ignored.

“Brother,” he says, “I have realized something.”

A grunt issues from Guilliman, signaling him to continue. Lion begins the joke.

“It occurs to me that if I had a throne for every time the galaxy was split by a warpstorm, and you asked me for help running the Imperium, I would have two thrones. Which isn’t much, but it is strange that it happened twice.”

Silence. Guilliman’s shoulders shake as muffled sobbing emits from the couch.

[stardustrebels]

Fathoms Beyond- Chapter 1: Full Fathom Five

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader Rating: 18+ / MDNI WC: 3.5k Series Masterlist | Blog Masterlist Next Chapter

Tags/ Warnings: Angst, tension, slow burn, hurt/comfort, post-season 2 (The Mandalorian), canon-divergent, razor crest never gets destroyed but Din does have the Darksaber. Mild language, emotional/ mental health issues, guilt, depression and trauma. No use of y/n, minimal physical descriptions of reader— she has hair that she can braid. 

A/N: This is a follow-on fic from Fathoms Between (my Din x f!reader angsty WTTS entry). That story broke my heart a little, and I’m bringing these two back for closure. For me. For them. For everyone! This will be a HEA, but man, it’ll take a while to get there, so strap in— it’s gonna be a bumpy ride! If you’re here and you’re reading this, thank you from the bottom of my heart, it really means a lot. I hope you enjoy!

Divider credit: @saradika-graphics

The trading post on Vath was a scab on the planet’s surface— filthy, sprawling, and thick with the stench of sweat and rot. What little daylight broke through the clouds was swallowed by the rust flaking from the towers clawing toward the sky. Nobody here was a native. Travellers weaved through traders hawking wares, each one adrift. Like animals too wilded to have a flock, too feral to be herded. None more so than the Mandalorian. 

His steps were cautious as he stalked the outskirts of the throng, hidden behind ragged market stall canopies and stretches of overgrown foliage, the stems twisting from the ground gnarled and knotted. He walked as if the armour held him together more than his own bones. If anyone had dared to look closely, they would have seen a broken man. 

An apostate. 

The word stung like a wound that wouldn’t close. The Creed had been stripped from him with nothing but words, but they might as well have ripped his armour from him and cleaved him in two. He was a pretender, a man without a face and now little reason to hide it other than shame and habit. He’d told himself that there were places he could go where old words and choices meant nothing to anyone but him. He could rebuild, re-group. Find a way to make a life that was better than before. But he felt the weight of his beskar more every day, along with the ache of a waning sense of purpose. 

He hadn’t realised just how much of it had been tied to Grogu. And now— without him— the galaxy felt emptier. A stretch of dust-choked worlds like this one, one job bleeding in to the next. His only ambition now was to scrape enough credits together to keep the Razor Crest running and to make sure he could take care of the kid. To be able to still offer him a home if he ever came back. 

And if he didn’t—

Din pushed the thought away, clenching his fists until the leather strained. Dwelling on what he couldn’t change never got him anywhere. All he could do was what he did best. Find the bounty. Finish the job. 

He scanned the crowd from behind his visor— picking out those eyeing up his beskar like they hadn’t decided yet whether it was worth the trouble of trying to steal. His latest target was part of some local gang, wanted for a myriad of crimes by a substantial number of people. 

He reached for the fob at his waist. A tap, and the signal blinked to life, red light stuttering through the haze. He turned, about to step out and follow the ping when he heard it— laughter. Bright, unfettered, and achingly familiar. 

Din’s blood ran cold. The fob in his hand shook and his helmet turned toward the sound before he could even think. A compulsion. A pull like gravity. 

He scanned the crowd, every detail suddenly sharper than he thought was possible, the world narrowing through the HUD. And then he saw you. 

Through the press of bodies and the shifting dust, standing at a weapons stall, smiling. The same smile he remembered— quick, unguarded— but it sat differently on your face. You looked altogether sharper. Your posture was drawn tight, shoulders squared. Your clothes were well-kept, and you were armed, more than you ever used to be. Twin blasters at your hips, a knife strapped to your thigh, no doubt another in your boot. You looked stronger than before. Healthier. Alive. 

You’d survived, despite everything, and whatever had happened next had brought you here. For a moment, he just stood there, dumbstruck. Blinking, like he could clear the sight of you from his vision. The crowd swelled and ebbed around you, the flow of bodies making your image flicker in and out of view like something conjured by his guilt, but you were solid and real, leaning over the weapons stall to inspect something the merchant was holding up for you. 

A man approached you— broad-shouldered and rough-cut. You greeted him with a smile and he gave you a look that bordered on admiration. 

The sight made something in Din’s chest twist.

You’d found camaraderie, perhaps more. A family, maybe. Something more than he had.

A clan of your own.

The realisation crawled beneath his skin, itchy and sharp. The latest in a long line of uncomfortable emotions he’d recently been forced to face. 

The man leaned in and murmured something that wiped the smile from your face. Din’s attention sharpened. His visor fixed on you, its scanning capabilities straining to pick up details. His hand drifted to the side of his helmet, activating the audio receptor. The signal faded in and out as it honed in, sifting through the ambient noise until the conversation broke through. 

“…I figured he might be with you,” the man said, his eyes narrowing as his easy smile disappeared. 

“We spoke yesterday,” you replied after a shake of the head. Din’s breath only caught a little when your voice reached his ears. “But I haven’t heard from him since. Didn’t he tell you he was chasing another buyer before circling back? You know how he gets when he’s close to locking something down.” 

When the man didn’t reply you shrugged and fixed him with a look. “If he was in trouble, Ramus, don’t you think you’d be the first to know? He’d never contact me before his second-in-command.” Your voice was dripping with sarcasm. 

The man—Ramus— scoffed and shifted his weight. “Something feels off,” he muttered. “There’s been no word. No ping, no comms. It’s making the others jumpy.” 

You gave the man a tight smile and turned to him then, leaning back against the stall. The move looked relaxed, but Din saw the tension in it, even from a distance — the way your posture straightened and your fingers curled and tightened around the metal lip of the stall tabletop. 

“The others are always jumpy,” you said with a smirk. “There’s no need to overreact. He’s not missing, he’s just running late.”

Ramus stayed quiet, scanning your face for any hint of doubt. You looked up at him, and rolled your eyes at his expression. “You’re acting like it’s never happened before.” You said with a breathy laugh. 

“This feels different,” Ramus replied. 

You shook your head defiantly. “He’s fine,” you said, too quickly, before you caught yourself. 

Din didn’t miss the way your voice cracked as you said it. You turned away from Ramus and back to the weapons on the stall. “Jarek’s always fine.” 

The name hit Din like a strike to the chest plate. Jarek. 

It was the same name as the bounty he’d been hunting through five systems and three false leads. Every whisper Din had followed about this man had led him here. To this. To the unbelievable re-appearance of you and the possibility of his bounty on a silver platter. You hadn’t found a clan, he realised bitterly. You’d ended up a member of a gang led by a wanted criminal.

He felt something within himself pull taut— His instinct washing back over him, refocussing his attention. It smothered the ache of seeing you and he welcomed it. He was razor sharp now that he had a lead. He could work through his feelings later.

Ramus disappeared in to the crowd after a mumbled goodbye. You watched him go, jaw tight. 

“Dank farrik,” you muttered, already reaching for your comlink. 

You ducked your head, shielding the device as you called Jarek’s frequency. Static. You tried again— still nothing. No reply. Just dead air where his voice should have been. 

Your guts twisted. 

You moved fast, winding your way out of the market lanes and back toward the edge of the trading post where the junker yard loomed— a graveyard of forgotten ships, a jagged blot on the already horrid landscape.

The workshop was tucked behind the shell of a gutted freighter, half-collapsed under its own weight. You keyed in your access code and the metal door stuttered open with a hiss. You let it close and lock behind you, leaning against it while you took a moment to breathe. 

It was quiet inside other than the hum of cooling units and the occasional groan of shifting scrap outside. It was familiar. Safe. 

You slid in to the stool at the workbench, sweeping tools and parts aside to access the embedded terminal. You brought up the locator protocols with quick, practiced motions and scrolled through the options— linked devices, known frequencies, encrypted paths. 

Jarek’s ID wasn’t there. 

You tried again. Manually. You knew the string of numbers by heart, burned in to your brain from years of running ops together. 

Still nothing. The ping was dark. Shut off.

You blinked down at the screen and your stomach dropped. Jarek’s encrypted location had never been shut off. You had one too, and no one else knew the codes other than the two of you. You always kept the ping on. It was rule number one. 

Your heart was thudding now. It wasn’t a coincidence, and it sure as hell wasn’t an accident. There was no other way it would have happened—Jarek had turned his location ping off deliberately. 

You leaned back in the chair, exhaling through your nose, trying to fight the panic creeping up your spine. Think. Think.

You could tell the others. Say he’d gone dark on purpose. But you weren’t sure how they’d take it— especially the ones who still didn’t fully trust him. Ramus would probably be fine. He might even try to help you, he wasn’t Jarek’s second for nothing. But some of the others? Jarek hadn’t been leader long enough for them not to turn on him. Or you by association.

You dragged a hand down your face, cursing again under your breath. This meant that there was really only one option left, and you hated it. 

Tetherline protocol. The rendezvous point. 

The one he’d made you promise never to mention. Not to the others. Not even to Ramus. If Jarek really was in trouble, that’s where he’d go. You never thought it would have come to that.

You took a breath and shook out your arms, trying to shrug residual jitters before you worked through the stages of the plan. You recited the steps to yourself methodically, just as you had so many times across so many plants over the years, ever since you’d met Jarek on Lothal. You’d never had to initiate it before. 

Gather the gear, secure the comms, wipe the tech. 

Easy enough, you’d always thought, hypothetically. Facing the reality of it made your stomach twist. You looked around the small workshop. It had started to feel like somewhere you could have settled. A cramped space surrounded by scarred durasteel, sleeping on a cot where you spent your days fixing tech to sell. You hadn’t realised until now how achingly similar it was to a life you’d had before. Another life you had left behind. You hadn’t had a choice then. Although, you thought bitterly, staring down at the terminal where Jarek’s location ping should have been, you didn’t really have a choice now either. 

You stood and crossed the workshop, crouching beside the small footlocker tucked beneath your cot. The hinges creaked as it opened, the sound sharp in the quiet. You pulled out your pack, laying it open on the cot before you began gathering what you’d need. Clothes first— a couple of spare shirts, pants and underwear: the basics. You packed in the jumpsuit you wore while you were working next, taking it from the hook by the door. You rolled it up and patted it fondly before shoving a med kit next to it— compact but stocked, just in case. Rations, water tabs and an old encrypted data pad came next, wiped and reset to factory protocols. You stuffed everything down and buckled the flap closed. 

Weapons next: you stripped down your blasters to do a quick field check. Power cells fully charged, no carbon scoring, grips solid. You re-holstered them at your hips and made sure the blade at your thigh was secure, as well as the one hidden in your boot. 

The shelves where you kept the comms were behind your workbench. The receivers and transmitters were all neatly tagged, organised by range. You took only what you needed— short range, single-channel, narrowband frequency. Harder to trace. You twisted the comlink in your hand before slipping it in to your jacket pocket, the strap already keyed to your encryption. 

Then you crouched by the bench and reached beneath it, fingers finding the loose panel you’d slotted in to the underside years ago. You pried it open and pulled out a small, flat chip encased in cast-plast— dull grey, nearly weightless.

It didn’t look like much, but the data stick held your entire savings. A secured link to an encrypted amount of credits routed through three outer rim banking droids and buried so deep in old InterGalactic banking code that even slicers would struggle to sniff it out. Something that Jarek had taught you— hide everything. Trust nothing. 

You slid the chip in to a pouch at your belt, sealing it tight. 

If this really was a run, you’d need every credit you could get. 

Next was the tech. 

You moved back to the terminal, not bothering to sit on the stool, and brought up the system logs. You wiped them. All of them. No traces, no coordinates, no call signs. Even the search you’d made for Jarek’s ping— gone. When you were done, you shut the system down completely and pulled the auxiliary power line from the wall. Let anyone else try to boot it up. They’d find nothing. 

Your eyes swept the workshop one last time, over the pile of broken tech by the door, the jacket with the hole burned in to the sleeve that you’d always meant to mend, the dent in the corner of the workbench where you’d slammed a hydrospanner during one particularly bad morning. 

It felt strange, knowing you might never see this place again. 

You shouldered your pack and clicked off the main light. The soft red emergency glow illuminated the space just enough to guide your way to the hatch. You paused there, fingers hovering over the panel and took a deep breath. 

You weren’t sure what was going on, but if Jarek was going to go down, you were going to make sure he didn’t go down alone. 

You keyed the lock and slipped out into the fading daylight. 

The air was cooler now than it had been earlier, the heat bleeding away with the sun— its rays failing to break through the haze and cloud as it edged close to the horizon. You slipped past the perimeter wall and crossed the ridge line where the terrain changed. 

This zone was a scar. 

Twisted metal and splintered duracrete poked from the earth like broken teeth. An old Imperial facility— or what was left of it— lay sprawled ahead in jagged, corroded ruins across the valley below. You stepped through the remnants of old barricades and past watchtowers, now long collapsed and half-swallowed by time and nature. There was nothing of value here, it had either been picked through or broken by vandals, hell-bent on taking out their frustration on the Empire with whatever weapon they could get their hands on. Some of the structures beyond still stood tall enough to cast long, skeletal silhouettes against the amber-stained sky. 

The silence here was uncanny. Even the wind felt reluctant to disturb the ghosts. 

This place used to be an auxiliary depot, if memory served. Jarek had told you once, back when you’d first set foot on Vath, about how the Imps had pulled out of this side of the planet in a hurry, their retreat sloppy and panicked after a well-placed rebel strike. The pride in his voice had made you tear up at the time, now the memory of it only served to drive you forward. 

Your boots crunched over brittle ground as you walked, weaving through the fields of debris. Thick cables snaked over the ground like veins. You passed by a busted TIE wing half-buried in rock where it had crashed, the viewport shattered and blackened by fire. A faded Imperial cog still clung to its hull. You didn’t look at it. You didn’t need to. You’d seen enough of them in your time. 

You passed more of them on the way— plastered over anything able to be branded. They lingered in your peripheral and made the air feel heavy. You wondered, as you often did, how many other people still carried the weight of the war on their backs, like you did. You adjusted your grip on your pack and kept moving. The rendezvous spot wasn’t far. 

It had taken you and Jarek three weeks to find it back when you’d followed him here— a transport hangar, accessible only after you’d cleared the piles of rubble. You’d turned it in to a bolt-hole that no one else knew about. Stashed a ship here. It was a place to vanish to— to get away, if it ever came to that. 

You’d joked at the time that it was your own private war bunker. He hadn’t laughed. 

You slid down the edge of a broken embankment and landed lightly, soft dust puffing around your boots. The entry point was ahead— the opening jutting out of the landscape like a gaping maw, crates scattered around it like tiny islands among the dust. You scanned the hangar— there was no sign of life. The ship wasn’t powered up and nothing had been moved. Jarek wasn’t here. 

The realisation hit you like a blaster bolt. It was the first time you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that something had happened to him. You sat on the edge of a crate and rubbed your eyes. 

You reached in to your pocket, pulled out the short-range receiver and flicked it on. It was already tuned to the channel you needed. 

“Jarek, it’s me. I’ve initiated Tetherline protocol. Nothing on the ping. Call me back when you get this.” You hesitated before releasing the transmission. Then added, softer. “I hope you’re okay.”

