#shereshoy series

[writerlyhabits]

Aliit ori’shya tal'din

Pairing: Din Djarin x female reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Your second day in the covert reveals both new and familiar faces; hospitality and hostility.

Chapter 3 of the Shereshoy series | Masterlist | Ch. 2 | Ch. 4

Warnings: lots of Mando’a, mild language, soft Din, awkward Din, protective Din [he’s got a wide range, okay?], original Mandalorian characters… maybe a little bit of angst? It’s mostly worldbuilding, so I think that’s about it. 

AN: A word from the author – “I’m in grad school, I take forever to write things.Soon I will start grad school again, which means I’ll write this instead of my dissertation. I’m quite fond of the Mando Legends Lore, if you haven’t noticed. I literally got Kad Ha’rangir & Arasuum tattooed on me.”

This is the third part of a sister fic for my one-shot (Courting) a friend of mine wrote based on this request, and I’m so happy she’s letting me share it with you guys! She is also sharing it on AO3, so be sure to send her your love and kudos there as well! We hope you enjoy 💛

Translations, in order of appearance:

Aliit ori’shya tal'din: Family is more than blood

Rejorhaa'i kaysh murcyur gar shupur’ika?:  Are you gonna tell her to kiss your ouchies?

Cuyi ulyc, vod.: Be careful, sister.

Aliit: family

Ad(e): child/children

Kar’ta beskar: the central "diamond" of Mandalorian armor; lit. heart armor

Mirjahaal: peace of mind, "healing", general term for emotional well-being especially after a trauma or bereavement

Beroya: bounty hunter

Kurshi: tree

Sen’tra: jackpack

Buir(e): Parent/Parents

Akaanati'kar'oya: The War of Life and Death (Mandalorian myth), creation story

Verd'goten: a special trial for one to become warrior; lit. birth of warrior

So'haale: births

Urman'gedete: prayers

Eparave: feasts

Cyarir evaar'la: Courting

Alii'aliit: meeting of the clans, the closest thing mandalorians have to government or parliament; lit. "clan of clans"

Tsad: group (of people), alliance

Bes'ede: Mythosaur

Kandush : inevitable doom

Time moves differently underground.

With Odona, the hours passed quickly. As a team, you could disassemble and reconstruct nearly any ship in their small fleet, save for a few parts— which no one had yet found and delivered. The days were faster when the guardsman opted to join you in his free time, his first visit and subsequent dialogue with Odona still memorable.

To what do I owe the displeasure; Oh Mighty Protector of the Covert and Savior of Foundlings?

The pleasure of my company is for your friend, ‘Dona.

Why? Going to terrorize her again, Ik’? Ven’rejorhaa'i kaysh murcyur gar shupur’ika?

Cuyi ulyc, vod.

You had sensed there was a joke hidden within their jibes, one you were unable to decipher in their foreign tongue, but neither took the time to explain. Whilst Ikarus lacked use for the labor that required fine motor control, his presence disrupted the monotony of the many tedious and repetitive tasks you and Odona spent much of your time doing— their frequent banter kept you entertained throughout the day. 

The time you had spent in the medbay was shorter— the most common injuries coming from the older adolescents early on in their training, whose resilience and constitution had yet to strengthen— as well as wrist and ankle sprains from poor fighting forms, the occasional laceration from knife safety training; and at worst, injuries from the teens and young adults earned from a vigorous sparring session.

But with Din, the mornings and evenings together never felt long enough. The hours were reminiscent of your time with him and the Child in the Crest, the warmth of your aliit protected by familiar cold walls; the stone of the cavern both analogous yet antithetic to the durasteel of your former home. 

One forged of hands, and the other of time— one of the fires of a furnace, the other the fires of a planet’s mantle. Your time together before was that of contrivance, engineered— with agendas to follow and assignments to complete— your interactions affable yet somewhat artificial, a present barrier precluding your companionship from evolving into something more… More natural, more innate, more intimate. Here, your time together had been more candid, endearing— Din no longer shied away from any probing questions or physical closeness, which allowed that previous barrier to melt and slowly flow away like that of bedrock to magma, reshaping and remolding your times of leisure together to hours of unified repose.

The hours turned to days, the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turn to this moment, where seemingly no time passes at all— blanketed in the familiar darkness of your room. The unlit and chilled space, at first an unacquainted oddity, now a comfortable companion to spend the sleeping and waking hours in. The ritual remains the same— awaken with the Child, have the morning trade-off with Din, make the caf, and begin the tasks for the day— like clock work, a well-oiled droid.

This morning is almost no different, and yet, you hesitate to leave your bed, your conversation with Din the previous morning still fresh in your mind— 

Din had sat aside the table, his body resting against the wall— unarmored, arms crossed, head tilted to the side, the same position as every morning. Once you handed him the Child and sat, caf in hand, he finally spoke.

“I’d like you to join me tomorrow,” he stated. 

The lack of pleasantries from him was unsurprising, though a teasing ‘Good morning to you, Din’ was a tempting response. Instead, you greeted him with a grin and an unobjectionable reply— 

“Alright, what are we doing?” 

He hummed, pleased with your immediate acceptance.

“The adults alternate supervising the ade. Tomorrow, it’ll be our turn.”

You gestured toward the Child in his arms, in a playful retort. “Don’t we supervise this ad every day?”

The Child cooed in his arms, his ears perked tentatively at his mention. Din sighed, with a smile in voice.

“We do. It’s tradition for all of the adults to care for the ade… All have wisdom to share.”

Skeptical, you thought: ‘What would I possibly teach them?’

You observed the Child resting so comfortably on Din’s chest— his tiny hand gripped tightly into Din’s clothes, right where his armor’s kar’ta beskar normally sat. It was a stark contrast compared to the Child’s behavior upon your first meeting. With any loud noises and sudden movements, he would shrink inwards in his cradle— as if he could make himself any smaller. Medical scanners made him grimace, unfamiliar places and people made his ears droop— seeing others upset made him wary. And yet, he was endlessly curious. Despite his initial unease with the two new adults in his life, the Child was quick to trust you both— and with his trust, his personality came through… his affection, his laughter, his love. 

From there, Din learned how to tend to someone outside of himself— what it meant to have someone that relied on him, and more colossally, someone that wanted Din, as he was. The Armorer branded him as the Child’s father, and the delighted squeal from the little one sealed the bond that Din had been trying to hide for so long. Just as the Child learned to trust Din with his welfare, so too did Din learn to trust the Child with his own mirjahaal.  

Perhaps it wasn’t the lessons they taught, but rather the connection they made, and the wisdom they sought.

With this, the true question then inverted from the skeptic ‘what would I teach them’, to the sanguine ‘what will I learn?’...

“...When do we meet them?”

—

To the ade, the former beroya is nothing more than a tall kurshi fit to climb. 

Somehow, Din appears endlessly patient and playful with all six of the young children. They utilize their limitless spurts of energy to continuously attack Din as a squad, bringing him to the ground— he’ll exclaim a faux wail, and collapse to his knees— and the collective giggles of the ade begin the cycle again. 

Whenever a child grows tired of their battle, they come to you— wanting to be tossed into the air, or onto the nearest surface. Supposedly being gently thrown around aids in their brain development, and ‘it’s good practice for their first sen’tra flight’, Din tells you. The logic is questionable at best, but hearing their joyous squeals makes the ever-growing muscle fatigue worthwhile. Even the child of the Djarin clan is as equally amused, his own little spirit mightily lifted by the experience of being with other kids again. 

During your time on Sorgan, the Child was happy to interact with the other children— but mostly, he watched them, rather than play. Perhaps he was still too shy or too wary to fully engage with so many people, but surrounded by these Foundlings now, he looks at home; like he belongs. Amidst this cohort, he’s made a new friend, Mara, the youngest of the lot. Her long and dark hair reminds you— and perhaps the Child— of Winta, Omera’s daughter. The two spent the most time together on Sorgan, and despite the little one’s inability to say, he misses her. 

Mara and the Child sit away from the squad play-fighting Din, in front of the single wall of volcanic tuff— embellished with crimps and pockets, graven by many hands. You watch them, as they examine the wall, looking up and down, side to side. Your eyes travel upward to the small cavate, almost eight feet from the floor. You watch as Mara looks to the Child and nods, and begins her ascent up— using her fingers and toes to grip tightly onto the various crevices in the wall— and the Child begins to follow.

You step forward, almost instinctively, wanting to call out to them to stop, wanting to reach out to the children to prevent a fall—

Then, from nowhere, Din appears at your side, extending his hand to stop you. “Don’t,” he says softly, “Let them try.”

You look at him puzzled, and he continues. “If you distract them now, they might fall…” he pauses, and turns his head to watch them, “...but if you allow them to focus, they can succeed. Watch…” 

The pair silently step closer, closing the distance between themselves and the wall, watching the two ade slowly make their way up to the cavate. Mara climbs inside first, and lays on her belly, reaching out to the Child to help him trek the final span of the wall. Once inside, the Child turns around, to face the entire room below him. He squeals a little clamor of excitement, proud of his triumph, before looking down to his buire.

“Good job, kid,” Din says. “Come on down, it’s time to go.”

The Child looks at you both doe-eyed, his ears drooping, as he peers over the ledge. He looks back to Mara, and back down over the ledge, contemplating his next move. 

You lean slightly towards Din, speaking in a hushed tone. “I don’t think he knows how to get back down.”

“He can do it,” Din says confidently. 

You challenge him, “He looks scared.” 

Din insists, “Then he’ll do it scared.” 

He steps forward once more, his body almost pressed against the wall, reaching one hand up. “Come on kid, climb down.”

The child’s ears droop even lower, letting out a quiet whimper, a little anxious look on his face. He looks back up to Mara, who gives him an encouraging “You can do it,” before he finally begins his descent towards you and Din. 

Carefully, his little clawed feet grip into the same pockets he used to climb up, and his hands hold onto the ledge. He looks down at his buire with a slightly quivering lip, then back up to his hands. Slowly, he presses on, his movements deliberate and cautious, gravity tugging at his little limbs with relentless persuasion, clammy clawed-hands threatening to slip free from the cold stone. His disgruntled babbling fading with each tentative step, footfalls growing more steady with every downward stride. 

His little foot finally reached something soft— the hand of his buir, waiting for his arrival. With an excited squeal, he looks to Din, holding out his clawed fingers for Din to grasp. Din takes the Child into his arms.

“Good job… I knew you could do it.” Din whispers to him.

With his ad in hand, Din looks back to the cavate, where Mara sits silently. “You too, Mara, come down,” he says. 

Mara, unlike the little one, is less graceful, only climbing down two feet of wall before leaping off. You instinctively reach your arms out to catch her, but are a few seconds too late, as she lands confidently on her feet, smiling up at you. She giggles, asking the Child “Wasn’t that fun!” and the little one cooing affectionately with a bright smile.

“They need to rest.” Din says, before leading Mara and the Child back with the other ade. You follow him in toe, and aid him while he attempts to settle the children in preparation for them to sleep. 

The chamber is bathed in the soft, warm light of the cressets along the walls. The ade sit and lay in a circle on the floor, looking up at the two adults expectedly, waiting for you both to join them. Din gently places the Child in Mara’s lap, seating himself amongst them. 

The ade demanded a story before they would agree to their midday nap, and with only one long sigh, Din relented. As you sit beside him, the tale of Akaanati'kar'oya begins.

—

In ages past, when cosmic realms were naught,

Two gods emerged, each with a purpose sought.

Kad Ha'rangir, embodiment of change,

A dance of growth, His essence did arrange.

Arasuum, the god of slow decay,

In stillness thrived, where life would fade away.

Eternal foes, in battle they engaged,

Ideals clashed, the cosmic script was paged.

Kad Ha'rangir, with eyes of vibrant light,

Envisioned galaxies in endless flight.

His very step, a ripple through the void,

Transforming all, where life and change enjoyed.

Arasuum, with eyes as deep as night,

Desired a realm where stasis held its might.

Decay His touch, a silent, withering breath,

A universe in stillness, touched by death.

In ceaseless clash, their cosmic struggle roared,

A dance of gods, where destinies were stored.

Stoic truths emerged from this grand design,

A tale of action, life's breath so divine.

"For action is the breath that life bestows,

A vital force, as mighty river flows.

Inaction, slow demise, a creeping shade,

A silent death in stillness' dark cascade."

Through galaxies and time, the story spread,

Of Kad Ha'rangir, where change was bred.

Arasuum's touch, a cautionary tale,

A realm in stillness, where all things frail.

So heed the moral, in verses spun,

That action is life, beneath the sun.

For inaction's grasp, a silent breath,

A slow demise, an encroaching death.

—

The ade rest together in a haphazard heap of limbs on various bedcovers and furs draped across the floor. Exhausted from their Beroya Battles and abseil adventures, they finally sleep, leaving the two adults to quietly watch over them together. In the chamber’s silent embrace, the air hangs heavy and chilled— a symphony of stillness envelops the room, broken by the muted shuffle of shifting bodies, and the hushed breaths of the ade. The only audible rhythm is that of the pulsating cadence of your own heartbeat and the rush of blood moving inside your head. 

Your eyes scan over the ade, finding a sense of calmness watching their steady breaths, in… out. 

In… out.

In… out.

Your gaze once again falls onto the Child, cuddled against Mara, also breathing steadily. In the gentle cradle of his friend’s arms, he looks peaceful. Had he ever slept this soundly on the Crest?... Who held him every night before us? Who will take care of him after us?

In the softest whisper, to not disturb the ade, you lean closer to Din, telling him the obvious— “He’s happy here.”

“...Yes,” Din replies, just as quietly. 

“Was this your experience, too? After the Mandalorians saved you?”

“No.”

His visor is trained on the little one’s sleeping face—the same face of a child who was once trapped in the suffocating darkness of a sealed cradle—a cage, a cage whose opening only revealed another prison, in the form of two bounty hunters hovering over him like… a B2 Battle Droid, with a blaster pointed in a child’s face. A child rescued from death at the last possible moment by a shiny warden, offering an adiaphorous detainment. 

“It was… a time of war. I was trained to fight in it. I hope… that they never have to.” Din says, his gaze scanning over the ade once more. 

“I thought all Mandalorians were warriors.”

He, too, believed the same notion for many years. Training from the day he was rescued to the day he became an adult, after his verd'goten, life became a perpetual streak of jobs. Commission, retrieval, payment. Commission, retrieval, payment… Until a strange, golden, aureate armorsmith joined his tribe, bringing tales of the “Great Forge of Mandalore,” and the songs of the artificers that echoed through the speos as they worked. He remembers the first time he kneeled in front of her small, austere forge, in a dark room beneath a busy market above, listening as she spoke of the ethos, the rites, the latria, the true way of the Mandalore. 

“No. Everyone is trained to survive. But… we used to live, too.” 

“...Until Mandalore was taken.”

“Yes.”

So'haale, urman'gedete, eparave, cyarir evaar'la, alii'aliit… A cultus he could only dream of, but never truly have. Spoken knowledge fades into whispers, slipping through his fingers like sand as the voices of the ancestors grow ever fainter. Each decampment a dissolution of tsad res publica, each step forward a battle against oblivion. 

“I’m sorry.” You lean over, resting your head on his pauldron. “...Maybe there’ll come a time when we’ll live in the light, on a planet that welcomes us.” 

Din knows that within every Mandalorian is a patchwork of unfamiliar faces and ever-changing landscapes, their solace and safety as elusive as a bes'ede itself—and yet they endlessly repugn the kandush they have faced time and time again, guided by the conviction that within the uncertainty of the cosmos lay the promise of a sanctuary forged from the resilience of their spirit. 

He tilts his head, resting it atop yours. “There will.”

Ali'nare vencuyanir yaim. This is the Way.   

Thanks for reading!! If you’d like to be notified when I post a new fic, be sure to follow @writerlyhabits-library + turn on post notifications! 💛

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#din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #mando'a #original mandalorian character #shereshoy #shereshoy series #not my writing #i have permission to post this

[triscribeaucollection]

@foxstronaut: #YEAH SO I DID IN FACT WANT TO SEE IT#this is so good……this au just keeps getting better……….tysm for the link to this post!!#the wider context of the time travel……the fallout of bens betrayal…..#positively eating this up#also if i can ask- what is the ‘shereshoy’ mentioned in ur tag? :0

Shereshoy is the capstone of my Vod'e An Star Wars series, which is ALL about time travel, but I keep copy-pasting the intro scene into different AUs because it is. Definitely one of my favorite bits of writing to date.

Here's the series summary:

Have you ever seen a time traveler dropped into the middle of someone else's butterfly effect? How about several dozen someones? AKA I nabbed all my fave clone troopers and sprinkled them into a much happier galaxy, with a touch of violence on top. As a treat.

Aaand just for laughs, here's the intro scene in question:

---

The Force screamed in the middle of the night, and Ahsoka lurched awake with one overriding thought: not again.

Both lightsabers immediately flew to her hands as she rolled out of bed - boots and outer robes left behind in her sprint for the door. For the first time since constructing her own hab at Luke’s school, Ahsoka regretted putting herself on a neighboring ridge instead of down in the valley among the students.

Even as she ran, the Force flickered with another youngling’s death.

Beams of red light in the darkness, matched to knots of Dark power, drew her forward at even greater speed. Bounding off rocks and trees, the togruta remained nearly silent with every leap; she instinctively shielded herself with the Force to mask her approach, until the moment she burst out over the heads of three Sith acolytes, and let her own power flare.

Their helmeted heads snapped upwards. In the span of two heartbeats, her white sabers slashed, and those same heads fell to the ground, their bodies following after a brief pause.

