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the-last-kenobi · 3 years

Note

I adore your qui gon and obi wan stuff so can we get a number 8 on the prompt list with obi wan and qui gon?

Absolutely!! I’m so glad you chose that one; I’ve loved every single prompt I’ve gotten but this one breaks the mold a little.

I hope this lives up to your expectations!

From this various prompts list.

When Qui-Gon Jinn set foot on the planet of Melida/Daan for the second time, he had a fixed set of expectations.

He expected to find the same war-torn, shattered homes and abused soil, the same decimated populations, the same stench of death. He expected to find the underground hideouts where the children hid from the wrath of their parents, and where the Melida plotted against the Daan and the Daan against the Melida. He expected to find a bruised and shame-faced former Jedi Padawan, ready to humble himself before the Council.

He expected to have to offer both comfort and stern reprimand to this child who, as much of a delight as he had once been, no longer deserved to be his apprentice.

And he did find some of that.

He also found fields of green grass, and abandoned fields of half-plucked vegetation and fruits.

A memorial garden.

A row of corpses covered neatly in cloths, lining the road, respectfully untouched.

Faded posters announcing committees and treaties and open elections, speeches and remembrance services.

A mural on a stone wall, somewhere between impressionist and abstract, of a line of children and adults, the children in the center. Towards the very middle, almost exactly so, was the image of a young boy with pale russet locks hanging an inch loose, and Qui-Gon paused, observing warily as if the image might come to life and attack him.

But it was only an image, and Obi-Wan Kenobi was only a wayward child.

And none of this is was going as anticipated.

The Jedi Master tried to recall what Yoda had told him before chivvying him out the door, but in truth he had not processed much of it aside from Obi-Wan’s name and the understanding that he had asked to be retrieved from Melida/Daan.

Why?

Clearly things had changed, immensely — and yet, in the background, the continued sound of bombs going off and weapons firing, and not a living being in sight.

Qui-Gon continued deeper into the core of the civilization, skirting the worst of the ruins but avoiding the main road in a passing effort to go unnoticed.

It did not last long.

“Master Jedi!” a voice hissed out suddenly, and Qui-Gon turned sharply to see a young man — maybe nineteen, at most — peering at him around the corner of the nearest building, pressed close to the wall. He gestured shortly and vanished.

Qui-Gon took a moment to cast out his senses. The Force bore no distinct warning, so he crossed the road quickly and ducked around the corner.

The young man was waiting for him. Up close it was clear that he was younger than he had appeared, perhaps seventeen, just emerging from the gangly limbs stage, and he was coated in dirt and grime — some of it oddly strategic, smeared across his cheekbones and the crown of his forehead, darkening and muting them. Dark hazel eyes considered Qui-Gon suspiciously.

“You were expecting me,” Qui-Gon stated.

The boy nodded. “I was. Obi-Wan said you would be arriving today, maybe tomorrow.”

A strange jolt ran through Qui-Gon. He had not said Obi-Wan’s name aloud himself, not since that day almost eight months before, and while he had heard other Jedi mention it, it was off-putting to hear this total stranger use it. So familiarly. Like he knew Kenobi well. Qui-Gon brushed the thoughts aside like so many cobwebs and spoke again: “Well, here I am. Where next?”

He did not say, ‘Where is Obi-Wan?’

For some reason, it would have felt like a confession.

The boy pressed his lips into a flat line, as if the Jedi had failed some sort of test. “…I’ll show you. Stick close to me and don’t do anything reckless. Stealth is our best ally right now. Only ally, really.”

Qui-Gon wondered what he was, then, since he was certainly not included in this mysterious “we.”

It was slightly insulting, and sharply painful, to be lectured on strategic maneuvers by what amounted to a child soldier.

Nevertheless, Qui-Gon followed him.

They wound their way through the settlement, bypassing craters where homes had stood and also far more intact buildings, still crisp and clean and bearing that unmistakable scent of newness.

These, more than any of the others, were painted with images of children and adults standing together, plastered with announcements, and more than one — many — almost all — featuring that flame-haired youth. More often than not he was framed closely by two others. Another boy, this one slightly taller and leaner with dark hair. And a girl, a little smaller, with bold waves and startling green eyes.

The boy with the dirty face turned his head to look at each of them, though he did not slow.

After what felt like a very long time, Qui-Gon found himself entering what seemed to be a cellar. It was dark and musty, but before he could question it, his guide went to a section of the wall and pushed, popping open a panel that sank away and slid to one side.

“This way,” he said unnecessarily.

In they went. It was a tunnel, low and long, and Qui-Gon had to stoop halfway just to move. The boy, several inches shorter, had less trouble.

A few minutes of breathless, blind stumbling later, and they reached a reinforced door.

The boy knocked slowly, then quickly; stopped, and then knocked rapidly again. “It’s me!” he called through the crevice. “He’s here.”

There was a grinding sound, and then the door swung open to reveal bright light. The boy slipped through without hesitation, but the Jedi Master was more wary, blinking and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light before slowly entering the room, still bowed low from the tunnel.

When he rose, he was looking directly into the eyes of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The boy had changed, and yet was exactly the same.

There was no other way to describe it.

He had certainly shot up an inch or so in height. His Jedi tunics were gone; he was wearing a stained white tunic of much poorer cloth and simpler cut, over a pair of patched brown trousers and sturdy boots. His robe was still the one he had worn when he had first arrived all those months ago, but he had sewn the sleeves so that they did not dangle over his wrists or hang wide and loose; instead they were drawn closer, but not so tight that they impeded his movement.

His hair seemed more coppery red than before as it hung loose and untidy, coming to slightly ragged ends halfway between his jawline and his shoulders. Some of the baby fat had melted away, driven off no doubt by stress and hunger and emotion, and his cheekbones stood out a little too much.

But it was his eyes that struck Qui-Gon.

They seemed exactly the same.

Pale blue-green, wide and friendly and innocent, sweet as they had been on the day they met.

Unbearably naive.

Those eyes flickered with shock for a moment, and then the boy stepped forward and offered out his hand. “Master Jinn,” he said.

Qui-Gon blinked. Perhaps if he waited a moment, Obi-Wan would remember that Jedi bowed? But the boy merely stared at him with his hand extended, and so Qui-Gon grasped it and shook briefly before letting go.

The boy did not seem particularly bothered. He turned to the rest of the room. “You’re all ready?”

“Yes,” came a chorus of voices.

Freed from the strangeness of Obi-Wan and his gaze, Qui-Gon looked around. There were several others present — all humans, all young, all grimy. Maybe a dozen or so in number. The room he was in was spacious, a little low-ceilinged and plain. It had the air of a bunker, with bright lights that aggravated the eyes and dull walls and functional furniture. Most notably, the enormous table in the center.

It was spread with maps, fliers, announcement posters, detailed blueprints for buildings and machinery, tidy sketches outlining strategies and countermeasures. Qui-Gon’s keen eyes caught words like ‘anti-terrorism,’ ‘knowledge is courage,’ ‘long-range missile launcher,’ and ‘riot activity.’ And, half-concealed under a map of Melida/Daan’s entire surface, a flat holo of three people. Obi-Wan. The dark-haired boy. The girl with green eyes.

“Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan’s voice broke into his observations.

They were all watching him with various degrees of mistrust.

Qui-Gon straightened his spine, and then forced himself to relax a little, trying to radiate comfort and honesty. Even without force sensitivity, they would be eased somewhat.

“Yes, I’m listening,” he assured them.

Kenobi exchanged a quick look with the boy who had guided him here, and the youth shrugged. “He was quick enough and he listened to what I said, but he’s like most adults. Thinking more in his head than paying attention, didn’t even ask my name.”

Qui-Gon started. He hadn’t, had he?

“I—” he began, but the youth cut him off with a dismissive gesture.

“You didn’t ask,” he said. “I’m not sharing now. I’m sure you’ll hear it eventually.”

Obi-Wan nodded as if this were perfectly reasonable. “Master Jinn, are you prepared to take all thirteen of us back to Coruscant?”

“What?” Qui-Gon demanded. He glanced around at the others, who looked even less impressed than before. He felt so unexpectedly out of his depth. What was this place? “I — no, I’m returning you to the Jedi, to the care of the High Council.”

“No,” Obi-Wan said placidly. “You’re not. I’m sure Master Yoda had his reasons for sending you—” the slightest emphasis on the word ‘you’—“but you are here to escort myself and the other twelve to the Core to appear before the Senate. That’s why you were assigned such a large ship. We’re going to make an appeal on behalf of Meldan.”

“Meldan?” Qui-Gon echoed.

“Our planet,” one of the others, a curly-haired, fierce-eyed woman of about twenty-two said. “Obi, are you sure about this? This isn’t at all what you said we could expect.”

“Master Jinn is an exception to many rules,” Obi-Wan told her; as he turned his head to look in her direction, he briefly seemed to change, the tension in his shoulders easing and his face alight with mischief. Then it was gone. He turned back to Qui-Gon, and beneath the veneer of professionalism could be glimpsed a strange aura of… something Qui-Gon couldn’t determine or define.

Their eyes met again, and silence fell for a moment.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan decided. “Yes, this will work. If any Jedi will help ensure you catch the attention of the Senate, it would be Master Jinn. Master Yoda also told me that Master Adi Gallia will be your official patron, which is good; she spends most of her time handling the political side of Jedi affairs.”

“Then we should go now,” said a small boy of no more than nine. “Let’s go!”

“Not just yet, Jocco,” Obi-Wan said soothingly, turning a gentle smile on the child. “We’re not quite ready. We’ll leave in about an hour.”

“Right,” Jocco said, nodding. “Okay.”

Obi-Wan smiled again. “All right, everyone. We have meals to eat and supplies to pack, so let’s keep together and keep organized. Sarai,” he nodded at the curly-haired woman, “and my friend,” a nod to the bitter-eyed nameless guide, “please bring Master Jinn up to speed. Master Jinn,” he added, glancing up from where the smallest children were flocking to his side and clinging to his hands, “I will see you in an hour.”

He left, surrounded by children both far younger and several years older than him, like adoring chicks following their mother, or maybe more like an honor guard. The contrast was both ludicrous and oddly touching.

“You listen to him,” Qui-Gon commented to his tight-lipped companions. “Even though he no longer carries the authority of a Jedi.”

“I haven’t seen any Jedi authority yet,” snapped back his unnamed guide. “Just three Jedi who came, two who left, and one who stayed.”

“It was not our mission to stay,” Qui-Gon replied calmly, tucking his hands inside his sleeves. “Though I can see what compelled him to.”

“Oh, can you?” said Sarai. She folded her arms tightly and assessed him, her lip curling. “I don’t think you see much past the end of your own nose.”

“Petty insults will get us nowhere,” he replied, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of said nose. “And it won’t help you when you speak for your people before the Senate.”

“Me?” an amused smile curled her lips. She looked as if all her suspicions had just been confirmed. “I won’t be speaking, not primarily anyways. I don’t have any governmental authority behind me, I’m just a secondary representative.”

“Same here,” said the young man.

“Governmental authority…? Then who is your speaker?” Qui-Gon asked, slightly bewildered.

“Are you blind?” said the young man. “Obi-Wan is the leader. Since the other two were assassinated, Obi-Wan is our only head of government.”

The next time Qui-Gon laid eyes on his former apprentice, it was mere minutes before their agreed departure time.

The children — Melida, Daan, none of them older than sixteen, aside from former Melida Sarai and former Daan who still refused to share his name — were all gathered next to a large reinforced bay door next to a small fleet of speeders.

Obi-Wan had one arm draped around the shoulders of a ten-year-old boy, murmuring instructions to him, and carrying the little toddler girl on his hip. She was playing with his hair contentedly, unbothered by the preparations going on around her.

If it had been strange to see Obi-Wan before, with his air of sameness-yet-differentness, it was doubly so now.

Knowing what he now knew.

Knowing that Obi-Wan Kenobi had accomplished what he had set out to do and reunited the Melida and the Daan with the help of a few middle-aged adults from both sides and the constant aid of his two companions, Cerasi and Nield. Knowing that he had been fairly elected alongside Cerasi and Nield as the Triumvers — the three Heads of State — of the newly named Meldan.

Knowing that they had been in the midst of Reconstruction both physical and emotional when a radical had betrayed them, murdering innocents gathered for discussions. How Cerasi had been murdered in her bed. How Nield had begun drumming up a military force, only to be assassinated — by a friend of the peace or a foe, who could say? How Obi-Wan had seen all his allies either killed or turn away, and had gathered all he could and retreated below ground, holding tight to his ideals and the legislative power that now backed him.

Knowing how he had continued to sow the seeds of freedom and diplomacy even as the people left above ground resorted again to violence. How he had nurtured genuine friendships among his people, even after having been betrayed.

And here he stood, not even fifteen, making children laugh and reassuring people older than him as he attempted to carry them to freedom and hope.

A government of war-veteran children, led by a former Jedi Padawan.

Qui-Gon watched as everyone was paired up, older teens with younger children, two to a speeder, until at last there was only one vehicle left and only himself and Kenobi still standing.

“I’m afraid I’ll be piloting,” the boy told him. “I’m familiar with the route.”

Qui-Gon swallowed away a bitter taste and merely nodded.

Obi-Wan swung himself up behind the controls, and Qui-Gon moved to sit behind him, and despite everything, despite knowing Obi-Wan’s history over the past eight months, despite being determined not to regard him as his Padawan ever again, it still felt wrong to sit behind. To let the child lead. To let the child sit behind the controls where any decent sniper would aim.

“Stick close and keep low!” Obi-Wan called out.

“Love you Obi!” the same tiny girl cried out from somewhere behind them on another speeder.

Qui-Gon didn’t know what he expected, if he expected anything at all in this strange parallel universe he had wandered into. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan turning his head to grin at the girl and calling back, “Love you too, Cler!” still surprised him.

And then they were off.

The children were clearly well trained, experienced. They seemed to know this back route by heart, undeterred by the semi-light of dusk, and keeping behind outcroppings of rock and trees as much as possible.

Obi-Wan glanced around periodically to check on the others, and every so often one of the others from the back of the parade would speed up to match his pace and give him the all-clear before falling back again.

The breathlessness of the moment settled somewhere in Qui-Gon’s chest. If he could put aside the emotional toll it was taking to sit behind his former student and see him not as a Jedi but as a war-tried planetary ruler, it was easier to be caught up in the rush. The fate of thousands depended on this race for freedom.

The former Jedi Master and Padawan maintained their lead, a slight gap between them and the others.

This served them all well when a blaster bolt came out of nowhere and struck Obi-Wan in his right shoulder, missing his chest only because he sensed it at the last second and twisted away.

There were screams from the smaller children; the older children reacted immediately, scattering their small fleet and engaging their weapons.

“There!” Qui-Gon cried, pointing to a ridge on their right where glimpses of people moving could be seen. His other hand was holding Obi-Wan upright.

“Are you all right to keep piloting?” he shouted.

“For a little while! Hold on, I have a plan!” Obi-Wan shouted back.

“Is it a good plan?”

“Hard to tell until I’ve done it!”

For a second it felt like it had been a year ago, or even better, both of them on the edge of adrenaline and serenity, grinning.

Qui-Gon ignited his lightsaber and deflected two more blaster shots, calling out warnings to the others within earshot.

A speeder went down.