You ended the call and waited. 

Nothing. 

You set the receiver down, leaned back and stared at the sky. Time passed. Slowly. The light faded through the last amber hues of daylight and in to the inky depths of dusk, plunging the hangar in to cold and shadow. 

Your leg bounced restlessly as you scanned the perimeter. You reached for one of the ration bars in your pack and forced yourself to chew, but it tasted like ash. You stood and began to pace. You checked the perimeter, then the comlink again. Still nothing. 

You didn’t know how long you’d wait. A couple of hours? All night? A few days?

What came after? Where would you even go?

You hadn’t thought that far ahead when you’d left the workshop. Tetherline protocol had always relied on Jarek meeting you here— he’d never allowed any discussion on the possibility of the contrary. 

You let your thoughts wander. They drifted to Lothal. To the first time you’d met Jarek. To everything that had come after. To all the ways you’d come to trust him more than anyone. 

He’d been cocky back then. He had a reckless grin and a stupid sense of humour, and he’d offered you a spot on his salvaging crew before you’d even worked up the courage to ask him. You worked on low-end jobs for a contractor that barely paid, picking clean the bones of an old Imperial installation outside Capital City. You’d hated him at first. He was too loud. Too charming. Too quick to call you Starshine. 

But then, two weeks in, you’d seen him jump in to a burning wreck to pull a kid out after a fuel line had ignited during a job. He’d run in with zero hesitation while everyone else panicked about what to do.

He earned your respect one fire, one bad job, one near-death experience at a time. And somewhere between pulling rusted panels from a wrecked star destroyer hull and racing speeders in to the city to blow off steam, he’d earned your loyalty too. 

And now he was gone. 

Maybe not forever,  but the longer it took for him to show, the panic twisting in your gut grew harder to ignore. You reached for your blaster without really thinking. Nothing had changed— you couldn’t see anything approaching, but the hair at the back of your neck stood on end. It was a feeling you hoped you’d never feel again.

You were being watched. 

Next Chapter

[kulalanti]

Past Orion, You'll Find Yourself (TFOne AU Fanfic)

hnnn I love the concept of D-16 going off-world on an expedition instead of becoming Megatron. I just think he'd be happier if we punt him into space, ya know?

So yeah, this came about because of a conversation with @deeryrambles over at the OPMeg discord server in which we ended up making a whole AU where D-16 does not become Megatron, instead he leaves Cybertron after being banished and ends up on Earth.

It's like Earthspark redemption except he's the only one on Earth and I did not actually mention any canonical human transformer characters because I cannot be bothered to learn about the canonical human characters skksksk (I'm so sorry but in my defense this is about D-16 and the human characters are just narrative tools lmao).

So yes, enjoy this slightly messy fanfic of the Drifter D-16 AU.

D-16 may never have existed. Maybe Megatron was all he ever was. But in this world, there is no Megatron. And maybe there is no D-16 either. Yet along the way, maybe he could find himself. Otherwise known as, a world where D-16 goes to fulfill a dream he's unsure even belongs to him.

Ao3 Link:

In another world, when Orion Pax and D-16 fell, Optimus Prime and Megatron rose up.

In another world, Cybertron is torn between the Decepticons and the Autobots.

In another world, the universe is littered with the frames of fallen bots as the battle between two leaders brought chaos to the galaxy.

But this is not that world.

In this world, a Prime did rise from the fall.

But there would be no Decepticons.

There would be no Megatron.

In this world, there is only a broken mech and the ship he takes to leave the only home he’s ever known.

—

Green.

It was the first word that came into his processor when he had first arrived on the planet named Earth.

In his expedition through the galaxy, Dee had come across planets made entirely of rock, ice, and one that was made entirely of crystal.

He was not like Pax, his old friend who would scour through the archives for stories from the past, but he’d heard countless tales from his old friend about planets that the old Cybertronians had visited. Dee had dreamed that one day he would be promoted to a position where he too could visit those planets.

The stories paled in comparison, and that day he first landed on Earth, he knew that no words could have ever described Earth’s beauty.

He had landed in the middle of the green, the ground beneath his pedes scratchy as he walked deeper into it. His yellow optics had widened at the marvel of it all, and he even found himself reaching to touch the green that clumped together on brown spires (which he’d later been told were called trees).

There was a softness to everything around him, so different from the harsh metal landscape of his home planet.

And among the green were pops of color, similar to those of his fellow mechs. 

Dee had plucked as many of them as he could, though he felt ashamed that each time he did, the colors would fade as the delicate little objects (flowers, they were called) disintegrated underneath the harshness of his grip.

And within that green with its pops of colors, there would be moving creatures. 

He remembered that the first organic that he had come across was what the humans called a deer. It had looked at him before fleeing, and a part of him knew it was best not to chase after it.

Yes, he remembered very well the first time he landed on Earth.

It was green.

It was soft.

And it was teeming with a life that was not like his own.

But when the initial joy of all that beauty had seeped away, and he was left alone, the first thought that came to his processor was pain.

He had always dreamed of going off-world, of seeing the galaxy with his own optics.

He just never thought he’d be alone.

He got what he wanted.

But had the price been worth the dream?

A dream he was still unsure was ever his?

For what is a dream that was made during a life of deceit?

Would he still have wanted this, if he had known true freedom?

Was this really his dream?

Or was this the dream of a mech who knew this was all he could afford to want?

The green of the Earth mocked him , and he fled back to his ship.

He should have left.

Instead, he had stayed, unable to part with that green.

And also it was too late to leave because the human children had found him.

—

Humans, he concluded, were strange little organics.

At the sight of him, the children had been terrified, but that hadn’t stopped them from approaching.

He had thought that maybe just like sparklings, human children were simply curious and didn’t know any better.

Then the children had introduced him to taller humans (still small in comparison) that they had called their “parents.”

That was when he realized that maybe humans, no matter the age, were just strange.

Instead of horrified screaming, they welcomed him.

Without much fanfare, he found himself to be just another member of the small town of Franklin.

—

“What does gasoline taste like?”

His yellow optics settled on the small human by his side, the nozzle of the gas pump forgotten as he quickly finished fueling. He carefully leaned against the front of the gas station, mindful not to put his full weight.

He wouldn’t want a repeat of the first time.

Karl - owner of the establishment that served as Dee’s only fuel source - had not been happy at the destruction of the wall, and Dee had had cement stuck in his joints for an entire week.

“It’s… When fuel is scarce, you don’t complain.”

Gasoline was nothing to energon, but he didn’t have the luxury of complaining.

If he closed his optics, he could almost pretend it was only a bad energon concoction that a fellow miner had created. They never did have access to high-grade energon, and so they’d had to get creative at times.

“It smells awful.” His human friend, a young girl by the name of Ollie (and who was Karl’s sparkling), scrunched up her nose as he placed the nozzle back into position.

He let out a chuckle, reaching out a servo for her to climb on.

“It tastes awful.” He admits as he lifts her up.

His optics narrow down at her, taking in the old scars on her knees. He looked up at the star - which the humans had called the sun - that circled the bright blue of the atmosphere above.

“You’re back early.” He observes. Dee hadn’t mentioned it when she’d first appeared by his side, but he knew from countless afternoons spent watching over her, that the sun should be hidden by the trees by the time she was supposed to be back.

“But school’s so lame without—” She mutters, sitting down at his servo. Her head was downcast. “You’re my only friend now.”

A tense silence passes over them, and he lets out a soft vent. He feels a small hand press against one of his digits, tearful eyes staring up at him.

“Does it ever go away?” 

“What goes away?”

Dee watches a tremor go through the girl’s body, the tears falling from her blue eyes - and he bites back his own pain at that shade of blue. “I miss her everyday. Why did she have to move so far? And she hasn’t even called me back! Not to apologize or to just… just talk to me! She… she never even said goodbye.”

From the stories Ollie had told about her friend, it was better that way. He had arrived long after Ollie’s friend had left the town. It tore at his spark each time she told him stories about her old friend. 

Ollie had never revealed her old friend’s name, but Dee had grown familiar with Ollie's friend.

How could he not?

In some ways, Ollie’s friend reminded him too much of himself and the mistakes he had made.

And Ollie… she was a painful reminder of what he had chosen to lose.

“The wound hasn’t healed. It will remain with you for as long as you want it to.” He tries to remember the human terminology he had been taught, his voice soft as he lets her cry against him. “But one day you’ll forget it was ever even there.”

He leans his helm against the building, closing his optics. “Your memory of her will fade, and you’ll find there are people much worthy of your time. By letting her go, maybe she can learn to heal too.”

He does not cry.

He knows it won’t erase the familiar shade of blue in his memory.

—

As a tall “robot” (as the humans called him), it was not possible for him to earn Earth currency as most of the work required a delicateness that his size did not afford.

But, the humans were kind, and in exchange for services like gathering wood or watching over the human children, they gave him scraps of metal or fuel.

Fuel mostly came from Karl, so he spent many days with Ollie.

And like he had predicted, as the years went by, Ollie forgot about her old friend as she made new ones.

If only he could do the same.

—

“I’ll be retiring soon.” 

The old man had said, his voice soft as though it was a confession.

For countless days, Dee couldn’t leave the forest because a strange human - older than any he had ever met - had kept coming near to his base. He had kept himself hidden behind the trees, but it had all been pointless since the old man had been told about him by one of the children and had even gone to look for him.

It was only Dee’s luck that the old man was nothing like those other strange humans who brought what the kids called “phones.” From those humans he had to hide from.

The old man had only wanted company, even if it was from an “alien” as he had called Dee.

“Back in my day, the young’uns would shove one another just to get to this here telescope.” The old man pointed at the device he always brought with him, a long metal tube with glass that looked up to the sky. “Now they’re all on those phones. They got no appreciation for the stars.”

He sat next to the old man, filling the chill of the night against his frame. He had absolutely no idea what to say, but he nodded his helm and hoped that was enough.

“Ah, but those are just the words of a grumpy old astronomer.” The human said, running a hand through the thin white strands of hair on his head. “But you would understand me, won’t you? You come from the stars.”

“Cybertron is not a star.” He corrects, looking up at the twinkling lights above. “Your stars here are different.”

“Of course they are, I don’t know where your planet is but I’ll bet we may not share the same stars. Even if we did, they might not even share the same names.” The old man chuckled, leaning down towards the tube as he looked through a small piece of glass. He moved the tube carefully, fiddling with knobs attached to its sides. “Well, I’ll bet our constellations have different names.”

“Constellations?” It was true that Cybertronians did have names for the stars, but Dee wouldn’t know.

“A group of stars, they usually look like… oh, sometimes together they look like a stupid looking bear or even a dipper. You know what a dipper is?” The old man looked up from the telescope, watching as Dee shook his head. “Eh… ask one of the kids tomorrow, they’ll show you one, maybe. Hm, oh here’s an easy one to spot.”

The old man pointed up towards the sky, connecting some stars together in a pattern that Dee saved to his memory circuits. It appeared to be a man in a strange position, as though he was holding something.

“That constellation right there? We call that the archer, has a whole myth and everything. I would have named it something else, but Ptolemy got to it first.” The old man laughed.

“He named it Orion.”

—

The astronomer left town soon after, but he would go back to that clearing every night.

With the grass tickling the sides of his frame, his yellow optics would stare up towards the dark sky, the tops of the trees swaying gently in the wind.

This was how he spent his nights.

Without fail he would gaze up at Orion before falling into recharge.

But the Earth does not stop its rotation for anyone, and soon he could no longer see that familiarly named constellation.

So just like Ollie…

Like that astronomer…

And like the rotating Earth.

He moved on.

[raccoon-coded]

Did you know there are Guardians of the Galaxy novels? Well, there are actually a few!

Here's a brief review / breakdown of the gotg books in my collection. (Not including children's books, retellings of the movies, comics or books that aren't novels.) I love them all and would recommend any of them.

And if there are more out there, I will find them and add them to this list.

The Pirate Angel, The Talking Tree, and Captain Rabbit.

Written by Steve Behling.

A book read from teen Groot's point of view, for the most part, taking place during the flight to Nidavellir with Thor, (during Avengers Infinity War.) It focuses on the dynamic between Thor, Rocket and Groot, while Groot sneakily reads Rocket's journal. Through the journal we get to see Rocket go on missions with the original Groot, with Rhomann Dey and with the Guardians. We see him being the badass he is but also get plenty of insight into Rockets thoughts.

It also includes a short epilogue from Rocket's point of view during the battle of Wakanda.

It's fun and it's humorous with a couple of emotional beats, and an overall enjoyable read which acts as an interlude between Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame.

This one is aimed at a younger audience (teens I suspect) but I still found it enjoyable.

206 pages, although it would be less if the font wasn't so large.

Marvel Wastelanders: Star-Lord.

Written by Sarah Cawkwell and adapted from the scripted podcast by Benjamin Percy.

This one is a novelization of the audio drama 'Marvel Wastelanders', (which I recommend listening to if you haven't.) It's based on the Marvel Wastelanders comics but is an original take on the stories. Includes many comic book characters and comic references but can be read/listened to without prior knowledge of the comics.

It features an old man Star-Lord and Rocket Raccoon as they fight to save Earth from Doctor Doom's takeover. The story is told as a recount of events from a Rigellian Recorder whom they team up with along the way. Rocket and Star-Lord bicker like an old married couple and it's great. It's a good read, and has an interesting plot with a lot of fun characters. However it does have a tragic ending that the story never hid it was always leading up to. It's bittersweet. You might cry, but it's worth the tears.

The voice acting during these emotional scenes in the audio drama makes it worth listening to over reading but both options are good. Personally, I read the book first and then listened to the audio drama on Spotify. Sidenote, the characters in this are not voiced by their movie counterparts.

348 pages of the book, or 10 episodes around half an hour long each of the Star-Lord centric story of the audio drama.

Guardians of the Galaxy: No Guts, No Glory.

Written by M. K. England.

This is an official prequel to the Marvel Guardians of the Galaxy video game, (which is an incredible game that takes aspects from both the comics and movies.) Like the game, it's read from Peter Quill's perspective.

It switches between the 'present day' which is a time where the Guardians are only newly formed and struggling as a group, and 12 years before that during the Galactic War where Peter is a young ravager first meeting Nova officer Ko-Rel on Mercury as they battle a Chitauri invasion.

I really enjoyed this book. It's funny, heartwarming and action packed, and embodies the characters very well. I'd recommend it to any fans of the video game. It gives us a great preview of the relationship that Peter and Ko-Rel formed, and on the early dynamic of the Guardians.

If you haven't played the game yet, I highly recommend doing so and then going right ahead and giving this a read. Although in saying that, it'll still make sense if you read it without playing the game prior, it'll just make the experience more enjoyable if you have already played the game.

307 pages.

Guardians of the Galaxy: Collect Them All.

Written by Corinne Duyvis.

This novel is based on the comic versions of the Guardians.

The point of view jumps around between all members of the Guardians, so you get an insight on each of them throughout the story.

In this novel the Guardians embark on a quest to save Groot by collecting all the pieces that have splintered off him and scattered around the galaxy.

Gamora has her own significant arc in this story.

Another solid Guardians tale.

383 pages.

Guardians of the Galaxy: Rocket Raccoon and Groot Steal The Galaxy.

Written by Dan Abnett.

This novel is also based off of the Guardians of the Galaxy comic versions of the characters and was actually written by comic writer Dan Abnett who has written numerous Guardians of the Galaxy comics, along with many other notable comics.