Ahsoka landed in a battle-ready crouch, positioned defensively over a boy collapsed on the ground. When no further Sith revealed themselves, she deactivated and tucked away one lightsaber, freed hand reaching for the teenager at her feet. “Jacen?”

“I’m okay,” he rasped, heart pounding hard enough her lekku could feel the vibrations. “What- what’s happening?”

“Another Purge,” Ahsoka said, fighting hard to keep her voice level. “Can you feel Ezra?” After a moment’s pause, his face scrunched with desperate concentration, Jacen nodded. “Then let’s go. I’ll watch your back.”

The boy staggered upright, and led her around to the far side of the school buildings: student sleeping huts, a kitchen and meal hall, storage and laundry and library. Most of them bore scorch marks and other damage, while further up the valley, the actual temple where Luke handled meditation and combat training burned.

Storm clouds rumbled overhead, an echo of the fury roaring in Ahsoka’s mind. Twice, cracks of lightning revealed fallen bodies as she and Jacen ran past.

Another set of Sith attempted an ambush, only to falter when they registered her white lightsabers. Ahsoka didn’t hesitate to leap forward and deal with them swiftly, before any attention could be turned to the padawan beside her. Jacen, thankfully, didn’t attempt to join her, nor did he comment afterward - but his Force-presence shivered and pulled in even tighter on itself.

The next enemies they came across were a squad of stormtroopers, concentrating fire on a solitary figure, who deflected incoming plasma bolts and shot back his own with the same weapon. Ahsoka could sense two more younglings hidden behind Ezra’s billowed cloak, and increased her speed.

One trooper spotted her mid-charge. He and his neighbor turned to shoot at the new target, but their bolts went wild, too far off the mark to even require deflection. Ridiculous, Ahsoka could hear in her mind, as she spun and slashed, No brother would have gotten off Kamino with aim like that; do they even bother training these shinies, or just hand ‘em armor and a blaster and a new set of orders?

Faster than droids, but not nearly as fast or coordinated as clones, which meant Ahsoka carved through the stormtroopers within moments. As the last blaster fell in pieces to the ground, she saw Jacen dash past to crash against his favorite teacher with a desperate hug. Ezra wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders, the other still holding his lightsaber. “Ahsoka?”

“Get to my ship,” she ordered, as another peal of thunder rang above their heads, and the first few raindrops began to fall. “Don’t wait for anyone else, just take off and get to safety.”

Expression grim, Ezra nodded, and turned to drop into a crouch. He helped Alora get to her feet, the girl holding Grogu against her chest. “Pypey?”

The teenager shook her head, headscarf gone, face covered in tears. Ezra didn’t waste any more time before hustling her and Jacen off, towards the hidden landing pad where they kept hyper-capable craft. Ahsoka barely waited before hurrying onward again.

She passed more bodies; some students, some stormtroopers, the occasional Sith in black and red armor. The rain began coming down harder, turning the ground slick with mud, dragging visibility down to mere feet and severely impacting how much Ahsoka could sense with her hollow montrals.

But the Force didn’t falter. Every leap took her from one mostly-stable spot to another, following further death knells and surges of power, all the way up to the front steps of the old Jedi temple set into the mountainside. All the way to Luke.

Despite his much smaller stature, he moved like Anakin, and she could feel the intense emotions racing through him. One trooper after another fell, Luke refusing to let any of them put so much as a single foot on the steps into his school, his Academy. More bodies sprawled across the stones behind him; only one still flickered faintly with life.

Ahsoka took over the fight.

She landed ahead and just to one side of Luke, better positioned to defend the one student still gasping for breath. “Go! Take her and go!” Her fellow Jedi hesitated, clearly torn between multiple directions. “She’s dying, Luke, take Jaina and go, NOW!”

His Force-presence flared, then settled, decision made. Ahsoka felt the man lunge, scoop up his wounded student, and bolt into the Temple. She knew he’d follow a secret route out to the far side of the mountain, where an overhang sheltered his old X-Wing. With any luck, Artoo would be waiting, engines already fired up and ready to take off.

Even without luck, Ahsoka would buy them enough time to escape. Raindrops sizzled off her lightsabers as she swept them through the air, evaporating into steam that trailed after her every movement.

And Ahsoka moved.

#star wars #vod'e an series #ahsoka tano #time travel fixit #shereshoy #which was SUPPOSED to be the final installment #but then haat ijaa haa'it happened #and who knows when that will be finished #but that's just individual snippet chapters #the full plot of the series is Done and Dusted

[imarvelatthestars]

IV - Tome'tayl

masterlist

Series Pairing: f!reader x Tai, Commander Appo, Captain Vaughn, Sergeant Fox, & Sterling [no cl*necest!]

Chapter Pairing: f!reader x Commander Appo (+ a hint of Vaughn, Tai, & Fox)

Content: brief sexual content including making out/petting (is that a thing people say? idk), consent checks, & voyeurism; referenced minor character death, discussions on jealousy and polyamory, o66 and Umbara references. I am once again continuing my "Aurea is space Aotearoa" agenda

tome'tayl [n., to·mey·teyl] - memory

The memories bleed together when he dreams. Hazy recollections of training on Kamino transform into the searing pain of the first blaster bolt to his shin bleeds into the chaos of death at the Temple. Flurries of Commander Tano’s montrals and her radiant green sabers as she blocks an attack that should have killed him. Snippets of General Skywalker issuing orders on a distant moon under Seppie control. Krell and Umbara and the regrets that never stopped haunting him.

Good soldiers.

That first night on Coruscant when everything went to shit. When he was still a shiny, so young and stupid.

Follow orders.

Death. Always death. It follows him everywhere.

I’m sorry, sir.

The choice to leave, to find his vod and take him somewhere where the longnecks and the Seppies and the Empire can never hurt him again. The plummeting of his stomach when the shuttle dropped into the atmosphere, and he thought he was going to die.

It’s time for you to leave.

You.

Your flat.

Hope.

Could-be’s. Maybe’s. What-if’s.

Shame. Guilt. Grief. And all that death.

Appo blinks up at the ceiling, unsure when his dream had turned into waking. He feels his heart beating fast and hard beneath his skin, and it’s forceful enough to hurt. An unfathomable period of time passes in a single instant, and he finally rubs the meat of his palm into his eyes when he realizes that he won’t be able to sleep any longer.

His body moves on autopilot and takes him into the bathroom to splash water on his face. It’s there that he finds some peace of mind, tucked into the tiny space between the opposing wall and the sink, a temporary reprieve from the room he shares with his vode.

The dreams have been getting worse the past week. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t sure why, but he doesn’t want to think about what that understanding means. It’s a wound still too tender to touch, which is why it’s so unfortunate that his date with you is just a few days away. How the hell is he supposed to focus on you, on planning something intimate and romantic and just right when his brain is more interested in dredging up the past and shaming him for it? How is he supposed to touch you when his dreams keep reminding him that he’s more bloodstained than you will ever know?

In an attempt to connect with each brother on a deeper level, you’ve somehow managed to allow Vaughn to talk you into watching his favorite holo-soap. It’s got some weird title like “Shereshoy Street” or something, and focuses mainly on dramatized renditions of diasporic Mando life, strangely managing to straddle the line between painfully boring and wildly intriguing. But it’s not so bad when it means you get to spend your evenings curled up into Vaughn’s side with his arm around you.

Tai will sometimes join in, though he keeps himself seated far away. You’ve been working on him bit by bit each day, offering your company and a smile in the hopes that you’ll finally chisel through his protective shell, and while it is slow going, he does seem a bit more relaxed.

Sterling, on the other hand, is always eager to be close. With you and his vod seated at one end of the sofa, he places himself on the other end so he can trace his fingers over your legs. He doesn’t mind that you haven’t shaved recently, nor does he seem to care that the winter weather has left your skin cracked and dry. He touches you with such gentle reverence that you can’t help falling in love with him all over again each night.

“Hey babe,” you whisper. Vaughn leans down a bit to hear you better, though his attention remains fixed on the holo-screen. “Can we watch one of my movies tomorrow night?”

“Mhm.” His reply is a bit absent. Understandable considering the show seems to be ramping up for its next scene. But his focus wavers then as he suddenly processes your request and his head tilts down so he can watch you instead. “You’re bored?”

He’s not exactly upset nor entirely surprised, but you think he’s a little disappointed.

“No, no, no, I’m not bored-“

“I know it’s not really your thing, but…” He pauses. Vaughn’s face then warms as he breaks into a smile. “Hm. Need some help focusing, love?”

You know exactly what he means. You pretend not to because admitting otherwise might make you perish on the spot.

The placement of his hand in the wrinkle of your waist shifts as he does, drifting to a spot closer to the front of your stomach as he draws you both a little more upright. His hands, like the rest of his brothers, are broad and warm, firm and strong, and they always steal your breath away. This moment is no exception. His thumb rubs up over your ribs to the lower swell of your breast, not quite touching you there but certainly promising to if you allow him.

He kisses your cheekbone, your jaw, brushes his nose against your skin, and he smiles all the while. “This alright?”

No matter how much they may be pretending otherwise, you know his brothers are watching. You can feel the patterns Sterling’s drawing on your ankle grow sharp and jerky, hopefully not out of jealousy, though you can’t find it in you to care if he is or not. There’s something very alluring about the idea of him and Tai watching while Vaughn explores you. Does that make you filthy? Degenerate?

One look into Vaughn’s endless ember eyes already has you melting.

If wanting to have your cake and eat it too makes you filthy and degenerate, then you’ll gladly accept the title.

Your affirmative nod is notably delayed, but the end result is the same – Vaughn’s entire hand cups your breast, his thumb strokes just below your nipple, and then he descends upon you to swallow your stuttered inhalations. Several moments pass in a haze as your hearing goes fuzzy and your stomach drops. He tastes like supper, smells like patchouli and musk.

“Oh,” you sigh, and your gentle, charming, too-smug Vaughn chuckles low in his throat.

“You’re still distracted. Let me help you.” And as he dives in for more, he stops himself and quickly lifts his head. Following the line of his vision leads you to Sterling’s penetrating gaze, to Tai’s downturned face and unreadable expression. “Do, uh, d’you want us to go?”

The sudden stillness of war-worn hands on thighs and the audible swallowing of saliva is overwhelming, concerning, until it isn’t. Until Sterling answers “no” and Tai, albeit shyly, shakes his head. Until a tentative query is posed to you and your permission is granted, and Vaughn captures your lips once more in a steady, burning kiss that sears your skin like a brand.

This is all so new, this maneuvering of fingers on skin and rearranging of limbs to better suit the viewing pleasure of your new audience. It feels forbidden to try, to chase, to yearn for more, but you can hardly stop yourself once the adrenaline hits. You arch into the touch of fingertips on your breast and allow your head to fall back on the shoulder behind you.

The prickling sensation of unfiltered voyeurism pimples your skin. Do they like to watch? Do they wish they were the ones touching you now? Kriffing hell, do they even realize just how much you wish they’d both come over and share in your reckless debauchery?

Vaughn’s breath tickles your ear. “So soft,” he husks. “Where else, love? Where else can I touch you?”

Not even your stolen moments with Fox have led to anything beyond passionate kisses and the framing of your thighs around his hips. His mouth has never lingered past your collarbones and his hands have never strayed beyond your hips. The same is mostly true for Vaughn, the second most eager of the batch, although he’s been more adventurous since your date. The intimacy of his hands on your chest is so delicious. You want more. You know he wants more, too.

“Anywhere.”

The holo is still playing in the background, but no one’s paying any attention. You seem to be the show for the evening. Fuck.

“You’re sure?”

Your head lolls to the side as you fix him with a stern, desperate look. “Vaughn, baby, if you don’t keep touching me, I think I’ll die.”

Three variations upon the same laugh echo in the room, one of which is rumbling under your back. It’s a tad higher pitched than that of his brothers. It’s nice. He’s nice. His hands on your body are even nicer.

The two legs that have been curled around your own start to move until one of them drapes off the edge of the cushion, which allows for your legs to fall apart just a bit more. Easy access, you think, jokingly, until there’s the weight of something new slipping down your stomach, so, so slowly, lower and lower until it hits your waistband, and suddenly it’s not a joke anymore.

“Here?” Vaughn asks. He sounds torn between trying to be sexy and worrying over your consent. You love him more for that than you love him for almost anything else.

“Yeah,” you nod, eyelashes fluttering.

The very tips of his fingers start to tug at your clothes, searching for new skin, and your heart leaps into your throat because this is really happening, he’s really going to touch you, right here and now with his brothers watching, and you want it, and maybe you shouldn’t. And maybe you’re a little nervous. Maybe you’re finally starting to feel the weight of your own insecurities as they batter your brain like a hailstorm. What if you look weird from this angle? What if you smell? What if that bit of hair on your stomach is a dealbreaker? What if this is the night that makes each of them realize this arrangement was just a big mistake, especially Tai? Oh kark, what if it’s too much for Tai?

And then a floorboard in the hall creaks. A flicker of movement in the darkness catches your eye. Vaughn’s palm soothes over your belly button as Appo’s figure comes into focus in the faint light of the holo-screen. He’s mid-step, mid-eye rub, mid-thought, but he’s frozen like a tauntaun in the headlights, fixated on you and the hand under your clothes.

“Ah, a-ah,” is the strangled beginnings of his name that keeps catching on your tongue. It almost sounds like the start of a sneeze.

Sterling reacts first. He startles out of his seat with enough force to jostle your legs. Then Vaughn stiffens beneath you, and not in any remotely sexy way, either. The quick removal of his limbs leaves your skin feeling cold and achy. Tai doesn’t react nearly so physically, though there is a clear uncertainty in the way he holds himself now as he observes each brother.

“S-Sir!”

Hand in the cookie jar. Vaughn couldn’t sound more guilty if he tried, and you’re not even sure he could. It’s not like you were doing anything wrong when there was consent all around. Yet Appo’s presence has always been that of a commander first and a brother second. If anything, you feel like you’ve been caught doing something naughty as much as the boys do, like you’re just some bunk bunny getting randy in the barracks and the commanding officer just walked in on you. You hate how apt the metaphor is.

Nobody speaks for a long while. Then, finally,

“If you’re gonna make a mess, do it in the bed, will you?”

Appo lingers for a moment, his eyes bleary as he watches you for a heartbeat or two. You think you see something behind the exhaustion, but whatever it is, it’s lost on you when he turns to leave. If you weren’t doing anything wrong, then why do you feel sick to your stomach with guilt?

Dating never used to be this hard during the war. He and the boys would go to 79’s and drink, dance, chat up natties, and return to the barracks a load or two lighter and high on endorphins. Even going out with Benshar wasn’t this hard, but then, he wasn’t nearly as attached to Benshar as he is to you. Because Benshar was a fun string of nights meant to help him left off some steam and screw his head on straight, to distract himself from his memories and his desires and the constant, tantalizing agony of knowing that you were forever beyond his reach.

Now he finally has you and he doesn’t know what to do with you. You’re more than a night of bad decisions, lust, and booze. He can’t kark this up. He is, after all, the commander. The men will look to him for an example to follow and he can’t let them down, or you.

So Appo thinks. He spends the whole day thinking. Some of his customers attempt conversation but are quickly shut down when he refuses to respond beyond a grunt of understanding or disagreement. He drives down every Maker forsaken road in the damn city and he tries very hard to think of the perfect place to take you.

The old shop on the corner of 5th and Main reminds him that you’re fond of holo-novels and good ambience. The nature reserve on the city’s outskirts reminds him that you stop and listen to the birdsong whenever you hear it, no matter where you are. A Weequay pedestrian and her Twi’lek partner walking hand-in-hand on the sidewalk, laughing loud enough to cut through transparisteel, remind him that you like to show your love through meaningful gestures and tenderness, and the too-occasional witty barb. Most of all, Appo knows that you’re proud of being Aurean, which strikes him the strongest when he happens to drop off a small tourist group near the Pā City Culture and History Museum – the PaCC, as the locals have affectionately dubbed it.

As they clamber up the steps toward the museum’s entrance, a holo-banner catches his attention. There’s a newer Naboo exhibit on display and a few new items added to the main Aurean displays as well. The thought transforms into an idea in the back of his mind during the drive home.

You’re bantering with Sterling in the kitchen. With your nose wrinkled up mid-sentence and your eyes sparkling mischievously, dressed in your most casual and comfortable clothes, and looking entirely average and unremarkable, Appo thinks you’re the loveliest thing he’s ever seen. It’s far from the first time he’s ever thought so, and he knows it’s far from the last, but it hits him particularly hard now.

But your expression drops when you see him, and that hurts more than any blaster shot ever could. To see you tuck yourself away in his presence, even to see the way his vod’ika goes tense simply because he’s home, it fucking hurts, and it’s only because he had the bad luck to walk in on something private and he let his pride get the better of him. He needs to fix this.

His coat is shrugged off and tossed over one arm. “Hey.”

One look at him through the curtain of your lashes is enough to make his breath hitch. All the appropriate words and formal apologies his brain had started to conjure suddenly vanish, and he’s left without a single thought. Shit.

“Hi,” you answer rather meekly.

He does the first thing that makes sense. He kisses you.

Well, he almost does. Somewhere along the journey, his critical thinking skills kick back in, and he realizes that he’s acting very strange, so he jerks his face to the side and lands the kiss upon your cheek instead. It’s more appropriate for an apology, he tells himself. It’s not at all because he’s so overwhelmed by his feelings for you that he can hardly decide what to do with them or himself.

“Tomorrow. When you’re done with work, get yourself dressed. I’ll pick you up.” He doesn’t intend for it to sound like an order, but he fears that’s exactly the end result. Best to soften the approach a bit. “Okay?”