A girl and boy were thrown several meters, crushing in the dust, clinging to one another as they rolled to a stop. On another speeder, Sarai yelled “Here!” and pulled up alongside Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, while Jocco stood up from behind her and leapt.

Qui-Gon’s heart shot to his throat.

But as he extended a hand and caught the child with the Force, Obi-Wan was already doing the same thing, drawing Jocco safely onto their speeder. Sarai, meanwhile, swung her speeder back around and parked it in front of the fallen one, shielding the injured two from view. She stood up on the seat and raised a blaster in each hand, lips twisted in a snarl. “Over here you bastards!” she screamed. “Like shooting at children? Give it your best shot!”

“She’s insane,” said Qui-Gon.

“She’s my second in command!” Obi-Wan laughed. “Now get ready! You’re taking the wheel!”

“What?”

Qui-Gon turned his head just in time to see Obi-Wan launch himself off of the moving speeder with reckless grace, executing a Force-augmented leap to land neatly on the ridge. “Kenobi! What are you doing?” Qui-Gon bellowed.

The boy didn’t respond. He had a blaster in his good hand and dropped out of view, directly onto the heads of the people concealed behind the rocks. There were yells; red light flared as weapons went off in rapid succession. Sarai took advantage of the distraction and urged the other two onto her speeder. “Go!” she said.

As soon as they were off, one of the other speeders erupted from the tree-line and swooped in front of her, slowing down enough to allow her to jump aboard behind two smaller children. “Good job kiddos,” Qui-Gon heard her say. Then she looked up at him. “Come on, we have to go!”

“But—Obi-Wan—” he said helplessly.

As he did, Obi-Wan reappeared at the crest of the ridge, a smoking hole in his trouser leg and a bloody furrow over one eye. He looked directly at Qui-Gon and mouthed, ‘Go! Take the others and run, now!’

Then he was gone again.

A pained look crossed Sarai’s face, but she glanced at Jocco sitting on his lap and smoothed it away at once. “He knows what he’s doing,” she said. “Now come on!”

They sped off, trailing dust and a broken wreck, following in the wake of the other speeders far ahead of them.

In the distance, the ship gleamed in the low light, a beacon for them to follow.

The others were waiting for them when they arrived, arranged defensively around the ship, protecting their only mode of transportation. The nameless boy was standing front and center, an adapted blaster rifle in his arms, looking ready to kill anyone who got too near. Jocco ran straight to him.

Sarai helped the other two down and began loading everyone onto the ship, which opened at Qui-Gon’s command.

He and the boy with the rifle waited.

And waited.

The sun set in earnest, and darkness fell.

And still they waited.

“Can you make your appeal to the Senate without him?” Qui-Gon said suddenly.

The young man whipped his head around to look at him. “What?”

“Can you make your appeal without Obi-Wan?”

He sneered. “In his absence, legal responsibility falls to Sarai and me. But it’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not.” Qui-Gon agreed.

There was a brief silence.

“Can you pilot this starship?”

“What?”

Qui-Gon did not repeat himself this time, and the young man’s eyes widened, his grip on his rifle slackening. “You… you want to stay. You want to stay and search for him.”

“You need to leave,” said Qui-Gon quietly. “Can you pilot this starship?”

“My name’s Radan,” the young man said brusquely, extending a grimy hand. “And yeah, between me and Kieln we can figure it out pretty quickly.”

“Good,” said Qui-Gon shaking his hand firmly. “As soon as you exit your first hyperspace jump, contact Master Yoda, it’s all programmed into the system. Tell him what happened.”

He looked again to the shadowed horizon, to the dark smudge several kilometers distant that was the stone ridge where he had last seen Obi-Wan.

“Tell him,” he paused. “…Tell him I am going to stay with my Padawan.”

Radan paused halfway up the ramp, turning to look back, a look of concern crossing his young face. “Even if he’s never going back to the Jedi?” he asked.

Qui-Gon hesitated.

“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we? Obi-Wan is capable of making his own decisions.”

Qui-Gon turned back towards the horizon, towards Obi-Wan.

“But I will not leave him again.”

#ugh this boy #someone hug him he’s hurting #sir please your life is in mortal peril sit down #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #qui gon and obi wan #master & padawan #jedi apprentice #melida/daan #padawan obi wan #my writing #star wars #star wars fic #tw injury #tw blood #tw reference to child death

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pyjamac · 3 years

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aiweirdness’s halloween botober prompts expanded upon by archivistbot. enjoy!

1. Howling canine ghosts scale the cathedral town pillars,

And the bones of the past their rusty shears.

Above a rattling rain the sky is black,

And the lights of the city flicker and die.

2. Leaves shaped like pumpkins litter the sidewalks, the season painting them in a sickly halo of vibrant red and orange. A woman walks past, holding a baby. The baby is covered in hands, faces, and arms, each with a different size, the arms twisted at a strange angle to the curve of the head.

3. Spiderwebs grow luscious on wet pumpkin grins. Have you ever seen how mesmerizing it is to watch the mummified body of the fruit transform into a spindly, wrinkled, new form? Amazing!

4. 'Thank you' trees lean out of residences, and the roofscapes are often barely visible from the high summer heat, it’s easy to miss the outlines of the structures here. The roads become dirt, the hedges are overgrown with shrubbery and the buildings sit there, too, tangled together. The contrast is made more stark by the uneven palletisation of these structures.

5. Black insects settle leaves and twigs over the damp patches of damp earth, and the lightless, empty sky of the city is punctuated by the dull glow of new suns.

6. Mouth mouth mouth mouth mouth mouth, the dead sea air pressing in on all sides, while the sun is in the sky, the sun is up in the sky, and the world is round the world, and the sea is forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever

7. Snaking cobwebs mass on stalks of dead grass and wriggling through his open mouth, Philip Jennings looked up. He saw what was inside. Was it the end of him? Was it the end of everything? The level of abstraction that the nothing that floats above the level of reality?

8. Red eyeballs hit backlit branches, and a warm blue light spilled through from the open window. I could hear Dennis whispering to himself, softly to himself, that he’d done something right.

9. Wet forest steps on soft squirrel skins. There are no lights here, but the moon is bright, and casts everything in a sickly yellow. The only sound was the click of a boltgun against the barrel, and the sound of the bolt firing as the gun whistled its deadly message.

10. Murmurous forest insects smell caramel apples, creeping and twitching through the damp earth where the treat was dropped. They move slowly, unsteadily, and there is a sharp, snapping screech as they swoop down. They kill slowly, but they kill.

11. Haunting trees grow cuter on lighter dirt, and the sky turns a sickly pink. I can hear my father in the distance now, and see the patches of scorched wood where he’s buried. I can hear his voice, though it isn’t entirely clear what it is commanding me to do.

12. Planet-sized moon speaks 'hello' to us in a language we barely understand, but it seems to have good reason for its appearance.

It is a world I lived in for nearly two decades now, and it is a world I will continue to see in all my fondest, most abiding memories. A world so cold upon the shore, so empty, and yet so beautiful. A world so full of death, and yet so alive. A moon so bright and beautiful upon the sky.

13. The night sky kisses blood oranges lined with white and blue and red. I can see a small group of figures moving in the sky, slowly but surely gaining scale. Their movement is slow and, if not for the jagged edges of their weapons they might pass for human. Their eyes are a blur, and their smile is nothing but teeth.

14. Headless animals shiver in their sleep, and the world writhes on the edge of a precipice. You walk along, your boots crunch soft straw in the pen, and your shoes are stained with blood.

15. Mustaches creep creepily around his apartment, his neighbors started to notice that it left his face every night.

16. Slouching gargoyles lay spooky stones by the door, and the kitchen was decked out in a varied selection of fire.

17. Something is sitting in the center of the spectre tapestries. It is the thing that waits for those who would lose their way, and it is the one that plays its tune.

It is the one that begins in the quiet of the forest and reaches out into the very marrow of the world. It is the one that is not a thing, but is all that is, and which holds the answer to the question, How is it that I can love you? And if I cannot, what am I to do?

I see you in my dreams, and you would not hear me. But I know you, so I ask you. Are you there?

I ask you, are you there?

18. The unseen graveyard stretches for miles, far beyond the shore. And in the quiet that follows, the funeral dirge of that land sings.

19. Deep-skulled jack-o’-lanterns smell the warmth of my nose as I inhale it, the deep, musky smell of blood and wool and skin.

20. This town is filled with orange dust, cluttering the street and obscuring the sun.

And in the middle of the town, where the roads once met, there’s only one street: the one that goes right up to the house where the Reverend lives.

It is that street that leads out of the town, and down the steep incline where the ground oozes whenever the Reverend walks. It is that street that I now see, and that is where I will follow.

I will follow it as it leads out of the town and over the edge of the cliff. I will see the house, and the footprints that lead further into it, and the blood that flows from the wounds that followed him.

21. Mist-sheep chew on tombstones, and I think I’ve got a soft spot for you.

22. A scarecrow cuts a pumpkin with a sharp scythe from a wooden block. She rides on top of it and looks over it. She sees something staring at her from the pumpkin.

23. The graveworm snatches out the eyes of strangers who come by and threatens them in language that no one understands. The hunger is in its mouth, and it smiles as it waits for those who will soon be in its teeth.

24. Mist lamps glow with circling green and orange and green and orange and green and orange and green and orange and green and orange and green and orange and green and orange… it’s like… it’s like there’s, it’s a, it’s a fog machine, or something?

25.Monsters crawl through alien fursona on the streets of Tokyo, and people come running begging for help. There are no monsters in this story, but people do make monsters out of each other.

26. Spooky house skulls peeking out of the dreamlike brambles, and I swear I saw the outline of a long, thin hand. It slowly stalked its prey, darting between them like a hungry vulture.

27. Gangly moonlit grave rabbits lurk outside the windows of the church, and I can hear the regular chirping of the birds outside.

28. Murder rats roam the streets below the buried Earth Church.

The sky is blue and seeps with an invisible sickness; the chill of the November air is still in your bones, and you are wrapped in a thin blanket of damp. The churchyard smells of rot.

29. A shrub plays the banjo from the shadows, and the tune is as old as the hills, and it is the mood that suits me, as it is the harmony that makes me happy, and it is the song that I am. It is the only song that I will ever truly know.

30. Pumpkins melt quietly, quietly into the winter night, and the world seems to forget the rain.

31. The white skull leans out of the tower of the Palace of the End. The vacant blue skies of the prison are mirrored in the windows of the other side. It is an empty place, the last occupant has left it locked that fateful day.

#shah mac #as per request

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aliens-and-shiz · 3 years

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In honor of the fallen.

A lone soldier, marches slowly over the ruptured earth. The signs of chaos strewn beyond what the eye can see. Hoisted upon his shoulder, a solitary rifle. Hundreds of years old at this point, but then again only the trigger was original. In the distance, white tents with red crosses dot the landscape. Torn to shreds by time, and the unthinkable.

A world, broken by those that intended to save it. A planet shredded in a fight to the death to save but a few innocents. The soldier wipes his brow, kneeling down to look at a small purple flower peeking out of the still-torn earth. A glimmer of hope, but not for the soldier.

He marches, searching for those he lost. Any of them. Just someone to call brother, someone to share a drink with.

But, as with time, they are but dust in the wind, coating the trees with their unfound potential, scattered among the stars.

But still the soldier marches, one purpose upon his mind. He unlatches a simple tool from his back, not the rifle, but a spade, and steps with a new purpose. Not one of hope, or joy, or even bitterness.

His purpose is driven by melancholy, by a memory of a time long past, of a people that brought incredible and terrible things to life, and fought for life itself.

He stops. And sinks the spade into the loose dirt, beginning the makings of a shallow grave. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.

In time, after the stars above had turned just so slightly, he bent. Grasping nothing but a boot, filled with the ashes of one of the fallen, and places it gently in the grave.

He hefts the spade yet again, and reverses his work, covering the boot in soot and soil- giving the fallen one at least the smallest modicum of honor forgotten to the world.

The soldier marches not for war, not for peace or prosperity, and certainly not by his own volition.

The soldier marches in honor of the fallen, of those that died innocent or guilty, of those that can march no more.

The soldier marches for honor, knowing that when his time comes, he will not have such a favor returned.

And yet he marches still.

CJP 1988-2013

#space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are space orcs #az’krah #sci fi & fantasy #2020/21 #in honor of the fallen

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prfctparis · 3 years

Text

In a Sweet Sunshower

AO3 Link

summary: He Who Brings Rain and The One Who Shines Bright are siblings. It’s fitting that there’s a sunshower during one of the campaigns when their legions team up.

a/n: a few things about Tatooine Slave Culture in this is borrowed from fialleril here on tumblr, so all rights go to them for that. except for the sunshower thing, i came up with it while driving and wrote this as fast as i could and actually kind of proud of the concept ngl. fun fact! zariza’s name mean ‘gold, brilliantly bright’ in hebrew so obviously it means something similar here in this star wars universe.

There’s an old phenomenon, here on Tatooine – from thousands and thousands of years ago back when this place wasn’t all dirt and sand – where the suns shone high in the sky, and voluminous clouds did little to darken the earth below, and rain fell from them, soaking the life on the ground.

It never lasted long, a few or so minutes at most, but it always happened during the hottest season of the year. It was said to be a beautiful sight to behold. The down pouring rain and the bright shining suns, together. Apparently it looked like liquid gold.

Everyone called it a sunshower. All of the Depur took it as a sign for there to be tricksters coming their way. Some of the Amavikka said that it was a sign of hope from one of the ancient prophets – Ekkreth, or Maru, or Tena, or Ebra – or even Ar-Amu to the slaves.

But most said that during it was when slaves became Free for good.

…We haven’t had rain in ages.

Zariza huffs and grimaces. Every single part of her is sweaty and sticky, and the humidity of this planet’s region might actually end up being the death of her. No, not the droids they fought earlier, or the damn Separatists, or even a stray blaster bolt. But the humidity. She knows that hate isn’t a good thing for a Jedi to feel, but she hates it, through and through. The air feels suffocating – the exact opposite of what it should be – and makes the heat of the sun feel hotter than it actually is.

It’s horrible. She says as much to her Jedi Master.

“Yes, humidity does make what we’re doing harder. Unnecessarily so,” Mace agrees, sounding less annoyed and tired than his padawan but Zariza can hear the edge of the emotions in his voice. He isn’t fairing so well in this weather, either.

At least the battle is over. Now they just have to clean up everything.

The leaders of the planet had asked for clean up help once the fighting had ended and they had verbally agreed to officially join the Republic. Of course the 187th and 501st easily promised they would do so. Neither of the legions have somewhere important to be, except for maybe Coruscant or a High Council meeting, and so here they are. Sweating their asses off in the humid heat that somehow feels like a murder attempt.

“Take a break if you need it, Zariza – I don’t want you overworking yourself in this heat. It could be dangerous,” Mace says after a few more moments. Then to Commander Ponds, “Same goes for all of the one-eighty-seventh, Commander. Take as many breaks as you need.”

Zariza sees Ponds nod out of the corner of her eyes, followed by, “Yes sir, General. Lieutenant Spite and a medic squad are collecting bottles of water and setting up tents for shade. I’ve heard that the five-oh-first are doing the same as they work as well.”

“Good.”

Wiping her brow with the bare skin of her bicep, Zariza is glad that she had the foresight to leave her black cloak and outer tunic on the venator-ship. She now only wears the black boots, leggings, and the sleeveless white under tunic, which is now stained with dirt and a few specks of blood but she could hardly care. The troopers did earlier, though, especially at the beginning of the fight – lack of armor meant danger but Zariza wasn’t about to give herself a heatstroke. She at least still wore the braces for her forearms, and the chest plate that she has since taken off.