In this novel, Rocket and Groot find themselves teaming up with a Rigellian Recorder on a quest to save the Galaxy. Gamora also pops in for a bit.

The book is read from the point of view of 'Recorder-Dude' as Rocket calls him, with a few interludes read from the pov of other characters.

This book was quite enjoyable. Would read again.

359 pages.

Apologies that the last two weren't as detailed as the other reviews, it's been a while since I've read them. Will have to give them a re-read and edit.

[solifloris]

≡;-꒰ 𝐉𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐀𝐇 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝑺𝒐 𝒊𝒕 𝒈𝒐𝒆𝒔...

╰┈➤ ❝ jeremiah x afab!reader | smut nsfw 18+ mdni

tags : angst, friends with benefits, forbidden love/"we shouldn't be doing this" vibes, hints at friendship betrayal, the pain hits more if you've read main story ch8 and xavier's myth ch5, kissing and making out, mentions of nipple play, mentions of oral (f and m receiving), fingering, clit play, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, cumshot, dirty talk, praise, cursing, use of nicknames "pretty" "princess" "milady/my lady", lmk if i missed any tags!

wc : 4.5k

an : LOOK. BEFORE YOU SAY ANYTHING. before you "roxie... what—" me !!!!! writing for him is probably a one-time thing, but listen. he's CUTE!!! and if he's cute, i will write for him...!!!!! (sorry, xavier)

You didn't really know when it started.

After all, what were the odds for you to be strolling around long enough, just to chance across this quaint little flower shop that would eventually became part of your every being?

He'd been arranging some flowers out in the front when you first saw him, light brown, curly hair shining with a gleam under the sunlight. He was humming some kind of tune—it wasn't one you particularly knew, and yet, oddly enough, it was one you found familiar, in ways you couldn't really describe.

In retrospect, the flowers were pretty. Pastel colors blending in with limes and greens, a splash of vibrancy against a largely black exterior. Blues and yellows seemed to be predominant amongst the hues, almost tiny and star-like—a galaxy of flowers, you remember thinking.

And something about it had you easily magnetized.

"Hi!" You'd walked up to him without really thinking; lamely telling yourself in your head, that, hey, maybe your apartment could use some extra decorating...!

(It didn't, but now that you'd approached the florist like this, you felt compelled to at least buy something.)

Jeremiah, however, had been completely spooked by your sudden appearance. One look at you, and his eyes went wide and his humming immediately ceased—you could have sworn a hint of recognition had passed in his eyes, but it was gone before you could truly make out what it was that you saw.

"W-whoah!" he'd laughed, hints of both nervousness and awkwardness glaringly obvious to you—and any busybody that happened to be passing by, for that matter. "Uh!? Sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone so, um... Early?"

You could feel it was a feeble excuse.

Sure, it had been your day off, and sure, maybe it was odd for you to be out and about in the morning at all—but it hadn't been that early. You almost wanted to say something about it out loud... but something in you told you to cut him some slack.

Instead, you'd offered a smile.

"No, I'm sorry. Are you not open yet? You have some beautiful flowers, and I couldn't help but want to look at them a little..."

It was amusing to you how easy his expressions were to read. They had changed seamlessly from bewilderment to joy, and he instantly gestured inside. "Oh! We are open! Wow, maybe I'm just really distracted this morning, haha! But hey, thanks, I'm actually pretty proud if them myself. Though I get some help from a friend in taking care of them, I think they're pretty too..."

You'd known from the start that he was quite the talker, but as a smile played on your lips, you thought that you didn't really mind so much, anyway.

He looked cute, and his voice was just as cute.

But the store, you later realized, would take your breath away in an instant.

The inside was just as majestic as the outside. You found that despite the fact that it looked rather small from a distance, its exterior was actually quite misleading. The inside was beautiful—a floor and a loft worth of flowers, and, you could spot all the way in the back, a door that seemed to be leading out into a garden.

And was that... a greenhouse?!

He had probably noticed the awe on your face when you stepped in, and couldn't help but chuckle. "You like?" he grinned, obvious pride twinkling in his eyes.

"Well... yeah! I can't belive I haven't found this place before. Don't you get a lot of customers?"

"Hmm... Sometimes. Depends on the day, really. But as it goes, if you know the place, then you know, right? Welcome to Philo!"

He turned momentarily before offering you a single yellow blossom, its petals unfurling like puffs in your hand.

You eyed it curiously.

"This, is...?"

"It's a zinnia flower. I thought its colour matched your eyes a little, so think of it as something to keep you company while you look around!"

That day, you picked out a lovely bouquet of little blue periwinkles, and learned that his name was Jeremiah.

From then on, you would chance upon him more, and more, and more—taking the occasional detour whenever you were free, or even timing your lunch breaks enough so to at least be able to catch a glimpse. For the flowers, of course, you would tell yourself, because each visit, Jeremiah would give you a single stem. "On the house!" he would say, and you would smile.

The first day you met, he'd given you a yellow zinnia.

The second day you met, he'd given you a sunflower.

The third day you met, he'd given you a white camellia.

And the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth, and onwards—a single flower, handed over with a dismissive excuse of it going with your hair, or your outfit, or your smile—most often accompanied by a nonchalant remark on how pretty you looked.

Sometimes, after that, you'd talk a little. He would ask you about your day, and you would ask him about his day... You've even learned, by now, the things that he liked. Flowers, a given, but also literature—poetry. Though he remarked that lately he hadn't gotten around to reading anything, he's always been quite fond of them.

You found that these little tidbits made him feel less... mysterious, in a sense, and more real. It went without saying that the more you went over to visit, the longer you'd stay—the longer you'd stay, the louder your heart would beat.

In the end, it wouldn't take long before you realized it yourself, but you were no longer going to Philo for simply... the flowers.

And on one particular night, having made it just in time for closing hours, things had started taking a different turn.

...That night had started off innocent.

Cheerful greetings, cheerful chatter—now, you'd grown accustomed to telling him all about how your day or how your week had gone, and then you would never fail to fluster at the way he'd listen to you so attentively. His eyes, you realized, were almost as bright as the sun—honey-brown like his hair, with specks and glimmers of sapphire when the light hit just right enough. If anything else, you thought that a sunflower suited him better than it did you—the cheerful bounce in his curls, and the way his laugh would tinkle in the air and send butterflies into your stomach without even trying.

Perhaps, down bad was an understatement for you.

But no matter how close you had gotten to this boy, you couldn't help but feel as if there was an unknown barrier between the two of you.

That night, Jeremiah gave you a rose.

Cleaned of its thorns, and as pure and pristine as all the other white flowers he'd housed in his store—he tucked it behind your ear, and his gaze softened in a way that you had never seen before.

The air between you was heavy.

But neither of you would make a definitive move.

"Hey, so how are the flowers all doing?" He broke the silence, but his eyes remained steely on yours.

"I'm... taking care of them like I promised to. I still have that bouquet, and I still have all of the other ones you gave me..."

"Hmm." A smile played at his lips, and then he began to list the recent flowers he'd given to you, for the past couple of weeks of your sporadic visits—

"Let's see. Azalea, petunia, iris, lily... a yellow tulip, some lavender—" He stopped, and amusement shone in his eyes. "Hey, don't tell me you're keeping them all in one vase! And with the others, too? That won't make for a pretty bouquet, you know, the colours will all just clash too much!"

You watched as he laughed, but your eyes only furrowed. "What do you mean? I don't have a greenhouse like you do! Might I remind you that I live in an apartment?!"

"I know, I know! But... You didn't really have to keep them..."

"Why not? They're from you..."

Jeremiah's gaze softened.

And then, again, came that same, pensive silence.

And again, you felt like you were drawn to him.

You couldn't have known why.

Despite whatever butterflies and giddiness he'd often bring upon you, it wasn't as if you'd spent all that much time with him—perhaps, you'd try to visit every week if you could, but that was it, wasn't it? A small chat, a few glances... a flower, and then a wave goodbye—

Yet here you were, like a moth to a flame.

"Penny for your thoughts, milady?" he mumbled out as if to bring you out of your reverie, but it almost seemed to you that he was having the same trepidations.

And that nickname.

He would call you by it often—it fell from his lips almost naturally, and then onto your ears equally as naturally. You've always liked the sound of it, reveling in the way he would treat you so sweetly like this, smiling to yourself at the way his eyes would squint in joy whenever he said it.

But, in this situation....

...Closer.

You chanced it, this feeling, and leaned in.

Jeremiah drew in a shaky breath... but he didn't move.

Instead, his eyes—so telling, his eyes—would move downwards over your face, before settling onto your lips.

"...'Miah," you whispered, and you saw him gulp at the nickname. "Can I kiss you?"

Moths, near a flame, never end well. Surely they don't.

But Jeremiah, despite knowing that, had never been happier to oblige.

That night, was the first night he had kissed you. The first time that both of you had given into the thrumming of temptation always in the air; the first time he had you pressed against his counter, hands roaming fondly over your body, kissing you almost as if his life depended on it.

And from that night forward, things changed substantially.

Weekly visits turned to daily—nightly. Chancing upon closing hours became more planned and deliberate, and then the situation would be the same. Lips crashing upon lips, fingers gripping tightly onto fistfuls of hair, the soft resounding of hushed moans into each others mouths.

You no longer remembered when he started becoming more daring, either. When he started sliding his hands underneath your top, when he started kissing at your neck, fingers rubbing your nipples fondly... You don't remember when you made it into his bedroom, having him trace his hands over your thighs, pushing you apart, fingers slipping into your cunt and sliding through your folds in a way that had you absolutely speechless. Or, neither could you remember how on some nights, he had his head between your legs—licking, and sucking, and eating you out, waves of pleasure coarsing through your veins like never before.

No, at this point, you really didn't remember—how many times your night had been filled with him, how many times you would come all over his mouth—his fingers—

How many times you'd moaned his name.

Perhaps, you thought, it might have been the same for him. Your hands, pumping his cock with fervor, tongue swirling around his tip, drinking up ever last drop of cum he would offer you. You knew, by now, that he loved it when your fingers fell through his hair, stroking fondly at his curled tresses, or digging into his scalp as a testament to your passion.

And yet, you'd never gone further.

Each night, you would see a hint of regret flash in his eyes, and though he would hold you, and kiss you, and do everything to ensure you would sleep soundly right beside him...

The ambiguity of your relationship was clear.

The nights would be for pleasure, but there would be nothing more.

No professions of love, no promises of commitment...

Perhaps, the butterflies you'd always felt around him, had also simmered down to nothing but racing heartbeats in anticipation of his touch.

"Does that feel good, pretty?"

Now, Jeremiah had his fingers in your pussy, drinking up the lust in your eyes, watching the way your mouth would hang open in breathless pants.

"Mhm... 'Miah... 'Miah, you're so good..."

He smiled up at you, thumb grazing over your clit, sighing when your head fell back with another moan.

"Staying quiet really was never your strong suit, huh? I love having you like this. You're so, pretty for me, my lady... So pretty..."

"M-Mia—aahn—"

He leaned up to kiss you, his lips feeling home on yours, your back arching to meet the thrust of his fingers.

"You're adorble," he mumbled, lightly onto your lips when he pulled back. "Really adorable. So adorable, damn, I'm so lucky."

Another moan from your mouth, and you tensed beneath him. "C-close!" you cried, "M'gonna— gonna cum!"

"Mhm? Real close, huh, pretty?"

His finger brushed on the spongy spot in your walls, and your high came crashing immediately.

"'Miah! Oh, fuck—'Miah, 'Miah— Jeremiah—"

You groaned as he rode out your orgasm, his fingers slowly pulling out of you, drenched in your slick, and you trembled beneath him with pleasure.

"'Miah..."

"Aww... Now I'm hard for you again..." He almost whined as he pressed against you, the feeling of his bare cock on your folds making you hiss in pleasure.

"Should I..." you panted, chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. "Do you want me to suck you off again?"

Your offer came out genuinely, and you propped yourself up on your elbows as if to prepare yourself—but he shook his head, guiding you back down. Jeremiah smiled and placed kisses all over your face, rolling over to lay down next of you as if to make a point. "No need, princess. We've done enough for tonight, right?"

You expected this.

Jeremiah never went too far; always keeping your activities to a minimum, always shaking his head when you asked for more. His self control was impeccable—but it was ironic, almost, considering that these activities had already very much become a nightly adventure.

But you pouted.

Instinctively, you reached out a hand for him to hold; "Why do you hold yourself back when you're with me?"

"What do you mean?"

You could at scoffed at the obviously feigned innocence on his face when he turned to look at you.

"This. You won't let this go... further. Like there's—there's something stopping you, or..." You paused, and squeezed his hand "Jeremiah, what... are we? What are we doing?"

It was a question you'd never dared to ask, but one that you had always felt burning in the back of your mind.

He didn't answer immediately.

You probed him further.

"Even when we're like this, it's almost like... You're still so far away from me. I just... I want to understand where this is all coming from, because, 'Miah, I think I—"

"Don't..."

His voice, interrupting you, was twinged with guilt. He shifted closer enough to cradle you into his chest.

"We're just... We're friends, right? Who just... fool around, from time to time..."

The more words fell out of his mouth, the more he seemed to sound... regretful.

You looked up at him with a searching gaze. "Is that why you'll never really go further than this? Because we're... friends."

He nodded, slowly.

But something wasn't sitting right with you.

It was almost as if he knew something; as if he was hiding something so desperately from you that it was taking every ounce of his being not to give in and tell you everything.

"'Miah..."

"...Ah, fuck—please. Not that nickname, not right now..."

You couldn't understand the pain in his voice.

"...Jeremiah, then."

He looked at you, chewing on the inside of his lower lip, and his eyes held a glimmer of something you couldn't quite understand.

"Do you... Want this, Jeremiah? Is it... Is it not enjoyable for you? If— If you don't want to anymore, then we could just—"

"N-no! It is! God, it is! You're so perfect for me, princ—" the nickname caught in his throat, and he gulped. "Y-you... You always feel so good. I more than want it, I love doing this with you—!"

"Then why are you so sad?"

Your words hung in the air, the silence that followed laying thick with a mix of your emotions. It was almost like he took a moment to process the truth of what you'd said, and then he looked away, gaze flitting to the bedsheets, grip tight around your arms.

"'Miah..."

"No, don't... I— Please. Please, I just—I want you so bad. To have you beneath me—to fuck you, to make love to you... You don't even know how much. And even more than that, I... The more we do this, the more I realize that I don’t want to just fool around with you..."

"Then why don't you? Jeremiah... all this time, I—"

"You're not mine."

You paused. His voice came out barely a whisper, and though he refused to look at you, you could make out the tiny glistening of tears in his eyes.

"What... What do you mean?"

"You... You belong to someone else—"

"No, I don't! I don't have any other man in my life, 'Miah, you know this—"

"But you should!"

"...What? What are you saying?"

He finally looked at you, moving you onto your back once more, clear, pure conflict in his eyes, even as he leaned down to nip at your jawline. His hot, warm breaths were against your skin once more. Immediately you felt your hair raise up, all manner of thoughts seeping through your mind in an instant, desire stirring inside of you—

"'M-Miah..." You drew in a sharp breath. "W-wait, you're not— not making any sense, what's going on...?"

"I can't—I'm not—I'm not supposed to be doing this with you..." His voice shook, but he rolled his hips against yours, and you had to let out a gasp. "I'm not, but I... God, you're just so tempting..."

"I don't... U-understa—ah, shit—!"