You nod, all wide-eyed and confused and so, so pretty. “Okay.”

This is not the perfect resolution he had hoped for, but it’s better than nothing at all and it can be improved upon tomorrow afternoon. Appo nods and allows himself a smile, however slight it is.

To Sterling, he nods again. “Vod.” This is his apology, his offer of normalcy.

Sterling returns the gesture. “Vod.”

“You look like you’re gonna throw up.”

The force with which your head spins in Tai’s direction is almost comical. His humor is greatly appreciated after a solid week of its absence, but it comes at such a bad time. Because the fact of the matter is that you really do feel sick.

You’ve been primping and preening every aspect of your ensemble for the last 15 minutes, and it had taken you at least triple that to even decide on an outfit. You want things to be perfect and you’re worried they won’t be. The mirror definitely isn’t doing you any favors.

“You try going on a date with a big, intimidating commander without getting all nervous about it.”

Tai’s entire face crinkles. “Rather not, thanks.”

He’s seated on your bed with his injured leg extended as he rubs his fingers into the meat of his thigh. Several more moments pass between you. You fuss over your clothes a bit more, over your face and your accessories, and Tai shifts between watching and not-watching. It’s not hard to miss just how deeply he’s thinking, though.

“Thank you.”

The reflection of his eyes flits about until you see it focus upon you. “For what? Didn’t do anything.”

“Maybe. Maybe I just enjoy your company, Tai.”

Each brother has a grip on you in their own unique way, each connection varies just enough, but you think that the connection binding you to Tai is the one that makes you ache the most. He hasn’t shared much about the events that led to his injuries. You’ve never asked. Still, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that something went horribly wrong. How else does one end up with a leg full of shrapnel and a lifetime of nerve damage?

It's his pain that makes you ache. The pain that keeps his body from performing on the same level as his brothers, or even with any natborn of a roughly equivalent age. The pain that makes his fingers shake when he works on his carvings. The pain that you can’t see any physical traces of, but that you know haunts him down to the sinew. The kind of pain that makes him so quiet and isolated in a house so full of love and affection.

There’s a bit of that pain now, lurking in the creases of his face, welling under his lash lines, though he makes a good effort to hide it. He ducks his head to one side, and it ends up leaving his profile perfectly framed in your mirror. A strong, straight nose below a pair of stern, angular brows. His chin is softly rounded, like his lips, and his neck slopes gently into a smooth set of shoulders. And from this angle, the sunlight sneaks through the window and hits the gathered mountain of hair knotted atop his head, all dark and curly and beautiful.

Does he even know?

Your heart takes you to his side, settling you upon the mattress close enough to touch but not so close that he feels stifled by your presence. Or at least you hope not.

“This is okay with you, right? Our agreement?”

His throat bobs up and down, his expression suddenly hesitant. “Course,” he grunts.

“Tai.”

He fixes you with a look that either makes you want to burst into your most dazzling smile or scream in pure frustration. “Now’s hardly the time to discuss it.” He gestures to you with a nod of his chin and a vague movement of his hand. “You have a date.”

“You can’t honestly expect me to go enjoy myself when you won’t even tell me if you’re okay with it or not.”

“I never said I didn’t-“

“Yeah, but I know you. And you’ve been distant.” Your fingers close over his knuckles. “And then with last night… I’ve just been worried. I want you to be happy.”

Understanding alights in the depths of his dark umber eyes, and the hand under yours suddenly turns onto its back so his palm can press against yours. It’s the closest the two of you have been in a week.

“Ni utreekov.” It’s whispered so softly that even if you understood its meaning, you still would have struggled to hear him properly.“Bal ni kar’tayli darasuum gar. A ni chaaba.”

Whatever it means, you can’t help thinking it’s a confession. Why else would he speak to you in a language he knows you can’t interpret?

“Tai,” you start, suddenly overwhelmed with the onslaught of wonderings and worries racing through your mind. This is truly the wrong time and place for such a conversation, he’s right. Appo will be home any minute and it would be rude to keep him waiting, and even worse to leave Tai behind without any closure. “You know I don’t know what that means.”

He nods. “I know.” With your hand still in his, he brings both up, up, up to the crest of his lips where he plants a kiss to the center of your palm. Electricity immediately surges through your every limb, crackles in every pore, finally bursting into each chamber of your heart with enough force to stun you. “I’ll tell you one day.”

“‘One day’?”

“Soon,” he corrects, and this time when he smiles, it’s as real as can be. “I am happy, sweetheart,” and the pet name is like another wave of electricity in your veins. It’s the first time he’s used such a word for you and already you love it. “Don’t worry about a washed-up old veteran like me, hm?”

There he is. That’s the Tai you know. A bit self-deprecating, perhaps, but good-natured and playful at heart.

“You know I’m older than you.”

Somewhere outside, a speeder horn beeps as it rolls into the parking space below your window. Appo.

“Yes,” he chuckles, “I know. Now get going before that di’kut brother of mine comes looking for you.”

A quick glance over in the mirror affirms that you look presentable. To Tai, you flash a smile and wave of farewell.

“See you tonight!” And though you manage to bite it back, there’s an instinct deep within you that longs to part instead with a more sentimental “love you!”

Now is not the time to say such things, of course. It’s far too soon. Yet the words still find themselves laced in the final look you share, in the fluttering of your lashes and the quirk of your smile. Someday soon you think you’ll tell him. When the time is right.

You make quick work of your shoes before all but flying out the front door and down the stairs to the bottom floor. Your heart is beating out its own song as it carves itself into your ribcage. You’re excited, you’re nervous, you’re damn near giddy. Where will he take you? What will you end up doing?

But all that frantic, eager energy fails to prepare you for the first glimpse you get of your date, your boyfriend. Seeing him nearly knocks the breath out of you. Braced against the hood of the speeder, arms folded over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles, he’s a kriffing work of art.

He wears the same dark trousers he always wears to work, the same boots and belt. His hair is the same as it always is, cropped just short enough that it doesn’t fully curl the way it should. Only his shirt is different – a black tee in exchange for his usual dark indigo – and yet he looks more gorgeous in this moment than he has in the past two years. Maybe that’s because the sleeves are cropped around the widest part of his biceps. Or because the color looks good on him. Or because he’s looking at you from beneath his lashes, somehow confident and unsure all at once, and it prompts a full nervous system reboot.

You’re so distracted by how damn good he looks that it takes you another few seconds to realize that you’re staring, and he’s staring back. His attention is so focused that you can practically feel it on your body, lingering along your throat, your wrist, the parted curve of your mouth.

“I’m not late, am I?”

Appo’s smile flickers into existence as he shakes his head. “I’m early.” He pushes himself off the speeder and opens the passenger door for you. “You ready?”

“Yes,” you reply, way too fast and far too ardently. “All ready.”

Is it normal to be this excited? Concerning, maybe? All your nerves have suddenly decided that this date is going to go swimmingly and there’s nothing to fret about, and have now redirected you to fixate upon the smaller details: a charm hanging from the dash, some Mandalorian symbol you don’t understand the symbolism of, then the small block arrow carved into the center of the steering wheel, the way the muscles of his arm flex when Appo starts the engine.

That all pales in comparison to the details that strike you when he starts to shift the speeder into reverse. It’s such a normal thing to do, so ordinary. You’ve seen plenty of folks do it the way he does, not just his brothers, so it shouldn’t strike you in the sternum the way it does, like lightning angrily lancing through your bones. And yet the way he turns to look over his shoulder, the way he braces his hand against your headrest and leans his body ever so slightly toward yours is so intoxicating that you’re almost convinced you’re going to burst into flames. He’s not doing it to elevate your heartrate, but that’s the effect it has regardless.

It comes and goes so quickly, but the memory is seared into your eyelids. Who knew that backing out of a parking space could get you going so easily?

From that point on, the drive is quiet and uneventful. You hit a bit of light traffic as you near the center of the city and with both the radio off and neither of you speaking, it leaves a wide expanse for your thoughts to run rampant in. That leads to wonderings. And wonderings lead to questions. And the constant red glare of brake lights prompts you to try posing one such question.

“Can I ask you something?”

Appo nods.

“The other night, with Vaughn… We didn’t mean to upset you.” Well, that wasn’t how you wanted to ask, now was it? “Um, did we?”

He, however, doesn’t seem to mind the query. “I wasn’t upset.”

Huh. Interesting. “Then what? You seemed so, I dunno, not happy, and then yesterday-“

“This is new for me,” he says, and the way your name comes out at the end is surprisingly pleasant. He seems to want to say more but is struggling to put it into words.

But you think you know what it is. “I understand. This isn’t exactly a normal arrangement, is it?” Understatement of the kriffing year. “I’m still getting used to it. Having so many partners is nice, really, but it’s weird too. I can’t imagine how it is for you.”

The look he gives you is a silent request to elaborate.

“I don’t know how I’d feel if I was the one watching you kiss somebody else. Even if I knew that you still, still cared for me, I think I’d still be jealous.”

You’re suddenly reminded of your behavior at the bar a week ago and the memory is so awful that you outwardly cringe, your entire body folding in on itself as you attempt to repel the barraging thoughts. You know exactly how you’d react if the roles were reversed because you’ve already lived it. The cocktail of your suppressed emotions, Benshar’s cheery disposition, and too much liquor might have led to the consensus of a happy relationship with five amazing men, but the road there was paved with regret and shame.

That particular recollection, however, leads you down another train of thought. “You stayed with me that night, when I was drunk.”

Another traffic light starts to come into view and the speeder begins to slow.

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Appo takes the opportunity the light has given him to look you in the eyes and it’s startling just how serious he is about it. “Any time you get wasted, you tell me. I’ll stay with you.”

There’s something more to this, isn’t there? Something you don’t know about. Why else would be so adamant about something so trivial? You’ve never had a partner make such a big deal of keeping you company during your drunk spells. Hell, you’ve not had a friend make such a big deal of it either. Not for a lack of caring, you don’t think, but it just never seemed important enough.

“Can I ask why?”

The steering wheel emits a low creak from the pressure of his hands tightening around the leather. Shit, what in the hell happened to make him react like that? You think at first he’s going to lapse into silence again when he doesn’t immediately respond, that perhaps the reasoning behind the gesture is rooted in a terrible enough memory that words are failing him once more and you’ve just ruined the whole date by asking.

“There was a trooper holed up in his cot one night, drunk off his ass from his first shore leave on Coruscant. He was a shiny, like me. Couldn’t have seen more than a month or two of action.” His voice wavers here as he readjusts his entire body, his hold on the wheel, his position in the seat. “I woke up the next morning and found him. He choked on his own vomit while we were sleeping.”

Oh. That’s the saddest, most awful thing you think you’ve ever heard. To wake up and find the dead body of a friend, a sibling, a fellow soldier in the bed beside you would be the kind of nightmare that would probably keep you from ever sleeping again. You can’t even imagine how it’s affected Appo.

“I don’t allow anyone to sleep alone when they’re drunk,” he continues. “So, you need me? You tell me. Deal?”

There’s nothing you can say to fix this. There’s no bringing back that naïve trooper just like there’s no bringing back any number of the GAR’s dead. There’s just what Appo’s life is now, here on Aurea with you and his batch, and that has to be enough. That’s all you can give.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Deal?” He fixes you with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes. I promise.”

This confirmation soothes the harsh lines of his shoulders, gently unwrinkling them so they come down from around his ears. “Thank you,” and you think he sounds relieved.

The PaCC is a favorite of Corellian tourists and local school children. You visited several times in your youth, once every few years when a new subject would be introduced at the start of a semester and the museum had a relevant exhibit. You don’t know this place like you know the back of your own hand, but you know it well enough, and you’re surprised that Appo’s chosen to take you here for your date.

Surprised, but not disappointed. It’s a wonderful museum that centers its research and curation upon Aurean culture and history, though its had some intriguing temporary additions during its tenure. The newest one is a Naboo exhibit – “Ancient Art and Sculpture from the Planet of Queens” reads the caption at the bottom of your pamphlet, which does admittedly pique your interest.

Naboo has always been known for its investment in the arts – theatre, music, architecture, and fashion most popularly – but it skyrocketed into the hearts and minds of the entire galaxy with the coronation of Queen Amidala. That was long before the Empire came into power, though, outdating even the war and the Separatist Alliance if you remember right. Recalling the memory of her tenure is as easy as recalling the memory of her death. Even Aurea had mourned for her as a sign of respect for all she had done to aid her people and the Republic.

A holo of the latest queen, a young girl called Apailana, greets you at the entrance of the exhibit. Her face, slightly matured in the few years since her election, is still that of a child’s, painted white and colored with the same markings Amidala was famous for wearing during her reign. She wears an elaborate Naboo dress that shimmers and shines, and appears far too bulky to be comfortable, while her hair has been done up into the most elaborate headdress you’ve ever seen.

“It is my honor, as both the queen of Naboo and the grandchild of Aurean immigrants, to welcome you to this exhibit showcasing the ancient art and culture of my planet.” Her voice is tinted with hints of an Aurean accent, though it sounds more Coruscanti than anything else. “My hope is that this exhibit can stand as a bridge between our two worlds in times of uncertainty.”

“She’s so young.”

Appo had been silent for so long you’d almost forgotten he was there. His brow is all furrowed now as he watches the holo repeat itself.

“Just a kid ruling that entire planet.”

What’s going on inside that head of his?

“You okay?” You decide to try slipping your arm around his and while it does take him by surprise, he doesn’t fight it or attempt to withdraw. He allows it, and that makes you happy.

He inclines his head and his casual “yeah” is convincing enough to quell your worries, but neither does he look away from the child projected before him. He sees something in her that you can’t comprehend, and you only wish he would share it with you.

Even after living with an entire batch of them for two years, you still know next to nothing about the clones or their lives before the war. You know that they were, of course, cloned from a single template, a Mandalorian bounty hunter. You know they age faster than most other humans, even if the specifics are hazy at best. You know that there was a lot of good and bad propaganda surrounding them during the fighting, and you know that the majority of clones consider themselves to be brothers, a massive extended family of identical faces and voices.

But you don’t know what it was like for them growing up. You don’t know what things they learned, what dreams they had as children. You don’t fully know why the Empire abandoned them to the streets and gutters of the galaxy.

A bit of prompting urges him further into the exhibit. Here there are dozens and dozens of pieces the likes of which you’ve never seen before. Pale white stone has been chiseled into slices of time to show stoic philosophers deep in thought, youthful dancers and musicians as they frolic in a field, the frozen image of a waterfall and the palace adorning its crest, and even a pair of lovers mid-embrace. The man in the lovers’ statue reminds you of Sterling with his head of curls and strong shoulders.

Draped on the walls surrounding the statues are countless tapestries and painted canvases. The tapestries are rich in color and texture, most often sporting shades of green and blue or gold and red, both combinations symbolic of Naboo and the monarchy. Several sport the royal crest. In dazzling opposition, the canvases portray the intricate details of still life in Theed, the underwater Gungan cities, at the great lake and its many mountains, even former royals and senators from ages long past.

One particular canvas catches your eye, a profile of an ancient queen properly dressed and painted as befits her station. She’s older than most queens are, likely in her twenties, but her eyes are distant and melancholy. The painting itself is shrouded in swathes of gray and blue. A lone sentinel watching over her people, noble and strong and wise, but sad all the same.

“I have to admit,” says Appo as he observes the painting, “I’ve never been inside a museum before.”

While it initially surprises you, it makes a lot of sense. After all, when would a soldier ever have need of a museum?

“Really? D’you like it?”

“I’m not sure. The things here are beautiful, but the place itself is… sterile. Cold. Is that normal?”

In all your years, you’ve never heard such a thing. Museums have never felt alien to you in the way they must for him. They’ve always been a part of your subconscious, part of your schooling, part of your heritage as a citizen of Pā City.

Frowning, you step away from the painting to fully face your companion. “I’d never thought of it like that before.” You make a quick scan of the room in an attempt to pick out things that might be troubling him. “These places are always strict about you touching the exhibits, but that’s more because people are stupid and inconsiderate than them trying to keep you from enjoying everything. And I guess it’s quiet because people are too busy thinking. Or maybe they feel as awkward as you do.”

Appo hums thoughtfully. “Maybe.”

“You wanna head to a different exhibit?” The offer clearly appeals to him. “This one’s a little stuffy anyways, huh?”

The neighboring exhibit is a dedication to the history of Corellian ships, one you’re familiar with from a previous visit with your level 10 history class, and this is the one that brings Appo to life. It’s funny how often you forget what his military work entailed. He may not have been a pilot or a mechanic back then, but he’s at home with transports and machinery and weapons. Here among the miniatures of freighters and cargo ships, your soldier finds his place.

Following the line of his extended arm leads you to a red and white ship shaped like a holo remote bred with the aesthetic of a Coruscanti diner and a few small ion cannons. “That’s a YCAQT. Droid cargo. Dealt with my fair share of ‘em when I was a shiny.”

That’s very interesting. You never would have pictured tiny ships like that getting lost in the hubbub of a Separatist assault. “I thought they mostly transported protocol droids and gonks and stuff?”

“They do. But when you’re a shiny, you get sent to do the odd jobs and menial work. Like scanning old YCAQTs for battle droids and redirecting interstellar traffic.”

From what you remember learning as a student (and based on the summary plaque posted beneath the model ship), YCAQTs are mostly short-range transports. “Sooo… that means you were near Corellia, then?”

He shrugs. “A couple times, probably. Why?”

The urge to kiss him hits you hard and fast, strange though your reasoning is. “Nothing, I just thought maybe you’d been by Aurea at some point. Maybe the galaxy brought us together once and we didn’t even know it.”