One of the troopers – Mayhem, she recognizes the armor – hands her a container of water hardly ten minutes later. She smiles gratefully at him and takes it, taking a few sips, and then hands it back. He caps the container, clips it on his belt, and they both get back to work cleaning broken droid parts and other various debris from the fight. Mayhem never strays too far from her. Zariza might have been annoyed by it if she didn’t know that he’s looking out for her.

On the other side of the large area that had been used a battle field against Seppie droids, are the 501st – her brother included. Like her, he has darker robes than the usual Jedi, and had also foregone the outer tunics because of the planet’s heat before battle started. Zariza won’t be surprised if he’s currently completely shirtless by now – a risk for a sunburn, no doubt, with skin much paler than her own, but that’s his problem. She also knows for a fact that Ahsoka is wearing the tube top outfit she wore constantly before Anakin corralled her into wearing something more covering, a few pieces of armor included, just a month ago.

Hell, even Master Mace Windu is shirtless right now, the weirdness of it be damned. Some troopers have started to disappear regularly, leaving in full gear, only to pop up again with the top half of their blacks and armor gone.

Yeah. Humidity karking sucks.

Needing a break, Zariza leans against a lone tree nearby. She can feel the Living Force flowing through it and focuses on that as she catches her breath. Mayhem spots her and brings her more water without question.

“Thanks,” she sighs, and takes another sip.

Mayhem nods, undoing a second bottle from his belt, right next to where his helmet it clipped. He’s shirtless just like many of his brothers, curly hair frizzy as hell. “You’re welcome, sir,” he says. Once he’s had a few sips of his own, he asks, “How much is left in there?”

She shakes it, and shrugs. “Half, maybe?”

He nods again. “I’ll go back to one of the tents and refill it for you soon.”

She smiles thankfully. “Don’t forget to get yourself some.”

Mayhem chuckles. “Of course not, sir.”

After taking another drink, she hands it back just like before. But she doesn’t move to get back to work just yet. Master Mace nudges her in their bond, asking if she’s okay, and she tiredly pokes back to confirm that she is, all the while eying what’s left of the field to clean up. They’re getting there, but it looks like it will take forever. At least Anakin, Ahsoka, and the 501st are tackling the other half; and they’re getting closer, slowly but surely.

Her eyes flit up to the sky, and she spots grey clouds nearby. But, ugh – they aren’t close enough for them to get rained on.

It causes a frown to tug on her lips. A pout, if she wants to be honest about it.

Mayhem chuckles for a second time, more amused than before. “Finally saw the clouds, huh, verd’ika?”

Another trooper nearby stops and looks as well. A wounded noise escape them. “It’s so close but so damn far,” they say, forlorn. What a Force-damned mood.

“This humidity will be the death of me,” Zariza mumbles.

“That’s not happening on our watch,” they say, firm yet exhausted, the sadness about the clouds suddenly gone.

“Damn straight,” Mayhem agrees.

She can only groan.

Once Zariza has rested for a good few minutes, she stands up straight again, but instead of getting to work, she unties the knot of the yellow bandana at the nape of her neck. The wild, dark waves of her hair are no doubt frizzy and wilder than ever; earlier she was positive that she felt the waves grow in size because of the friz and the humidity, and she honestly doesn’t want to know what she looks like because of it. Quickly, she works on putting her long hair into a nerftail and ties it with the bandana.

What feels like ages later, the planet’s sun is beginning to finally lower in the sky and the 187th has done most of their half of the battle field. Through the bond, Zariza can tell Anakin is close by yet she stays lying on the ground, taking yet another much needed break. The clouds are closer, too. Yet still no rain.

The sound of boots crunching the dry, summer grass as someone walks gets closer and louder, up until the person stops right at Zariza’s head, casting a shadow over her. She blinks and tilts her chin to get a better look at who it is despite already having a pretty good guess. Anakin stands over her, sweaty and shirtless, with red tinting his shoulders, chest, and nose. His dirty blond hair is matted with sweat and it sticks to his forehead and the nape of his neck, a few of the short curls frizzed up, and his face is contorted into a scowl.

“I cannot believe I’m saying this,” he says, “but I miss Tatooine’s dry heat.”

“Agreed,” she grunts.

Anakin huffs and steps to her side. He then sticks out his flesh hand, and Zariza forces herself to sit up so she can grab it. He pulls her to her feet and almost immediately lets go once he’s sure she’s balanced well. The humid heat has made the brother-sister who hug every time they see each other, want to not be touching another body in any way for the foreseeable future.

Anakin runs a hand through his hair, grimaces at the sweat, and wipes it on his pants. Disgusting. “Been drinking enough water?” he asks.

She sighs. “Yep. You?”

“Yep.”

“Ahsoka?”

“Yep.” A beat. “Master Windu?”

She almost says ‘yep’ again, but decides not to. “Yeah, him too. Don’t worry.” She smirks. It’s no secret that before Master Mace took her as his padawan, that Anakin couldn’t stand the man. The feeling might have been mutual, but honestly Zariza doesn’t know and doesn’t care to. For now.

Anakin just rolls his eyes and flips her off, walking off to help Captain Rex and a few more guys of Torrent Company.

Ahsoka comes up to her a second later. The younger teen doesn’t say anything, and neither does Zariza. Usually energetic and happy to get her to know her Master’s little sister better, the heat has zapped the togruta of most of her energy. So in silence, they work together on a particularly large piece of debris, and then immediately head to the nearest tent for some much needed shade. Breaks are becoming more frequent, and Zariza thinks that maybe she will have to stop helping if they don’t finish up cleaning soon.

Anakin is already in the tent, along with Master Mace, Captain Rex, and Commander Ponds by the time the girls get there, and the two padawans wave a short greeting to the men before beelining where other troopers are giving out fresh water.

It’s when one of the Boys In Blue (as the GAR has started calling the 501st) hands them both a fresh container when it happens.

The sound of rain pelting the top of the tent makes everyone freeze. It’s obviously still sunny, but that doesn’t stop Zariza or any of the others to turn to check for themselves. And it is – no clouds directly above them at all – yet the rain is falling down, gradually increasing to a steady downpour. She blinks a few times and inches closer to the edge of the tent, and hardly a second later Anakin is at her side, looking out as well, mouth parted in shock.

“A sunshower,” Anakin whispers.

Zariza numbly nods.

Her mind conjures up a faint memory of being told of a phenomenon from hundreds of thousands of years ago on Tatooine. Of sunshine and rain, together. Of liquid gold. Of tricksters visiting Depur. Of a sign of hope to slaves, or a celebration for the Freed.

It doesn’t look completely like liquid gold like Amu’s tales said, but it was close to it. It’s still beautiful. A stunning phenomenon that neither Anakin nor Zariza believed they would ever get to see.

“They don’t last long,” she finds herself saying.

The Skywalkers turn their heads in unison to look at one another. Matching grins of excitement and mischief form, and without any prompting Zariza is taking off into the rain almost as fast as a blaster bolt, Anakin hot on her heels.

Zariza jumps into an already formed puddle. It’s right next to one of the 501st troopers, Jesse, and it splashes him. Zariza may or may not have used to Froce to make the splash bigger, but that doesn’t exactly matter. Just that there’s a sunshower, that her and her brother are both Free, and there’s a fucking sunshower and it’s amazing!

Jesse lunges at her, wanting to retaliate for getting splashed at, but she slips away easily with loud laughter.

From him, anyway – Anakin catches her a second later with water from a puddle cupped in his hands. He promptly dumps it over her head with laughter of his own, then misses up her hair just for the heck of it.

“Wha– ugh, Anakin!”

“Tag, you’re it!” he shouts, as if they’re eight and twelve again in the Room of a Thousand Fountains instead of sixteen and twenty in the middle of a field post-battle.

Zariza gapes at him, but it quickly turns into grins and she chases after him without a second thought.

It doesn’t take long for Ahsoka to join, or even for the troopers. Within seconds, there’s a large game of tag, troopers splashing in puddles, and almost everyone running in the rain with the sun shining down on them, laughter ringing out into the open and so much Light seeping into the Force that Mace can’t help but shove his Commander into the rain as well.

…Yes, we haven’t had rain in thousands upon thousands of years.

But it is said that one day, when the twin suns shine hotly over Tatooine, that clouds will form once again yet they will not obscure the twins from sight, and a downpour of rain will wash over everyone.

All the slaves will be Free, and Depur will no longer have power over us.

We will have a sunshower once more.

#anakin skywalker #tatooine slave culture #star wars #star wars oc #star wars fanfiction #clone wars oc #mace windu #my writing #oc: zariza #take the fear that i don’t need

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di-kut · 4 years

Text

Baar Bal Runi: Chapter Fifteen

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive!Reader

Words: 6.1K

Summary: (Body Swap AU) Din has to kill the bounty hunter who has been chasing you through space.

Rating: MA (Extreme descriptions of violence, explicit descriptions of sex)

Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, death, murder, sex (m/f), fingering (female receiving)

A/N: HELLO! I’m sorry I was gone so long!! My operation went well, thank you to every single one of you. And especially for all the lovely messages and kind words I got while I was healing. My brain has been foggy since then but babey we are back in business. AND WE ARE HERE TO ABSOLUTELY COMMIT MURDER. As you can see this chapter we have some pretty intense warnings and a high rating so please read with caution. The read more will be at the top so anyone who wishes to avoid these can do so.

The first time Din Djarin took a life he used his hands.

The man was bigger than him. Stronger than him too, thick, meaty arms and body. Din was glad for his helmet, so that man could not see his face. Could not see his scared eyes beneath. But Din could see his eyes, the slaver’s eyes. His cargo ship had been packed so full of children they could barely fit to sit next to each other in the hull. Scared and bound. Some of them were older, Din’s age, their faces streaked with dirt and blood and sweat. The Mandalorians had found them on an almost uninhabited planet making a stopover before a jump to hyperspace, some of the children left out in the hot sun, their hands tied in front of them and squinting. One of them sobbing. And Din was ready to complete his passage, and so while the Mandalorians helped the children from the hull onto their ship they took Din’s blaster and shoved the captured slaver at him, encased on all sides by helmeted warriors, just like the spars in the covert. But this was no spar. And Din had no blaster. His ears were ringing and making him dizzy. His blood was pumping so hard in his hands he had to ball them into fists to keep them from shaking. The slaver was watching him still, spat at his feet some taunt.

Din does not remember what the man said anymore.

Din remembers thinking that he took too long. Remembers being scared enough that he made mistakes he never would in the covert. So that the man was able to grab him by his swinging arm and pull him close enough to beat his fist against the side of Din’s helmet. The sound of the ringing made it hard to think, hard to see. Misstepped again and the slaver’s boot connected with the side of his knee. Grabbed his arm agains and wrapped both his meaty fists around Din’s wrist, got the spot between his glove and his Beskar. Snapped it with a sound which made Din sick, felt like his arm is being crushed from his broken wrist to his shoulder. Felt it in the backs of his teeth. He heard the same chanting in his head, over and over. At kyr’amur ures suvarirar cyriror at ijaat cyay. At kyr’amur ures suvarirar cyriror at ijaat cyay. At kyr’amur ures suvarirar cyriror at ijaat cyay. The voices of the Mandalorians speaking for his passage. He must kill a man with his hands and understand what it is to take a life. He must be able to look a person in their eye before he kills him. To feel the power he holds over them. All people. All things. And then they will give him his blaster again.

The slaver hit him against the side of his helmet again, slapped it with an open palm. Din’s wrist burned. He stumbled and almost hit the ground. Swiped at the slaver and it made the huge man laugh, cruel and mean and ugly. His teeth were two perfect straight lines. Din caught his arm on another swipe and pulled him forward, managed to throw the man off balance. Tripped him and pushes him to the ground. The slaver was big, and he hit the ground hard. Din felt it move the earth beneath him in a tremor. Clambered on top of him before the man could move again, get the upper hand again. His fist glanced off the man’s ear.

The slaver rolled and Din’s back hit the dirt. Sent a cloud of dry dust into the air around him. His Beskar still made him heavy and awkward then. Reduced his reach and made him slow. He was not yet used to accounting for it. The slaver smacked him again. Mean again. Laughed at the sound of his palm against the metal. Taunted him. Din thought he would die then. Saw the helmets of his brothers watching him, hovering just out of reach. They did not move to help him when the slaver tried to wrap both his fists around Din’s neck. There were no children anymore, all of them carried away. The sky was blue and blazing. The sun was hot. The slaver had spittle between his lips that hit the visor of the helmet when he laughed. Din thinks the man said something to him then as well, but he cannot remember the words anymore. Only the sound of the man’s voice. The shadow of him looming over him in the dirt on some planet far away from home. A dark shape against a bright sky, his death the same as his last memory of his parents, and death was laughing at him. All around them the Mandalorians are silent.

Din doesn’t know how he managed to kick his leg out, to loop his knee high enough that he could roll them, sudden and sharp. Forced the slaver on his back into the dust. His right hand still burned, his right arm, the limb pulsing, but while the man was surprised Din grabbed him by his hair and beat his head into the ground. Over and over and over again. The dull thudding became wet. The blood leaked out over the grey dust and turned it to mud. Splattered over his pants and his boots and his gloves. Over his Beskar.

When Din finally stumbled to his feet the back of the slaver’s head was shattered. His hair and flesh and bone mixed in with the mud beneath him. His eyes don’t see anything anymore. Stare into nothing. The man was not scared, he did not have time to be scared. The Mandalorians around them disperse, all murmuring the same thing under their breath. At kyr’amur ures suvarirar cyriror at ijaat cyay. The sigils on their pauldrons caught the bright light on the desert planet, glinting in the sun. The Death Watch. The Mandalorian who raised him, who took him from his dead parents stepped forward and rested a hand on Din’s arm again, nodded grimly. He handed him back his blaster. Din was still glad for his helmet so that the warriors could not see the tears on his face.

Din has no blaster now.

And the bounty hunter cannot see the smile on his face. Even leaned in towards him, head tilted. The same cruel smile on his face that the slaver had. That men who like to hurt people get. A twisted sort of smile. He’s tapping Din’s blaster against the helmet in mock thought. Clicks his tongue and laughs. Din tries to remember what the slaver said to him, leaned over him in the desert, ready to kill him. Behind the bounty hunter, lightning flashes on Barab I. The light dances over the helmet and reflects in the man’s dark eyes, plays over his skin, bright and silver. Makes the man look empty and white and pale. Like a corpse. Din does not move, even when the bounty hunter holsters the gun and reaches both hands towards the edges of the helmet.

“You even awake in there, huh Mando?” He asks.

Din waits until he’s leaned in close enough that he can hit him. Snaps his head forward, slams the top of the helmet against the bounty hunter’s nose with a thick, wet sound. Breaks it. Makes the man scream. Din shifts his weight onto his braced leg, pushes to stand. Feels weak and heavy in the armour after months, feels the burn in his legs. The man stumbles away but Din is faster, and his foot hits him over where his forearms are cradling his broken nose. Again in the middle of his chest when the man swings his arms to try and catch his balance. When the bounty hunter falls into the water the splash covers him completely. Tries to push away through it until Din’s boot connects hard with his temple. The bounty hunter slumps forward, face down, bubbles streaming into the shallow water around him. Din’s hands still bound behind his back. He steps on one of the man’s shoulders and stomps, right in the middle of the man’s neck, on his spine. And the bounty hunter goes still.