"Wh- What's your... call..." Jeremiah let out a shaky breath near your ear, his eyes pleading, his cock resting neatly between your folds, the heat of his touch sending your mind into overdrive. "You— Is it okay? Can I put it in? You... Y-you said..."

Oh...

You swallowed thickly, melting under the intensity in his eyes, failing to hold back a whimper at the way he was sliding against you.

"Yes," you breathed, immediately, wrapping your arms around his neck. "I said yes... I still say yes..."

His hips stuttered at your words, and you could see him grit his teeth as he bit back a loud moan. "O- once. Just once. Once, and I'll pull out, I promise... Just once, let me be inside you..."

Despite the fact that you had already given him consent, he seemed almost as if he was reassuring himself more than you. It didn't sit right with you—something was wrong, and you knew it. Jeremiah wasn't drunk, to have been possibly saying this while not in his right mind, but, this... this was...

What was holding him back?

You, being in such a situation where you understood nothing, didn't know what to do.

Should you stop him...?

Something in your mind was screaming at you to tell him to calm down; what if he didn't truly want this?

But his cock was rubbing so nicely into your clit. You could feel the pool of arousal gather within seconds of him rutting against you, and how—how could you think?

If this were up to you, you've wanted this for so long.

And he was asking you...

He was asking you if he could finally put it inside of you...

You shuddered at the thought, your walls clenching around nothing.

Fuck.

"You can take me, 'Miah," you whispered, breath shaking. You steeled yourself to keep from bucking your hips upwards. "But you have to promise me... Promise me, promise me, that you won't end up regretting it..."

Something flashed in his eyes.

Uncertainty, perhaps—

Jeremiah let out ragged pants, but for a moment, he didn't speak.

Ah...

You moved your hand slowly, trailing his skin before resting to cup his cheek.

"...Do you truly want this, Jeremiah?"

"Yes," he breathed. "Fuck, yes..."

"Okay. I want this, but I'm not forcing you. You have my consent, but I... I want yours."

He sighed, and leaned into your touch, something like a hopeless resignation now made clear in his eyes. He was like a deer in the headlights, almost—so embrolled in whatever internal conflict was at the forefront of his mind, that you almost pitied him. With a pout, you kissed him, slowly, softly, and he lay his forehead to meet yours.

"What if," he whispered, "there was... someone out there, who's loved you all this time?"

"...'Miah?"

"What if... What if I'm stealing you from him? What if it was never supposed to be this way? I just... I feel like... You were never supposed to be mine to hold..."

It wasn't something you could understand at a surface level. You knew that there was more to it—things he couldn't say out loud, and things he couldn't make you understand no matter how hard he tried to.

So you sighed.

"Well, 'Miah, I haven't met him, whoever he is."

"But you hav—"

"The point is that I'm here, now, with you. And, if... If, it makes you feel better, then..." You swallowed your pride, swallowed all the feelings you might have grown for him through your time together, swallowed all hope that you could ever have a normal relationship with him. "We're just... friends, right? Fooling around, like you said. Just... like we've always been doing."

Your heart buzzed, numb, almost.

The look in his eyes told you he didn't believe you; almost as if he'd known, all this time, that you've fallen in love with him, very likely just as he had with you—

But you didn't pay it any mind.

If nothing else, you didn't want to lose what you had now.

It was okay, like this.

You could live with it.

Maybe.

All things considered, your words seemed to bring him to relax just a little bit, and he nuzzled your nose, the fondness in his eyes resurfacing and drowning out any remaining traces of guilt. "Okay," he nodded, "you're right. Of course. We're just... fooling around. Friends, just... fooling around."

It was a false sense of security.

Somehow, the both of you knew it deep in your hearts that you were lying to yourselves.

But it didn't matter, right?

Not when the first push of his tip through your walls had you gasping your air, not when the feel of his length moving right into your cunt felt so perfect—so right. And along with you, Jeremiah let out quiet whimpers, sinking into you slowly, slipping in inch by inch, allowing the both of you to savor this very feeling.

"Holy shit," he cursed, breathless, gritting his teeth as he looked at you almost pleadingly—"How can you feel so good?"

By now he'd bottomed out and your bodies were flush against each other, feeling the echoing of your heartbeats in sync, heavy pants filling the equally weighty silence that followed. Leaning forward slightly, he moved to rest both of your legs on his shoulders, and you couldn't help but moan at the way the slight adjustment had him shifting deeper within you.

"'M-Miah—"

"Fuck, can I... Can I move?" He placed a chaste kiss on the skin of your calf, before letting his hands fall down to your waist, his grip firm yet gentle, his eyes still searching yours almost expectantly.

"Please..."

You could have melted at the way he smiled at you.

And then Jeremiah wasted no time in pulling out, before slowly easing back in. The way your name fell from his lips in a drawn-out moan had you tingling, and you held him tight against you, eyes closing at the way he stretched you out.

He felt so... warm. So safe.

Each of his thrusts were thoughtful, intentional; slow, but long and deep.

Filling.

"S'good, Miah..." you whispered, latching your hands onto his soft curls. "You fit so well..."

"I know... haah... I can't believe we're—I think I'll ruin you for him—"

You didn't dare dwell on his words and only clenched around him at a particularly deep thrust, having the both of you moan in synchrony.

"Fuck! My lady, please— g-go easy on me...!"

"Y-you're the one w-who's so deep—ah—!"

You pulled at his hair, feeling the way the sensitive head of his cock would delightfully brush against your most delicate spot. Your eyes clouded with want, raking your nails over his scalp, shuddering at the way he would moan and moan, on and on about the pleasure of your heat.

"Mhm... so good, 'Miah, s'perfect..." You moaned in tandem with him, whispering praises, matching his thrusts with every movement of your hips. It was too much, almost, even though all he was doing was thrusting into you, doe-like, unfocused eyes transfixed upon your face.

If you weren't lying to yourself, you were inclined to think that he, too, mirrored your exact thoughts.

"Princess... Fuck, my princess..."

Ah. That nickname.

The way his cock would twitch inside you at the mere sound of this nickname from his lips had you gasping, and you wondered, truly, why it had him so worked up. This wasn't the first time you'd seen him so attached to it—but you adored it; you reveled in the way he would use it on you.

"S-say it again," you breathed, heart racing at the wet sounds of your pussy with each of his thrusts, every roll of his hips pushing him so deep inside of you, gliding against that spongy spot. You could barely hold back your moans anymore, words turning into broken, unintelligible whimpers.

"You..." Jeremiah closed his eyes, gritting his teeth, and you felt lightheaded at the image of it in front of you. "Y-you... You like it? When I call you princess?"

Another whine escaped from your lips, and you continue to coax him, pleading him, praising him—anything to get him to bring you closer to your high.

And he listened.

"Fuck, princess— princess, princess, princess— my princess, my pretty, pretty princess—"

Your eyes rolled back as he picked up his pace, precise with his thrusts as the bed rocked steadily beneath you. Cries and moans spilled from your lips, your hands falling to twist into his sheets.

Perfect.

He was perfect.

You'd barely started grinding your hips upwards to meet his thrusts, and then your body was tensing with pleasure

"'M-Miah!" Your fingers raked down to his back, gripping tightly when he hissed into your ear. "M'cumming, 'Miah! M'gonn— I'll—!"

He thrust hard and deep inside of your cunt, and you trembled, crying out his name, mouth falling open—

Jeremiah buried his face into your neck as he pulled out of you, spilling his load all over your chest, broken chants of your name.

"I—fuck—shit—" He whined into your skin, barely lifting himself enough to relax your positions, crawling back over to give you the sweetest of kisses.

"Jeremiah..." You stroked his cheek once more, gently, lost in the way that his eyes would look at you with so much adoration that your heart could beat right out of your chest.

"I..." he started, a pout forming at his lips. "I'm sorry, my lady..."

He didn't explain why, but he didn't need to.

You could see it in his eyes.

His eyes, his ever expressive eyes, holding so much warmth and so much love—

He loved you.

Even though you had dared to reach this illusion of mutual agreement, even if you'd promised yourselves only just a short while ago that this wouldn't happen.

That it couldn't happen.

And you closed your eyes.

"I know," you whispered.

I love you, too.

Your words would remain unsaid.

⁺₊ / an: flower language is cute and the flowers mentioned here represent things like compliments/love/growing attraction! the zinnia symbolises welcoming back a missing friend! because jeremiah would totally flirt via flowers... haha... florist, right....... did i just make myself more attached to him? 4.5k wordcount says yes!!

© rose-tinted-kalopsia. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

[classicanalyzer]

Andor Season 2 Arc 2 Thoughts

"Upon my life and honor...For the peace and bounty of all things...My Full allegiance...A galaxy of worlds...A galaxy assembled...An Empire!" Oathkeeper

Andor Season 2's episode "Ever Been to Ghorman?", "I Have Friends Everywhere" and "What a Festive Evening" continue the hype train of Season 2. We get to explore the world of Ghorman further, which has not been explored other than a massacre on the world acting as the catalyst for the formation of the Rebel Alliance.

Cassian and Bix's relationship is sweet yet sad to see. Cassian wants to protect Bix, but he sometimes overprotects Bix and makes decisions where he'll do anything to protect her.

Bix's road to recovery is tough to see. It's clear the last three years' worth of trauma still affects her despite the healing she's able to undergo. It gets so bad to the point she takes drugs to try to sleep at night.

Everything about Saw Gerrera in this arc gives me chills. I can't tell if he did actually shoot an Imperial spy or is just paranoid, or both. You really can't tell at this point.

The Partisan base being on D'Qar is really fitting. It fits with how the Resistance was seen as an extremist organization by the New Republic, just like the Partisans.

Saw Gerrera inhaling the Rhydonium really showcases Saw's descent into madness by showing how the various gases he inhaled throughout his life are starting to affect him. At this point, the Geonosis poison is the last straw on Saw's health. The heavy implication that the labor camp story took place before the CW Onderon Arc is really horrifying. It's even more incredible that Saw in the CW Onderon Arc looks sane despite all of that, tho it would explain why he's so eager to take the fight to the Separatists.

Wilmon's journey to becoming a Partisan really showcases how he's been holding back all this anger. Luthen probably told him that holding back anger to focus on the bigger picture is necessary, but based on what we see, Wilmon's desire for revenge to hit the Empire back fits more with the Partisans than with Luthen's rebel group.

"Remember this. Remember this moment! This perfect night. You think I'm crazy? Yes, I am. Revolution is not for the sane. Look at us. Unloved. Hunted. Cannon fodder. We'll all be dead before the Republic is back and yet... here we are. Where are you, boy? You're here! You're not with Luthen. You're here! You're right here, and you're ready to fight! We're the rhydo, kid. We're the fuel. We're the thing that explodes when there's too much friction in the air. Let it in, boy! That's freedom calling! Let it in. Let it run! Let it run wild!" Saw Gerrera

The Oathkeeper swearing in the new Imperial Senators is incredibly chilling. At this point, the Imperial Senate feels more like a cult than an actual institution designed to help the people of the galaxy. You can see how Mothma is getting really sick and angry of the Imperial Senate's inability to help people and the Senators' own fears of doing anything that might offend the Emperor and the Empire. Mothma's and Krennic's debate is just great and a sign of the upcoming Mothma's speech against the Emperor.

Bail Organa recast was expected, and I do like that they recast rather than do a deepfake. I really hope we get to see Bail interact with Luthen.

I really love Kleya and how she's been given more focus in this season.

We can also see how Luthen's operations do not fit well with the growing rebel movement, as he and Kleya are getting overwhelmed with the amount of information on rebel activity.

I will say Syril actually makes for a good spy. Who would've known? I wonder if by the next arc, he'll grow more comfortable with the Ghorman Rebels or will still be a fanatically loyal Imperial. Either way, the Ghorman Massacre will change him if he survives the event.

The ISB operations feel so disturbing as they treat all the increasing arrests like it's an average office day. We also see how the ISB is clearly failing at doing that, as the number of arrests is too high for them.

Ghorman is such a vibrant planet, and we get to learn so much of its culture after getting a tease in the first episode. Similar to Ferrix, we spend a lot of time understanding the social dynamics, culture, businesses, and politics of the world.

I really love how the EU version of the Ghorman Massacre is still Canon. It also gives more reason for the Ghorman protests, as they know firsthand, before their shipping lanes were cut, about Imperial injustice towards them.

The Ghorman language and Ghorman Front parallels with France and the French Resistance.

While I understand Cassian's point about the Ghorman rebels not being experienced, and we know the Imperials want the rebels to act, I do agree with Carro Rylanz and the Ghorman Rebels that to do nothing is still playing into the Imperial hands. At this point, I support the rebels that even if the situation is a trap of sorts, we might as well do something and prepare for further Imperial responses.

Vel and Cinta finally got back together...and Cinta died in a freak accident from one of the trigger happy Ghorman rebels. I feel this is a bury the gays trope moment. Vel does have a great speech, both as an eulogy for Cinta and a scathing "you suck" speech to the triggy happy rebel who brought a weapon when he wasn’t supposed to.

Bix getting her revenge on Gorst is pure catharsis and karma. Cassian and Bix truly make a great spy couple.

The next arc is the Ghorman Massacre and Mothma's speech against the Emperor...we're getting closer to Rebels S3-S4 and Rogue One.

There's one thing left to say: all roads lead to Scarif and Yavin IV.

"Are you crying? Are you? Look at me. Look at me! There's no place to hide. Look at me. I'm not going to say 'remember this,' because I don't have to. This is on you now. This is like skin. You're taking her with you wherever you go for the rest of your useless life. Don't you look away from me. She was a warrior. She was everything that you have daydreamed about. She was a blooded, fearless warrior whose loss will be mourned in ways that you will never understand. She was a miracle. And you...To die like this because of you...Some whining, simpering, foolish child. Don't you dare cry. You'll make up for this forever." Vel Sartha

[stardusthuntress]

Fanboy

Rex x femaleMandoMedic!reader 

Word Count: ~5.7k (I cannot write shorter fics than that anymore, so have a long one) 

Special thanks to @mybrainislostinagalaxyfarfaraway for the inspiration for this one! Link to original post idea, below (but the original idea post and the tumble of the person who posted it seem to have vanished - if you can, please help me find them and tag them and repair my tags and links)! FYI, I did modify the original prompt slightly, but OP approved of the change before I even wrote it, so we are all good! Sorry it took me so long! 

Summary: He’s a fan of your erotica work - he has no idea you write it, and you have no idea he reads it, and yet you work side by side every day! This part ends before the smut so other writers can dream up their own scenarios with details relevant to their works! 

TW: reader writes smutty fics while living onboard the Resolute. Reader has own room (no roomies). Reader has okay relations with family, but not great ones, prefers distance from them. 

Mando’a: Ner = my Mesh’la = beautiful Verd = warrior Shebs = butt/ass 

Other SW Terms: Kark/kriff = both common expletives used in place of “shit” or “fuck” or “damn” Dank ferrik = commom expletive used in place of “oh shit” or “damn it” 

*************************************************

Slowly, the harmless acronyms of your secret writing world began to permeate your everyday war-focused acronyms. 

Memos telling your troopers to keep things G-rated around children became “and remember, anything NSFW that isn’t a part of your standard kit stays on the ship, today’s mission is protecting a large town with lots of families so keep it clean for the kiddos, please!” 

the typical “IP” note to Captain Rex turned into “WIP” when you were tired. He never questioned it, so you assumed it must be commonplace for others to use too. 