Such notions aren’t usually a part of Appo’s worldview. That’s more the speed of any of his other brothers, particularly Fox or Vaughn, and he confirms as much with the not-so-subtle rolling of his eyes.

“It’s a nice thought. But not realistic.”

“Ugh, I’m trying to be romantic, Appo,” you groan as you whack the back of his arm. “Don’t be such a grouch.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

But the offense isn’t serious, and you wave him off almost instantly. You don’t want him thinking you’re actually upset. “You're forgiven.” Always.

The two of you never make it to the actual Aurean artifacts and displays. With Appo still adjusting to museum etiquette and ambience, and most of the exhibits being already familiar to you, you decide it would be best to move to the exterior gardens and enjoy some sunshine.

While the actual outside weather is chilly, the gardens are situated in a large greenhouse and are resultingly warm no matter the time of year. Native and non-native plants grow here, lilacs and pink begonias and yellow kōwhai blossoms and silver ferns. The canopied trees are so massive that they rival the museum itself in height. A wooden figure has been carved and placed above the main entrance, a kaitiaki, a guardian from ancient Aurean folklore, meant to protect the land it inhabits and its people.

The fingers interlaced with yours suddenly constrict. “Which ones do you like best?”

There are so many beautiful things here to choose from, how can you possibly narrow them down?

He taps his boot against a sign naming one of the nearest flowering plants. “This one?” It’s a vibrant purple fuchsia.

“Kōtukutuku,” you read for him. Just like you have yet to learn Mando’a, the boys have yet to learn more than a few words in the traditional language of these islands. “They make a good jam, y’know.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever had flower jam,” he replies with a sour expression. “What about this one? Uh, poor… poor-uh...?”

Your kiss finds his cheek. “Pōroporo.” This flower is a much softer shade of purple with petals that form a five-point star around the yellow center.

Appo turns on you in that moment between your kiss and your words. He suddenly seems so massive, and you feel so small, tilting your head back so you can look up at him and wonder at the beautiful work of art you’ve found in the exhibit of your life.

“What’re you thinking inside that head of yours?”

Heaven forbids he ever finds out. Not that any of it is bad, but it’s sappy and romantic and everything he’s not.

“Nothing.” Just that you’re beautiful and I’m so glad I know you.

“You.” Kiss. “Look.” Kiss. “Beautiful.” Another, final kiss, this one the sloppiest of them all, but it’s to be expected when the person doing all the kissing is distracted with making dinner.

“Thanks, hun.”

“What color is that, lavender?”

A quick double check of your blouse confirms that yes, it is of the lavender persuasion. “Uh huh. Very nice.”

Fox beams happily, skillet in one hand and spatula in the other. He somehow manages to pull off looking sexy and adorable all at once. “Did he cream his pants when he saw ya?”

“Ugh, Fox!”

“‘cause I’m pretty sure I just did.”

Appo, ever your knight in shining plastoid, comes to your rescue then by delivering a swift smack to the back of his brother’s head. “Or’dinii. You’re disgusting.”

He’s never phased by anything his commander says or does, though, and he’s clearly not about to start now. “I’m just sayin’!”

“Don’t talk about your dick when you’re cooking.”

“Or,” you interject, “don’t talk about your dick period. There’s a thought.” As if you haven’t already thought about it. But no one needs to know that. Inspired by this, you turn to Appo with a finger poised in the air. “Hey, we could muzzle him! Just like Sterling said. Imagine how quiet the flat’ll be.”

It’s rare to see Appo commit to a full bought of laughter when he’s usually so serious, so the sudden bark of belly laughter that permeates the kitchen is initially assigned to Fox instead. It’s only when you see his head tilted back and his cheeks fully dimpled, eyes squeezed shut, that you realize it’s your stoic commander who’s so tickled by your quip. You want to say it all over again just so he’ll keep smiling.

Fox is less impressed. “I wouldn’t be laughin’ at me,” he warns with a perilous flick of the spatula in your face. “Not when I’m the one cookin’ your food, mesh’la.” Your tongue flicks out for far longer than necessary to get your point across, which is really just a terrible mistake in disguise. “Try that again and see where it gets you. That tongue’ll get you into all kinds of trouble.”

Maybe there’s a little hint of victory waving its flag when Appo physically steers you away from the conversation. Victory because you made him laugh, and smile, made him touch you and protect you and squirrel you away all for himself. This victory doesn’t end in a celebratory kiss – he hasn’t made that move yet, so you’ll wait for him until that point – but it does end with the smug and knowing looking of a man who’s well aware that you want his attention.

In the nights following your date. Fox has already started gearing up for his turn out with you, teasing you with morsels of information about what may or may not happen the day of. Appo’s formerly closed off approach to you has softened considerably and you find yourself thinking of him more and more often as a result. He took a great risk in opening himself up to you. He did it for you. You want to show him that you appreciate it.

“Appo?” You say it as softly as you can manage at the threshold of the room he shares with his brothers. It’s not so late that everyone’s already asleep, but it’s certainly late enough to prompt a few raised eyebrows, and at least two of those will be his.

The door opens a few moments later to reveal the man himself, already dressed in his sleep shirt and boxers. The beginnings of scruff have already started to prickle along his jawline. You think you catch a glimpse of the others in their beds, but they’re being far too quiet and still for you to really see them. Probably trying to listen in on you.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh. No, nothing’s wrong, I just wanted to ask you...” Kark, now that the moment’s here, you’re suddenly shy about asking. What if he thinks you’re being stupid? What if it unintentionally offends him? “Um...”

His movement into the hallway forces you to backtrack a few steps. He swiftly closes the door behind him, and it cuts the anxiety nearly in half. It’s much easier to ask without an audience.

“What is it?” he asks in that low, rumbly timbre you’re so fond of. His eyes are all soft and imploring, and kriffing karking fucking hell, he’s so beautiful that the love surge washing over you as a result nearly drowns you.

You need me? You tell me. The offer was given in the event of potential intoxication, you know that. That doesn’t mean, however, that you don’t still need him.

“Will you stay the night with me?”

A frown tugs at his lips. “I didn’t see you drink.”

And you shake your head. “I didn’t. I, uh, I wanted to be with you.”

The alternative implications of your request don’t hit you until after he reacts to it with the skyrocketed arch of his eyebrows and the startled widening of his eyes.

“Y-You mean-”

“No! Not like that!”

“Not that I don’t want to, but-”

“I mean, me neither.”

And he relaxes, and you clap a hand over your mouth, and he laughs, and so do you.

“I liked knowing you were there with me. And I started thinking about what you told me, why you stayed, and I thought maybe you’d like to stay with someone without worrying if they’ll be alright or not.”

The breath rushes out of him in an instant and his eyes, somehow, go even softer, and you love him love him love him. “Cyare,” he sighs, reaching for you in the dim, distant light emanating from your room. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You lean into his touch with a smile. “Lay down with me and I’ll tell you.”

“I’ve done things,” he says later, tucked into your blankets with an arm under your shoulder and your hand upon his chest. He says it to the deep and empty dark. “In the past. Things I’m not proud of.”

“Why?” His silence is answer enough, and something tells you that if you could see him now, you’d see a sadness that runs deep in his own brother’s eyes, a self-directed sorrow that does not allow for mercy or kindness or anything gentle and lovely. “Because you were a soldier?”

When he nods, you nuzzle your nose into his collarbone. “The past is the past, Appo. You’re here now, and I want you because of the man I know you are, not because of what you’ve done. Okay?”

The mattress coils squeak and shift when he kisses you in your bed. He doesn’t take, doesn’t search for more than what you give him. He simply kisses you and allows you to bestow what you deem him worthy of. You give him your entire heart, even if he doesn’t know it.

“Stay with me tomorrow night.”

“You planning on drinking?”

“No.”

His smile is audible. “Good.” And for once, everything is right in the galaxy.

#commander appo x reader #commander appo x you #appo x reader #appo x you #commander appo #tcw #clone trooper x reader #clone trooper x you #star wars #x reader #labyrinth of my mind #JESUS this ended up being a mammoth of a chapter #what do you want from me?? i had a lot to say #please enjoy my 8.3k words of clone content thank you and goodnight

[s-c-g-s-c-g]

Fanfiction Masterlist

I write stuff! Star Wars and BNHA and DC these days! You can find it on AO3 and my personal archive! Links to all of my fics below!

Star Wars:

Ongoing Series

Failed Hunts and Little Stowaways AU

senatorial missteps and mandalorian mishaps

Multi-Chapter

A Knight, a Padawan and a Mandalorian Walk Into a Cafe

Weddings and Other Methods of Deadly Swamp Access

Angsty One Shots

And Still The Galaxy Turns

Don’t Go Mistaking Your House Burning Down For The Dawn

It’s a Sad Song

Shereshoy.

oh, killer of everything i’ve ever loved

here and now, if this is it

Familial One Shots

Little Meeting in a Distant Corner

A Fleeting Moment in the Sun

The New Grandpadawan

Grief

The Hunt

Chosen Ones

what is, what was, what will be

Together, for a Moment at Least

Just This Once, Just This One

This Is All Your Fault

BNHA:

Ongoing Series

Breaking: Local Couple Obtains Child

Toga Steals Children, Eri Steals Hearts

The Extended Adventures of Bakugou Katsuki and His Horrible Murder Kitten

Complete Series

Moments Between a Hero and a Vigilante

One Shots

There’s Only One Thing Worse Than a Vigilante...

Sometimes

Ochako’s in Her Teachers’ Apartment. Wait, What?

Midnight: Accidental Unofficial Queer Counselor

Aizawa-Sensei Has a Secret: He’s a Vampire

Hitoshi’s Family Grows By One (And Maybe More)

A Perfect Summer’s Day

we’re growing older (we’re growing apart)

Is this what kids these days are into?

You Reap What You Sow

Beautiful Things

Batman:

One Shots

Children of a Cursed City

Two Lonely Little Birds

The Witching Hour

Childish Dreams

What We Never Know

Complete Multi-Chapter

Hey, Look! Free Sibling!

#fanfiction #bnha #star wars #fanfic #bnha fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #dc comics #batfam #batfamily fanfic #my writing

[tailorvizsla]

Heyy, I absolutely love your series Shereshoy

and I have read the chapters up to chapter 3 , but I somehow can’t read chapter 4 :(

was that chapter deleted?

I just wanted to add that I love the relationship you build between Mando and the reader ,

it’s really funny when they get interrupted by Aguilla all the time

Hi! I think I fixed it? I'm not 100% certain because it won't let me click on my phone? And thank you so much, I'm glad you're enjoying it so far!!!

#asks #wolffeswife #shereshoy omg

[renegade-angel]

Sha’kajir

https://archiveofourown.org/works/36913714

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandoms: The Mandalorian (TV), Star Wars Original Trilogy

Relationship: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker

Characters: Din Djarin, Bo-Katan Kryze, Paz Vizsla, Admiral Gial Ackbar, Mon Mothma, Cara Dune, Grogu (Baby Yoda), Luke Skywalker, Borsk Fey’lya, Doman Beruss of Corellia, Kerrithrarr (Star Wars)

Additional Tags: Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker Switched Places, Prince Luke Skywalker, Mand’alor Din Djarin, Planet Chandrila (Star Wars), Politics, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, Canon Divergence - Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Eventual Romance

Language: English

Series: Part 1 of the Shereshoy series

Stats: Published: 2022-02-06, Words: 4358, Chapters: 1/1

Summary: 

Din frowned. “Mandalore doesn’t need your approval. We don’t want it. What we do want is food, technology for repurposing building materials, even terraformers to break through the glass from the Empire’s bombardment. Can you give us that or not?”

Sha’kajir (SHAH-kah-JEER): cease-fire, truce

#original content #my fic #star wars #the mandalorian #dinluke #shereshoy #link #din djarin #luke skywalker

[yoditorian]

massive thank you to my followers for getting me to this milestone, and also to everyone who sent in fics!! while i can’t confess to having read all of these works (i’m getting there tho) each comment is from the person who submitted it 💛 i’ve decided to keep this up as a regular thing, hopefully to be able to traffic some more readers to lesser known writers too so keep an eye out for that link

these have been listed in the order i received them, multi chapter works have either the masterlist or first chapter linked, please pay attention to warnings on the individual works

@bee-dameron - kair’ta - din/reader - this is one of my own recs, the original holder of my din djarin loving heart, ellie knows what they’ve done to me.

@keeper0fthestars - would you let me - din/reader - again, a rec of mine, solely responsible for planting tattooed!din in my head. a concept which haunts me daily. 

@thosewickedlovelies - into the woods - frankie/reader - my beloved rachael took a middle of the night shitpost of mine and turned it into something truly beautiful, i can’t wait to see where it goes. 

@anxiety-riddled-mando - shereshoy - mando!oc/reader - the last of my suggested fics, lives rent free in my head and the only thing i will accept as canon. jon favreau who??

@firstofficerwiggles - caretaker - din/reader - It's my fic so this is a hard question to answer but I think the story's strengths are it's romance and the blend of other elements like humor and action.

@heatherbel - desideratum - din/reader - Gorgeous poetic romance with Din Djarin.

@jura-moon - chrysalis - din/reader - The most beautiful slow burn one shot you will ever read. Jura's writing is beyond special. Sweet, emotional, sexy gorgeousness in fic form. 

@wille-zarr - in fields of white - din/reader - I wrote it lolllll jshshdhs.

@papercinders​ - enigma - obi wan/reader - the description of everything!! im not gonna make sense but gosh the author hooks you with the first chapter and drags you along by the neck for the next four

@waatermelon-sugaar - want to kiss? - poe/reader - So sexy 🥵.

@michaelperry - amidst the to and fro - din/reader - It’s a rebel!Din Djarin AU fic that is such a cool what-if idea and is written so beautifully. Din’s characterization is perfect and the whole thing is super sweet and soft. It’s one of my favorite fics I’ve read recently (tbh everything I’ve read of hers so far is amazing).

@maharani-radha-writes - cultural differences - javier/reader - It’s wonderful to be able to experience a little bit of someone else’s culture! And Javi doing his best to accommodate and understand is great to see!

@pumpkin-stars - waiting - frankie/reader - this fic has everything, angst, absolutely staggering symbolism, talk of death, frankie morales and the origin of his iCONIC hat (need i say more) (yes I will), heartache, taking chances, more angst, acceptance, a love confession, a happy ending. This fic is written with such care and empathy it is easily one of my fave frankie fics <3.

@katlikeme - it’s all the same down in the capital - reader + clones - Kat knows my whole heart belongs to her because this fic and i get all weepy just thinking about it.

@fromthedeskoftheraven - visions of sugarplums - jack/reader - being snowed in with Jack Daniels and his endless list of sweet pet names for you. And the pining!  

@mourningbirds1 - the crossroads i’m standing at - javier/steve - Javier peña and steve murphy and all the yearning and pining possible <3.

@miceenscene - star-crossed - din/ofc - din djarin soulmate au that takes your breath away.

@filthybookworm - nothing more and nothing different - frankie/reader - the most beautiful character study of frankie morales and his love languages

@ladylothlorien - oberyn is our greatest post-punk novelist - oberyn/reader - beautifully written modern!oberyn.

@itssmashedavo - mary magdalene - javier/ofc - Incredible OC, excellent pacing and very good writing. 10/10 would recommend.

@corellianhounds - geroya - din + covert - The cutest slice of life Mando fic that I can’t stop thinking about. A lovely unique look at Din from the POV of the covert foundlings. 

@millllenniawrites - warmth - poe/reader - love how Poe is portrayed in all their fics, but this one especially as it's such a slow build, and I can really feel everything when I read it! Also sex pollen is one of my favourite tropes ngl.

@brandyllyn - doppelgänger - nathan/reader - Wow - everything. This fic is just- so perfect! I love how Nathan makes an AI of himself (and believes that everyone would fuck themselves, given the chance) - that is one os the most in-character things I've ever seen Nathan do in fic - it's just perfect! Also love how bad Nathan is in bed at first, and the ending is so hot. Love love love this fic, I reread it regularly.

@youvebeenlivingfictional - don’t treat my love like a habit - santiago/reader - I love reading this series because I love how the characters develop, and how their relationships change over time too. I love the imagery in this fic and its such a comfort read. (Also there needs to be an honourary mention of Magnetic too, by the same author as it has excellent slow-burn pacing).

@woakiees - mistakes and sour grapes - poe/reader - I love how, although its modern-day Poe, it also does a really good job of showing Poe's struggles as he tries to adapt to civilian life. I also really enjoy the slow build between the two of them and Finn's friendship with the reader (also it's made me desperate to try a chocolate cake shot lol). 

@woakiees - and you keep me holding on - santiago/reader - it made me cry so much!!! the emotion, the days counting, the pain of poor Santi, just everything its so good

@brandyllyn - to sell your love for peace - javier/reader - omg ok. the writing in this was so good, and the foreshadowing was excellent - the whole time, I had a sneaking suspicion of what was going to happen, but the clues were so expertly scattered in that I had just convinced myself I was wrong when... (AAAAHHHH I screamed you have no idea it was so good).

@writingletterstothefire - she loves me - santiago/reader - the suspense! I love knowing things that the characters dont and I cant wait to find out how they react! I really enjoy this authors writing too.

@witchyavenger - coffee - richard/reader - how sweet it is!! I just wanna give Richard some love too, he deserves the world, (and the moodpboard for this fic is so good also).

#big forehead kisses for anyone who sent their own work in!!! we love to see it!!!! #liz's follower celebration!! #fic recs #good words #also if u don't see ur rec here lmk and i'll be happy to let u know why #the mandalorian #star wars #narcos #triple frontier

[lessthantwelveparsecs]

Akaanati'kar'oya

Change is sacred.