Din pants, sways for a second, the water around his ankles lapping against his boots like little waves. Feels too big, too heavy, like he might sink into the water and drown. The Crest is open like a cavern, dark and silent. A sight which used to be so familiar, and it fills him with dread. There should be your gentle voice, talking to the child, the loud coos in return. The lights on. The tinkering sound of your tools – always working. Always fixing. It takes him too long to remember how to move, and when he does his legs feel wrong beneath him. Like they are not a part of the rest of him. Bends over the dead bounty and has to try to find the release for the cuffs backwards, his hands behind him. Takes too long. Everything takes too long. But then he finds the small control, in a pocket of the man’s belt, and he releases the cuffs. Drops them into the water with the dead man. He flexes his hands, clenches them into fists, over and over as he walks towards the open ramp. Replays everything he can remember – the Barabels, your hand in his, the glint of the red clay on the Beskar, the dark smudges like blood on the metal. The tunnels. The rush of adrenaline when he’d realised too late the bounty hunter was already behind him.

And then nothing.

He stumbles up the ramp. The world spinning beneath him, all around him. Din has to lean a hand against the door when he gets close enough to try and find his feet beneath him. The hull is upturned completely. Crates shoved and fallen, open and spilling their contents over the floor. Strapping half pulled away. The cot in the corner without its mattress is overturned and shoved against the far wall beneath the ladder. Inside he can see it now, the flashing green light of the chryofreezer blinking in the dark. His heart fills his mouth. Catches his boot in the grating to get to it, visions of your face frozen, screaming, staring out at him. But before he reaches the ‘freezer he sees the slumped shape on the ground. Still and unmoving. A smaller shape, the shape of long ears peaking over it.

“No.” The word feels like its torn out. Doesn’t mean to say it. Doesn’t choose to start moving but he is halfway there, every flash of green illuminating more. “No, no. No.”

He doesn’t feel the impact of the floor against his knees, or the way the grating digs through the leather of his gloves. His hands shake. Your head is twisted against the floor and facing away from him. The braid pulled away and hair covering you. Your arm is bent badly beneath you and legs twisted. You don’t move even when his hand gently grips your shoulder and begins to turn you. He sees faces before he sees yours – his parents. Silhouetted against bright, white light. He doesn’t remember what they look like anymore. Not really. But he sees the doors closing over him and the creeping darkness at the edges of him, under the Beskar, under the helmet. Cold and dark and airless. Unescapable. Sees a pile of sightless helmets staring at him from the ground. He can’t breathe. Hears the rings of a mallet against metal like a gong and it hurts. Rings in his ears even though it is not real.

He rolls you back, one shoulder cradles against his knees. Your face is thin and grey. He rips the gloves off, fumbles with them with his shaking hands. He can see the child now too, resting in the crook of your bent legs. See the little rise and fall of his chest and he knows his son changed you back. Reaches over you to rest a bare hand against the child’s belly to feel the life in him. Sighs in relief then the child is warm and snoring. And then he turns back to you, keeps rolling you as gentle as he can. Pulls your twisted arm from beneath you and wraps his hand around it. There is no glove to reach beneath, just the cold, damp skin of your wrist. Half your body wet, your hair wet. Like you were dragged through the water. He doesn’t know if it happened to you or to him.

“Please,” Din whispers.

And the jagged sound of his voice catching breaks through the vodocor like a rip through the air. Digs his fingers in hard against the skin of your wrist. Begins to count the seconds of nothing, of just cold. And then finally a beat. He cries out. Something which isn’t quite Mando’a or anything else.

He can’t take it. The helmet feels too tight. He feels like a child again, like he had for the first few lonely years when the helmet suffocated him and hid him from the world. Din yanks it away and gasps in the cold, wet air in the hull. Filled with the taste of the rain outside. Smells sharp and damp. The side of his head hurts, and his back and legs. The familiar hurt of a fight and he wonders how long he was unconscious in your body before the child had changed you. How much you had to do without him. He gathers you up, your body rolling and limp, both arms around your chest and shoulders and he thinks he will collapse into you. Your head falls back and he tucks a hand beneath it. Buries his face into the skin of your neck to feel the pulse there against his cheek. Realises he can smell the warmth of your skin.

“Ni ceta,” he says against your collar. Tries to hold you tighter. “Ni ceta, ner Karta.”

There is so much light everywhere. Hurting against the backs of your eyelids. And noise, distant voices and machines and droids. Everything feels like it is swimming before you, just out of reach. You think that maybe you are dreaming, but the world slowly becomes more solid. More tangible. You can smell the sourness of stale air and alcohol. And the beeping is unbearable. High and constant and too fast. You try to close your eyes again, to drift, but once the world starts to focus it does not relent. Reels you back into it. And memories follow – thoughts. Realise you are in a medcenter, the white walls and sterile smell. The Barabels and the bounty hunter. And Din. The child. The worry does not come yet but you know it will.

“How are you?”

You struggle to turn your head. The woman is blurred and watery and your eyes won’t focus. She steps closer and you see the shape of a smile on her face.

“You’re in the medcenter on Gamorr. I’m just checking your vitals, okay?” Her voice is even and calm. You feel her hand against your arm and its warm and soft. Makes you jolt. The armour. The helmet. “I’m not going to hurt you. Won’t be a minute.”

The rooms begins to spin. Panic tastes like bile in the back of your throat. When you try to speak your throat burns. “Where – ”

“He had to go run an errand, he said.” The nurse wraps something tight around your arm. Smiles again and waits. And then she unwraps it and sets it aside. “He’ll be back any minute I’m sure, left early this morning. We weren’t expecting you up so soon.”

She lifts your hand in hers and it is too small. Your arm is too small. She squeezes it once and lays it back on the bed next to you, limp and useless. You twitch your fingers. The nurse smiles at you, she says something else but you don’t hear it. Too busy staring at your hand on the sheets. Trying to place why it looks so wrong. Trying to stop the wave of panic that you are without the helmet, and the armour, and that Din is gone. That you are stuck on some distant planet without him. But before it mounts, chokes you, the door hisses open behind the nurse and there is a glint of silver in the light, and the familiar sound of the soft kiss of metal on metal, and the darkness of the visor finds you quickly. The Mandalorian. Din. Your small hand suddenly makes sense, the lightness around your head, around your chest. The nurse squeezes your arm with a smile and slips from the room behind him. And Din doesn’t move even when the door closes, or in the heavy moments which follow. The room thick and tense and filled with something you can’t name.

“Gotabor’ika?”

The vodocor makes his voice chip and shimmer in the static. But it is him, and your eyes well with tears. A harsh sound of relief torn from the back of your throat. And then he’s moving, so fast it makes your spin, the armour slipping and unreal in the bright lights. His hands around your jaw, in your hair, and the helmet pressing lightly against your forehead. You feel yourself roll as his weight dips the bed. Wrap your weak arms between you and around his shoulders. Hear the soft sigh slip from beneath the helmet – too quiet for the modulator to register, warm without the distortion.

“Ner Karta,” he murmurs. Rocks the helmet slightly against your forehead, the cool of the metal pressing against your brow. “Ner Karta.”

“Din.” You don’t know what else to say to him, so you say his name again. And again and again and he holds you tighter. Until the Beskar against your forehead warms to match you. Until the warmth of his fingers seeps through the leather gloves against your cheeks and jaw and neck.

You spend a week in the medcenter, the nurses are diligent and kind. And Din stays with you most of the time. At nights he leaves to be with the child, left in the care of the mechanic who manned the dock. The days move slow and fast all at once, time measured between check-ups. You sleep for much of it, drifting in and out of consciousness. And when you are awake you can feel always the dim throbbing of the blow at the back of your head, feel the raised ugly shape of the skin peeled away from the force of it. But even that starts to get better. You expect Din to be skittish, eager to move on as he always is, but he seems at ease. He sleeps as well, with his legs stretched out before him in the medcenter chair beside your bed, his arms folded over his stomach. You smile at the tilt of his helmet. The lip of it resting against his chest plate.

You move around as much as you are able, walk in circles around your small room. Think it must have cost Din a small fortune in credits to pay for a private one. But you don’t say it to him, don’t dare to bring up the cost, or ask him how you got there. A conversation you are not ready to have yet, even when he gives you his arm to help you when you are unsteady, or his gloved hand hovers at your waist when you stand shakily from the bed. Instead you think about what his voice sounds like when you know he is smiling, or the dry twist in it when he is joking. Distracts you from the nightmares of him lying, limp and cold and wet in your body, dragged and dumped against the floor of the Crest. Nightmares where he has no pulse. Nightmares of the poison in your side slowly killing you as you sleep.

And then it is time to leave. Din is quiet as you gather your small bag. Passes you your spare shirts from where he had folded them while you slept, and you smile and thank him. The Beskar seems to slip in and out of focus, reflections of the white walls and ceilings and floors make him seem only half there. A ghost. You are worried if you lose sight of him he will be gone forever. But he holds your bag for you and leads you from the medcenter. Through the streets of planet and back to the dock. He stops for you, several times, to check you are okay. And you always are. Close at his heels. The walk feels longer than you know it must be, still recovering from the blow to the back of your head, and the week of barely moving. Din slows his pace to match yours, and he doesn’t say anything but his body speaks of patience. His hand hovering at your elbow when you need to pause, and as you walk up the ramp.

There’s a loud coo and a thump against your boot. The child screams with delight, slapping his hands against your leg and climbing, slipping and climbing again over the laces to try and reach for you. Din stops you from leaning down and scoops the child into his arm, holds him close enough that as soon as you are close enough the baby grabs at your hair and then your jaw. Presses his forehead into your cheek and giggles.

Laughter had never felt so good, so light. You nuzzle back against the child, and feel Din’s glove clad hand brush your shoulder. Feel, for the first time since waking in the medcenter, like the world isn’t about to slip away between your fingers. Din passes you the child and moves away, sets your small pack down in the hull. And it is then that you notice it – the bunk which had been overturned, the mattress ruined from blood is upright again, and covered in new bedding. A thicker blanket and a fluffy, full looking pillow. A new mattress. You had not realised that you thought you would go on sleeping with Din in his quarters until you see your own space set out for you. And you know you should be grateful that he had gone to the trouble to make it so accommodating for you, the bedding nicer than his own.

He sees you staring. And you feel the buzzing all around him of things he wants to say. Wonder if his face pinches the same way it had in your body beneath the helmet when he was struggling with words. But he says nothing.

“Thank you,” you murmur quietly, nod at the bunk so he knows what you mean.

Din nods once, slowly. You wait for him to say something but he does not. And you don’t know how to tell him you don’t want to be alone. You clutch the cooing child tighter to your chest and nod back. Din helps you to settle in and then he disappears to pay for docking and to prepare the Crest to leave. The child stays with you, clambering over you and over the new bed, cuddling himself in under the blankets and squealing when you play at hide and seek with him. Din finds you in the middle of the game and rests his hand on your shoulder, asks if you’re ready to leave. And you nod at him, stare into the darkness of the visor. Feel adrift without knowing what expression moves him beneath. And then he is gone again, his cape hitting against the wall as he disappears up the ladder.

The child sleeps in your bed, curled beside you on your pillow. And even though you feel the weight of the day in all your limbs and in the cloud filling your head you cannot sleep. Lay awake in the darkness, time stretching all around you and warping and making seconds feel like hours, and watch the way the child’s belly rises and falls beneath the covers. You force yourself not to move, to try to sleep, until suddenly you can’t bear it anymore. Until you feel like you are going to come out of your skin if you do not move.

Climbing the ladder is hard, but you relish the feeling of using your limbs again. And the burn in your muscles from being stagnant so long distracts you from your nightmares, haunting you now while you are awake. Don’t hesitate outside the door, press it open and look up, find him immediately in the pilot’s chair. You stop in the doorway and stare. Watch the glint of light of the Beskar as the Mandalorian turns to look at you. Feel the lifting feeling along your back and shoulders and neck. His gaze, the same feeling and the old feeling, melting into one.

“How are you?” His voice is deep, calm and steady. You see him here, in front of you. On the shop on Batuu. In the tunnel, his blaster pointed at the kid. “Gotabor’ika?”

You can’t stop the well of tears at the familiar name. Feel like everything is rising up in the back of your throat and forming a lump. The Mandalorian moves to stand but you wave him down. Sniffle and step into the door to allow it to hiss softly closed behind you. Have to stare at a spot on the ground to centre yourself.

“Are you okay?” He is so gentle when he asks. So warm. You nod slowly and wipe a tear which spills. He shifts in his spot. “You don’t have to be okay,” he says. “You don’t have to be.”

“I – ” You have to stop, or you will begin to cry in earnest. You take a shaking breath. “I thought he killed you. I thought – I thought – ” You glance at the helmet, staring back at you. And it is more comforting than anything you have ever seen before. A sob lodges itself in your throat and traps the words before they can be said.

“He didn’t.”

You shudder. “I know. I know, but – ”

But you don’t know what. You feel the ghost ache of a loss which is not real. But it still hurts, still makes your chest shudder with every breath because you had thought he was dead when the bounty hunter had dragged his unconscious body back into the Crest. Felt like everything inside you had been taken and ripped out when he’d dropped to the floor. And even though he is here now and he is him and you can see your reflection wobble in the Beskar. And he is just staring at you, making the hair along your arms and the back of your neck stand on end.

You stare at him as well, both your chests heaving, the space around you bouncing with the sounds of your breathing. Your hands are shaking. You move together, lock the door behind you while he pushes out of the pilots chair and meet in the middle. Slam into each other so hard it almost hurts. His hands pushing your hair back from your face, gloves snagging in your braid. You feel over the chest plate, the pauldrons. Grabbing at him and pulling his body towards yours. Move his hands to the buttons at the top of your shirt while you yank and your belt. He can’t get at the buttons, growls, yanks his gloves off and then has them. Pops them open with practised ease. You remember he has worn this shirt as well. Your shirt and belt hit the ground at the same time, the echo against the metal flooring makes you shiver. Stare down at Din’s bare hands gripping your waist so tight the skin beneath is turning white. His knuckles are white.

“Is this - ?”

“ – Yes. Please, Din.” Put your mouth on the fabric over his throat and breathe hot against it. Know he can feel it beneath, feel the breath against his skin.

His hands tighten to bruise, pulls you against him, feel the burn of the cold Beskar on your arms. Your vest is enough to stop the worst of it against your breasts and stomach but it makes you tremble a sigh. Then Din pushes you away, only slightly, enough that he can let you go and work at his own belt, only managing to undo the buckle and leaving its length looped around his waist. Your whole body throbs when he grunts.

Then he’s holding you again, yanking you forward and walking backwards. Lifting. He sits down hard and pulls you with him, a tangle of legs and arms falling back into the pilot chair again. You have nowhere else to go, to put the burning feeling, so you press your mouth up his neck, over the helmet. Everywhere you can reach you kiss him. Scrabble aimlessly over his clothes for purchase, for anything. Burning at the Beskar, burning that you could have lost each other. You realise you are saying his name between each kiss, with every kiss, over and over and over. Don’t realise until he is saying your name, hands moving from your waist over your thighs, resting either side of his, shoved against the chair, back up over your sides to hold your face. Holding you steady to watch him.