Rex never told you where he learned it. He couldn’t! It wasn’t the sort of thing a Captain, of all people, went and told everyone. Ranking officers had a reputation to uphold. Their men looked up to them, especially bright-eyed young shinies who’d yet to be introduced to galactic nightlife. 

And yet, somehow, it was the thing that kept him sane while fighting a war. The thing that reminded him that not everyone in the galaxy was out to get them. The thing that reminded him that the galaxy was worth saving because it was filled with beautiful moments and not just the pain of war. 

The horrors of war had long since left a deep scar in the Captain’s mind, but it was a price he was willing to accept to protect the galaxy. And no matter how hard the worst days became, he would always go back to reading stories about the most beautiful aspect of the people he fought so hard to protect: the way they made love. Besides, reading about making love instead of war every night was the only thing that let him find his way to sleep. War was beyond brutal. 

Rex had long since accepted that very few people would be willing to be partners with a man who did not know if he would live to see the next sunrise. He himself spent every day facing the fact that each battlefield could be his last. And even if it wasn’t, the loss and heart-wrenching difficulties of war had a tendency to leave him as a different man at the end of each one. So, if he couldn’t have a partner in real life with which to share the difficulties, and do all the small, mundane, domestic things, just like the rest of the galaxy, and share the joys of sensual love, then no one could stop him from dreaming about it. And that gave him hope. And hope was an essential part of continuing on in war. 

But he had decided long ago, when he became a Captain, that he would never tell a soul about this. It was his little secret thing. Besides, if his troopers ever did find out, he’d never hear the end of it. 

If Fives ever found out… Rex didn’t want to think about it. This was Rex’s special, secret. And he loved it. 

He always did everything in his power to keep it out of his troopers' hands, and far away from the battlefield. 

And now, now that the post-battle reports were almost done, he could start to let himself think about it a little bit. 

*************************************************

Tonight your goal had been to finish the last WIP you’d started months ago when inspiration had hit between grueling battles. And tonight, you’d succeeded. You proofed the polished piece one last time, took a deep breath, and tapped “post”. 

As you sat back in your seat, a call from Rex came in on your comm, making you nervous you’d posted it somewhere the rest of the ship could see it. 

“Lieutenant, can I get the list of the soldiers your shift deemed medically cleared for duty from you? I’m wrapping up reports, and that’s the last piece of data I need.” Rex’s voice showed no hint of anything other than the same post-battle paperwork as usual, and you loosed a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. 

Beside him, his personal datapad beeped and lit up, a banner across the screen notified him that his favorite author had just posted a new work! Rex couldn’t wait to get to it when these last few reports were done. 

“Sure thing, Captain! I take it Kix forgot to send it again.” The normalcy in your voice surprised even yourself. 

“You know Kix, but he keeps everyone on their feet, so I don’t mind having to ask for them. Besides, it’s handy to have you onboard. You have all the same medical clearances he does, and you’re much more fun to talk to.” Rex finished. The exhaustion and potential to read a NSFW story tonight seemed to be making Rex bold, even to his inner dialog. Where normally he’d be all business, tonight he was opening up a little, dare he even consider it flirtatious?  

The voice on the other end of the phone laughed. “That’s sweet of you! But don’t tell Kix you said that, Captain!” 

Rex laughed, “Oh, don’t worry, I think they all know. Everyone enjoys your company in a sea full of identical faces.” 

“Haha, well I hope being one of the few different faces isn’t the only thing I have going for me!” 

“Certainly not! Like I said, you’re fun to talk to, Sweetheart.” Rex felt the heat rising in his neck, he didn’t usually let himself call you Sweetheart so openly like that… what had become of his filter tonight? 

Rex’s work datapad beeped with a new notification, both of which were audible over the comms, but he didn’t know that. “Thanks for the reports! Talk more tomorrow,” Rex yawned. 

You snickered, suppressing a yawn of your own, and wished him goodnight. 

Rex glanced over the list of names, clicked approve, attached it to his last report and submitted it. 

Finally, Rex had time for himself, time to read his favorite author’s new piece! 

Rex wondered who the mystery author was, no one used their actual names on this site, that’s what made Rex comfortable with using it. There was no way to trace it back to him, except through his personal datapad, so he felt comfortable using it on a republic ship. Besides, he knew there were much weirder things getting pulled up on republic ships, war was rough after all, and he wasn’t about to judge anyone for however they decided to cope with it. 

So, Rex settled in for the night, your cheerful voice on his mind, and decided he needed to picture this new scenario in your voice, with you attached. No matter how risqué that seemed, something about it filled a need for him. There had always been something about you that attracted Rex, though he couldn’t put his finger on what specifically. But that didn’t exactly matter. What did matter was that he finally had someone real who made him feel like he wanted the scenarios he always read about. You! 

The comm next to him beeped again. Rex sighed and looked at it. Speaking of, it was you, again! 

Rex got nervous. “Everything ok, Sweetheart?” He asked hesitantly, and didn’t even notice he had once again used his internal pet name for you. 

Suddenly you were glad you were just on comms and he couldn’t see you, it was hard not to smile when he called you that, and he always did it after particularly grueling battles, like this one. And this was the second time this evening!

“I can’t find my blaster cleaning kit. Did I leave it with you earlier when I dropped off the General’s saber after the battle?” 

Rex silently breathed a sigh of relief and looked around the room. 

Sure enough, there it was! 

“Yup, I have it right here. Want me to bring it to you this time?” he asked. 

“Na, I need to get up and stretch a bit anyways, been sitting at my desk too long. I’ll be by in a minute… if that’s okay?” 

“Sure thing, see you in a minute!” Rex took a deep breath and looked around the room. He could feel the warmth rising in his face. Why had he just agreed to that? He was all disheveled from a post-battle shower, his personal datapad was still right there with the new fic he was starting to read pulled up, and he had nothing to do until you came by. Not to mention that he’d just been thinking about you… sexually… he knew you couldn’t read his mind, but he still felt guilty about it. 

A quiet knock on his door pulled him out of his reverie. Kark! That was fast! Rex shoved his personal datapad under the pillow of the makeshift bunk he sometimes used for a nap in this closet of a space Skywalker and Kenobi had set aside for him. Then he straightened his blacks, scooped up the item you had asked about, and opened the door. 

“Hi, thanks, Rex! Sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything!” 

Rex found himself a little extra flustered when he opened the door to find you standing in your nightclothes - a slightly too large shirt you’d cut the neck out of, and shorts. Probably more of you than he’d ever seen exposed before. He hoped he was the only man who’d see you like this tonight… or any night for that matter. 

“Na, you’re fine I was just…. Uh… reading… before I turn in for the night.” His flustered brain was doing anything except being useful, of course. The one thing he’d been trying to avoid talking about was what he’d just been reading, why did he have to say that? 

“Ooo! I like to read! May I ask what you were reading?” 

“Uh…” Rex couldn’t say no, so he tried to think fast, “Just something new from my favorite author.” 

“Oh! What author?” 

Kriff! He hadn’t thought about that question coming next, but in hindsight, he should have. It’s the obvious follow-up question. 

“Oh, not books, just, uh… short stories!” Rex was proud of himself, this was going OK! Which is to say: better than he’d expected. Was that too low of a bar to set for himself, or too high? 

“Ah, cool! Well, I love to read, but I don’t often have much time anymore either, if you find any good short stories, let me know! I’m curious to know what a strong leader like you likes to read in his downtime!” 

Aaaaaand there went his good luck. The bar was indeed too high. Rex felt the warning lights going off in his own mind, warning him of an imminent crash if this conversation continued. Much to his dismay, he did like talking with you. 

Rex laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, eyes drifting to the floor. “Sure thing!” He lied, and faked a yawn, “but for tonight, I think it’s time for bed for us both! It was a long day, I’ll see you in the morning, Lieutenant.” 

You smiled, nodded, and headed off down the hallway, back to your quarters. 

Rex closed the door and sighed. That was close. Too close. He hoped he hadn’t given anything away. Maybe he should start to think up excuses for when you inevitably ask about what he was reading… but for tonight, there was still a whole fic waiting to be read! 

*************************************************

The next morning, Rex made a point to check in on the medbay patients while you’re on shift. 

He hadn’t told you, or anyone really, but he always planned it that way. He liked to drop by the medbay when you were around. So far, he’d managed to keep it off his brother’s radar and make it appear somewhat random. He just hoped he could keep that up for a while longer. 

“You mentioned that you were up late working on something when we spoke last night,” Rex commented, somewhat worried about you. “I thought you’d finished all your reports and sent them in already, hours before. I hadn’t seen any more come through the pipeline that late in the evening, nor this morning. Did I miss anything, Lieutenant?” 

“Oh! No, you didn’t miss anything. It was just, uh… some personal things. That’s all! Nothing to worry about, Captain!” Your cheeks felt warm. Hopefully, Rex wouldn’t figure out that he was the cause of your suddenly shy demeanor! There was no way he knew he was on your mind when you were writing last night, could he? Wait, how could he, he didn’t even know you wrote things like that! Probably for the best, you didn’t want to imagine how sorry he’d feel for you to know that was how you were satisfying your cravings for lust these days. Then again, this was war. Maybe it wasn’t so unusual on a ship packed full of men with no relief, no break, no love in sight for weeks, months, years even sometimes. But something told you there were only 2 potential reactions to him finding that out about you: awkward curiosity or disappointment, and you didn’t know which was worse. 

“Well, if you need time off to focus on family or friends, I want to make sure you don’t feel bad asking for it. You know I’d grant it. You’re a civilian. I know you need breaks to attend to things at home.” Rex assured you. 

“Thanks, but I don’t need time off. I’m actually grateful to have time away from them. Family is family, but being around them wasn’t helping me figure out who I am. I like being farther away from them, if I’m being honest. Allows me to just be…” your voice trails off for a moment, but your mind returns to his comment. “I was just working on some of the things I enjoy in my downtime. It’s nice to have time for those sorts of things, don’t you think?” 

“Couldn’t agree more. But now I’m curious,” Rex smirks, intrigued but doing his best to keep the comments light and appropriate for a medbay check-in, “What sorts of fun things occupy your time when these rowdy troopers aren’t flirting with you all day?” he gestures to the men in the bunks lining the walls as he refers to them. “What does your mind need to do to slow down and relax after a grueling battle?” Rex’s eyes are beginning to hint at something on the edge of flirtation, but it couldn’t be… could it? Rex isn’t the type to break his Captain’s demeanor to flirt. Your mind races away into the star-streaked black of hyperspace, too many thoughts flashing by for you to grasp at any one at a time. 

Rex nudges you with his shoulder, a raised eyebrow bringing you back to reality. 

“Uh, not that different from you, actually, it seems. Reading, writing, music, a good holofilm. An escape from war. Though the company of this war is better than I’d expected,” you teased. 

“Did you say you write?” Rex zeroed in on the one thing you hadn’t mean to let slip. 

“Uh, not that I have much time to write, haven’t really done it in a while, to be honest,” you babbled, lying through your teeth, trying to detract from his interest. 

“That’s too bad,” Rex’s comment paused your ramblings, “I was hoping I’d get a chance to learn more about you, by reading what you write about when you need a break from war.” 

You stared at him for a moment. He was flirting with you… right? Or was he just trying to be nice and befriend the civies on his ship so they would feel comfortable amongst his troops like any good Captain would? It must be the latter, right? Rex didn’t seem the type to flirt this openly… 

“Lieutenant,” Kix called, “I need 50 cc’s of pain reliever, please” 

“Oh, sorry Captain, I have to, uh,” you pointed to Kix, already moving to the supply cabinet for the pain meds. 

Rex just nodded and continued walking around the room, checking in with his men as they recovered. Unknowingly, giving you the chance to steal glances at him as you continued your work healing his men. Meanwhile, he did the same thing from across the room, pretending he was simply keeping an eye out behind him like any good officer would, but anyone who knew him could tell his gaze lingered just a little too long on a certain medic… 

*************************************************

One evening finds you just sitting with Rex, chatting around a campfire for the first watch of the night after a long battle and hearty meal. It’s just the two of you on watch, for this quadrant of troops, soft snores from nearby tents telling how draining this battle was. 

“Rex, when you said you’d like to read what I write…” you find yourself poking around with a stick in the dirt when you say it, watching him out of the corner of your eye. 

Rex sits up a little straighter, nodding encouragingly. 

“Did you mean, whatever I wrote? Like… anything at all? Even if it’s a little… unusual? Or strange compared to a normal book or story?”

“I don’t just read adventure stories, if that’s what you’re getting at?” He asks, head tilted, curiosity piqued. 

There’s no going back now. 

“Well, what if it was… kind of… uh………” of all the times to struggle with words, this sure wasn’t a great moment for that to plague you. 

“Kind of…” you stalled, mentally shuffling through his previous statements about what he liked to read for hints of words you could borrow, trying to avoid the words you didn’t want to say that were the only things actually populating your mind, like vulgar or lewd. “Wait, are you implying the stoic Captain reads romances and poetry in his spare time?” 

“Well…” Rex suddenly can’t hold eye contact with you as he answers, his shyness peaking through, “On occasion, though, I admit it’s not something I read often.” 

“So what does the fearless Captain read in his spare time, then?” 

Now it was Rex’s turn to search for stall tactics. “Uh, well, I don’t often have time to read.” 

“But you were reading just the other night,” you pressed, glad you weren’t the one under scrutiny again, even though it had been your own comment that put you there, you’d gotten too shy to be able to fess up to a man with as strong of a reputation as Rex, even though you knew his kind side. 

“Like I said, short stories,” he filled in, knowing it wouldn't be enough, “adventure, strategy, and I guess some romances too.” He hoped that would be enough. So he turned the table back on you, “But you brought up the topic about things you write. What sort of… unusual?” he quoted your own words back at you. 

Kark, you were in it now. Damn the dark of night for giving you courage to say something in the first place. Though you knew you could just tell Rex you weren’t ready to talk about it after all and he’d let it go, and act like nothing had happened if that was what you wanted. But, if there was anyone who wouldn’t hate you for it, nor treat you like a piece of meat ready for the taking because of it, it was Rex. On the other hand though, if Rex hadn’t really meant that he’d be comfortable reading anything, if he’d meant that he had limits and that was beyond what he normally read, he’d never be able to look you in the eye or sit at the same table or campfire anymore. You weren’t sure you could take that. 

Apparently you stalled too long, and Rex jumped in, words coming out a bit rushed like he was nervous. “You don’t have to tell me anything, if you don’t want to. I hope I didn’t make you feel like you should tell me anything. I won’t pry. You seem a bit nervous. I won’t ask any more questions about it, I know how it feels to be stuck trying to figure something out. Let’s give it some time so you can think, yeah? If you want someone to read something, never feel bad asking. I want to be there for you in any way that I can. You are welcome to decline that, or accept it, or pretend it never happened if you like. I just want to encourage you if you need it, or be there for you if you need me.” 

“Thanks, Rex,” you smile at the campfire, tucking your hair behind your ear. 

*************************************************

Days pass, battles take their toll, and once again you find yourself needing to write something… especially after another moment with Rex leaves you a little, well… distracted. So you sit down to write one night, and what comes out surprises even you! 

You write a fic heavily inspired by something that actually happened in battle, without revealing too many details… or so you think… 

The fic depicts a simple damsel saves the knight scenario in a woodland, setting the two characters facing off with a wild animal. All in all, a common trope… and after prepping the fic with all the necessary warnings and notes, you click “post”. 