The Armorer was guiding him, always. He could hear her voice, clear and confident, reminding him that there was an answer in the Creed.

The first time she shared the Akaanati'kar'oya it was to temper his grief.

"Where's Iya?" Din had wondered. He was still so young, too young for proper armor, but old enough to shoulder truth.

"Iya's not coming home," She explained, "She's gone to fight for Kad Ha'rangir."

"Kad Ha'rangir?"

"...My child. Change is the only thing we can count on. It sets us free. Come sit by the fire, I have a story to share. Perhaps it will help you understand."

And it had helped. Not enough to erase the pain of losing his friend, but enough to make the sorrow bearable.

The memory was all it took for the Mandalorian to find his voice.

"In the beginning, the universe was dark. But even then, a war was waging," Din murmured, folding his hands in his lap as he recalled the Mandalorian creation myth. "Arasuum and Kad Ha'rangir have always been fighting the War of Life and Death."

He paused and looked to Luke's hunched frame, waiting to see how the man would respond. After a moment Luke unfurled, lifting his head to stare into the hearth. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, but Din took the movement as a sign to continue.

"Arasuum is the God of Sloth. He is lazy and slow, set in his ways. His brother, Kad Ha'rangir, is the Destroyer God. He is active and alive, full of ramikadyc. They are evenly matched, and always at odds."

"Hod Ha'ran, the Trickster God, was tired of their monotonous, eternal fight. And so, he devised a plan to disturb his brother's balance. Hod Ha'ran removed a piece of his armor, and from it, made the first Mandalorian.

"Look brothers!" he cried, "I have created a warrior of my own. They will fight for one of you, and turn the tide of this endless battle. Who will claim them?"

"Arasuum knew the warrior would be a burden. It would need food and shelter, warmth and companionship. "Brother," he warned, "If you are foolish enough to settle yourself with this loathsome creature, then I yield it to you willingly."

Where Arasuum saw inadequacy, Kad Ha'rangir saw potential. He took the warrior and unmade them. He split the cuirass apart, and divided the pauldrons, the bracers, the leg guards. In each new suit he placed an iron heart, forged by his own hand. His breath set the hearts beating, and one soul became two.

Finally, from the helmet, Kad Ha'rangir created a planet. A place for them to call home."

"These new Mandalorians were born with a fighting spirit. There was no one else to battle, so they fought each other. And from the clashing of their bodies, a child was made. As it grew, they found that their family was more important than their fight. And so began the first clan. A clan of three."

Din traced his finger over the triangle on his hand plate, lingering on the side that represented the child.

"Hod Ha'ran was watching, and he was angry. The warriors were meant to serve Kad Ha'rangir. Instead, the Destroyer god gave them free will, and they chose peace. So Hod Ha'ran killed the child to ignite his parent's battle fury. His mother cried and cried, and her tears were molten beskar. As the iron fell upon the earth, it hardened into armor plates. Every tear became the shell of a person. The father captured his son's soul and used it to animate the armor. An entire army sprang forth from their grief, from their love."

"The newly created Tribe understood that they were born from sacrifice. They pledged to live their lives with pride and intention. Kad Ha'rangir was pleased, for he favors those who are willing to grow. He left them alone to partake in the joys of shereshoy, the lust for life. And when the Mandalorians died, they joined the final fight, as starlight soldiers at Kad Ha'rangir's side."

"Death is painful, because it represents change. But through change, we come into our own. That is the War of Life and Death: stagnation, versus growth. All of existence is a series of recurring endings and beginnings. Kad Ha'rangir destroys, and from that destruction, we are born anew."

He turned his head to his companion. Luke's forlornness was so obvious in the dying firelight. Din softened his voice as much as his modulator would allow, and concluded,

"Don't despair, if things have to change. This is the way it's always been, the way it will always be."

The fire crackled, sending up a pop of cinders. A nightjar cried in the distance. The twilight wind was cold, but bearable with company, and Din was grateful to be beside Luke, even though he was hurting.

When Luke finally spoke, Din knew that he understood.

"This is The Way," Luke whispered as his eyes slipped shut, offering the words up like a prayer.

The Mandalorian nodded, leaning against his companion.

"This is The Way."

___________________

Last of the Old Gods

Rating: E

Chapter 12: Knight, Sister

Get caught up here.

#dinluke #the mandalorian creation myth #Akaanati'kar'oya #angiebodies #my writing #skydalorian

[writerlyhabits]

Ni Ceta

Pairing: Din Djarin x female reader

Word Count: 5.7K

Summary: Your second day in the covert reveals both new and familiar faces; hospitality and hostility.

Chapter 2 of the Shereshoy series | Masterlist | Ch. 1 | Ch. 3

Warnings: lots of Mando’a, mild language, soft Din, awkward Din, protective Din [he’s got a wide range, okay?], original Mandalorian characters… maybe a little bit of angst? It’s mostly worldbuilding, so I think that’s about it. 

AN: A word from the author – "I'm in grad school, I take forever to write things." This is the second part of a sister fic for my fic Courting a friend of mine wrote based on this request, and I’m so happy she’s letting me share it with you guys! In this chapter, we get to see some new faces – or helmets, I should say – and I am here for what they have in store for us! Thanks for reading, we hope you enjoy 💛

This series is also on AO3, so you can read this chapter there too…

Translations:

Baar’ure: medics 

Gotabor(e): (approx) mechanic(s)

(Lit.) engineer(s)

Aruetii(se): outsider(s)

Me’bana?: What happened?

Copikla bal mirdala: cute and clever 

Copikla: meant to refer to babies and animals - never women unless you want your head ripped off

Could be considered a backhanded compliment or an insult

Ne shab'rud'kaysh, vod:  (Approx) Don’t fuck with her, brother. 

(Lit.) Don't mess with her, brother. (extremely strong warning, likely to be followed by violence)

N'eparavu takisit, vod: (Approx) Sorry, brother. 

(Lit.) I eat my insult, brother

Me’dinui: share, give to one another 

Aliit: family

Solus mhi oyacyi: (Approx) United, we remain

Buy’ce: helmet

Ik’aad: baby, child under 3

Jatne vod: “sir” or “ma’am” 

Cabur(e): guard(s)

Kad: In reference to Kad Ha’rangir, destroyer god in the old Mandalorian pantheon

Utreekov: fool, idiot (lit: emptyhead)

Ni ceta: (Lit) I kneel, (approx.) I’m sorry 

Ni ven’ceta par gar ratiin: I will always kneel for you

You feel the chill of the cave air settle around you as you rise from your slumber.

Opening your eyes, a soft glow leaks into your space from the room adjacent— signaling that Din is also awake. Not that he sleeps for very long anyway. Rather than immediately leaving the comfort of your sleeping mat to join him, you opt to spend a few extra minutes holding the little one close, hand on his back, as he continues to sleep soundly on your chest. Mornings like these are commonplace— cuddling with the Child until you feel ready enough to begin the day; making fresh caf for you and Din to share, feeding yourself and the little one, while enjoying the quiet company of one another in the cockpit. Perhaps our routine can stay somewhat the same, even here.

Mustering the strength to pull yourself from your warm cocoon of blankets, you slowly rise, trying to not disturb the Child. Two feet on the cold stone ground, and a blanket wrapped over your shoulders, you wander towards the common room. 

In the corner sits a short-legged table, the perfect height to tuck ones’ legs beneath while enjoying a meal, or in this case, the morning caf. Din sits beside it, his shoulders and head leaning against the wall, his legs outstretched and crossed in front of him, and his hands interlaced across his abdomen. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was sleeping; but for the first time in a long time, Din is simply relaxing. 

His head turns slightly to look at you as you approach, his arms slowly extending upward for the morning trade-off of the Child. Din guides him to lie against his shoulder while you ease yourself down to the floor, sitting across from him. Getting to watch Din with the Child like this was rare— it wasn’t often Din was able to decompress, allowing his body a break from the constant weight of armor. With bounty hunters and Imperials searching for the three of you, danger lurked around every corner. Din had to be prepared to fight at any moment. Seeing him unarmored and at ease— getting to enjoy the simple action of cuddling with his Foundling— makes you feel more calm, despite how unsettled you had been the day before.

“Did you sleep well?” Din asks— his voice soft, to not stir the Child. 

“Yeah…” you nod, your fatigue causing you to trail off, leaving your thoughts incomplete. When Din shut out the lights before falling asleep, the pitch black  of the cave was not unlike the darkness in the Crest every night. Despite the sleeping mat not quite matching the feel of your bed on the ship, the familiarity of the darkness had been a comfort, allowing sleep to come easily. 

However, it wasn’t entirely refreshing— with the usual lag of being on a new planet, as well as the ever present nip of the air throughout the night. Feeling the chill of the bedrock beneath you, you pull your blanket tighter around yourself. “...but it’s colder here than I expected.” 

He readjusts, shifting the child to his other shoulder before replying. “The temperature underground remains constant,” he tells you, not unkindly, “It’s best to dress warmly— prevents the stone from absorbing your body heat.” He taps his fingers on the ground to emphasize his point. You nod, and the three of you ease into a comfortable silence, Din continuing to lie against the wall as you pull the blanket tight around you once more, hunching forward to rest your arms on the table, and your head atop your arms. It’s almost too easy to doze off again, your grogginess coupled with Din’s calming presence. 

Before you’re able to drift back into a light sleep, he gently places his free hand on your arm, giving a light squeeze. His gruff voice just barely above a whisper, “I know you’re tired— but we won’t be out long… You’ll meet the baar’ure and the gotabore, and we’ll come back here.”  

Gotabore— that’s a new one. The mechs? 

Your eyes meet his visor again, and with a small sigh, you nod at him. “Let me get dressed… then I’ll make the caf.” Giving him a weak grin, he gently removes his hand from your arm, allowing you to stand back up and return to your sleeping area once again. While changing into a set of durable work-clothes, the time alone offers you the chance to reflect on the current arrangement— reiterating once more where you’ve come to, and why.

Recalling back to the discussion with the Alor the day prior— inquiring about some of your aptitudes and skill sets, tasking you with specific labor, and instructing Din the same. Being a guest in their home; shielding you from any dangers, being given a bed to sleep in and meals to eat— requesting that you earn your keep seems reasonable. But why did she ask— tell— Din to bring you here? When you first met, she did not deem you as a member of his clan, despite your… relationship with Din and your role as the other caretaker of the Child. Currently— the populace of this pseudokarst-hidden covert regard you as nothing but an outsider. An invader. A danger. A threat to their safety. An aruetii. 

And yet, no matter their levels of distrust, you are here, by the Alor’s request.

This is not the first time you have had to deal with unpleasant people— those that make the day seem unending or unyielding in its discomfort, or work with ones who question your intelligence or ability at every turn. The only surefire way to ease the inquietude of your cohorts is to employ the same tactics that you always have— by simply doing your best. With Din, this came naturally. As a pragmatic man, he values and trusts both competency and integrity. Showcasing both traits allowed him to ease his habitual suspicion of strangers and eventually, after enough time, foster a fond friendship between you. Perhaps utilizing the same tactic can render a twin outcome.

It can’t hurt to try, at least for Din’s sake.

You understand, at least to some degree, what the concept of clan and community mean to him. After the tragedy of Nevarro, you watched him silently mourn his many losses, not just of the individuals, but the purpose he held in providing for his people, his sense of worth intrinsically tied to the survival and prosperity of his tribe. Whilst those who are gone will never return, this new collective of Mando’ade could present Din with an opportunity to release his residual guilt and shame, resuming his role as a primary generator of income, sponsoring many Foundlings and adults alike for many years to come. In essence, Din could finally come home. 

Your place, for now it seems, is to make this arrangement with him, and them, work. To not instigate or incite any conflict, to not act out of turn or be discourteous. The way to the heart of your companion was through patience and compassion; and thus cooperation and communication is the way to solidarity with his comrades. Presenting yourself as an equal, as someone who has earned the respect and trust of one of their own can give them the freedom to do the same, without fear. And perhaps, one day, to care for you and about you just the same as Din does every day. 

—

The workshop is lively— abuzz and boisterous.   

The cavernous walls echo and amplify the clangs and thumps of the tools, muddling together with the chatter of the Mando’ade working together. In the mess of noise, you can distinctly make out their laughter, of all things— and with it, their camaraderie. At this moment, you can’t seem to recall a time in which you were that happy to be working on anything— undoubtedly, you’ve enjoyed some jobs and some people, but you can practically hear the smile in their voices hidden beneath their buy’ce. 

For a group of ‘fearsome, ruthless warriors’, this isn’t what I expected.

The workshop appears to double as a port for the strange variety of ships they have stored, ones they must have collected over time, perhaps as more Mando’ade arrived at this covert. Anything from speeders to small transports. Most of them don’t appear to be in the best condition— and by the looks of others, not entirely operational either. At the far end of the shop is the hangar door, which presumably leads to the outside, where two Mandos are working on a small ship— a CS fighter.  A small single-manned starfighter designed for combat, so customizable and versatile they’ve withstood the tests of time— most models still in existence are decades old. 

Another pre-Empire ship, I’m sensing a trend.

The two Mandos underneath the ship pay no mind to you and Din as you approach, instead focusing on trying to remove a part from the underbelly of the starfighter. Upon closer inspection, you take note of their appearances. One Mando adorned in armor painted a faded mauve— old paint, chipped on the thighs and chest piece; and the other a light blue, with gray accents detailing the armor throughout. The two of you watch them work for a minute before Din speaks, getting their attention. 

“Perhaps my friend could be of some aid.”

Their heads snap to you in unison, staring at you both for a moment. Mauve tilts her head, “Nice to see you too, Djarin.”

You give a slight chuckle at her response. Din can be the worst at introductions sometimes. You look back over to him, waiting for his own retort. Rather than greeting her, he nods his head once, and gestures towards the starfighter, “Me’bana? What’s wrong with it?” 

Mauve pulls herself out from underneath the ship, wiping the oil on her gloves on the unarmored sections of her pants, and leaning herself against the wing.“Engine keeps overheating— we don’t have enough parts to replace every cooling unit, and I haven’t figured out which ones are failing or why,” she says casually, crossing her arms. She nods at you, “What do you think?” 

You match her stance, crossing your arms, leaning your weight to one side, giving the question a moment of thought. “A ship as old as this? Check the ground conductors. The one’s on the Crest fry pretty often, especially with how manically he flies it.” In your peripherals you see Din turn his head to look at you, as if your jab at his pilotage genuinely offended him, but hearing a snicker from Mauve, he looks away.

Listening to your suggestion, Blue works to take apart the cooling unit they had already removed, working his way down towards the center. In less than a minute, he’s able to remove one of the culprits responsible for the malfunction— a very fried ground conductor. With a little, prideful smirk, you turn your head slightly to look back at Din, your eyes meeting his visor. He gives you a short nod, a silent approval of your correct assessment, his own unique way of telling you, Good work.  

Blue rises from his back to a seated position, setting down the tool he has in hand. He refuses to look at you, to address you— to even acknowledge you, instead staring at Din. “Copikla bal mirdala— I see why the Alor let you keep her.” 

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

If you’re dastard enough to undermine me, have the gall to do it in Basic, asshole. You want to conjure some sort of response to him, but ignoring his attempt at a crude remark may be the best course of action— to retaliate with your own insult will do nothing but escalate this dispute. As you have come to learn, anger is prone to rashness. And anger, whether it’s yours or Din’s— or both, is what he wants. And you won’t give him the satisfaction of having it. 

“Ne shab'rud'kaysh, vod.” 

Din, however, gives in to the bait. His voice irate— a warning, a threat. For a brief moment, there’s a passing worry about the possibility of Din igniting the flames of his gauntlet, a favorite weapon of his when he’s provoked. If anything, a knife fight feels more likely. The silence between the four of you somehow drowns out every other noise in the shop. The two of them continue to glare, both waiting for the other to make the first move. 

Your eyes watch back and forth between the two of them, waiting with baited breath. When Blue slowly raises both his hands in a mock surrender,“N'eparavu takisit, vod—“, and Din finally looks away from him, you know things have settled… for now.

An uncomfortable silence returns for a few moments, and Din is still not at ease. Mauve finally quips, “You saw it for yourself, go find another conductor.” She waves her hand, gesturing for Blue to leave. He rises, walking towards the other ships in the center of the shop— “You too, Djarin, find some.” She adds, casting Din away in the same manner she did with the other gotabor.  

Din hesitates. He doesn’t want to leave your side— and looks to you, with a silent question. You nod at him, an unspoken It’s okay— with a sigh, he complies with her command. “Fine,” he swiftly turns around, leaving the two of you alone. 

You watch them descend further into the shop, until they disappear from your sight. You’re left with the sounds of the distant chatter of the other Mando’ade, continuing to echo as it did when you first arrived. 

Well, that could have gone worse. 

Of the six Mando’ade you’ve met, three of them have not been hostile. It’s a start.

Continuing to stare off, Mauve speaks once more to get your attention. “Come help me check the rest of them.” 

Her request brings you back to the present moment, turning around to see her lying underneath the ship again, hands deep in its underbelly, loosening some things and pulling others. You kneel down, until you’re able to lower yourself to the ground completely, lying next to her. She hands you the cooling units as she pulls them out, and the two of you work to take them apart, sitting beside one another. 

“Jado doesn’t like you. But pay him no mind.” She states, matter-of-factly. 

Yeah, he looks like a ‘Jado.’ 

This revelation of Jado’s discontempt is unsurprising— and not unexpected. “He doesn’t know me,” you say. Asking a question of why would be inane, you already know the answer.   

“Well… none of us do. You’re an aruetii.” That moniker makes your stomach churn, but her lack of malice allows you to diminish the feeling of dejection quickly. “But that’s not inherently a bad thing. We’ll all get to know you soon enough.” 