“I’m here,” he says. Voice crackles through the vodocor. “I’m here, Kar’ta. We’re safe. The kid is safe.”

You are panting. Shaking all over. You want to ask him what the new name means, but not now. Feel like the heat of him under you and against your jaw is the only thing holding you together. “The bounty hunter – ”

“Dead. He’s dead.”

“I know but – ”

His fingers dig into your scalp, along your cheekbones and over your ears. “I will never let anyone hurt you. I promised. I promised I wouldn’t leave you.”

You choke and can’t say anything, so you let yourself sink into him. Mouth at the fabric over his neck again and writhe in his lap, push your hips over his until he pushes up and back and one of his hands cups the back of your head closer to him and the other falls to the curve of your ass and rolls your hips forward, sets his pace to match yours. Keep going until your legs are shaking and trying to reach him through the fabric at his neck isn’t enough. Until you could cry that you can’t be close to him anymore.

“Pants,” he says to you, begins unbuttoning them for you.

You stand, shaking, only for as long as it takes to kick them off and then he is yanking you back into his lap again, hands harsh. Still not enough. You hold him beneath his pauldrons, digs your fingers into the lip of the metal so hard it bites against your nails. His fingers find your centre, your clit, and begin to work against it. Rough and almost mean with how hard he rubs at you, until you are crying out and bucking into his hand. Leaking over the crotch of his pants and smearing yourself over the tent of his dick beneath. Your hands move to his belt, begin to pull it from him. Try to pull his trousers down.

“Not yet,” he grunts.

“Yes. Yes, Din. Ready.” So worked up you are worried if he doesn’t stop you won’t be able to feel him before you finish. Need to feel him.

The hand at your hip is gone, is smacking your hand away from his trousers. And then shoves beneath you and cups your whole centre, rocks you up and forward so you fall against his chest with a sob. You feel every ridge and knuckle of his finger as he pushes it into you. Feel them over and over as he pumps in and out of you, rubs his thumb over your clit. And then another finger is inside you. Takes his time in feeling, in stretching you.

You press your mouth to where you think his must be on the other side of the helmet. Desperately hold your lips there like maybe he might be able to feel it. Don’t know whether it makes you feel better or worse. You hear him groaning through the vodocor and you are close enough to hear it slipping out from the helmet, pure and unfiltered, like gravel. Feel the helmet tip up, another open-mouthed sound coming from beneath it, push back against your mouth like Din is reaching for you as well.

And then his hand slips from inside you and you feel the pause of him stilling your hips, the bluntness of him pushing up and into you, slowly, so achingly slowly. And you squeeze your eyes so tightly shut it makes white bursts of stars dance behind your lids. Galaxies everywhere when you are with him. His hands steady you to sink down over him, and you feel now why he had taken so long to work you open with his fingers because the stretch is painful. Your mouth dips against the helmet, your lip catches where the Beskar meets the visor and you pant in time with his low grunts. Can’t think anything, can’t feel anything except the push of him between you, inside you, and the Beskar under your mouth. You aren’t kissing at it anymore, have fallen your weight against it, mouth lolled open. Let out a pitiful noise, a high-pitched whine when your hips sink finally against his and jolt. His hand squeezes the flesh of your hip.

“Din,” you gasp. “Din, please.”

You begin to pull off him again and then sink. And the sound he makes is almost feral. You push up and sink down again, just to hear it. Keep moving until his hand on your hip holds you still and he is thrusting out of the pilot’s chair into you. Forcing you to allow him to drill into you so quickly your eyes roll back. He is everywhere, everything. And you finally feel the last of the fear slip away at the snap of his hips into yours. Feel yourself melt away into it. Only the sounds of you together filling the cockpit, drowning out even the endless hum of the engine. The burn which started cold turns hot, turns liquid. One of his hands find its way back to you, between your legs, works at your clit while he pushes at a relentless pace. The other hand grabs your jaw tight enough to bruise, to hurt. Holds your head still and presses your forehead to the front of his helmet. Hear the vodocor making his grunts echo and bounce and crackle, hear just the edges of Din beneath the helmet.

You don’t have the presence of mind to tell him before your orgasm turns the bursts of white stars behind your lids to black. Everything in you so tight and pulsing, and then more because you feel him begin to thrust into you so hard you would fall if his arms weren’t holding you up. Fucks you through your orgasm until he groans and his thrusts stutter and fall, filling you. You slump into his chest plate, let him push his hips up into you over and over until he is done as well.

You feel the chest plate of the armour heaving with his breath, moving you as well. Feel like you will melt into it, into him. And the weight of his hand gentle against your back, and you realise he is gently undoing your braid. Feel too tired to even turn your head. So you sink further against him, around him. And you feel yourself begin to drift, the exhaustion creeping over you now that you are safe and you can feel Din’s breath against you, and know he is alive. Can hear him whispering quietly in Mando’a above you, and his hand pulling knots from your hair. Think you should fight it, that you should talk to him finally about everything which has been left unsaid between you for months, slowly growing even before you swapped into his body. But sleep makes your eyelids heavy as well as your limbs and you don’t feel Din move you, don’t feel him gently lift you both from the chair, keep your arms and legs wrapped around his waist.

You wake when you feel the pillows touch beneath you, and Din tug the covers of his bed over you. And you must say something because he turns around again and touches his helmet to your bare shoulder and then to your forehead.

“Sleep,” he murmurs.

And you do.

At kyr’amur ures suvarirar cuyiror at ijaat oyay: To kill without understanding is not to respect life. There is honour in fighting but not in mindless murder.

Ni ceta: I’m sorry (lit: I kneel) This is the strongest way a Mandalorian has to apologise. Extremely rare.

Ner Karta: My Heart

Tags: @btillys @vercopaanir @absurdthirst @sistasarah-sallysaidso @adikaofmandalore @babyomen @purpleeeslurpppp @fleurdemiel145 @hdlynn @starwarsiscooliguess @thedarkwitchling @no-droids-allowed @dartheldur @toilet-keeper @sinnamon-bunn @br0ther-s @that-one-weird-one @oloreaa @nellyneko @damndamer0n @space-floozy @hopplessdreamer @buckysalefty @arianawills @roxypeanut @crazyworldofsiani @scarlettvonsass @mrsparknuts @lackofhonor @lola-wolf @coonflix @datmando @datmando @katialvi @teaofpeach @heatherbel @buckstaposition @motleymoose

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian imagine #the mandalorian fanfic #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin imagine #din djarin x you #smut #din djarin smut #the mandalorian smut #baar bal runi #force sensitive reader #pedro pascal #my writing

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honesthammie · 3 years

Text

Te amo

I am working on a few of the other prompts and a part 2 to prompt 4 the soulmate au I just recently got another puppy and I still have uni work to do so I'm a bit behind schedule with these and I'm so sorry. Hopefully this little kinda songfic makes up for it.

13th doctor x female reader

Warnings: swearing as usual, fluffy, sad thoughts, twist the original songs meaning, long as fuck.

Probably terrible as its my first songfic

I don't know much Spanish so some of the examples later on are Google translated and I know it can be wrong so I do apologise for any mistranslations

This is based off Rhiannas song Te Amo but I'm switching it up a little. I dont why 13th doctor came into my head when I was listening to it but it gave me this lil oneshot idea so enjoy! The picture is not mine but the rainbow effect added is done by me! Same for the picture later on.

I've been travelling with this amazing alien for a whole year now. The adventures are always amazing if she's there! The others sometimes complain and say its boring, especially on a junk planet but to see her face light up with excitement makes my day and it well worth the dirt we cover ourselves on by the time we are done. And when she finds something that she thought was useful and it turns out, it's not her scrunch is amazing.

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm in love with this alien. I know, weird, a human and an alien together? But I can't help it! I'm completely besotted with her. If she even looks in my direction, my legs go to jelly and I get butterflies. I know, cheesy. But thats exactly how I feel around her. I barely want to touch her because I nearly fainted the last few times. And I fear she may pick up on how I'm distancing myself from her. I don't want to break her heart and leave, the thought of her look kills me as is so I'm trying to get her to kick me off.

It doesn't seem to be working though. I've been distancing myself since I found out about how I feel, which is now 6 months ago and she's trying to get me to be as close as I was with her.

I'll tell her. On one of our amazing adventures but I can't do it straight forward, it's making me sick with anxiety just thinking about it. I'll fancy it up, make her work it out. Whenever we are next to each other and the moment is right, I'll tell her in another language!

I finally get out of bed after I finished writing in my diary. I slip some comfy clothes on and head out to the TARDIS library and hope no one is there, especially her. I'll be distracted and right now, I need to concentrate. I wonder the warm halls, grateful that the TARDIS had considered my preferences. I think the TARDIS likes me more than the others because I talk to her and show her gratefulness for taking us somewhere amazing and I chat to her regularly and I try to involve her in my conversations. The others find it weird, except for the Doctor, she just smiles and joins in with me. Im still learning how to translate her but I think I've sort of got it.

I reach my hand forward and grab the aged bronze doorknob and open to the giant room. There were so many floors that an elevator had to be used to access some of them as the Doctor said "walking would literally take weeks to reach some floors". Thankfully the TARDIS organises them to make them easier to find. I looked forward and saw an interactive map in front of me. My hands touched the screen and many subjects and categories came up. Anything ranging from kiddie tales to straight up smut, I have a feeling either River or Missy are to blame for that addition.

I've never met them but the TARDIS showed me videos from her database and brought books to my attention about them. They both seem very dirty minded people so I'm not surprised those are there. I wonder if the Doctor has ever stumbled upon this section or is it for none Doctor eyes only? If she does know about them, has she ever read one? No, don't go there you stupid brain! She probably doesn't know!

I quickly stop that train of thought and catch my breath. I've never thought about those kinds of things about anyone before. Stupid Timelord, making me go all weird and think dirty things. Now my face is all red, I really hope I'm alone in here. I quickly focus back to the task at hand, finding a new language to learn. The TARDIS seemed to know where to go and blue arrows appeared, guiding me to the right section in what could be a maze.

As I walking, I felt excitement rise within me. What if she felt the same way? What if she was impressed by how far I wanted to go just to say those 3 words? Would her hazel honey eyes sparkle with delight? Would she scronch her nose in amazement?

Before I knew it, I'd arrived at the language learning section and there were many alien languages but the TARDIS seemed to have a better idea of what would be perfect for me as a white hardback book fell off the 4th shelf onto the wooden floor. I picked it up and noticed how smooth the cover was and how old yet unused it looked. The white was a little off, almost a dull cream from ageing which made the gold writing harder to read. The title was simple:

Spanish basics and need to knows.

I did always find Spanish in school fun to learn, more than French or German anyway and I don't wanna stereotype this into a typical French is the language of romance. I never really found it romantic sounding compared to Spanish.

I picked up the book and quickly flicked through to the right page and took a note on my phone as to what the translation was and put the worn book away. I quietly thanked the TARDIS and rushed out of the library and back into my room where I could practice without getting caught.

A few weeks have passed since I picked up the new words and practiced them until I was confident and had the TARDIS' approval that I was saying it right. Today the Doctor wanted to take us to this party in the 18th century and we all decided to dress for the part once we landed.

Yaz was wearing a beautiful black and red ballroom gown, accented with little bows around the bottom and lace cuffs. She had her black hair curled into a ponytail. It was simple and cute, much like her style normally. Graham and Ryan wore similar suits but Graham wore green accents and Ryan wore yellow accents.

I let the TARDIS pick my dress. She picked a black and dark blue ballroom gown with blue roses on the bottom. It had black lace underneath and blue lace as the cuffs. The gown also seemed to glitter slightly in the light making me sparkle very subtly. I put my comfy boots on as you couldn't see my shoes as I walked anyway so why did it matter? With all the running we do, I'm not risking my ankles with heels, thank you very much. I had my (h/c) hair in (fave style). It suited my dress perfectly.

I nearly choked on oxygen when I saw how hot the Doctor looked in her suit. It took me a few moments to realise we match. We both blushed at the realisation. Of course the TARDIS makes us match! No wonder why she was more than eager to help me pick an outfit! Stupid sentient ship, shipping us already!

I quickly cleared my throat and complimented everyone on how amazing they looked but I just couldn't take my eyes off the Doctor for long. She was like a magnet for my eyes. Someone help before she realises!

"Don't we all look brilliant? Perfect for the party! 18th century Yorkshire to be exact! What a great century for you guys. Now then, this party is for Nobles and higher, as per usual in these times. Ryan, I suggest you keep in mind about any racist comments that may come out. But as long as you say your Graham's personal butler, you should be welcomed with little resistance. And Yaz, I want you to be (y/n)'s personal maid. That does mean you'll have to follow your so called "masters" around and do anything they ask unfortunately and Graham, (y/n), please act like the others around you and use them. Unfortunately this is the only way all 5 of us can join the party. You'll be fine as long as you bite your tongues. Now the Noble Edward Collins is the host so be sure to thank him for inviting you, even though you technically weren't. And try not to get too drunk, I know what you humans are like! Now follow me." The Doctor explained. I was going to tell the Doctor today, but I guess, I'll have to wait.

The Doctor opened the doors and we were in a cupboard under some gorgeous marble stairs. As we walked towards the party I noticed some family portraits along the walls. They were a very beautiful looking family. The mother had long blonde hair and pale blue eyes. The father was buff, long brown hair and daring brown eyes. There were two children, a girl and a boy. The girl had long brown hair and sparkling blue eyes, whilst the son had blonde hair and brown eyes. They also had a brown greyhound dog laying by the sons feet. The son must be the host, Edward. He looked not much older than 10 in the last painting but the daughter was no where to be found in the portrait and theu all looked mournful. Is she dead and is that the picture capturing the moment of grief? Why would anyone want that? It's so strange, even for this time period.

The Doctor held me and Yaz close, stopping us in our tracks. My heart was racing at the simple touch. But as soon as the touch was there, it was gone. "I hope its okay with you (y/n) but you're going to have to be married to someone."

My heart stopped for a moment and I nearly choked on air. "What? Why?"

"Because women like yourself would have been married as young as 13 or 14. Now your only choices are me and Graham. You can't choose Ryan as he's supposed to be a butler and you can't choose Yaz as she's your maid. The choice is yours, I just need to know wether or not I should refer to you as my darling wife or not?"

What. The. Fuck.

Why did her even calling me that l, turn me on? Obviously, I'm going to choose her but I'm going to have to perfect my reasoning here.

"As much as I love Graham, it's going to be awkward if I have to kiss him or anything because he's like my grandad! I guess you'll do Timelord. Come on then husband, we don't want to be late to the dancefloor!" I spoke clearly hoping she didn't notice how excited I actually was to have even a hint of a relationship with her. It may be fake but ill take anything when it comes to her.

We arrived at the welcome committee and handed our cards over, aka the psychic paper. We were going as Mr and Mrs (last name). The Doctor was holding my hand this entire time and it's driving me insane. I don't know if she can feel my racing pulse under her fingers but if she can I hope she puts it down to excitement! We walked down the most grandest staircase you would ever lay your eyes on.

First we walked around, greeting everyone as they came up to us or if she dragged me to someone she knew, but not personally. She was cute when she was fangirling over these people. Yaz found it annoying as she just wanted to party but I couldn't help it. The way her eyes shimmer with recognition was more beautiful than any galaxy she could ever take us. Sometimes her eyes flickered with admiration and it did make me have jealousy for just a moment before I remembered, I'm staying with her and they aren't .