On the other side of the ship, unbeknownst to you, someone’s personal datapad lights up with a notification of a new post from his favorite author. Having finished his work for the evening and searching for a way to fall asleep in his bunk in his tiny little office space, Rex picks up his datapad and starts to read. 

But something about this fic strikes him as oddly familiar. The Deja vu only growing stronger as he reads on, until Rex’s own past takes the reigns and he’s whisked away into his memories… 

Attempting to sneak up on an enemy outpost, alone, during a critical battle, Rex finds himself alone and face-to-face with an unusually large Nexu. 

He’s pretty sure he’s lunch and this is how it ends. 

Until a jetpack-powered shove from his favorite Mandalorian saves his ass and drops the Nexu down a short cliff that curves away and forces it away from the battleground. 

“Never thought I’d see the day the tough Captain of the legendary boys in blue became the damsel in distress…” you laugh, touching down a few feet away, surprisingly lightly considering your heavy armor kit. 

He chuckles, taking the hand you offer to pull him to his feet. “As great as it was to see a badass woman save my shebs [ass], we still have a battle to win.” 

She can practically hear the smirk he wears beneath his helmet as he nudges her playfully with his arm. 

“Then I’m glad you weren’t some wild animal’s lunch. We’re gonna need you to get through this one, Cap.” 

“Then let’s take this tower offline, ner mesh’la verd [my beautiful warrior]!” As soon as it was out of his mouth he realized his mistake. That nickname for you was something he only ever said in his head, he hadn’t intended to say it out loud to you… or ever, really… so, to cover his mistake, he turned and ran off back into the heat of the battle, both blasters drawn. And you follow. Soon, Rex finds himself in one of his favorite spots, taking down droids, back to back with his favorite Mandalorian warrior… 

That was how the real scenario went. 

Rex knew. He was there! He was the one whose shebs you saved, and the one that slipped and called you ‘his beautiful warrior’! Just like the character in this fic did when a strong beautiful woman saved his ass from a similar creature… 

And it would seem that 1) you wrote this fic, 2) you had not only caught that Rex had called you that, but remembered it all these weeks later, and 3) perhaps were a little aroused by it… considering that you used it in a fic? 

But that had been many, many battles ago! And by the way that things had gone back to normal since then, you still fought every battle you could at his side, he had thought you hadn’t noticed his slip-up! 

Rex scrolls down a ways, skipping ahead to see if this was going in the direction he hoped it was. And sure enough, this scenario was only the beginning, feeding life into the love depicted a few paragraphs down. 

Kriff, if you were gonna write a fic this steamy about a moment like that staying on your mind… maybe he could think about it in that way too? 

Very quickly, this day turns into the best night in a long while as he imagines you and him in place of the lead characters in your fic, learning about your mind and all the things that one little moment makes you want to do with him! Or, at least, given that you chose a moment with him to inspire this fic, he can only hope you want to finish the scenario with him too! 

As he attempts to drift off to sleep, Rex finds himself ecstatic that you are his favorite author.  

The trick is figuring out how to tell you that he loves your work and would like to make your dreams come true… without seeming like a creepy stalker… 

But, if the little moments between the two lead characters continue to be inspired by little moments with Rex, then he needs to tell you the feeling is mutual, or he will lose his chance with you. 

Since he seems to be inspiring several of your fics, the odds must be in his favor. He just has to make a move. Easier said than done… 

So… how does he tell you he’s your biggest fan without making it awkward and weird? 

Maybe if he starts slow? With little things to make sure he’s reading into it correctly (pun intended). 

So, he tries to replicate a look you described as a focused, methodical soldier, who can see right into your soul, because you mentioned that the look, made you shiver because no one had seen you as clearly as he seemed to in that moment.

When he tries it in real life, your eyes widen slightly and you barely suppress a shiver. You have to look away and clear your throat before answering his question. 

He acts like he didn’t spot your reaction (his men don’t need to know). 

And a few days later, during a moment alone with you, he calls you ‘my beautiful warrior’ in Mando’a again, and smiles when you melt into shyness and look pointedly at the floor, trying not to smile. 

But that’s all he gets a chance to say and do before another few particularly rough battles steal your attention from each other back to the life and death of the galaxy you live in. 

*************************************************

It’s a few weeks before you find yourself sitting across another campfire from Rex as the two of you sit on watch for the night, the post-battle rhythm settling back in, and the need for distraction from the last few battles has both your minds drifting towards the sultry and suggestive. 

After you each share a few flirty remarks and laughs as your watch draws on, he decides it’s time he just went for it. 

“Ya know, I’ve been thinking. You asked me what I read in my spare time… and if it’s romance…” Rex picks at a twig on the log he sits on. 

Your gaze moves straight to him, an eager look in your eye. 

Now it’s his turn to get a little shy as he scratches the back of his neck. 

“And to share it with ya if I’d read any good stories, lately…” He tries his hardest to meet your eyes, even just for a few seconds at a time. 

“Yeah?” You prompt him, careful not to tease, but to encourage, though you couldn’t help but sit up straighter, focusing all your attention on him. 

Before Rex can answer, the sound of approaching boots and laughing troopers draws your attention. You glance at your chrono and realize your shift is over, and it’s time for Fives and Echo to take over the watch. 

Rex offers to walk you back to your tent, and you let him. Echo and Fives are too engrossed in their own discussion to notice that you two both seem a little cozy and flustered. 

Once out of earshot of the duo with a nose for trouble, Rex offers to show you his favorite short story he’d found recently. 

It’s hard not to smile when you invite him into your tent while telling him you’d love to read it. 

In the safety of your tent, with the light dim and high above your head so no one can see your shadows, sitting next to you on your cot, he has no reservations about using his personal datapad to access his little secret site. 

And then he hands it to you so you can see his url and that he’s looking at your fic  - the one where you save his ass from getting eaten, and it’s clearly him. 

You stare in awe. 

The url he’s using… you know that url! You’ve seen it in your notifications! He usually only reblogs them, rarely ever commenting, and now that you know the man behind it you know why. He’s shy and reserved! 

And that’s when the fact that he’s just handed you your fic actually settles in. 

You cover your mouth with your free hand as your eyebrows shoot upwards, stunned into silence for a few moments, struggling to find something to say like a fish out of water. 

Rex is watching with rapture as you process it all. 

And not only is this your fic, but it’s the one that you finally let it be totally inspired by clearly identifiable, real life moments that had happened with him, of all people! 

Kark… so thinking no one will know in real life when you’d finally had 20 seconds of courage to post it might have been totally out of line, in hindsight, but dank ferrik, now he knew and it has become his favorite fic? 

“But I —this… my… you’re [jaigB51]? Of course that’s you!” You finally manage, clutching the datapad tightly. 

“That’s me…” Rex is getting shy, so he tries to push past it, “—and [url] is you, right?” He asks, heat rising in his cheeks. 

“Yeah,” you mutter, still stunned, still staring at the little letters at the top of the page, in disbelief that this is really happening. 

You look up at him, lost and awed. 

He only smiles and tugs the datapad from your hands. 

���I’ve noticed that several moments from real life have made it into your fics. Several moments that were just… us… did you mean that you are attracted to me, or just the moments that we shared? Because if it’s not me, I’ll back off and we can pretend this never happened, if you want, if you didn’t mean it like that?” He covers, fiddling with his own fingers as he asks, suddenly struggling to look at your face. 

You scoot closer and take a deep breath, preparing to say it. 

“I like you, Rex. I did it because I like you, not just the moments we shared.” 

Relief washes over Rex as his eyes meet yours again, “I like you too, ner Mesh’la Verd… a lot, if I’m being honest…” 

He opens his arms to you and you throw yours around him. 

This moment has been a long time coming for Rex. He’d figured it out months ago when you’d posted the fic, but he hadn’t had the courage to say anything for weeks. Now that he finally has, and it’s gone so well, all he can do is hold you close and enjoy the warmth of your arms and the feel of your heartbeat against his own. 

”Oh, Rex!” You whisper into his shoulder as you nuzzle in. 

He chuckles faintly, the comforting grip of his arms, unrelenting. “Would I be correct if I guessed that those scenarios were things you wanted to do together then? …like a wishlist of sorts?” He whispers into your temple, hesitantly asking the question that’s been on his mind since he first read the fic. 

You look up at him with excitement. “Yes,” you whisper as though you’re still not sure this is real. 

Rex decides to prove to you it is real, slowly dipping his head to meet your lips. Giving you plenty of time to move away if you wanted, but you don’t. You hold fast, and let him approach, even closing your eyes and tilting your head back to give him a better angle, as the distance closes. 

And when he lets his lips touch yours, your hand slips into his buzz cut and he groans against you. 

Finally getting to kiss you was heaven. Rex couldn’t get enough. He kept going back for just one more. 

“Let me make your dreams come true, ner mesh’la verd!” His voice is hushed as he whispers it against your skin, his arms secure and strong as he holds you tightly. 

”Yes, please!” You pant, trying to keep your voice low, aware you are in a tent surrounded by Rex’s brothers who need to look up to their commander without teasing him endlessly about it in the morning. 

”I wish we didn’t have to keep quiet,” he winks at you, well aware you like it when you both make a bit of noise. 

You pause for a moment, “Well, when we were on watch, you did say there was a shuttle full of spare parts and equipment that needed a pilot to bring it back up to the ship. Does it still need a pilot or two? I think my quarters are undamaged, we could slip aboard the ship and have practically the whole thing to ourselves?” 

Rex chuckles against your cheek, checking the ship status on his datapad. “It does still need a pilot. I’ll let Cody know the men on the ground are all his,” he wraps his arms around your waist to scoop up the datapad he’d tossed aside and type out a message as quickly as he can, clicking send without even caring if autocorrect changed anything. “Let’s go, ner Mesh’la Verd!” 

*******************************************

The two of you race over to the temporary shipyard, and inform the night guard you and Rex are going to go ahead and bring the shuttle of damaged equipment back to the ship so it’s ready to go in the morning. And off the two of you go, alone in the shuttle as it rises from the planet’s surface and heads into orbit. 

Rex turns to you and pulls you into his lap. 

You giggle, and kiss his cheek. 

”So,” you ask, intentionally suggestively, “I know you said that one was your favorite, but do you have a favorite scenario from my fics that you want to try first?” You can barely believe this is real and you’re actually getting to ask the man you’ve pictured far too many of your fics with the question you’ve always wanted an answer to. 

Rex smirks, “I like the shower scenarios…” his eyes continue to monitor the ships progress as he maneuvers it towards the Resolute, but his mind is racing with a thousand dirty thoughts. 

“Do I have permission to picture you and I in every one of the stories you’ve written, Sweetheart?” He asks, fervently. 

“Yes!” You answer. 

He is interrupted by the shuttle bay manager checking in as he maneuvers the ship into the hold. 

There is little time to answer as you two disembark the shuttle, exchange nonchalant nods with the hangar bay crew, and make your way through the halls to your personal quarters. 

Finally in your room, Rex smiles, “But I think my favorite of the scenarios you’ve written…” his voice darkens a bit as he steps up to you, his eyes finally reflecting his hunger for you as he begins to remove your armor. “Hmm…” Rex playfully debates which of your fics he’d like to recreate first, letting the anticipation make you a little feisty. 

You lend a hand, removing his armor as he works on yours. 

“I liked the one where you had me kissing up your wrist and arm to your lips, down your neck to your breasts, and then down to your legs and thighs and back up… I admit I reread that one most often… ” He asks, scooping you off your feet, effortlessly. 

As he lifts you with one arm behind your back and one hand raising your thigh to his hip, your legs automatically wrap around his hips. Rex pauses and closes his eyes, swallowing hard, and clutching you to him. 

“Oh?” You tease. 

Rex takes a moment to just try to figure out how to breathe normally again before answering. “What’s your favorite, so far?” He tosses the question back at you, though the rise and fall of his chest is far less collected than his voice. Trying to use his Captain’s skill at hiding any emotion in his voice as a cover when he is actually unraveling quickly. 

You laugh lightly as he reaches the bed, tossing the covers back and climbing in with you still wrapped tightly around him. “I think it’s that one too, actually.” 

Rex smirks and his eyes gleam in the low light of the room, “May I, then?” 

“Why would I ever say no to that?” You laugh, though it fades on your lips as his connect with yours quickly in his hunger. 

“I love knowing what you want already, I have a long list of all the items I want to do with you tonight, ner Mesh’la Verd!” Rex pants against your skin. 

“But… I don’t know what you like, Rex,” Your concern for his own pleasure fills his heart with warmth. If he didn’t already love you, he certainly does now. 

Your legs squeeze more tightly around his waist as his lips trail down your body. 

Rex groans, gripping your thigh. 

“I like…” he pants, “the way your legs grip me.” He licks a stripe across one breast and then the other. 

“I love the way your back arches and you cling to me.” He lightly nips at your abdomen as he moves southward, soothing it with a sensual kiss. 

“I love your little noises. And I’m dying to feel you around my fingers, tongue, and cock. And I like the way your writing describes me as protective when I’m on top like this. And I love being able to read about exactly what you want. And I like the feel of your breasts in my hands and mouth. Kark, I could suck on your breasts all day! And I’d make sure to keep it evenly distributed between both breasts,” he teases, moving up to nip at your ear when he says it. 

“So you noticed that, huh?” You blush, shyly. You weren’t expecting to ever have a partner that had read your fics before. You hadn’t thought about what was usually contained only in your mind and never said out loud when you had been writing. 

He chuckles, “Hard not to notice.” He winks up at you. “Why, is that something you wouldn’t have told me otherwise?” His eyes and tone reflect that teasing, fun side he rarely lets show. 

“Maybe…” you admit as he clutches you tightly to him, pressing every inch of skin that he can against every inch of yours. 

“Then I’m glad I read your fics. I like already knowing what’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours as I make love to you.” Rex’s breath is hot on your neck as he begins his open mouthed kisses down your shoulder towards your wrist. 

A shudder racks your body as you realise this might be a long night ahead of you, but it will also be one of the most fun nights in a long time, and with a man worth every second of it all! 

Please don’t steal my work! I pour my heart into these so if you like it please reblog to share instead of reposting it! And NO dropping it into an AI to finish it for me! That’s stealing my work and feeding it to an AI without my consent. It is not okay to give an AI something you didn’t write yourself! 

Taglist: @cw80831

[moonbeammist]

I'm here, Atreides

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Dune characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Also big shoutout to @psycheetamore and @houserautha for their initiative on keeping the feyd writing community alive here on tumblr, this is a bit different then the usual reader/oc stories seen but hope this also encourages some other writers!

I don't give permission for any of my fanfiction to be posted, this is also cross posted on my account w/ Archive of our own :)

PAIRINGS: Feyd Rautha x Fem!Paul Atreides, (mild Chani Kynes x Fem!Paul Atreides)

AUTHORS NOTE: This would be an alternate universe. I did my best to rationalize a female Kwisatz Haderach to give the story more base, but don’t delve too far into the reasoning, considering the gender flip. I’ve watched both films from Denis Villeneuve + heavy lore research + created a little spin on prophetic visions. Paul is Purity here, don't ask why I didn't go for Paula or Pauline, it just jumped out at me haha. The female paul atreides section is awesome on ao3, even the female feyd rautha harkonnen section, very talented writers. Point me to any on tumblr 👀 Thanks, I really hope you enjoy; I appreciate any feedback or comments 💚

WARNINGS: Female Paul Atreides , Alternate Universe - Gender changes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, dark themes, psychological horror, violence, blood, injury, erotic undertones, sexual tension, kissing, licking, touching, intimacy, praise, feyd rautha harkonnen is his own warning, prophetic dreams, prophetic visions

SUMMARY: Instead of Paul falling into a near-death coma after taking the water of life;

An alternate universe has Fem!Paul taking the water of life, finding herself wallowing in a paranoid fever dream, where prophetic visions blur the lines of reality and her own desires.