…What? 

She continues, nonchalantly, “Djarin and the Alor trust you; so that’s all that matters. Aruetii or not.” 

You continue to work, letting a short-lived silence settle between you, before she speaks again. “I’m Odona. Clan Drii. Unfortunately, Jado’s a part of it too. My little vod.” 

You listen as her spiel drags on, leaning in to signal she has your attention, “We both usually work on the ships here, but he’s still pretty new at it— and I haven’t worked with many Pre-Imperial ships. When I heard that you were coming, after being on Djarin’s ancient me’sen?” She raises both her hands dramatically, “Briikase tuur. Happy day.” 

Listening to this Mandalorian monologue feels like an oxymoron— given the usual disposition of your companion, and the general taciturn reputation that all Mandalorians seem to hold amongst the outsiders. Regardless, her comment and theatrical gestures make you grin.

“Don’t tell me you’re another ‘strong and silent’ type… Djarin’s sulking is enough for me.” That makes you laugh. 

He does sulk a little, doesn’t he?

Smiling, you finally respond, “No. I think I’ve just grown accustomed to the sulking.” 

Odona snorts. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll get none of that from me. You’ll replace Jado for now, we’ll likely get more accomplished that way.” You’re not disappointed, the change of pace will be interesting— a new opportunity to learn a lot from. You feel a little prideful, knowing that she’s pleased with your knowledge and ability. 

Before Odona can begin another monologue— and perhaps to disprove her claim of yours and Din’s shared hobby of sulking— you seize the chance to ask a question of your own. “I’m surprised by how many ships are here— but why are so many of them stripped out?”

Her hands stop, a pause in her tinkering as she ponders your enquiry. With a tilt of her head, she finally answers. “Whenever we get a new ship, it gets…” she hesitates for a moment, attempting to better articulate herself, searching for the precise word; “...triaged.” 

Interesting connotation.

 You suggest, “...As in, you decide whether to fix it, or scrap it for parts.”

“Exactly. We don’t have the resources to fix everything. It’s best to spend our time efficiently— focusing on the ones that will yield the greatest benefit in the long run.” The explanation is sound, yet Odona sees your underlying confusion still present. She asks you, “Why?”

Din would blow a fuse if someone tried to strip the Crest… again… Damn Jawas. 

You point in the direction Din and Jado wandered towards, “I can see why he landed the Crest over a mile away from here.” Odona chuckles at the light joke, and you continue, “But— people are… okay with their ship getting scrapped?” On the surface, the concept almost sounds absurd. For Din, the Crest is another home. Everything meticulously ordered, from his weapons to his food stocks. Despite the frequent abuse his ship endures, he works to ensure its continued functionality, it’s almost a second layer of armor, one he cares about greatly. 

“Well, no one has a personal ship— whenever any newcomers settle into the covert, any ships they once owned join the tribe’s fleet,” Odona explains. 

Your brows furrow. They just give away their ship to the covert?

She elaborates more. “I guess it could be difficult for someone outside of…” she gestures to your surroundings, “...this… to understand. We share things— me’dinui— do what we can to contribute to each other, to our community.” She shrugs, watching you, gauging your reaction. “A ship doesn’t mean anything… But supporting your aliit? Your family?” She pauses again, her voice passionate, “...It’s everything. All we truly have is each other.”

In a galaxy so wrought with selfishness, greed, and ‘survival of the fittest’— the thought of anyone doing anything for a collective good is almost inconceivable. And yet, hearing the emotion of her voice, listening to her speak of the tenets you see Din adhere to so unfailingly, the concept of unity seems more tangible, more apodictic.  

Setting down the tools you have in hand, you softly lament, “Sadly, I think I’ve become a little jaded to that idea...” you look at her, hoping to meet her eyes behind her visor, “...but I’m open to having my mind changed.”

You nod at her, and she does the same. In a familiar tone, Odona enounces, “Solus mhi oyacyi— this is the Way.” 

—

Upon Din’s and Jado’s return with the necessary parts, Din extends a hand to you to help you rise from the ground. 

As you stand, Odona quips “Making me do all the work with these?” 

And with Din’s reply— “We have other matters to attend to;” you make your way towards the exit, giving Odona a wave, and she returns with a nod. 

As you both close the heavy metal doors of the shop behind you, the hush of the cavern is jarring— the noise of the chaotic banter suddenly silenced. You’re only left with the sound of your blood whooshing in your head, and again, the persistent gelidity of the cave air forcing a chill up your spine. You exhale, removing your hands from the door, and slowly turn around to face Din. You stare at one another for a moment, before taking another breath. 

“Odona said you sulk too much,” you say, your voice light and soft, to break the quiet tension without dissettling the quiescent chamber.

He huffs at your teasing remark and tilts his head, “...It seemed like the two of you were getting along?” He matches your volume, inquiring gingerly.

There’s worry in his voice, you recognize. Lingering feelings of contrition for the unnecessary antagonism Jado had given you. It must be strange for him, you contemplate, this role reversal of sorts. Outside these walls, he’s a living embodiment of minatory. In his day-to-day, he has to make an effort to appear benign to sociable strangers— whilst you, on the other hand, are as regular as any other citizen in the galaxy— posing passivity is the goal, a fine balance between being amicable but guarded. But now, in his enclave, you have to think and behave as he does when he interacts with everyone else in the galaxy— an intriguing juxtaposition.  

You smile, “Yes, she’s interesting...she reminds me of Peli.” That’s not all he wants to know. It’s another tacit question, a chance to tell him how you feel without him having to ask. You take a step closer, letting your eyes meet his visor, “She also assured me that continuing to ignore her brother’s jibes is the best course of action.”

He sighs, and his shoulders drop. “I told him not to do it again.”

Din isn’t good with words. He’s curt, sometimes to the point of being tactless. On Sorgan, when faced with the obligation of informing the villagers of their predicament— Bad news, you can’t live here anymore— his delivery, at best, was uncouth. Nice bedside manner— Cara had told him, which earned a chuckle from you. He usually thrives more in one-on-one interactions; he can be amenable— kind, even. He ensures to give people thanks when necessary, listens to others without interruption; and attempts to be a calm presence, especially in times of turmoil.

Where he excels, however, are in his actions. Whether it’s the softer things— letting the Child grip his finger for comfort, a gentle hand to help you;  or the more intense things— fighting his way through an army of Imperials to ensure the safety of his aliit, Din shows his care through his actions. He didn’t protect you from the enmity of his cohort because he thought you were incapable of vying against another Mando’ade. He wasn’t attempting to patronize you— but rather displaying his respect, to not stand idly by when someone is attempting to ostracize you. 

His care is a reverent kind, one he conveys with both his body and his mind, a message given with nary a word spoken.

You stare into him once more, hoping to meet his eyes. You grin, and give a soft “Thank you.” 

He doesn’t respond, he simply nods.

You gaze at one another for a few moments, before you nod your head to the side, gesturing to him to start walking; just as he did to you the day prior. Together, you walk beside each other through the various halls and passageways— working to build a mental map of the cave system— until you reach the medbay. 

It’s a small room, one equipt to host only a few residents. Along the chamber walls are privacy shields— drawn to create different spaces for individual patients. Towards the back are tall shelves of med supplies— anything from syringes and needles, blood tubes, to disinfectants, gauze, and kits for intravenous fluids— supplies that would allow for basic blood tests, and treating minor to moderate wounds. Near the entrance sits another Mando, the baar’ur— their armor a deep green with teal sigils along the side of their buy’ce; holo pad in hand, seemingly deep in focus. 

The sounds of your footsteps pull her attention. “Ah, su cuy'gar, Djarin, it’s been a while. How’s your ik’aad?” 

He extends a hand for her to grasp, pulling her from the ground. “Fine. He’s with the other ade.”

She looks at you, “Jatne vod, I’ve been waiting for you to arrive.” 

“I hope I can assist.” You give her your name, she replies with her own; Mavis. 

She sighs, exasperated. She points to the first room, “One of the idiot cabure just showed up for the third time in two weeks, and…” She stops, and takes a deep breath, trying to ease her agitation, “... and I don’t want to deal with him again.” She holds the holopad out for you to take, “Can you handle this for me?”

Reading through her notes, you skim over some of the details.

G: He is in no apparent distress. He is alert and oriented

S: No open fracture or bony abnormality

E: Laceration to left shoulder, 15cm x 1 cm, simple, shallow

A simple laceration… “No sutures or staples?” You ask.

“No. Just use a tissue adhesive— I would have just made him do it himself; but he can’t reach it.” Her annoyance seeps through her voice again, “So, don’t waste any bacta on that,” she replies, pointedly. She mumbles under her breath, shaking her head, “Kad knows that utreekov will be back here next week.” She looks at Din, who gives her a sympathetic shrug. 

She must be the only medic here. 

You nod in understanding, “...I’ll take care of him, Mavis.” You turn around to walk towards the room, reading through the rest of her notes. Din and the baar’ur carry on in conversation as you approach the line of privacy shades.

Standing before the first room, you use the corner of the holo pad to tap upon the pole holding the curtain— a sound to alert the patient of your arrival, “Can I come in?” you ask.

A moment of silence greets you, before a deep voice answers “...Sure.”

Slowly drawing back the curtain just wide enough to allow you entry, you step in. 

A familiar Mando sits before you. The idiot cabur.

The same idiot cabur you met yesterday— the very one that glowered into your karking soul like he craved nothing more than to break you in half. The sight of him makes your stomach sink— dread coursing through your bones, your nerves firing to prepare for his inevitable attack— skin electric, heart racing, blood cold. 

You’re not safe.

You breathe, trying to will your voice to return once more. Taking a moment, your eyes scan up and down his form— assessing his position. He’s slouched, sitting atop the bed, one leg tucked underneath the other, a hand pressed against the injured shoulder. His pauldrons and chest piece sit beside him, his shirt half pulled over his form, revealing the nasty gash across his shoulder blade. Your eyes finally meet his visor— almost hoping to find his own beneath it, only to greet the same abyss that bore into you upon your first meeting. 

Breathe. You nod at him, feigning nonchalance, “What happened?”

He observes you in return, tilting his head. 

His gaze, though not predatory, reveals his intrigue. You’re enigmatic, oracular— he’s studying you, fixated on your features; searching for the apologues and adages that have sculpted your spirit— the flame of your psyche he yearns to succumb to. For a moment, he too is breathless, lost in the sea of your presence, desperate for a mast to secure himself to. He yields, finally looking away from you, to bring his attention to his injured shoulder.  

He considers his response, and answers your question; almost timid, but with an obvious lightness to his voice. “I— uh… bravely protected the covert from an invader.” 

You blink, and furrow your brows in confusion. You slowly shake your head at him. “No.” You reply, unconvinced. “Try again.”

He straightens his posture, looking at you once more. After another pause, he argues his second retelling of events. “Okay… again, I bravely rescued a Foundling lost in one of the Back Caves,” his voice less shy, but still chary.

His witticism begins to thaw the icy tension between you, reforming to liquescent diffidence— your pulse easing back to its restful tempo, the slight tremor of your hands gradually ceasing. You stride towards him, equanimous and assured, until you’re close enough to inspect his injury. A nasty gash, skin frayed along the edges, with smaller abrasions surrounding it— the beginnings of a bruise coloring the area. Dust and tiny shards of lava rock are settled on the skin throughout, peppering the wound. It looks painful.

Your eyes meet his hidden ones, desperate to conceal your amused grin he’s given you, “No,” you challenge, an insincere jest, “...last chance.”

He chortles, looking away again, almost bashful. “I fell,” he responds, resolute. “In the Back Caves… Lost my footing on an unsteady rock, and landed on a sharper one.” His coyish inflection shifting to one aflutter— in a moment of confidence, he returns his gaze to you, illuminated by your amused expression, having caught on to his jocular antics. 

You nod, and try to hide your simper, “That sounds right.” You gesture to his shoulder, “May I?”

“Please.” He moves slowly, turning slightly, allowing you easier access to his shoulder.  

With the wound in full view, you work to treat him.  

It only takes but a few minutes to clean the area, the two of you spend that time in silence. He fidgets, not in a way that indicates he’s in pain— but rather that he’s unnerved, nervous, even mousy. This massive Mando’ad sits beside you with such tension in his form, as though he’s bracing for an impact; on the precipice of the inchoate attack— waiting for the aruetii to spit their vitriol, to exploit his vulnerable position and leave him more scathed than when he arrived.  

With your hands gently pressing over his shoulder blade, sealing the adhesive in place; he releases a long held breath, the anticipated aggression absent. The tautness of his muscles gives way, highlighting their definition across his back as he decompresses. Stop looking. His heat radiating into your palms, a warmth you’ve been starved of since entering this frore catacomb, you’re reluctant to pull away— longing to linger in the intimacy of this untrodden amity that has just scarcely begun. 

Slowly, you will yourself to retreat, discarding the soiled gauze and removing your disposable gloves. “Does the brave cabur have any other battle wounds?” You tease, disrupting the prolonged silence.

“No, ma’am,” his tone reveleaving the alacarious smirk hidden behind his buy’ce. As you turn away, he maneuvers his arm back into his shirt. He continues, “...thank you. Vor entye.” 

You look back to him and nod, “Of course.” 

Just as the silence settles again, and you attempt to leave, he recommences. “Before you go…” He waits for you to stop, “I was hoping to speak with you?” His inflection returns to one of timidness again; but he sits straighter, his legs wide and relaxed, his hands resting over his thighs. Even without his armor, his broad form fills the space around him. Don’t ogle. “We didn’t get to talk much yesterday.”

Difficult to chat when you think you’re about to die. “No, we didn’t.”

His voice turns gentle, almost placating, as if he heard your thought. “I’m Ikarus, a guardsman for the covert. The other cabur was Sabe.” He breathes, tilts his head, fidgets like he’s considering every word before he says it. “It’s our duty… to ensure the safety of everyone here. Including you.”

You’re frozen in place, refusing to cross the threshold to him again, despite his words wanting you to ease yourself closer.

“I—” the words are trapped in his throat, “I failed that duty yesterday. I failed you.” 

He pauses, looking down to the floor, gathering his thoughts once more. “I’ve been here a long time. We’re very careful who we allow in here. Having a new Foundling and an outsider come in like this is unusual, to say the least.” 

He looks to your face, meeting your eyes, “But this… inordinate circumstance… doesn’t give me the right to scare you. Being leered at by a giant, armed, faceless stranger should not have been your first impression of us… of me.” 

His guilt bleeds into his speech, a sadness overcoming him. “I’m sorry.”  For a moment, Ikarus envisions you, the terror in your eyes upon your first meeting, your protectiveness of the Child, of Djarin shielding you from his ravening presence, keeping you away from him. “Ni ceta, I’m sorry.” 

You stare at him, speechless, in awe of his confession. 

Ni ceta. I kneel. 

A rare, groveling apology you had only heard once before— in an unfortunate situation with Din that left you both upset— he found the Basic phrase I’m sorry could not express his attrition wholly. He had explained the Mando’a words to you; their connotation, their significance. Kneeling, you learned, was one of the highest forms of respect to another Mando’ade— not only a display of humility, but reverence, obedience; and at certain times, even submission. Whilst his genuflect never came, his declaration was enough for you both to reconcile. 

But the person before you is not Din Djarin.

Having a man like him brought to his knees would be a sight to behold. 

In a moment of boldness, you slowly step towards him— soft on your feet— until you stand a mere meter apart, never looking away from where you presume his eyes to be. In a quiet, demulcent tone— barely above a whisper; before you can even think to reconsider your words, you ask him, “Are you going to kneel, Ikarus?”

Thence, he is in free fall. Your emollient voice and temerarious inquiry luring him into the vast unknown of you— succumbing to the pull of your orbit, the fire of your spirit. In an instant, his body relaxes— his eyes bore into yours, as he slowly rises from the medical bed to his full height, before bending the knee to kneel below you. After a moment, he extends his hand for you to grasp. Whence his hand grips yours, he answers your question in kind; “Ni ven’ceta par gar ratiin.”

Thanks for reading!! If you’d like to be notified when I post a new fic, be sure to follow @writerlyhabits-library + turn on post notifications! 💛

To show this author your direct support, go ahead and check this story out on A03 + leave some kudos and a nice comment 💜

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin fluff #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #mando'a #original mandalorian characters #they're my favorites #i love them #shereshoy series #shereshoy sister fic #not my writing #i have permission to post this

[absurdthirst]

For the anon looking for Paz series I highly recommend: A Lit Torch to the Woodpile High by @pilothusband, Cabur by @cora-vizsla, and A Proper Mandalorian Courtship by kmandofan90 on AO3 (kmandofan90 used to be on Tumblr as @anxiety-riddled-mando). Kamandofan90 also wrote an entire OC character series about a Death Watch Mandalorian named Mar who she imagined to be Paz's father. It's called Shereshoy and it's excellent.

More options for Paz fics

#find a fic

[shabre-legacy]

38 for the star wars asks

hey thanks for the ask :)

38. Fic recommendations?

ok so this is going to be a long one because I like fics.

So first off is @swpromptsandasks dangerous galaxy series, but only if you like dark stuff ‘cause it’s good but a bit heavy sometimes. 

The rest of these are on a03 cause bookmarks unless otherwise noted

Undercover by amukmuk - it’s blyla undercover mission

How Could I Forget? by  aurelie_saintjuste - kanan/hera

@sleepswithvillains helplessly hoping series - Malavai/sith warrior

How to be a Finn by  Ayashiki - it’s Finn/Poe and Finn learning who he is outside of the First Order and where he fits in the resistance. 