As the party moved on we met the host Edward. He looked a lot different than in his paintings. He was around 20 years old now and his blonde hair was below his shoulders. He looked a lot like his father with his muscley build. And he was very charismatic which I did not like as he poured all his charm into the Doctor. Does everyone here know that he's gay or does he see through the Doctors disguise? Either way, it was rubbing me the wrong way. I quickly excused myself with Yaz and walked into the bathroom.

"I did not like him. I do not like this Edward guy. Something about him rubs me completely wrong. He's handsome but something is telling me he knows the Doctor isn't a man."

"I felt the same way. He knows something we don't. Before we go out there again, do you mind if I ask you a question?" Yaz asked. My mind was racing a hundred miles an hour. She knows. The jig is up with Yaz. "How do you feel about her, honestly? One minute you 2 are inseparable, then you distance yourself and now you are a nervous wreck around her! I won't judge but I just want to make sure my theory is correct."

Shit. I guess I really was obvious. Does she know?

"If your theory is about me falling hopelessly in love with the Doctor then you'd be correct. I can't help it. I'm going to tell her how I feel without being completely stupid. I just need a right moment to say it." I spoke with a heavy sigh. Hopefully, Yaz can help create that moment thay I need. She nods her head and opens the door. We walk back to the Doctor and notice Edward has gone to other guests and she was talking to Graham. I looked around and saw Ryan flirting with a pretty lady near the food table. Why am I not surprised?

A few hours had passed and the Doctor seemed bored with standing and talking so I made a plan in my head. I grabbed her hand and pulled her to the dancefloor as the next song came on. I didn't quite know how to dance properly but I knew the basics if it. She has to lead and I simply follow suit. It took a few moments but I got the hang of it with the Doctors help. Soon we were dancing so gracefully underneath the most beautiful candelabra that lit up her face perfectly.

Her hair swayed to our perfect dance ever so gently. Her eyes sparkled with amusement and her lips were in a permanent smile. She even laughed a couple of times. Then as the music slowed down to a pace that was perfect, I grabbed her waist and looked her. My heart was going crazy and my legs were about to buckle but I had rehearsed my lines. I can do this.

"Hey Doc. Its been an amazing time with you but I can't continue this without being honest with you. But everytime I get close, I back down in fear. So I'm going to let you figure it out. Doctora te amo. Entiendo que si no sientes lo mismo y me iré si quieres. (Doctor i love you. i understand if you don't feel the same way and i'll leave if you want.)" I spoke with as much passion and intention as I could. I looked into her eyes and saw her confused and trying to work out what I said. I would find it cute if my heart was beating right out of my chest. "Well, I've had a great time but I'm fucking knackered. I'm calling it night. I'll be heading to the TARDIS if you need me."

"I'll come with ya. I'm knackered as well and we both need each other to undo the corsets and mine is starting to hurt a little bit. How we used to do this for a full day, everyday, is beyond my understanding. As beautiful as we look, I don't think its worth the pain this will bring in the morning." Yaz spoke with a slight mumble as proof of her mental state and finishing with a yawn. I chuckled at her state and walked back to the TARDIS with a small amount of chat along the way.

She is right though. These corsets really do hurt you after a while, I'm glad I chose not to wear heels or else I'll be fucked for in the morning. I would literally scream. I think the Doctor had the right idea in wearing a suit, no pain. I do feel bad for leaving her but I just need some space after basically admitting everything that's been built up within me for too damn long. Maybe I should tell Yaz how it went and maybe she can help determine if the Doctor is happy or not.

We walked back into the wardrobe room and I helped Yaz out of her corset. She immediately sighed in relief. She finished getting herself into comfy clothes and started to untie my ribbon.

"So did you tell her?"

"Sort of. I basically told her everything but in Spanish. I just hope it doesn't change anything, except in a positive way, of course! If she wants me gone, I've told her that it's fine and I understand. She's very socially awkward and as cute as I find it, it may not help me in this situation. Do you have any clues on how she may react once she figures it out?"

Yaz stopped untying my corset for a moment and placed 1 finger upon her chin in thought. Her eyes were almost shut and seemed almost completely black in the light. After what seemed like forever, she took her finger off her chin and beamed a toothy smile. Her eyes sparkled as she remembered something and seemed to gleam slightly menacingly. A smirk replaced her smile soon after.

"There's a few times she's shown affection towards you. And I mean romantic affection. She always chooses to hold your hand over anyone else's if given the choice. She always steps I'm front of you when an enemy threatens to kill us all or hurt us in anyway. When you go wandering around on your own, she's terrified thats she's lost you forever to an enemy we don't even know of!" Yaz starts explaining carefully as if she's worried on how to word it.

"Those are just friendly affec-"

"I wasn't done. I was warming up." Yaz interrupts me as I was about to go into a self deprecating speech on how I'm just a friend to everyone and never a lover. "She always looks to see your face on adventures because she secretly loves your reactions, bad or good. When the Master revealed himself, she looked straight at you for support on how she should react. When she came back from the Kasavin, she ran straight to you and made sure you were ok first before any of us. When we were in the Tsungra medical ship, the first person she asked for was you! Whilst she was unconscious on board the ship, she kept mumbling your name, over and over again. When she saw how gorgeous you looked today, I thought she'd take you right there on the spot! She fucking loves you (y/n)! You're just so unbelievably blind to it all!"

Yaz was almost red with rage. Did she really do all that, for me? The TARDIS mustve read my mind and seemed to hum positively in reply. If everything Yaz said is true then she'll be so happy about it and maybe we can be a thing! But then again, maybe losing so many in a similar position as me will turn her away. Maybe her soul is awry and she's asking why right now.

Once I had gotten changed I went to sleep almost straight away, I suppose all that dancing and social ques having tired me out more than I thought.

I woke up to a soft knock on my door. I rubbed my (e/c) eyes and told them I'd be a few minutes as I've only just woken up. It wasn't until I finished brushing my (h/c) hair that I remembered what happened yesterday. All the panic rushed within me at once and I nearly threw up. I took several deep breaths and opened the door.

"GRAHAM THANK FUCK ITS YOU!" I almost shouted at him. He looked a little bewildered for a moment before he seemed to remember what brought him here in the first place.

"Hello Love, I'm here because Doc wanted to speak with you privately in the library. She says that the TARDIS will guide you to her location. She seemed a little off after you and Yaz left. Did something happen? Is everything ok?" Graham asked cautiously. He must be so confused.

"Sort of. I'll explain more when I get back but what do you mean by "a little off"?"

"Well she seemed lost in all sense of the word. She kept muttering "Te Amo" all the time. She was all over the place aswell. She got me and Ryan back here not long after you guys. Something about not trusting Ryan to not get alcohol poisoning without her around. She hasn't really left the library since if I'm honest. She's been in there for 12 hours. I only know she wants you because she whattsapped me on my phone. Whatever is going on, please sort it out, she's starting to really worry me. She hasn't been the same since that Master guy came around." Graham spoke clearly, albeit confused. I nodded my head and walked in the opposite direction to him and hoped the TARDIS would take me there quicker than normal. I want to treat this like a plaster, rip it off in one go.

Sooner than I realised, I grabbed the all too familiar door knob of the library. I took a deep breath and walked in. A blue line appeared towards the interactive map. I awakened the console and I saw a black screen with a few words on it. It looked like a message with how it was presented.

Hello (y/n)! Don't walk until you calm. Breath deeply and try not to panic. I promise you, all will work out in the end. I see more than you realise and I know my thief better than anyone whoever stepped foot into my being. I know of her main problem about the situation. If she loves you, drink this. It won't hurt, she'll know what it is.

The TARDIS

I should have been surprised by this new knowledge that she could speak to me, in a way, but I've seen so much and I am so tender hooks so I didn't take much notice of it. I quickly sat down and tried to control my breathing. After about 5 or so minutes, I felt calm enough to finally meet up with her and hear what she has to say.

I followed the blue line carefully until I spotted her in a comfy room. She mustve gotten changed at some point as she was wearing her usual rainbow outfit, minus the jacket. She was sat on a deep purple sofa, legs curled into her body. Her shoes were on the carpeted floor underneath her, seemingly forgotten for the moment. There were many books surrounding us from many cultures and spieces. One wall had a cozy wood burning fireplace crackling within the silence that surrounded us.

Her face was scrunched within deep thought. Her eyes sparkling with an emotion that I couldn't quite put my finger on; hope, sorrow or excitement? Her lips had a small smirk gracing them and her teeth had bitten a small part of it. Her hands were holding a book in a way where I couldn't quite see what it was.

I didn't want to disturb her as she looked so ethereal with the warm glow of the fire highlighting her in the perfect way. Unfortunately, it's plaster time and I wanted this sorted sooner rather than later. I took a deep breath took in the picture for memory.

"Hey, Graham said you wanted to talk to me? Is everything ok?" I asked gently and as softly as I could so she was carefully brought out of her little world. I didn't want to scare her. She raised her eyes from her book for a moment and bookmarked the page she was at with a little TARDIS paperclip. She placed the book on the table at the side of her and patted the seat next to her.

As I sat down my nerves were through the roof. She gave nothing away as she stared at me for a minute, as if assessing something about me.

"Why are you so nervous? Calm down. You are right, It is to do with last night. You left pretty abruptly after basically confessing your feelings to me. I was so confused, not just about what you said but about myself and what I wanted to do about you." The Doctor spoke monotonously. Did she mean get rid of me? "I had to first of all, find out what you said, well done on learning a new language by the way, one even I'm not fluent at. I'm guessing the old girl had something to do with that idea. Not that, you aren't smart enough but you don't know what languages I do or don't know."

The Tardis seemed to chuckled at the accusation and I simply nodded my head. "I wanted to buy myself time and to impress you."

"You impressed me a long time ago Miss (l/n). That is just a cherry on top. After I figured out what you said, no thanks to my old friend here, I went through a lot of thinking. I've not been in many relationships and you know my history regarding the ones I have been in. You know, River and Missy? And I have such a bad past with it ending in nothing but tears for me. I always lose those I care for deeply." She spoke with tears spilling from her gorgeous eyes. I grabbed her face gently and wiped away the stray tears that managed to escape their home.

"That was when you were a man. You're a woman now, everything is so different. Relationships can be heartbreaking. I know what you're main problem is and the TARDIS has a solution to that. I just need you to tell me the truth. How do you feel about me? Do you want me to stay or not?" I stated holding the small shot glassed amount of liquid in my hand. The liquid was golden and sparkled slightly in the light. There were specks of orange and silver within it and it was as hot as a nice cup of (hot drink). Her eyes sparkled with hope and shock. Her lips were smiling wide. And she seemed to giggle at the sight of it. She held it for a moment as if examining it like a rare artefact, maybe it was. Either way, I trust her judgement and if she's happy about it, then so am I. Once she had analysed the drink, she practically leapt into my arms and pushed me down on my back. She smelled of custard creams and the TARDIS which was odd but completely her and I couldn't imagine her smelling any other way.

"That does solve our problem! What she has just given you is the rarest liquid in the universe seeing as only one thing in the entirety of space can produce it. That drink is known as the nectar of the chosen ones. It's rare as the race that used to make them has practically gone extinct. There's only 3 left in the known universe and you're living in one. That drink is the blood of the TARDIS. It grants you immortality if you drink it. It is said to resemble your favourite beverage no matter who you are. However, it only lasts 100 years and you must drink it every century or else your body clock will kick in and you will age and be as mortal as you are now." She speaks with a warning as we sit up holding holds.

"I have no problem with that. I would sacrifice everything if it meant I got to call you mine. Just please tell me and I'll drink it." I told her with adoration in my eyes.

She held me close and planted a soft and gentle kiss to my lips. It was short but it sent more fireworks than you can imagine through my body. I knew I had found her. She grabbed my waist and whispered next to my ear:

"Te Amo"

#13th doctor #thirteenth doctor x reader #13th doctor x reader #female reader

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honey-dewey · 3 years

Text

The Rainbow Connection

Pairing: Ezra/Male! Reader

Word Count: 2,123

Warnings: canon-typical violence and language.

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

It is week two of pride month! As I have said, I am participating in @flightlessangelwings and @autumnleaves1991-blog Pride writing prompts! This one was super fun for me, and I hope you enjoy.

Prompts: Rainbow and/or “Hold my hand tight. I’ll protect you.”

“Babe?”

You rolled over, groaning and putting your arm over your eyes. You and Ezra had been prospecting on a truly hellish desert planet for nearly a week now, and the three suns made the sky as bright and as hot as it could possibly be. It filtered through the pod’s tiny window, lighting the entire room. “Yes Ez?”

Ezra smiled down at you, putting his hand on the bed and leaning in to kiss you. “Good morning dove.”

“Did you wake me up just to say good morning?” You asked, rolling out of bed and fumbling for a pair of pants. You ended up grabbing Ezra’s from the night before off the floor, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he stared rather obviously at where the elastic met your bare waist, the skin marred by scars you’d gotten while working.

“Hey, Casanova,” you said, turning and catching Ezra staring. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

Ezra smiled, leaning against the bed. “They just found a new deposit of zipreye out a few miles north. It’ll be a hell of a trek, especially in this weather. Hot as the devil out there.”

You sighed, grabbing a tank top out of your travel bag. “Think I should just go topless?”

“Might feel better,” Ezra decided. “But you might burn, so grab the sunscreen. And don’t forget your boot covers this time.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, tugging on thin socks and your heavy hiking boots. “And you better not forget your glove again.”

After a long and lazy breakfast, you and Ezra left the pod you were temporarily calling home and started traveling north, both carrying your prospecting equipment. The heavy bags combined with the suns and the physical labor of walking made you groan more than once. The air was barely breathable, and it felt like thick soup going to your lungs. Multiple times you had to stop for water, leaning against Ezra, who was just as tired as you were.

By the time you arrived at the dig site, you were both sweating and exhausted, but the scenery made up for it. The site was settled on the very edge of a giant canyon, at least a hundred feet deep and streaked with color as far as the eye could see. The sky was growing grey and cloudy, the sunlight filtering through creating pockets of sunshine shining on the rocks. The air was cooler out here as it swelled up from the depth of the canyon, and you took a deep breath of the sandy air, eyeing the rapidly growing clouds.

“Think it’ll rain?” You asked, turning to the dig site and kneeling down so you could unpack your stuff.

Ezra shrugged, sitting cross legged on the dirt so he could unload his own bag. “Dunno. I like that shirt on you, by the way.”

You smiled, looking down. In an effort not to get horrifically sunburnt, you’d put on a thin white shirt with short sleeves and a hood. “Thanks. I think it’s yours.”

“Ah, well, that would explain it.” Ezra smiled as he squinted at the sky. “It does look like rain, but it’s far off. We have an hour. Maybe two, at a push.”

You nodded, bending down. Zipreye was one of the easier minerals to prospect, with no need for acids or dangerous conditions to battle against. All you had to do was find a deposit and chip it out, piece by piece. It was harder for Ezra, with only one hand, but he made it work. The reward was enough for you two to finally take a vacation after this trip. You two were planning on visiting Cee, who had joined a few distant family members on a perfectly habitable and safe planet. It would be a nice break from the chaos of planet hopping and hoping to find a job.