WORD COUNT: 3.2k words

Purity Maud’Dib Atreides. A prestigious name to live up to, cloaked with the depths of her truth.

The first woman to have access to both male and female ancestral memories. A role that had originally been prophesied as only being male for eons. The Kwisatz Haderach.

Purity. Purified like the sacred holy waters of the Sietch? Purifying the planets, their horrors, and their history, stepping in as The Messiah. Seeing into humanity's connection and impact on the past, present, and future. Are actions taken or not taken?

But fully purifying anything was not realistic. It is more about lessening the damage. Tonight, she was due to swallow the essence, the bile of the young sandworm, the water of life. There was not even a way to prepare herself for this, for the implications and responsibility of this righteous path. A careful tiptoe between parasite and saviour.

She wanted to earn her place among the galaxy. Even just in Arrakis.

There was still work to be done to fully encompass the title of The Messiah. To be deserving of the unwavering support of her Sietch and the Fremen Naib, Stilgar. The undying devotion of Gurney Halleck, who served her father. The love and allegiance of her mother, Lady Jessica. The loyalty of Chani, who has been by her side since she was accepted by the Sietch.

Chani had recently been giving her hints of a different persuasion than their extremely close friendship, Purity believes. Holding the small of her back to guide her, gripping her hand a little too forcefully when they disagreed, letting her headstrong stare linger just a little too long. And Purity had allowed it, because it made her insides flutter, and Chani was dear to her heart. And she was... quite pretty. Quite alluring in her attitude, her honesty.

Something that was needed amidst the planetary conflict, the inner turmoil of her role, and the worth of her message as the Lisan al Gaib.

Chani had always been able to give her a different perspective when she had confided in her about the things that weighed heavily on her conscience daily. Chani had told Purity that her speeches had the power to influence. She told her that the quality of her voice is firm in its unapologetic tone. Enchanting in its projection.

“The strength that your voice carries is beautiful, Usul. Use it.”

But Chani had also tried to dissuade her from sipping the water of life. Telling her it was poisonous to her psyche, that it had the ability to corrupt.

But she had to take that risk; it was needed if she had any hope to lead. Lead with purpose. Have answers to the blaring questions of the people. Answers that could spiral out the path forward in a clear way. 

They told her before she was given the water of life, she would have the ability to see into potential outcomes… in the form of dreams and visions. They would be more vivid, feeling real. She may even feel short waves of lucid imagery, a Sayyadina had informed her.

But it was night terrors, rather, that came to her. The lucid night terrors that would seemingly only last a few minutes. Or hours. But she refused to accept that… that is what actually transpired. It seemed more than just mere visions. There was a blurred line after the days she had taken it. What had been reality. 

There was a peeking into the inner spaces of her mind; she never, ever had the inkling to pry open again. Mysterious, treacherous spaces. Rotted wastelands.

The electric blue liquid in the crystalline dropper dribbled into her waiting mouth, over the bow of her lips.

Walking is possible when dreaming, but it shouldn’t connect to things that haven't happened yet. That had the chance of happening. Prophetic visions are just that. Visions. A multitude of pathways. Possibilities if certain actions are taken. If certain things are said, even.

They didn’t say mystical hallucinations would be a side effect. They never told her that. But she had asked about sleepwalking beforehand.

“Sleepwalking is not the norm after drinking.” Stilgar had reassured her.

“If it is, let it be with your feet dancing slow and precise against the sands, Maud’Dib.” Stilgar had joked, quirking up in a smile while they sat along a golden-brown sand dune along the deserts of Arrakis. He clapped her on the back of her stillsuit, and her face was flat and searching as she took his words in, quickly grinning back at him haphazardly.

It was foreboding. Right after her eyes had closed and the world had gone black, the water of life had spiked through her system, zipping and swerving.

She had woken in a grand hall. Orangey hues all around. Exposed to the elements. To Arrakis. But it was disguised as an encampment. A hut within the deserts?

It was sudden. The gleam of a Crysknife dazzled, plunging into her gut, the pain excruciating, white-hot.

She heard her own ragged, heavy breathing loud in her ears as she was pushed back, stumbling over her feet. The blare of her breaths was echoing and reverberating all around her. A figure with smooth skin that was devoid of any hair walked up closer to her as she tried to regain her bearings. 

A ghostly pale man gripped her by the scruff of her neck, directing her head towards him, low, gristly, grunting, fanning over her face, breathing her in.

His mouth was a void of death. Charcoal seemed to be painted over his teeth. Choked, heaving breaths flowed out of her beaten-down lungs, passionate in their effort to bring oxygen. Darkness settled over his determined, enraptured eyes that bore into her.

He pointed yet another Crysknife, the glistening tip ready to stick into the space between her eyes. Her gloved hand flew out as she struggled to keep it away, the knife's sharp edges piercing through her glove. Searing pain settles in as she grabs her stomach, croaking gasps huffing over the blood that splatters the firm line of his lips. His dark blue eyes stoked embers as they flickered over her.

“I’m here, Atreides.”

The raspy tone of his voice cut through the crowds in the same hall that the man had fought her. It was before.

His words were said with conviction. She whipped around at his statement, locking eyes with him. She didn’t like what festered there.

“I need a blade.” He said stoically. 

A noise, outside of her tent.

They were travelling; the guerilla war had started, the battle of Arrakeen. Fremen travel encampments and tents were currently swarming the area that surrounded her, obeying her order to rest for the night.

It was a sweltering night, and the ripple of a whispery, pained grunt was heard. Directly behind her tent.

She had shot up out of her rolled sleeping bag, the noise making her heart thunder against her rib cage. Her arm jutted out to grab the handle of her Crysknife that lay under clothing.

“Gurney, someone encroaches on our encampment!” She belts out, bolting through the flaps of her tent, her voice cracking through the moonlit skies. “Take my back!”

Gurney had been standing by on watch duty outside of her tent, and he had taken her warning in spades, even though he had not heard the noise she had shouted of.

He trekked with alarm, searching for hours that night, waking some of the Fedaykin who had also scoured the area. Searching for what The Messiah had heard.

There was nothing. Nothing but a fading self-assurance in the glow of the night.

...

That couldn't have been real.

“Who slipped in my tent last night? My blades, my father’s ring is gone?” Purity’s shoulders jittered with frustration as she was seen stomping through the flaps of her tent, her commanding tone making conversations instantly quell down to a whisper. 

The shock-filled stares that met her when she burst through her tent did not lessen her anxiety. Someone had taken her treasured belongings. The knowledge that the Fedaykin would betray her trust made her lose all faith in the prophesied path to paradise.

“Who?” She bellows out louder, balling her fists at her sides as she speedily darts around the puzzled group, circling around them in her head wrap and stillsuit, chest heaving.

“Do I not lead you well, Fedaykin? Does your Lisan al Gaib not protect you? Do I not listen to your concerns?” 

“Lisan al Gaib—” “Please, Maud’Dib—” “No, honourable Usul, we would never—”

A mix of defending pleas and declarations erupted into the air. Chani was seen in the back of the encampments, her eyes brimming with calculation at the state of Purity.

Her advisor and right-hand man, Gurney, stood with crossed arms and a hard stare. His distant gaze darted to the side at the mention of her late father. “My lady, are you certain you have checked everywhere? We have been travelling.” He was observing her with confusion but had kept a tight lip on any other inquiries.

Lady Jessica, regal and witchlike in her robes, had sat cross-legged like an oracle, a look of knowing on her tattooed face. 

There was a timid voice out of the corner of her eye. Stilgar, his frown etched deep into his tan face, the iciness in his eyes full of concern.

“Usul, your accusation dishonours us.”

Her face was emotionless as he tried to grasp her hands in his, save for her eyes that boiled.

Her black curls fell just above her shoulders. It was tightly wrapped up along with her alabaster, freckled complexion. Wrapped with the fabric of a Fedaykin headscarf, covering completely over the skin of her face, so only the slit of her spice-spiked cerulean irises shone through as she glided quietly, sandwalking through the dunes.

However archaic the chime of her presence. However the contradiction in her lithe physique and booming voice. She was camouflaging against the grains with the rest of the Sietch.

Purity's eyes nearly bulge out of her head at the image of a pale, bald man standing there in the rumbling dunes, like a halo of light orbited around him. He was out of place, looking like he controlled the very rumbles of the incoming sandworm.

Behind a Shai-Hulud? Behind the worm's body… like some ghoul in the sands.

It's a dream. It's a dream. It's a dream.

But he called out to her from afar, plain as day, beckoning her. No others had been alerted to him, only focused on the approach of the sandworm.

“I’m here, Atreides.”

Her face paled as she faced his distant form, a white speck in the golden dunes.

The desert shook; the sky broke. Casting a sheen of ruby red over the horizon.

They say she is like a mirror of him. 

Her cousin.

He is nothing. She is the prophet. She is the holder of the prophecy. She is the saviour.

Do you not see this, Chani? Do you not know the sacrifices I have already made?

She had sacrificed her mental state to be the Lisan al Gaib. To lead them to paradise. To day-walk paranoid. 

He is nothing like her. He is evil incarnate. He is all that she fights against. All that is soiled and rotted. He is the impending doom of humanity. 

He waved to her, pitch-black mouth open and turned up.

Purity wanted to make the trek herself this time. Across the desert. Just a circular round trip to challenge herself before she faces the Emperor with her armies. She knew how to stay hidden, and she’s been perfecting her sandwalk, honing it.

She knew how to ride on the back of a Shai-Hulud. She would have to ride more to ever hope to be true power.

And there was another reason. She wanted to find her father’s ring, which she had cherished with everything she knew. A Fremen had found both of her blades, however, about ten feet away from her tent with no explanation. It had boggled her mind for the last few days.

“I walk the path in front of me, as provided by the water of life. I trust you will know I do not do this for leisure. Everything has a purpose. Tell the Sietch to not wait up for me.”

Gurney had looked at her with a grim, desperate expression. “This is dangerous. You mustn't be too rash in the days that come, my lady… please.”

But Stilgar had bowed his head. “Mahdi, I will not question your motives.”

Chani had not even bothered to see her off, and her heart sank with volition.

Her body was flung back and forth.

The roar of a sandstorm.

The ground quaked with force.

Sand grains blasted through the air as she ran.

An all-encompassing, metaphysical voice entered her mind’s eye.

You will not find the ring here, Maud’Dib. You must go back to the Sietch. Sleep again. 

"But I do not wish—” her voice wavered. “I need to find it—”

You will find the ring again. As written. 

The voice reached the universe.

Purity squinted; a Shai-Hulud was perched high in the sky in the raging blur of the sandstorm. Its feral teeth glinted at her.

She believes that might have been the source of the voice.

Purity wakes again, and she’s back at the Sietch, but she doesn’t remember returning.

She rubs her eyes as they flutter open, blinking as her fuzzy eyesight readjusts until it’s crisp.

The ceiling of the tent is sand-coloured, well-blended with the outskirts of the dunes. Looking down, she seemed to have fallen asleep in her stillsuit. It was caked in dust from sand.

“Maud’Dib… She's been hiding.” A demented voice taunted somewhere from outside of the tent.

Her instincts flooded her, a head rush.

“Gurney—!”

It was like déjà vu the way she had clamoured for her Crysknife again, barging through the exit of her tent.

“Prepare the Fedaykin—"

Her warning had died in her throat, left without much reason to hold her will.

The Sietch was bleak. Stark and empty. A dismal sight in the desert wastes.

So quiet you could hear a pin drop. The sun was a blatant yellow stain in the sky.

Why had Gurney let her sleep in broad daylight?

She descended forward, brandishing her blade, crouching with caution, scanning.

With no sign of a step behind her, she had felt the trace of the knife at her back, the point of it not entering very far, pricking her. It stung.

Completely aghast, she spun around with a raised Crysknife, seething.

But nothing was there to greet her.

Her voice boomed. “You will show yourself, cousin.”

She knew it was him. He had entered through the parallels of so many doors, so many dreams and visions. He had even broken through the dimensions of what she thought physically possible.

Those were just hallucinations. The result of taking this damned poison. 

Hands caught her hips from behind, spinning her around in their grip. Fingers thrummed over her stillsuit, and she jumped from her skin.

Blazing eyes.

Face-to-face with the phantom assaulting her every waking thought. Yet again, he is here. Feyd-Rautha. 

The Harkonnen, her duelling opponent. The one that threatens her claim to Arrakis. Her claim on the Golden Lion Throne. To inherit what she is destined for. Her cousin. Her enemy.

Her mirror.

“I’m here, Atreides.”

A typhoon of unwanted butterflies flaps inside her stomach.

Her mind shook.

And if I had not broken the Bene Gesserit's plans…

If I did not have access to the bridge of time and space, both male and female ancestral memories…

I would have been forced to share a son with him.

Purity’s arm flashed out, burying her Crysknife to the hilt of his shoulder.

He groaned. He clenched her hips painfully, making her sharply inhale. Something on his finger stuck out, bruising.

She dared to look down.

Her father’s ring.

How?

Her voice thundered out again. “How did you take this from me?”

She pushed the handle into his shoulder, grounding it around and around. 

His animalistic grunt was lecherous. It shattered the skies.

“The Maud’Dib cannot hide from me.” He rasped heavily. “You cannot be kept from me.”

Her gut swirls in horror.

That doesn’t answer my question.

Her voice broke. “You haunt me. Tell me how you navigate through the prophetic visions. Why are you shown to me—”

Pert lips spread out to bare his black teeth. His hands are on her face. Cradling it, caressing it with his thumbs.

He cups her cheek, and she latches onto the handle dug into his shoulder harder. Her skin is tingling, prickling with zaps of electricity.

She soon feels she is shocked by lightning when his forehead connects with hers, pressing into it. 

She winces, feeling herself tremble when their eyes connect, feeling that he was sucking the life out of her soul.

A blush runs from her chest up to her neck. 

The energy was eerie, but the tension between them was palpable.

“Atreides.” He huskily whispers. “You haunt me too.”

Her eyes flash with wonder. With gut-wrenching sickness.

She saw the sky blanket out into a crimson colour behind the edges of his translucent face.

He began peppering kisses over her cheek, chin, nose, and forehead.

“Atreides...” he gloated, capturing and nipping her earlobe. His gums open to reveal his shadowy mouth, thumbing her jaw up to the deep red skies, darting his tongue out to lick a hot trail of saliva from the bottom of her throat all the way up to her chin, finishing with a chaste kiss on her lips.

Something inside of her breaks. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, deeply glazed.

Her mouth filled with blood, and a blade was wedged in her stomach. Her mouth opens in a silent scream. A burning pain. A rupture in her gut.

She stares down.

There wasn’t anything there. There was no blade. 

She raises her eyes, and the Crysknife she had sheathed in his shoulder had vanished from sight.

And he’s on her again. Primal. Digging his forehead to hers as he drank her in tenderly, hands aggressively squeezing her hips. It seared her atoms. Her neurons.

This encounter is reminiscent of the prophesied vision of their bloody duel… because quite similarly, she finds her breath shallow and her voice strangled. All she had to do was breathe into him like this to feel his love, to hear her lineage uttered so adoringly from his lips—

But the stabbing is fake. Phantom.