Belonging by Berettasalts - Torian/bounty hunter

 @starrypawz Cosmic Castaways series - Corso/smuggler

Drones by  Amicia - vector/agent

Shereshoy by atrilial - torian/hunter

bits and pieces by  pixilicious - torian/hunter

Shereshoy by  AkiRah - torian/hunter

built to last by laloga - corso/smuggler

Smuggler with a Heart of Gold by Jestana - corso/smuggler

@lyrishadow Storm Passing - corso/smuggler

Stolen Moments by  rosetwopointoh - corso/smuggler

probably others but I forget

[concussed-to-pieces]

Stay Safe Playlist

YouTube Playlist for Stay Safe Found Here

(Alternatively, if the link doesn't work: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtGKUohVH5zUp6uaQkDTx7T8VNCVjrccq )

I present the soundtrack/score/playlist for Stay Safe! While I was writing, I had the idea to ‘score’ it like it was a visual media byproduct. Music is incredibly helpful for me when I need to visualize different things or instill certain emotions.

Beneath the cut you will find a full breakdown of the individual songs chapter by chapter, as well as the YouTube links to each of them! There will be spoilers for all chapters of Stay Safe, of course.

Enjoy!

Part One: Should Have Known Better

Intro--Carpenter Brut

So here we have our introductory piece! Something to channel a little danger, a little suspicion, that sense of unease from waking up bleary-eyed in a new place. Throughout it weaves the old school sci-fi motif to set our scene, with heavy synth use and electronic instruments.

Launch--Daniel L.K. Caldwell

We lean heavily on the electronic once more, evoking a sense of weightlessness as we head through hyperspace to the dulcet tones of deep synth, querying brass and lonely, wordless vocalizations. Our protagonist finds themselves managing the care of a strange child in a new environment. They are weary and sore but their charge is an easy burden to bear, all things considered. When they eventually bed down for some well-deserved rest, they find they can sleep peacefully.

...x…

Part Two: Tranquil Turmoil

Star-Stealing Girl--Chrono Cross Original Soundtrack

This piece is inquisitive and lilting, and fits well with Sorgan. Through it you can hear soft, high vocalizations like a child's singing. The village radiates safety and comfort, invoking an aching sense of nostalgia for things that our protagonist may have once had.

The Countess Cathleen/The Women of Sidhe--Riverdance

Near and dear to the heart, this piece is twofold. We carry on the gentle, idyllic motif of the previous piece with some crooning pipes, but of course our group is in this village for a very specific reason. The second half of this track morphs into something determined, made of sterner stuff than its gauzy counterparts. This perfectly accompanies the implied training montage of the villagers and our protagonist under the watchful tutelage of a shock trooper and a Mandalorian.

...x…

Part Three: Vibroblade Mettle

Facing Fears--Ivan Torrent

At last, we come to our big fight! We start out soft, our protagonist calming the children in the hut before they themselves are attacked. There's the uptick in tempo, the shift of music where they grit their teeth down harmonized by beautiful vocalizations. The whole piece has a certain panicky cadence until around the halfway mark, where it briefly flattens out before building back up to a triumphant crescendo. Our protagonist will let nothing and no one past them.

Good Night--Undertale Soundtrack

Thoroughly exhausted and incapacitated by the fighting, our protagonist drops where they stand. They are safe, and they sleep like a rock in the comfort of that knowledge. This piece is short and soothing, perfect to loop over and over again to lull you into slumber.

The Rage Of The Shadow Warriors--Star Wars: Republic Commando Soundtrack

The children are taught a very important song and dance by the Mandalorian, which they then perform in front of their parents.

...x…

Part Four: Reaching Out

Cosmos--Hazy

This piece is contemplative, soft piano with ethereal, twinkling electronic notes. There is an airy quality to it that lends itself to reflection. We find our protagonist sitting sulky and disgruntled on Tattooine. At first, their resentment is sharp and crisp, but as one day turns into two, they begin to worry and their resentment thaws gently.

Sixty Seconds To What?--Ennio Morricone

Our gunslinging attack! We prelude with light chimes, instilling a false sense of security as Calican dandles the child on his knee. Then, the guitar picks up when our protagonist discovers the truth behind Toro's motives. Organ and horn blast to highlight Calican's villainous gloating and sneering at the Mandalorian, contrasting sharply with the light chimes once again to close the piece out as Calican falls.

America Online--The Midnight

The song that gave this chapter its title! This track invokes a sense of longing, with its worn-out cassette sound and quiet electronic pipe trills. Through it all weaves the tentative, heavily-filtered vocals with the query that our protagonist will soon find on the tip of their tongue.

...x…

Part Five: Dark Past

Lighting The Fuse--The Magnificent Seven Soundtrack

Our protagonist finds themselves in a tense spot, surrounded by unfamiliar ne'er-do-wells. There is unease in the air; we are at the slow build to an inevitable explosion. Grudging alliances are forged, undoubtedly for the sole purpose of gleefully breaking them.

Animal In Me--Solence

Our protagonist is separated from the Mandalorian once again and there is no way to truly know what transpired in the prison beneath their feet. However, his mental and physical state when he returns suggests that something unsavory has occurred. Our protagonist, for all of their good intentions, knows precious little about the armored man's grisly past.

Dream A Little Dream Of Me (Instrumental)--Yiruma

The Mandalorian, delirious, asks our protagonist to sing him the lullaby they sing for the child. They oblige, assisting him in obtaining peaceful rest.

...x…

Part Six: Go Alone

Bat Out Of Hell--Meat Loaf

Something lighthearted and fun! Meat Loaf songs are always a joy to belt out when you think no one else is listening, and this one is no exception. Our protagonist is unwittingly observed by the armored man, another nail driven in the coffin of eventual reveal.

The Savage Divide--Fallout 76 Soundtrack 

We come to our protagonist moping around. They mourn being left behind once more, but they understand the reasoning behind it. This piece is wistful, with keening strings that lead nowhere but are lovely in their looping futility.

...x…

Part Seven: Like A Ghost

Is This Love--Whitesnake

The song that started it all! If this was a movie in the eighties, you can bet this would be the song playing during our important scene. The scene where the stoic Mandalorian finally bears his heart to our protagonist. It's a song that seems like it should be delighted, but it sounds more like heartache. Love is no simple thing, as we will soon find out.

Stay--Smash Into Pieces

The song that gave this chapter its name! Pleading agony given vocals. The Mandalorian doesn't know what to say and that appears to be his downfall as our protagonist leaves him to ruminate on his behavior.

Adieu--The Seatbelts

Our protagonist scolds themselves roundly for their doe-eyed optimism with this gentle jazz piece in the background. Whisper-soft vocals chiding over idyllic ideas of love, not so much sad as disappointed. The piece is steeped in callous awareness, though shrouded in piano and delicate guitar.

...x…

Part Eight: Savior At High Noon

Let It Never Be--Terrane

Our protagonist departs the Razor Crest alone and begins their walk back to the town. Soft, hazy vocals paint a picture of defeated, mechanical steps, emotions pushed to the side in favor of putting distance between our protagonist and the subject of their affections.

I'll Never See Him Again--Pocahontas Soundtrack

A throwback! Our protagonist finally makes it to the town and is ultimately struck by the crushing realization that they will no doubt never see the Mandalorian again. In a fit of exhausted grief and perhaps a touch of self pity, they cry themselves out. This piece never fails to elicit an emotional response, with the tender, pained violin playing that familiar theme.

Holdout--Two Steps From Hell

Our high noon showdown! We start strong, drums hammering like thunder as our protagonist all but throws themselves into the fray. The rattle of cymbals mimics the cacophony of beskar, loaning the scene a sense of despairing grandeur.

You Saved Me--Piotr Wojtowicz

Our protagonist, unmoved by intelligence or self-preservation, storms the proverbial beaches to aid the mortally wounded Mandalorian. Visual media would make this miles more glamorous, with gratuitous slow motion and competent lighting. We start out soft, but there's nothing quite like the breath-taking hitch of gentle piano that swells to female vocalization and fierce drum beats!

...x…

Part Nine: Swan Song

Mandalorian Funeral Chant--Star Wars: Republic Commando Soundtrack

The Mandalorian sings IG-11 off, paying tribute to the reformed droid in the only way that he knows how.

Sacrifice--Transformers: The Last Knight Soundtrack

It's time for agony! We have a somber piece, strings circling round and round to a build as our protagonist slowly loses consciousness. There is an urgency and fear here, as well as weary resignation. Our protagonist is so, so tired.

Melancholy--Alex Kosenko

The long walk home. The two weeks in the bacta tank. The uncertainty of our protagonist's fate, and how heavily it weighs on the Mandalorian who now finds himself alone again. This piece is lonely, it's sadness and longing all in one. A contemplative doldrum.

...x…

Interlude: How He Sees The World

Star Wars: The Mandalorian Suite--Samuel Kim

This composer is exceptionally talented! They've taken the score for this series and woven in motifs from the original scores, giving the whole piece a beautifully layered depth. A suite track for the retread installment, where we view the entire tale through the visor of the Mandalorian.

...x…

Part Ten: Shereshoy

One Summer's Day--Joe Hisaishi

Our protagonist wakes in the Nevarro medbay, disoriented from their time in the bacta. The piano shines here, with searching orchestrations occasionally gaining center stage. There is a feeling of loss, of nostalgia and most importantly, a sense that things need to be put to rights.

So Small--Thomas Bergersen

The reunion! This track starts off quiet, gentle. Apprehensive and yet, cautiously hopeful. Our protagonist has found their way back to the Mandalorian and, as the music swells in that oh-so-familiar old romantic motif, all is forgiven. The strings build in tandem with the brass and choir, triumphantly declaring everything that is affection and reconciliation before tapering off. However, if we wanted to go for something a bit more eighties...

The Outfield (The Midnight Remix)--The Night Game

The alternate/bonus track for their reunion! This remix has boosted synth and extra canned drums, lending itself better to the sci-fi vibes. Another crooning, eighties-style power ballad to have everything fade to black right before we get that salacious X rating, and the proverbial credits begin to roll.

Dream A Little Dream Of Me--Jacklyn Lovey

Finally, a vocal rendition of Dream A Little Dream Of Me. A modern cover with a gentler tone overall, and the perfect way to round this score out. 

The curtain closes on our tale, and I would like to thank you all for reading, listening and enjoying! Stay safe, my friends!

#playlist #the mandalorian #the mandalorian spoilers #stay safe playlist #because I love music #so so much #enjoy!

[keldae]

Drastic Measures (Chapter Twenty-Seven)

The Shereshoy whined as it descended through the Alderaanian atmosphere, maneuvering sharply to slip through the narrow opening of a cavern built into the side of one of the many mountains in the snowy region. It hovered briefly, finally settling within a clearing in the caves, neatly parked beside the battle-worn Dancer. The engines were still ramping down as Sorand descended the ramp of the Shereshoy. He tossed a casual salute to his brother. “Good job not getting shot,” he said with a smirk.

“What can I say? It’s a gift.” Korin grinned, then waved as Lana and Torian followed his brother down the ramp. Shara was only a step behind, Koth in tow. “Corey got here same time I did. He’s parked beside the Raven — I’ve been told your baby’s just fine, ‘Rand.”

“She’d better be, or there’ll be hell to pay,” Sorand muttered, sparing a glance downward as Tee-Seven rolled down the ramp with a series of beeps and whistles. “Any contact with the rest of the cell?”

“They know we’re here. A couple of the Organas came out to say hi.” Korin started walking beside his brother through the tunnels. He knew the layout of the base well from his regular supply and intel runs. “From everything I was told, they haven’t heard anything. And still no check-in from Malcom yet.”

“Not even a text message?” Sorand frowned, feeling his worry echoed. When he glanced back, he could see Akaavi and Rusk behind him, Bowdarr bringing up the rear.

“That is concerning,” Lana murmured, a frown creasing her brow. “If Corso hasn’t been able to contact us…”

“Even if Farmboy’s on the lam,” Shara spoke up, “it ain’t good that the kriffing Supreme Commander went quiet and all. If he showed up on-scene and the Zaks caught him…”

“Especially if he really is Shan’s biological father,” Koth spoke up. “With that reputation of Shan being a terrorist, every loyal Zakuulan is going to want to wring any possible bit of intel that they can get, especially from a family member.”

“As if we didn’t have enough to be worried about.” Sorand frowned. “Any word from Dad yet?”

“Nada. But you know how Dad gets when he’s in ops mode. If he hasn’t contacted us by the end of the week, we can be worried then.” Korin shrugged as he rounded a corner, leading into a giant cavern. Once, it had been overrun with killiks; it now housed a resistance operations base. “Where’d you send the rest of the Mando squad to?”

“Mand’alor recalled them -- can’t say where to an aruetii,” Shara interjected, “but she’s giving me, Corey, Torian, and Akaavi a pass since she knows we’re workin’ with the resistance directly.”

“Fair enough.” Korin looked forward and raised his voice as they approached a command platform. “Hey, look what the wild manka dragged in!”

The flurry of activity on the platform ceased for a split second as everyone looked over, before a burst of excited noises filled the cavern. A second later, Talos hurried around the large Hutt on the platform, open relief in his expression. “My lord! It’s a relief to see you well and unharmed.”

“Good to see you too, Talos.” Sorand waved as Kimble came up behind the archaeologist and promptly smiled in relief. “You as well, Kimble.” He looked around, noting a few familiar faces, and more strange ones. Not even Thunder knew the name and face of everyone in the resistance. “This is a very impressive setup here for the resistance. Well done.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Vector spoke up as he offered the Sith a bow. “Did you have any problems leaving Tatooine?”

“Fewer than leaving Dromund Kaas,” Sorand muttered.

“The Fleet came barrellin’ in as the last transports were leaving,” Korin spoke up. “All they’ll be findin’ is empty caves and exhaust fumes. They didn’t catch any of us on the way out.”

“Cuttin’ it a little close at the end,” Koth commented, his brow creasing. “Another hour…”

“Ah, c’mon, Vortena.” Korin grinned. He clapped the former Zakuulan officer on the shoulder. “It’s a Core World tradition to procrastinate to the very last minute on important, life-altering things.”

“Only on your homeworld, perhaps.” Vector shook his head as he stepped back a pace. “Shall we provide an in-brief?”

“Please do.” Sorand fell into step beside the Joiner as his entourage of followers scattered, leaving him with Korin, Lana, Shara, and Koth. He could just hear the sounds of Kimble and Rusk meeting up again, mingled with Tee-Seven’s happy beeping. “First, the Zakuulans. Then we can discuss Malcom.”

“As you wish.” Vector bowed slightly. “If the Zakuulans have heightened their surveillance of Alderaan, we are unaware of it. There have been a few patrols that have come from the Star Fortress, but no more than usual. They still maintain a safe distance from the killik nests, for fear of Joining us.”

I don’t blame them, Sorand thought, but said nothing. “The noble houses?”

“Organa, Rist, Frayus, and Alde are still assisting us with supplies and transportation around the planet. Thul and Ulgo are aware of our presence, but they do not know where we are. We have a connection directly to Organa Castle not far from here, and this portion of the cave leads out to Rist lands. Killiks inhabit most of it, but we can travel through the nests safely, provided we do not cause them a disturbance.”

“Which is a boon,” Lana agreed, even if she cast a wary glance to one of the killiks walking around the cave. “Malcom?”

“Silence -- not even an attempt at contact that we can determine.” Vector frowned. “Duke Charle is concerned, as is the only Zakuulan inside the castle. We actually wished your opinion on the matter of this latest defector, my lord. She is a Zakuulan knight by the name of Senya Tirall—”

“Wait,” Koth finally spoke up. “Senya Tirall is here?” He seemed to be paling behind his goatee. “She was the captain of Valkorion’s personal guard!”

Korin’s eyebrows vanished under his scruffy hair. “That high ranked a defector? Shit, Arcann really ain’t endearing himself to a lot of you folks.”

“That’s new information,” Sorand said, shaking his head. “I think I’d rather like to meet her. If Valkorion’s captain of the guard has abandoned Zakuul, perhaps more Zakuulans will follow her.”

“We suspected you would.” Vector bowed slightly. “We can introduce her to you, Lord Imperius. She has indeed expressed curiosity about you, and not merely because of your sister. Your reputed strength in the Force impresses even the Zakuulans.”

“My reputed strength in the Force? I’m a little insulted.” Sorand offered Vector a small smirk. “Lead on, then.” He fell into step with the Joiner.

Behind him, the redheaded Corellian Jedi, Master Bel Iblis, stared after him, looking not unlike she had seen a ghost. She watched as his brother hesitated, looking around as though he could sense something... off. After a moment, he merely shook his head and followed Sorand.

Master Bel Iblis finally stepped back as the group departed, pale as she clutched a datapad to her chest. “That’s what her sons look like?” she whispered.

It was another day of travel before the Aegis dropped out of hyperspace in Alderaan’s orbital path. Xaja stifled a yawn as she and Theron walked into the bridge of the warship: The constant travel, flitting about the galaxy to obfuscate their trail, left her body with no idea what the date was anymore. She was pretty sure she was still operating on something approaching Dromund Kaas time. Right now it felt like the dim hours before dawn, although Theron had said that it was closer to early afternoon in Organa territory, on the planet surface. Maybe one day we’ll be lucky enough to stay somewhere long enough to get adjusted to one planetary time zone without having to run so quickly.

She snorted inwardly. Right. And maybe Arcann will offer a truce.

Malcom looked over as she and Theron approached him. “We’ve just arrived at Alderaan,” he said without any preamble. “The Star Fortress is orbiting the far side of the planet; if we’re quick enough with the descent, we should be able to vanish before they realize we’re here.”