You and Ezra had been prospecting for nearly an hour and a half before you felt the air shift for real. It had been stirring the sand for a while, but now it started to truly whip your lighter equipment around, making you look up and see the suddenly very dark clouds completely blocking the sun. The temperature began to drop noticeably, and you carefully lifted the chunk of zipreye you’d been harvesting out of the ground before beginning to pack up.

“Dove?” Ezra looked up at you, confused. “What’s wrong?”

“The rain,” you said. “Can’t you feel it?”

Ezra sat back on his heels and took a deep breath. “I can,” he murmured. “Let’s go, before it hits us.”

You weren’t very lucky, and the rain began to pour a mile or two away from the pod. It stung your skin and soaked your bodies, making your clothes stick to you and forcing Ezra to push his hair out of his eyes every few seconds. It took everything you had to keep your equipment as dry as possible, the bag at your side shielded by your body and the waterproof backpack getting absolutely drenched.

“Pod’s just up there!” Ezra yelled above the downpour, pointing to a familiar looking ridge. “C’mon!”

You grabbed his hand, continuing to trudge through the rain. It was seriously coming down, and it burned badly enough that you had to wonder if it was acidic.

“Ez!” You shouted, tugging on Ezra’s shirt to get his attention. “This planet doesn’t have acidic rain, does it?”

Ezra shrugged, looking at his bare skin. It was starting to get red, and so was yours.

“We have that soap with the burn relief shit in it,” Ezra said, pulling you closer. “And a thing in the first aid kit. It’ll be fine, even if the rain is acidic. We would’ve been issued a warning and suits if it was dangerous.”

You nodded, looking out over the blank horizon, hoping you’d be able to see your temporary home soon. The landscape did look familiar, and you sighed deeply. Taking another soggy step, you decided today could not get much worse.

Of course, it somehow could, because the pod was just barely in sight when Ezra was attacked.

Something large and soaking wet came running up out of nowhere and swung a large weapon at Ezra, catching his indefendible right side. Ezra yelled loudly, flinching away as the attacker got a lucky strike in.

You screamed as Ezra bumped into you, grabbing your dagger off your belt and immediately pulling Ezra back behind you, away from the attacker. The man, at least you thought it was a man, made a blind swing in your direction, but you were quicker. You whirled around him, grabbing his throat and shoving him down. Two quick moves with your knife later, and you were standing, wiping blood off your knife and letting the rain clean up the rest. Ezra, who had been knocked to the ground, winced when you pulled him to his feet, blood washing away as it hit the sand, but he was definitely bleeding.

“Did he get you?” You asked, checking Ezra over as best you could.

Ezra nodded, moving his hand off his right stump. “My shoulder.”

You hissed, seeing the tattered wound. “Disinfectant,” you said. “A bandage. But no stitches. You’ll be a-okay.”

Ezra shrugged, still shaking as you reached into your bag for a temporary bandage. You tore the bottom off your shirt and used it to tie the gauze pad in place, effectively giving yourself a crop top.

“Hey,” you said softly, reaching out and taking Ezra’s hand when you were done. “Hold my hand tight. I’ll protect you.”

The walk to the pod was quiet. The rain was starting to let up, finally, and after drying off somewhat, you herded Ezra into the kitchen so you could examine his arm. Both of you were covered in mild burns from the rain, but after careful consideration, you decided that cleaning Ezra’s wound and taking a nap would be best. You two could bathe and treat your burns later, but for now, you removed the current bandage and discarded it in the sink, taking another look at the sluggishly bleeding injury.

“Looks worse than it is!” You announced, putting on a pair of sterile gloves and opening your first aid kit. “I promise. It just needs disinfecting, like I said.”

Ezra fidgeted from his spot at the tiny kitchen table as you grabbed a towel and used warm water to wipe away the worst of the mess. “Sure?”

“I’m sure,” you said, opening a can of spray-on disinfectant. “This’ll sting.” You braced Ezra’s shoulder with your non-dominant hand and sprayed the wound with the other. His face twisted with barely concealed pain, and you took a breath. “Ez?”

“I’m fine, dove,” Ezra said, although it sounded strained. “Fine. Keep going.”

You nodded, continuing through the motions of cleaning and bandaging Ezra’s wound. Somewhere in the middle of the process, you started to sing. It was a mindless lullaby, but Ezra seemed to enjoy it.

“Why are there so many songs about rainbows, and what's on the other side? Rainbows are visions, but only illusions. And rainbows have nothing to hide.” You pressed the last piece of tape to Ezra’s arm, gently kissing the patch of gauze. “So we've been told and some choose to believe it, I know they're wrong, wait and see. Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection. The lovers, the dreamers and me.” You pulled your gloves off and threw them out, coming back to stand in front of Ezra. “How’s that feel?”

Ezra smiled, resting his head on your shoulder. “It feels fine,” he decided softly. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you said, putting your arms around Ezra and holding him close. “Do you want me to put something on those burns or would you rather just go straight to bed?”

Ezra shrugged. “Do we have any quick burn stuff? I don’t want a shower right now.”

You chuckled slightly, digging through the first aid kit and finding a bottle of burn lotion. “You said you need to use mycotex, right?”

“Yeah,” Ezra said, not removing his head from your shoulder. “I’m allergic to the other stuff. What is it?”

“Acitretiza,” you said. “My mom used it all the time.” As you spoke, you gently rubbed Ezra’s tender shoulders with the lotion, hearing him sigh with relief as the lotion began to cool and heal his burns. “Works better to help scars, but I think mycotex feels nicer.”

“Amen to that,” Ezra mumbled into your skin. “You ruined your shirt, by the way.”

You looked down at the ripped edge of your shirt. It was bloody and unrepairable, and you were a tiny bit disappointed. “I can always find a new one,” you said, continuing down Ezra’s back and digging your thumbs into the knots under his skin. “Maybe I’ll get you one this time.”

Ezra chuckled, taking the bottle of lotion from you and motioning for you to turn around. “Cee would have a field day if she saw us in matching shirts, and you know it.”

After you and him had both rubbed the lotion into each other’s skin, accompanied by no less than six thinly veiled sexual comments, you decided it was time for a nap. Ezra’s eyes were dropping and he was clearly exhausted from the job and from the trip home.

It was no struggle getting Ezra into bed. Neither of you bothered with your barely damp clothes, so you left a trail of discarded clothes to the bedroom, leading up to the bed. Pyjamas were a fruitless endeavor, so you just grabbed a second blanket so neither of you would be cold. Ezra fell asleep first, snoring slightly as you sat beside him, working on your laptop. At some point, you got up to put on pants and an old shirt of Ezra’s. As you worked on mind-numbing files, you hummed, unable to get the song you’d been singing earlier out of your head. Turning to look at Ezra, you smiled, watching his side rise and fall gently as he slept, completely oblivious to your actions as you bent down and kissed his temple.

Sitting back up, you looked out the window, seeing a beautiful and vibrant rainbow illuminating the canyon you’d just been prospecting near. The rain had left the earth wet, and it glimmered like a thousand diamonds under the afternoon sun. The scenery made you grin, nodding your head slightly as you went back to work, your humming turning to soft singing.

“What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing, and what do we think we might see? Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection. The lovers, the dreamers and me.”

#prospect (film)#ezra (prospect)#ezra x reader #ezra x you #Pedro Pascal #My writing #writer wednesday #jey's pride celebration 2k21

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xwing-baby · 3 years

Text

Chance (Din Djarin x Reader)

Characters: Din Djarin x Reader

Warnings: lots of blood, injury (not graphic), thinking about death, show level violence, angst!

Word Count: 4k

Summary: Din stopped for a rest on this tiny moon after another successful hunt, but it turns out to be a lot less peaceful than he had hoped for when a body turns up on his doorstep...

Din had just finished a hunt, passed the bounty off to the person who paid for it and was back in his ship, ready to sleep before heading to Navarro the next morning. It had been an easy job, didn’t pay well but that wasn’t new. The Razor Crest stood in a large landing bay, surrounded by many other ships of varying size. It wasn’t the most ideal spot, he usually preferred to be more discreet, but there wasn’t much space anywhere on this tiny moon. He took what he was given. So, he sat up in the cockpit and settled back into his chair to sleep when a massive thud echoed through the ship jolting him awake.

Annoyed that he had been disturbed, Din sat up and looked over the dash to see what was going on. Outside the landing bay was lit by golden lamps. There was no visible movement from the front, but Din got up to investigate. A noise like that warranted a check at least.

He slipped down into the hull and opened the back ramp. Still nothing. Din waited for a moment, but decided to turn around when he couldn’t hear anything. Until he heard a growl. It was close too. The bounty hunter stood still and continued to listen. Another growl and a huff, then the sound of something heavy being dragged across the ground. Din stepped off the ramp and turned the corner, his hand waiting by his blaster. There he found a hound standing over a body. The hound spooked when it noticed Din and quickly ran away leaving behind the cloak covered body.

In the golden light, the cloak glimmered slightly, soaked with blood. Din approached slowly, still cautious and careful that whatever it was under the cloak could jump up at any moment. The cloak shifted slightly and a small barefoot popped out into the light. The foot was covered in dirt, cut and bleeding slightly.

Din didn’t know whether he should bring the body inside or to leave it. This planet wasn’t necessarily known for it’s violence, a quiet little moon where nobody usually stopped for more than a day. You wouldn’t expect bleeding bodies to be just left around. Boot prints showed a clear track of three people walking from behind another parked ship to the Crest then away again, there was no scuffing in the print telling Din that they had planned this drop, they weren’t in a rush. Whoever had left it here, wanted him to see it. Why else knock on the side of the ship?

Din’s helmet display showed a weak heat signature under the cloak, they were just about alive. If they did wake up and try to fight him they would not be in any way a threat to him in the state they were in. So, Din bent down to get a better look.

The robe placed over the body had once been white, but deep red now stained it almost entirely. Apart from the foot poking out there were no other signs a human, or human-like being lay underneath. Slowly, Din lifted up the material to get a look at what was underneath when a hand popped out and tugged it back down. Din quickly let go and put his weight back on his back foot to move away.

“Do you need help?” Din asked quietly.

“You can’t look at me,” A quiet and slurred reply came after a few seconds of silence, it was a girl’s voice. Whoever they were they were severely injured, but if he couldn’t look at them how was he meant to help them. Din frowned.

“Can you stand?” He asked. There was no response. He moved closer again, taking note of the slow movement of the cloak up and down indicating the person underneath was breathing, if only just. He would have to move them inside.

Din looked around, there was no one around. All the parked ships surrounding them were dark. This wasn’t some kind of trap, at least not yet. Carefully Din put his arms under the cloak, maneuvering under the legs he found and the shoulders, they were completely bare and soaked in blood. The girl made no protest, didn’t make a sound at all. Din lifted the body with ease, it was nothing he wasn’t used to, and went back inside the Crest up the rear ramp.

Once inside he placed the body down, again respecting their wish not to be seen by keeping the cover over them. He then closed the ramp.

Din wasn’t really sure what to do now. Usually when he brought a body into the Crest they went straight into the carbonite to be transported to the person who had ordered the bounty. He couldn’t do that with this one. He noticed the track of blood now making its way through the groves of the hull floor and went to find the medical box.

“Hey,” He nudged the top of the cloak, “You need to stop bleeding on my floor,”

“You can’t see me,” The body under the material said again. Din sighed, this was going to be difficult.

“If I leave stuff here, can you do it yourself? I will turn away,”

“Yes,” Came the reply. Din didn’t entirely believe them, as they no doubt been slipping in and out of consciousness since they turned up on the floor next to the Crest, but he did as they requested. He left a bacta spray, bandages, tape and a blade to cut it, right next to the cloak, a small hand popped out to grab it just before Din turned and walked away to the other side of the hull.

Din wondered who this person could be. As far as he was aware he didn’t know anyone on this moon, and more importantly he hadn’t made an enemy of anyone on this moon. He had only stopped by chance on his way to Navarro. There was no reason why someone would send him this person on purpose. Maybe he had just been lucky. He always did have a habit of getting into situations like this by chance alone.

He busied himself with cleaning up some kit, having left it in a bit of a mess since the last hunt, all the while keeping an ear out for any trouble from the body. He only heard a whimper as the bacta spray canister sounded. That shit stung like hell but it was the best he had come across at healing nasty wounds fast. The amount of blood the stranger had lost, they would no doubt need it. When Din was finished and there was silence again, Din went back to the stranger under the cloak.

He found them sitting up against the wall now, the empty bacta canister was tossed on the ground a little way in front of them along with the blade and what was left of the roll of tape. All the bandage was gone. They still had the cloak covering them completely, wrapped tight over their head and under their seat. There was just a tiny crack in the fabric letting the person inside see out.

Din thought it strange but wondered if they were under some kind of creed similar to his. He would probably do the same if anyone took his armour and left him so vulnerable.

“Thank you,” The person under the cloak said. Din nodded and took the trash from them, putting it back in the medical kit. Din could feel them watch his every move, which made him a little uncomfortable. He figured this was how most people felt when he watched them. “You’re a Mandalorian?”

“Yes,” Din answered, “Are you?”

“I follow your creed but my family left a long time ago. I am not a Mandalorian,”

“What’s your name?”

“People call me Gold,” She replied cautiously. It was obviously not her real name but Din understood. ”What’s yours,”

“People call me Mando,” Din replied on a similar line. Very few people knew Din’s name.

“Not very creative,” Gold commented, Din shrugged. He didn’t mind, it allowed him to keep separate from people he met, kept him more anonymous even with the armour. Suddenly she hissed and groaned, her cloaked figure doubling over.

“Are you alright?” The figure slumped over to the side, suddenly going quiet and completely still. “Dank Ferrik,” He cursed. He immediately went to the girl and tried to work out what to do.

He needed to see her face, needed to see something to work out what was wrong. His hand hovered over the cloak, unsure if he should pull it back. She said she followed his creed, he would never want someone to do this, but she would die if he couldn’t help her. It was agonising, trying to decide. He wanted to help, if she was Mandalorian wasn’t it kind of duty to look out for his own? But she followed his creed, there was no way he could look at her to help her. Maybe she didn’t follow it so strictly? He didn’t know the girl at all, barely spoken to her for five seconds, why should he even help her!

After a few more seconds of back and forth in his mind, he made his decision. Din peeled back the cloak from Gold’s face and was met immediately by a vulnerable stare, she was very much awake but couldn’t move.

Wide eyes, tears streaming down her face which turned red as they mixed with the blood on her cheeks. A track of blue ran up her neck, vein like structures ran along her jaw and around her mouth. He had seen something similar before, a reaction to a poison one of his bounties had injected into themselves before when they knew they had been captured. It was slow releasing, and would kill the victim slowly and painfully. It was not a good poison for Din’s bounty to use but if Gold had escaped somewhere they could have used it to kill her even if she got away. Lucky for the girl, Din had an antidote.

He got up quickly and grabbed the same Medic bag from earlier, rooting through it quickly to find the small vial of antidote. Eventually he found it, scrambled back over to Gold’s helpless body and inserted the needle into an available vein on her neck. Din settled back once he emptied the vile and waited.

The girl’s eyes blinked rapidly, then shut. The blue track rapidly decreased and Din sighed in relief. She opened her eyes and immediately startled, realising her head was no longer covered she scrambled to pull the fabric over her face again. He was overwhelmed with guilt almost immediately.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry I had to take it off,” Din apologized profusely, “You were poisoned,”

“You should have let me die,” The girl hissed, understandably very angry. “Get away from me,” She suddenly exclaimed. Din did as he was told and immediately stepped back to the opposite width of the ship. “Leave me alone!”