“You will return my ring.” She booms out, despite her overwhelmed disposition.

Her mouth is sopping, dribbling blood, trickling, and staining. She can taste the metallic bitterness.

Your divination of me is endearing, Atreides. How romantic. Is this how you wish us to be?

Purity’s eyelids snap wider in awareness. The voice is cruel, mocking.

Somehow a version of Feyd-Rautha is echoing telepathically in her mind.

Her palms fly out to press against the plates of his armoured chest. He’s leaning in, staring into her spirit, burrowing into it, as if she were as pure as her name.

Something glimmers on her index finger that presses into his chest. The bulky signet ring, inherited from her late father, Leto. Her brain almost ceases to function when she wonders… Has it always been there?

His hands snake up her sides, dipping her backwards mid-air, like a seesaw. Everything buzzes around her.

“Muad'Dib looks best in blood.” His words were brushed against her sticky, iron-splattered lips in a hoarse whisper.

[coffeeandbatboys]

His New Religion (Wolffe x Fem!Reader)

for my friend @alegendoftomorrow in the @cloneficgiftexchange!

A/N: So this ended up summing up a lot of what happened before, during and after Right Here Waiting and its wedding sequel, part 2, which I know Legend had read, so my brain took the idea and ran with it.

Warnings: a little bit of angst, some awkward fluffies and a badly summed up slow burn with a happy ending

Prompt(s): “But somewhere there's a light//A sign that it's alright//I find it by your side” (New Religion, The Heydaze),

“Always thought those feelings, they were stories not made for me // It's terrifying, but I'm pretty certain it's worth it” || “I didn't know you were something I could need // Until you, until you loved my everything // The good, the bad, the in between, all of me” || “But all the hell we've been through had a purpose // Together we are chaos and it's perfect” (I Didn’t Know, Sofia Carson)

Wordcount: 856

If someone had sat cadet cc-3636 down and told him that he'd be living with the love of his life one day…

…He would have broken out laughing.

And yet Wolffe, the grumpy, no-nonsense commander of the 104th, had melted like a puddle the first night he spent in your embrace.

The two of you had met during a whirlwind campaign. You had needed him to sign some forms to accept supply restocks, and he’d obliged with a grumble, voicing his negative remarks about ‘redundant protocols’.

The next meeting happened in the mess hall. You’d been covering for a friend in the food line when you caught his sharp, analyzing gaze. With a blush and a smile, you served him his rations, a begrudgingly mumbled ‘thanks’ reaching your ears.

A few weeks later and it was in the medbay. You'd dropped a box on your foot, earning yourself a broken toe, while Wolffe had garnered a blaster graze to the bicep. He was reserved as usual, but engaged in some awkward, short-lived conversation about your odd jobs in the GAR while the medics patched the two of you up.

After that, you didn't see him for a long while.

And one night you found him at the door of your quarters, pacing; deciding whether he should knock or not. That was the night he had first asked you out on date.

Shore leave dates turned into nights curled in each others’ loving embrace and soft mornings filled with nothing but bliss. Harrowing weeks apart turned into joyful reunions and a growing love between you.

And one night, all of that became your beloved Wolffe falling to a knee and asking for the honor of your hand in marriage. You'd never given a second thought about saying yes.

You vividly remember after that weekend the way he kissed you goodbye and promised to return safely.

But as fate would have it, he was taken away from you. The Empire rose out of the Republic's ashes, throwing everyone's lives into pure chaos and cutting the ties between you and your love.

You didn't see your fiancé for a year. Instead, you'd joined a network of rogue clones that led you to Rex, and had began working with them.

Then there was Teth, where you saw him again, but not as an ally. You were glad to see Wolffe, despite the reunion being marred by grief and despair. But oh, how you wanted to reach out and bring him back into your arms, even knowing he wasn't the same.

Weeks passed, and he seemed to make his decision when Rex and Echo brought him back to the new base. He danced around the subject for a while, afraid to find out what you would say. But one look into your hopeful eyes was all it took for him to break down in your arms.

The two of you wed in a simple ceremony, surrounded by his brothers, who had become just as much family to you. In that moment, the trials of the past gave way to a hopeful future, with you and Wolffe facing the challenges of a tumultuous galaxy together.

Now today, as you look out into the setting sun, you smile. Who would have thought that a love tested by loyalty, betrayal and heartache would heal in such a way?

Wolffe hums behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as a kiss is pressed behind your ear.

“If you keep staring at the sun, Mesh’la,” he remarks, squeezing you a little. “—you'll go blind.”

You laugh brightly and wiggle around to face him. He smiles and let's his lips brush across your cheeks, nose and forehead, before landing on your own in a tender kiss.

“I suppose I have something better to stare at here,” you tease. The golden hour glow highlights his best features. His hair has begun to gray at the temples, silver strands fading into his thick curls, and his cybernetic eye glitters in the sunlight. His jaw bears a little bit of stubble; a deliberate choice, you assume.

“Oh?” He asks, forehead resting gently upon yours.

“Yeah,” you answer, reaching up to caress his scar. His eyes flutter closed.

“What's going on in that beautiful mind of yours, huh?

You smile. “I was just thinking. About us.” Your head rests against his shoulder as a warm breeze dusts both of you.

He hums deeply in acknowledgment, a kiss being placed to your temple.

“Also known as: a scratch and dent clone falls in love with a smart, caring, drop dead gorgeous woman?”

You laugh lightly and shake your head. “More like, How a man and woman’s love made it through all sorts of trials.”

Wolffe’s face falls a little, but you cup his cheek to turn his gaze toward you.

“And what happened is in the past. We have all the time in the world now, yeah?”

He smiles ever so slightly and holds you close. “Yeah Mesh'la. That sounds perfect.”

And he thinks now that he’s had a taste of love, he can get used to it for the long run.

[arcane-ish]

My worry is this, that the main difference between season 1 and season 2 is that in season 2 Arcane stopped being a tv show and its own thing and became very squarely "a League thing".

Now that isn't necessarily an all bad thing. I mean, League is popular for a reason. There are aspects of League that are fun and creative. And I could picture people who come from League being happy with all the "He said the thing" and shoutouts to all the things they care about.

But to me it feels like season 1 was approached as a way to stand on its own and sell itself on its own and be a story about the characters that you try to sell from scratch.

Whole season 2 feels like they might be cramming all the League stuff into Arcane all of a sudden. And with "League stuff" I mean structural things like:

rush characters to get them into a fighting/champion position (Mel)

rush champs to be their League selves

constantly give characters new looks because League funds itself via selling skins

remind people that there are other continents and potential future spin offs out there (Ambessa, Noxus, Black Rose)

Bring stupid void shit and larger than life threats rather than just very human can comparably low magic threats like Silco because that's how League does a lot of its storytelling

bring up that League skins often also mean parallel universes (academy Ekko)

Like I can imagine that some people are genuinely into it. And some things like new looks, skin universes and maybe even void shit and more continents is fun for people.

I just think it's a huge break from how season 1 was told. And there's still some good character writing and some good theming to tie it together a bit. So it's not like the old values are gone just because all these new values and priorities are suddenly swaming the show.

In the end I've always said that League of Legends is the most like a comic book company with the whole so many "lead" characters with their own backstories and power sets, parallel universes, shifting canons etc.

And Arcane just remind me a lot about what I hate about a lot of comic book media when they leave the whole "this is small story about a baby from space being found by a couple in Kansas, growing up with powers and trying to get the hot city chick to like him" invariably needs to get bigger and bigger threats and suddenly we are on "we now are fighting a galaxy eating cloud, now wait, we are not just fighting to preserve one universe from going kaput, now you have to save all the multiverses".

Ceterum Censeo: I hate Viktor and Jayce particularly for brining all the spacey trippy void shit to a show that previously was a lot more low magic and that had a lot more human and close to earth stakes before that.

(for what it's worth, I think the claims of Christian Linke about Arcane being only 2 seasons in his mind are believable. I full believe that the Jinx, Vi, Warwick, Silco and Cait stuff was always roughyl their plan. I just worry that either League came to them with lots of additional "omg, can you put this in too" requests or that they went overboard with the "omg, now I can put this in too because season 1 was successful" ideas)

[high-mackrels-musings]

Shatterpoint: A Mace Windu Musical. Chapter 3: A Daughter

I’m keeping up with this Mace Windu Musical, this time with the third song starring Mace Windu’s apprentice Depa Billaba, Depa was for all intents and purposes his daughter. In the novel Shatterpoint Mace refers to her as such: “Depa is more than a friend to me. She’s one of those dangerous attachments. She is the daughter I will never have. ” And I wanted to reflect that father-daughter bond between them with this song, while also foreshadowing what’s to come. Links to the previous songs:

Chapter 1: Guide Us

Chapter 2: A Leader

Chapter 4: Farewell to a Knight

A Daughter

[At the temple on Courscant, Depa Bilaba, Mace’s former apprentice, finds herself contemplating the war. She stares out into the city having just received her orders to go to Hardin Kal, Mace Windu’s homeworld].

Depa: My first memories are of a song,

And you would be there all night long.

You saved my life and gave me a home,

Taught me the Force was not just my own.

You said the light was a choice we make,

A path we walk, the bonds we take.

You gave me strength, you gave me peace,

A guiding star that would never cease.

I was your learner, your blade, your fight,

But you were my father, my source of light.

Not just a master, distant and cold,

But the warmth that shaped the story I told.

Taught me Vaapad, told me dark is a choice

Taught me to not give darkness a voice. 

I was a blade with Vaapad I would fight

I would take the dark and make it light. 

Yet now, as shadows grow and whisper near,

I wonder, can his teachings persevere?

Master Windu, do these lessons still hold,

In a galaxy consumed, where hearts grow cold?

[Depa Walks through the temple, the halls once filled with eager students or well known faces are now emptier or filled with those preparing for war, her heart breaks. She returns to her room.]

Jedi Chorus:

To Haruun Kal you’ll go

Stay hidden stay low

To wage a war both cruel and raw,

To the jungle, where chaos is law.

Depa:

I’ve seen the war, the blood it spills,

The lives we take, the pain it fills.

To halt the rising dark, must we transform?

And I wonder—can we weather the storm?

Jedi Chorus:

The jungle calls, its heartbeat pounds,

Through tangled vines and broken grounds.

The shadows grow, their whispers cry,

Can she stand, or will she comply?

[Depa begins to record a holo message for Mace she must leave before he returns. She walks through the halls as she speaks voice breaking slightly.]

Depa:

Master Windu, do these lessons still hold

In a galaxy consumed, where hearts grow cold?

The choices we make, will they haunt us?

Can we not step back and discuss?

If Skywalker had fallen, if Kenobi too,

Would the galaxy now stand whole and true?

Amidala’s life, a spark in the flame,

But a small price, in the end, all the same.

Is one life worth a galaxy’s fate?

Or is it the darkness we create?

We call it compassion, to save and defend,

But how many lives must break in the end?

All I ask—Master, no, not Master—

Father, I ask, that you guard me faster.

Not with your blade, nor words to bind,

But with your faith, unspoken, kind.

Believe in me if I falter or stray,

Guide me in thought, though you’re far away.

For the jungle calls, its shadows consume,

And I fear, Father, it may become my tomb.

[Depa enters Mace’s chambers where she leaves her holo message.]

[dragonkeeper19600]

PLA Headcanons: Volo and Cogita

Previous post regarding headcanons specific to Volo is here.

Volo arrived in Hisui before the Galaxy Team had an established presence there.

Ships didn't go to Hisui very often in those days. People from other regions saw Hisui as especially dangerous, and the Diamond and Pearl Clans were somewhat isolationist. The Ginkgo Guild would be willing to do business with with foreigners, but many suppliers didn't think it was worth it to make the trip all the way to Hisui to trade with them.

As a result, Volo had to fork over a lot of money in order to book passage on a boat. And even then, the captain refused to actually set foot on Hisui himself. He just dropped Volo off and sailed away.

Volo didn't mind. He'd already gotten pretty good at living off the land in Kanto and Johto. He was content to be left by himself to explore Hisui.

However, survival in Hisui was more challenging than Volo anticipated.

It was actually Enamorus who first brought Volo to Cogita's attention. Enamorus noticed how much Volo looked like Cogita and brought her to him.

At that point, Volo wasn't doing well. He had survived the brutal winter in Hisui, but he was sick and emaciated.

Cogita took Volo in and nursed him back to health.

Cogita is ageless and the writer of the Old Verses. She's actually several centuries old. She isn't sure how many. She doesn't like to think about her age.

Her hair used to be blonde, like Volo's, but it turned white when she became ageless.

She's also Volo's direct ancestor. She's had to outlive her husband, her children, her grandchildren, etc. She isolated herself more and more from her people until they finally left Hisui without her. She couldn't go with them because of her mission from Arceus to guide the player character when they arrive.

Naturally, Cogita was deeply moved to find this young man from across the sea who looked just like her.

Volo was interested in Cogita, too. He had also noticed their resemblance. (She especially looked like his mother.) He realized she was the only family he had left. He was pleased to know that she knew even more Hisuian legends than his parents had. When Cogita told those stories, they weren't simple fairytales. They were historical relics, polished for a scholar's eye.

Despite their promising beginning, Cogita soon realized there was something sketchy about Volo. He was very secretive about his background (which she couldn't push him on, seeing as she was too), and there was something phony about his smiling demeanor.

At one point, he slipped up and made a flippant comment that made Cogita realize that Volo had likely done something terrible in the past.

She didn't press him on it, though. Even though she didn't trust him, she couldn't bring herself to try and drive him away. In the first place, she didn't want an enemy. But, the knowledge that he was of her bloodline softened her toward him, in spite of herself.

Cogita was the one who introduced Volo to the Ginkgo Guild and pushed him toward becoming a member. She felt (correctly) that he wouldn't get along with the Diamond and Pearl Clans for appropriating the culture of the Celestica people without fully understanding it, and she convinced Volo that the Ginkgo Guild would provide some stability to his life in Hisui.

She is not happy that Volo doesn't seem to take his job seriously. She was hoping that having a steady income would keep Volo on the straight and narrow (she has had belongings of hers go missing after Volo visits, though he stopped doing that after a while), and it bothers her that his flippant attitude hasn't changed.

She's also a longtime acquaintance of Ginter, and she's embarrassed that she vouched for Volo only for him to disappear for long stretches of time examining ruins or whatever.

Cogita knew all along that she had the Pixie Plate. Enamorus gave it to her, and she instantly recognized what it was. She just didn't want to hand it over to Volo.

Volo hatched Togepi from an egg. He got the egg in a trade with a member of the Diamond Clan.

He enjoyed having Togepi around because the happiness stored in its shell made him feel good. However, he never really loved Togepi. He raised it with care for pragmatic reasons, but he sometimes lost his temper with it. Togepi could be as needy as a child, and on more than one occasion, Volo lost patience with its clamoring for attention and ended up striking it.

The sound of Togepi's crying would then irritate Volo, so he would bounce it on his knee until it stopped.

His Pokémon are all in a bit of a toxic relationship with him. He's really nice and caring toward them...right up until he isn't. The Pokémon try their best to placate him until he's back in the "hearts and flowers" phase.

In other words, they both love him and fear him.

The fact that he can't return the affection his Pokémon obviously feel for him does make him feel lonely as well as jealous of other trainers, especially the player character, for the genuine relationship they share with their Pokémon.

Volo sort of feels like a broken doll who's only "pretending" to be human.

In addition to remaking the world, he's been hoping that Arceus could remake him, too.