“How often do the Zakuulans go poking around on the surface?” Theron asked, frowning at the rapidly-approaching planet and resting a hand protectively on Xaja’s lower back.

“Every so often they’ll traipse through the various Houses’ territories or go into the castles. But it’s not as often as they used to do.” Malcom stepped back as Master Satele approached them, Corso and Jorgan a step behind her. “When I left, the only Zakuulan in Organa territory was Knight Tirall, and she’s a defector.”

“I am curious about meeting her,” Xaja murmured. The idea of a Zakuulan defector and rebel against Arcann was one that perplexed her. And from what Master Satele had hinted, Tirall was not a mere grunt in the ranks who had abandoned her post. She was respectably high-ranked. Perhaps Arcann had pissed off more of his people than Xaja had dared to hope. If so, maybe she and Theron had a chance of survival.

“I expect she’ll be one of the first people you’ll meet when we finally get you to the resistance.” Master Satele offered a small smile. “She was interested in you as well — and I don’t believe she’s interested in turning you in.”

“We’ll worry about introductions after we get you two to safety,” Malcom rumbled. “Once you’ve gone underground with the resistance, you’ll get to know everyone.”

Xaja nodded, frowning slightly to herself as she gazed out at the stars beyond Alderaan. “All assuming none of the other cells were compromised.” With no contact to Sorand, or her father, or Doc, she was worried for their safety. And if they had heard of the attack on Dantooine, they had to be frantic.

“If there had been another raid, I’m pretty sure it would have come through to our comms,” Jorgan finally said. “Or it would have hit the broad HoloNet channels. Republic comms have already been blowing up with chatter about Dantooine — apparently we’re down to maybe two or three straggler Jedi in the Republic now, as far as anyone who isn’t on this ship knows.”

“Hmm. The longer they think we were killed, the better our odds of being able to get by without actually dying,” Theron muttered.

And the more likely my family has a collective heart attack, Xaja thought as she turned her focus to Alderaan. The planet thrummed with life in the Force, tangible to Xaja’s senses despite being in orbit. At this distance, she couldn’t focus enough to identify life forms on the surface. But for a moment, she swore she felt a flicker against her senses from a familiar signature, one tinged with both bright light and dark shadows. Sorand? “And the sooner we’re on the surface,” she murmured, “the sooner we can tell the resistance that we’re not dead yet.”

“We’ll be on the surface in under a standard hour.” Malcom nodded once, sharply. “I suggest you make yourselves scarce until we’re ready to get you offloaded. The Star Fortress doesn’t usually order ship searches, but I wouldn’t put it past them.”

In an empty alcove near to the entrance to Organa Castle, Sorand watched as an older woman was escorted through the cave by Vector. Even at a distance, he could sense her considerable strength in the Force, and the tight discipline that she exercised over it, enough to earn the envy of any Jedi. The Sith stepped out of the alcove, inclining his head in greeting. “You must be Senya Tirall,” he said.

“And you must be Darth Imperius.” Tirall offered him a shallow bow, which he answered with a nod. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“I expect there’s a few stories about me circulating around the galaxy,” Sorand acknowledged, a slight smirk twitching across his lips. He looked to the side where Lana and Korin stood behind him. “Allow me to introduce my brother, Captain Korin Taerich, and my advisor, Lana Beniko.”

“Of course. Even Zakuul has heard impressive stories about the Voidhound. And Lord Beniko -- your reputation precedes you.” Tirall nodded to each of the ones Sorand named. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Lana answered. “Though... I trust you’ll forgive our collective curiosity as to how a such highly-ranked Knight of Zakuul came to sympathize with the resistance.”

“I’m sure you have many questions.” Tirall’s small smile softened her pale blue eyes. “I’m willing to answer as much as I can. While I may be one of the only Zakuulans to leave the service of the Eternal Throne, I’m not the only one who believes our home is in the wrong.”

Korin raised an eyebrow, shifting his weight to Sorand’s left. “And here I thought that all Knights were devoted to the Throne an’ whoever’s ass is parked in it.”

“Not all of us blindly support Arcann.” That was a slight bite to Tirall’s voice. “Tyranny is not what our people have stood for. I would hate to see my homeworld become permanently associated with dictators and conquest.”

“Your kind is rare,” Lana acknowledged, eyebrows raising. “Although I suppose if you were a loyalist to Zakuul, you wouldn’t have earned Satele Shan’s respect.”

“No. Even with the Jedi all but defeated, Master Shan is something of a respected legend among Zakuul’s ranks.” Tirall smiled slightly. “It was an honour to meet her in a relatively peaceful circumstance.”

“How did that meeting come about?” Sorand asked, curiosity striking him. “The greater part of the resistance knows nothing about you, and I have not been on-world long enough to meet anyone of the Organas.”

“We met on Jedha. She was trying to find her son who had gone MIA in the war, and I was seeking Jedi teachings on mind healing.” Tirall frowned slightly. “When I found nothing, she suggested I come here. She herself went to Voss to pursue another lead.”

Does she know…? Sorand exchanged a quick glance with Lana, then Korin, before looking back to the Zakuulan. “Did she identify her son’s name?”

“No. I looked through a list of Republic missing and dead with her, but Shan is apparently a common name.” She shook her head ruefully. “Of course, after arriving here I began to hear rumours that her son is the reported terrorist from the Spire, Theron Shan.”

“The reported terrorist? Do you believe the accusations are true?” Lana questioned.

Tirall spread her hands. “I dislike the idea that someone would attempt to cause an act of terrorism to my home. But, unlike the rest of my people, I do not immediately jump to the first thing that Arcann says. He…” She paused, pursing her lips for an instant. “It isn’t unheard of for him to alter the truth to garner public support. Of course, releasing the assassin who killed Valkorion could be considered terrorism…”

“War crime, maybe. Terrorism seems a bit excessive.” Korin shrugged. “D’you think the stories about the assassin are true?”

“Someone killed Valkorion. And the reports say he was alone with Arcann and the assassin at the time of his death. For how strong Arcann is, I doubt he could have killed his father like that.” Tirall frowned. “The assassin, Taerich… she is your sister, is she not?” she asked, looking at Korin and Sorand.

“She is,” Sorand confirmed. “And the idea of her being a cold-blooded murderer is inconsistent both with her personality, and with the rules of the Jedi Code she swore to uphold.”

“She’s got the skill to,” Korin agreed. “I ain’t ever seen her lose a lightsaber duel. But if she killed Valkorion, she had a reason to. She woulda killed if she’d felt threatened, or panicked.”

“Master Shan said the same thing when I asked her about it,” Tirall murmured. “Considering she said she had trained your sister, she would know the most about her prowess, and her personality.”

“Yep. If the charges had been for sucker-punching Valkorion in the gonads, yeah, we’d believe it easier.” Korin grinned as Sorand shook his head. “Half ‘cause that’s all she would prob’ly be able to reach.”

“Classy,” Sorand muttered at his unrepentant brother… even if he knew that Korin was right and Xaja would have gleefully taken any opportunity to harm Vitiate -- Valkorion -- whatever his real name was. “My apologies, Knight Tirall.”

“Please, call me Senya.” The Zakuulan looked between both brothers, and the advisor standing between them. “I’ve heard a rumour that she and Shan have both gone missing again, with Master Shan. What happened?”

“We believe that Zakuulan forces attacked the hideout they sought refuge in.” Lana glanced at Sorand, then continued. “Three days ago, we received a distress signal, but haven’t heard anything since. I’ll be dispatching one of our scouts to their last reported location.”

“If Arcann had captured or killed them -- especially Master Taerich -- it would be all over the HoloNet by now. He does enjoy bragging.” Senya’s blue eyes narrowed in thought. “If they have been captured, I may be able to help you rescue them. I can provide information on Zakuulan protocols for detainment and transport of prisoners of war. ”

“And you would help rescue accused war criminals?” Korin asked, his earlier humour fading into a creased brow and grimly-set jaw.

“I would rather meet your sister and Master Shan’s son before I cast any judgement on them. As I said: it is not unheard of for Arcann to obscure the facts he delivers to suit his own means.” Senya’s eyes flashed. “Like the rest of my people, and likely yours, I want the truth of what happened.”

Sorand slowly nodded, deciding he rather liked the Zakuulan woman. “Then we welcome any information you’re willing to provide. Come; we may as well sit and be comfortable while discussing this.”

“… swear to the stars, Captain, you bring me another kriffing waste of bolts again and I’ll sell your ship to Ugnaughts,” Kothe snarled at Kaliyo as they entered the Shadow-masquerading-as-the-Duchess’s hangar, gifting a scowl over his shoulder to the lurching loader droid behind him.

“You want a better droid? Then start paying for it,” Kaliyo snapped. “I ain’t working for cheap, old man.”

“You’re already getting paid more than you’ve earned,” Kothe growled. “Keep it up and I’ll switch my services to the Wookiee.”

“You won’t. You like checking Lia out too much to do that,” came the snarky retort. Kaliyo looked over her shoulder with a grin at Vette, bringing up the rear of the group with an expression of long suffering. “Ain’t that right?”

“Don’t you go bringing me into this,” Vette snapped, watching out of the corner of her eyes as the Zakuulan Knights guarding the hangar exchanged a look through their helmets.

“Aww, you still mad about me sellin’ off your other cousin to Drooga?” Kaliyo flashed her teeth in a grin as one of the Knights took a step forward.

“You put me down as collateral in a pazaak game!” Vette shouted, lekku twitching dangerously. The Knight promptly seemed to decide he wasn’t getting paid enough to get involved in this and withdrew, his companion taking a couple of steps to the side. “You don’t kriffing own me!”

“So?”

Kothe sighed, subtly waving his hand at the Knights as the trio walked up to the ship. Both Zakuulans shifted, then turned away from the group, apparently deciding they weren’t worth the trouble. “You decide you want a new job, kid, look me up. My vices don’t include gambling.”

“Sure they do. Why else do you keep getting this model of loading droid?” Kaliyo grinned as she gestured at the droid. “Up you go, Rusty.”

Rusty? Reanden grouchily thought to himself as he trudged past Kothe and Vette. Never minding that his legs ached with maintaining the droid’s lurching stride — he swore literal rust on his joints would probably hurt less. But admitting that would be admitting he was growing old… and he was certainly not doing that.

Feeling the weight of a datapad in his jacket pocket with his own connection to the transmitters wired into the Zakuulan bunker, he made it up the ramp and lurched to the bridge of the Shadow. SCORPIO looked over as he came to a halt behind the captain’s seat. “You somehow kept yourself from getting shot,” she commented as she resumed typing into the navicomputer. “I suppose your ideas aren’t quite as stupid as they appear.”

“The threat to turn you to scraps and sell you to Jawas still stands,” Reanden growled as he dropped the disguise with a blink and settled into his seat with a soft groan. His hip wasn’t quite as forgiving of the droid lurch as it had once been, or of crawling around through maintenance tunnels. “Any updates?”

“Lord Imperius and Captain Korin have arrived on Alderaan. Intercepted transmissions from the Republic suggest that the Dantooine Enclave was destroyed.” SCORPIO glanced over as Reanden felt his heart drop to his boots. “Yet I have intercepted no transmissions indicating so from Zakuulan forces. The Eternal Empire’s forces in this system seem to have gone quiet.”

If she were dead, Arcann would be gloating to the entire galaxy. She has to still be alive. Reanden rested his head in his hands for a minute, fighting to keep the fear from overwhelming him. “Any news from the Empire?” he finally asked.

“Very little. Imperius remains at the top of the most wanted bulletin, and you, Agent, aren’t far behind. Your associates, Lieutenant Temple and Agent Emrys, have disappeared completely into the Ascendancy. I received an encrypted message, indicating that they are safe for now. Koli’arr was dispatched to bring Imperius in.”

That, at least, was good news. The bounty hunter known as A’den Koli’arr was, in fact, family friend and associate, Corey Black. Reanden knew well where Black’s true allegiances lay. The news of his protege, Adela Emrys, and the youngest member of his crew, Raina Temple, gaining refuge with the Chiss was also welcome information. Raina had maintained her commission in the Expansionary Defense Force, and Adela had earned the… trust… of Aristocra Saganu. Between their wits and his influence, they would be quite safe.

Finally, he nodded and pulled the datapad out of his pocket, passing it to SCORPIO. “Wire that into the systems,” he directed as the droid took the device. “We’ll be better able to track Zakuulan communications with this.”

“Very well.” SCORPIO started typing as boot steps sounded on the ramp before Reanden heard the distinctive whirr of the ramp retracting into the ship. Kaliyo and Vette must have boarded. “Where is our next destination?”

Reanden frowned in thought, barely looking up to nod approvingly at Vette when she poked her head into the bridge with a grin. “Alderaan,” he finally said. “We’ll rendezvous there with the resistance and figure out our next steps.”

“Very well, Agent.”

The Zakuulan woman certainly seemed nice enough. Senya Tirall was a mystery; Sorand had the suspicion that she was hiding something big. And secrets from a Zakuulan who claimed to not support Arcann’s tyranny was something that made him worry.

But if she had earned the respect and trust of Satele Shan, perhaps she wasn’t a threat. Sorand had only met the Jedi Grand Master briefly during the Revanite crisis, but she struck him as intelligent, and discerning. If Master Shan approved of Senya, then maybe Sorand’s paranoia was just making a nuisance of itself.

He frowned. That heightened sense of paranoid suspicion that he had inherited from his father, and refined over the years spent among the Sith, hadn’t failed him yet. Senya, he felt, wasn’t a danger, per se. But she was hiding something, something significant that—

If his paranoia hadn’t failed him, his sensory awareness certainly did. Sorand grunted as he collided mid-step with a human woman. “Sorr—” he started to say, before he got a look at the woman’s face and felt the blood drain from his own. For a second, he swore he was looking at a face he hadn’t seen in the world of the living since he had been ten years old. “Mum?” he breathed out.

As the woman’s brows drew together, Sorand belatedly caught up to the differences between the stranger in green Jedi robes and his memories of his mother. This woman’s eyes were hazel, not deep green… she lacked the same freckles across her nose that Airna Taerich had… the nose was wrong, and the chin was just a bit off, and the lightsaber that hung at her hip was a different build. But if Sorand’s mother had had a sister, he would have sworn this was her, if not his mother returned from an untimely death herself.

He cleared his throat and stepped back, feeling his throat tighten with old grief as his mother’s lookalike opened her mouth. “My apologies, Master Jedi,” he quietly said, sounding less like a Dark Lord of the Sith and more like a spooked young adult. “Excuse me.” Neatly stepping out of the reach of the Jedi’s outstretched arm, he hurried off down the cave tunnel. For someone who had had far too much experience in encountering ghosts, malevolent or otherwise, he felt like he had walked right into his mother’s apparition. And that was not a pain he was willing to face today.

Behind him, Master Bel Iblis stared after his back, mouth falling slightly open. She had planned to encounter Darth Imperius and Captain Korin, determined to see if they had turned out like their mother, her late cousin… or the Imperial bastard who had stolen Airna away from Corellia. But whatever she had expected from Imperius, she hadn’t expected that.

Now that she had been close enough to get a read on him, she was startled at how much his mother’s son he was. It wasn’t just his strength with the Force; Airna’s youngest son had inherited his mother’s slim build, the bone structure in her face, the same way her hair had parted. She had few memories of Reanden Taerich, but she could already see that the Sith had inherited his father’s dark hair and eyes, and the same set to his jaw — not to mention the height. And then there was the too-noticeable Imperial accent. Rumour had it he inherited a similarly vicious streak when provoked as well, and the same cunning intelligence.

But the soft tone to his voice, his polite manners even when startled— no, spooked, his caution; those, Mairen thought, were all his own. For a second, she could forget that Airna’s son was Darth Imperius, Dark Lord of the Sith and renegade member of the Dark Council. Sith weren’t supposed to be that quiet or polite.

She nodded slowly, still looking in the direction that the Sith had vanished down. She was going to have to attempt meeting her cousin’s youngest son again, and this time see if she could talk to him without him paling like he had seen a ghost.

#drastic measures #KOTFE AU #Theron/Xaja #how the hell did the one-shot turn into 27 chapters and counting? #Important People have been introduced! #moar plot progression #not a lot of action in this one #but lots of discussion #scheming and plotting #Reanden's getting too old for this shit #I stg Clan Emrys and Clan Taerich operate on a hivemind #Darth Imperius: defying Sith stereotypes since 3640 BBY

[oh-my-hubris]

1, 11, 32, 36, 46 for the writer asks

1.     Do you listen to music when you write?

I listen to music when I do just about anything. So, yes. A lot. 

11.  Books and/or authors who influenced you the most

Neil Gaiman is probably my biggest influence though I also draw inspiration from Terry Prachett, and even, like, Jhonnen Vasquez. 

Book wise? American Gods, The Hexslingers Trilogy, the Dresden Files, Beowulf and The Discworld Series

32.  Most difficult character to write

Original fiction? Varies by project. There’s always at least 1 that’s a bastard. In Diary in The Dark, for example, it was Christi

Fanfiction? I don’t feel like my Andronikos is particularly good. Vette has a lot of nuance I don’t feel I nail particularly well. For my own characters Jacks and Yon’kne are both pretty difficult. 

36.  Last sentence you wrote

For Shereshoy: Worrying about it wasn’t going to do anything but cut into her bottom line.

For Original Work: I’m in the middle of an outline so “Now, he explains, they will clothe Yonny.”

46.  Do you reread your own stories?

Sometimes. I’ve re-read a lot of my fanfiction and I re-read the in progress stuff I’m working on ad nauseum, but trying to re-read Diary is like pulling teeth. 

#depizan