Din stayed silent. He knew nothing he could say could make it any better. He had done the unthinkable, forcing her to break her creed. But he had saved her! Now swimming in a bath of shame and conflict, Din retreated to the cockpit leaving Gold to cry alone.

Once in the cockpit he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was upset for her, shocked at her anger and angry at himself. If Din was in her position he would never want that! He just wanted to help her.

He sat in his pilot’s seat and dropped his helmet into his hands. He could hear the girl crying in the hull even through the door and the floor between them. What was he even thinking?

Din sighed. What could he do to apologise? Yes he had saved her life, but he had then forcibly broken her creed. If she was anything like him, that was one of the only things he kept dear. It was clear she had gone through something awful to end up so beaten and bloody like that, she had just got back her only protection from the world and he had taken from her again. He was an idiot!

Din wasn’t sure how much time had passed by the time the girl stopped crying. In that time Din had drowned himself in self-pity but eventually brought himself out in the realisation that he could make it up to her by helping her. She was Mandalorian, or very nearly at least. He had a duty to help his own people.

He remembered when he picked her up, she was completely bare bar the clock over her body. The least he could do was give her some clothes to wear. So, he went back into the hull and searched for his spare clothes. It was completely quiet in the hull, the only way he knew she was still there was the heat signature visible through the all of boxes separating them. Din found out an old tunic and some pants, they were a bit tattered but they were clean at least. He folded them up and slowly stepped around the boxes to see Gold again.

As he came into her view she instantly tensed up, moving as far back away from him as possible, she was still laid down where Din had left her, curled up in the smallest ball possible with one tiny crack in the fabric to see out of. Guilt panged in his chest once again, he really didn’t mean to upset her like that. Carefully he put the items of clothing on the floor.

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything more,” He said as he retreated once again giving her space.

The girl didn’t move, the shadow of her eye keeping straight ahead ignoring him entirely. Din didn’t mind, he deserved a whole lot more than silent treatment. And this was the least he could do, he could survive fine in the same gear he’d been wearing all week. He stepped back behind the separating boxes and sat down. He heard some movement behind the line of cargo, he sighed in relief.

Din kept quiet for a while, working on polishing his arm plates. He hadn’t noticed the blood on them until he sat down here. .

“Why are you helping me? You could have left me to die out there,” Gold spoke up. Din didn’t reply, he wasn’t really sure what to say, he didn’t know the answer himself. “I’ve heard about you,” She said after another beat, “You’re a guild bounty hunter,”

“I am,” Din replied.

“You hunted my brother I think,” She continued. Din stopped what he was doing and listened. She wasn’t angry or upset, just stating fact, “He deserved it though I imagine,”

Din laughed under his breath at her matter of fact nature. Usually people when people found out their family member had been hunted by him they were angry, upset or wanted revenge. Din could not recall ever picking up another Mandalorian, or similar, but he rarely remembered individuals anymore. He was glad she wasn’t angry at him about this too.

“Do you have a blade?” She asked.

“What do you want it for?” Din asked cautiously, he was not going to give her a weapon if he could help it.

“Just want to cut this open,” She said. Confused, Din stood up and walked around the barrier to see what exactly she was doing. Gold was now wearing his clothes, having had to roll up the sleeves and the leg of the pants a little to get it to the correct length. She then had a ripped piece of the old cloak over her head. “I can’t really see through this, and seeing as I probably won’t be getting my old stuff back I want to cut a hole in this,” She explained, “My eyes can be visible to others,” She added.

Din wasn’t sure he could trust her and hesitated. He knew what he would do with it, if he was in her position.

“Just something sharp, I will give it straight back. I won’t try and stab you, I promise,” Din passed her the small knife he kept on his belt, then turned his head down to look at the floor so not to see her face again.

“My family isn’t violent like the rest of the Mandalorian,” Gold explained as she ripped the fabric. “Not bounty hunters like you,” Din continued to stare at the floor but listened carefully. “My father fought in the war, then settled here with my mother and had me. My mother was the one who introduced our creed. Until a few weeks ago nobody had seen my face since I was four years old,” Din noted how her voice wobbled at the last sentence. He wanted to press her on it, find out what happened but decided against it. “Perfect, much better. You can turn back now,”

Din turned back and saw what she had done. A small window was now ripped in the cloth over her head. Only her eyes and the bridge of her nose were visible. She had wiped the blood off her face and the terror had gone from her eyes that he saw earlier.

“Not as good as the old one, but it will do for now,” She said, adjusting the position a little until it sat perfectly on her head. “I tried to mop up the blood on the floor but I don’t think all of it was mine,”

“Probably not,” Din said. He couldn’t remember the last time he had properly cleaned the hull floor out. The blood could be anybody’s, it didn’t bother him too much.

“I’ve got to say while I am not violent, I do wish I had one of those,” The girl pointed to Din’s helmet, “Could have saved me a whole ordeal with those bastard Dacrilites,”

“Dacrilites?”

“Crime syndicate from the main planet, moved out here and decided my family was a threat,” She settled back against the wall of the ship again and distracted herself with the scrap of fabric in her hand, “We didn’t have anything to stop them,” She hung her head and was quiet for a moment, “Maybe they wouldn’t all be dead now,”

“How come you survived?” Din asked, cringing at his wording. Not the most empathetic way to ask that.

“I can read, one of the few people in the sector who can really. Not a lot of schools around here,” She shrugged, “I tried to bargain my skills for my families lives but it didn’t work, they just killed them all and made me watch,” Her eyes glazed over, no doubt her mind filled with the images of the day. Din sighed, the galaxy was brutal. “I tried to escape after a few weeks, and I guess that’s how I ended up here,”

“You don’t remember any of it?”

“No,” She shrugged, “I mean I can work out what happened from this,” She gestured to the bandages padding out her middle, “But I don’t remember anything until you appeared,”

It had been an accident then. Pure luck that Din should meet this nearly Mandalorian girl. She had been dumped, in the hopes that anyone who found her dead body would assume it was one of the many ships that stopped there. It was a clever tactic, Din thought.

“What are you going to do now? I can take you to my next stop if you would like I-,”

“No, no I need to stay here,” She protested, “Might take a leaf out of my Mandalorian ancestry’s handbook and fight back, start a coup or something,” She laughed. “But, no, I need to stay. I have to bury my family, give them the send off they deserve,”

Din nodded solemnly. He was a little jealous she had the option to do that. He thought back to his parents, the day he was saved by the Mandalorian. His parents never got the burial they deserved, he would give anything to be able to do that.

“How about some food first, before you go,” Din proposed, Gold smiled, her eyes crinkling up, and nodded.

“What’ve you got?”

Din found out two tins of food. It wasn’t the best, and he wasn’t sure how long it had been the back of his stash for but it was all he had. The least he could give the girl was some food before she headed back home, after everything that had happened.

They ate together in comfortable silence, both more hungry than they had realised, wolfing down the food. It tasted of nothing at all, kind of dusty, but it was filling and that was all that mattered. When they had finished, Din took the trash and cleared it. By the time he came back Gold was standing up ready to leave.

“Thanks for the food,” She said, “And uh, you know saving my life. I owe you,”

Din shook his head, she didn’t owe him anything at all. Gold smiled and stepped off the ramp, waving goodbye. Din waved and shut the ramp behind her.

That was not much of a rest stop, Din thought to himself as he climbed back up into the cockpit. He had told Greef he would be back in Navarro by now, he needed to do something at the Covert and more importantly needed a new bounty. He was low on supplies and had just given his last clean clothes and food to Gold. He didn’t regret it, it had gone some way in repairing his own guilt on making her break her Creed when she’d only just got it back, but he couldn’t go much further without the promise of credits.

Din began his usual routine, getting ready to take off when something caught his eye on the ground below. A blaster fired into the air, the shot barely missing the cockpit of the Razer Crest. Then Gold appeared, running as fast as she could between ships quickly followed by a short armoured creature. It appeared Din’s time here wasn’t over just yet.

He quickly got up and exited the Crest, chasing after the girl and the hunter. He walked through the rows of ships, listening out for any clues to their location. Row after row went by until he found them. The hunter had Gold on her knees, she was trying to fight him off but was quickly overpowered by the hunter until he noticed Din stood in front of them. Din kept his blaster raised at the hunter but they were quick to move Gold in front of his body to protect himself.

“Mando! As I live and breathe!” The hunter exclaimed with a wicked smile, !What a pleasure, I’m so sorry if we disturbed you. Just a local disagreement,” The hunter pulled her neck tighter, making her choke. “Nothing to worry about,”

“Let her go,” Din ordered.

“Let her go? Why ever would I do that?” The hunter smiled, “Move along Mando. This isn’t Guild business, move along,”

Din knew the hunter was right, he shouldn’t get involved. He should never have got involved. But he was involved now, and he was not going to let her story end here to some hunter’s knife. She deserved to be able to bury her family and to have a life.

“Do you know who she is Mando? Miss Y/n here is one of you! A Mandalorian, but unlike you she ain’t got no morals. We brought ‘em to justice, and she escaped! You understand I’ve got to bring her back to my boss,” The hunter said. Y/n struggled against the creature’s grip.

“Liar!” She cried, “You murdered my family!” The hunter was quick to bring a knife to her throat making her quiet down immediately.

“Like I said Mando, move along I’ve got this covered,”

Then Din had an idea. He still held the tracking fob from his finished hunt on his belt. He could make it look like Gold- Y/n- had actually just escaped from him. If Din could get the hunter to believe he had her first, which he technically did, and that her bounty was for someone else, someone more important than Dacrilites, then he could take her from him and kill the guy while he was at it to save any further trouble. So, Din pulled the tracker out, discreetly pressing the light on. It blinked rapidly, perfectly, as he presented it to the hunter.

“Let her go, she’s mine. She escaped,”

“You expect me to believe that Mando? Seriously-,”

“Hutt ordered it,” Din said simply. The hunter visibly faltered. “He wants her alive, either you give me the girl or you have Hutt’s own team on your ass,”

The hunter thought about it for a moment. Y/n locked eyes with Din, fear raging in her eyes as she thought she was betrayed. Tears streamed down her face, turning her eyes red.

“Fine,” The hunter said, shoving Y/n towards Din making her land on her face in the dirt. She landed with a thud and didn’t move, “She’ll get what she deserves,”

Before the hunter could make another step, Din shot him in the chest. Permanent shock was now written on his dead body as it hit the ground. Almost as soon as the body hit the ground, Y/n scrambled to her feet, retreating backwards away from Din holding the hunter’s knife in her shaking hands out in front of her.

“D-don’t come any closer,” She cried, “I’m not going anywhere with you. What kind of sick game are you playing? You had your chance to kill me, you let me go!”

“Hey, calm down it’s not true look,” Din stepped a little closer to her, showing her the fob in his hand. He pressed the button again turning it off. “Old fob, I just needed him to let you go,”

She watched him carefully, eyes still full of fear, she was shaking but lowered the knife. “You’re not giving me to the Hutts?” She clarified.

“No,” Din replied, “You’re free to go,”

“You didn’t believe what he said about me?” She asked. Din shrugged.

“It doesn’t really matter,” He said, “Now, go and take that,” Din picked up the hunter’s blaster and handed it to the girl. She took it carefully into her hand and examined it. “You know how to use it?” The girl nodded, swallowed down all her fear before she spoke again.

“Thank you,” She said, “Again,” She laughed a little, and tucked the gun until the waist of her pants. “Come by again and I’ll give these back, yes?”

Din smiled and nodded. “Deal,”

Y/n walked away, leaving Din to decide what to do with the body of the hunter. She got a few paces away before stopping and turning back.

“And- uh before I go,” She called back, Din turned to face her, “don’t beat yourself up about the whole creed thing,” She motioned to the cloth over her face, “You saved my life, I can’t be angry at that. I forgive you,”

Din nodded, relieved to have her word. Guilt still simmered in him but it was eased by the fact she wasn’t mad anymore. She waved once more and disappeared into the rows of ships, back home. Din decided to leave the hunter, someone would come looking for them no doubt and it would save a whole lot of bother down the line.

As he set off for Navarro he caught his mind wondering back to his own family. His mother and father. He wondered what happened to them, was any one left to bury them or did they just waste away under the sun. Would he end up the same way? If he died on a job, who would come find him?

He shivered at the thought. Death surrounded him constantly, he was grim reaper for many people throughout the galaxy. But, he had never really thought about what would happen when he met his end. He knew it would probably be violent, most likely on a job, his whole life was driven by violence why would his ending be any different.

He hoped someone cared enough to bury him. A son or daughter, a wife, someone who fought just as hard to make sure he didn’t waste away under the sun of a mystery planet and die in obscurity just as he had been born.

Navarro appeared just ahead as the Crest dropped out of hyperspace. All thoughts of death and the end dropping out of his head as it did. He had work to do until that day came.

the way this was meant to be a short one-shot lol I have absolutely no self control. also idk what got into me in that ending!

tagging the usual din-brigade: @beskar-tano @buckysbeloved @this-cat-is-dea @brujaporfavor @stardust-kenobi @dindjarinsleftvambrace-old @graveyardnails

#this really ran away with me lol #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #star wars x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #mando #mandalorian angst #star wars angst #star wars fan fiction #x reader #x reader angst #din x reader #molly writes

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azems-familiar · 3 years

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snippet from a new fic (yes, this is Mandalorian!Revan)

His chest stutters and he gasps a little, a torn, broken sound, and for the third and final time, his Force signature sputters out of her grasp. And she can’t get it back.

No.

No!

Revan shatters.

The scream that tears itself from her lips is haunted and high-pitched and doesn’t even sound human, and all around her, the Republic soldiers that had marched in to surround her die. They collapse to the ground like useless puppets, and she’s still screaming, and she tugs her buir’s body onto her knees and presses her forehead against his and rocks back and forth. She can’t breathe, can’t do anything but keen, pouring her grief and her pain into the Force until the whole planet must be able to feel it. He’s dead. Her buir, the man who adopted her as a child and raised her and taught her how to sing and how to speak and how to tell stories, who taught her how to forge her own armor and weapons and how to kill a hundred species with a credit chit and how to pilot a basilisk droid, is dead.

The Republic killed him.

Revan will destroy them.

There are more soldiers surrounding her. Her army is near, but not near enough, and she knows every blaster in this compound is trained on her kneeling form right now. Every sniper, every droid, every turret.

They won’t be enough.

Revan lifts her head and lets every ounce of pain and rage she feels pour into her eyes and set them ablaze, and then she stands, slowly, covered in soot and mud and blood, dirt streaked across her cheek. You are the Mand’alor now. Avenge this dishonorable death.

She will not let her father down.

She spreads her arms and clenches her blood-soaked hands into fists, and the Force ripples out from her in waves of pain and power, and as the waves touch the soldiers around her their eyes roll back in their heads and they collapse, Force-signatures snuffing out like candles in the wind. There’s still tears streaming down her face, mixing with the rain, and she stands frozen, a statue in the face of certain death, and the soldiers surrounding her begin to flee. The Force catches them before they can get far.

On a nearby rooftop, a blaster turret swivels towards her and shoots a series of bolts. No, Revan thinks, looking towards the searing red bolts, and they all snap backwards into the turret with twice the force they’d been fired with. It explodes and she ignores it again. Avenge this dishonorable death. She will kill every single person here and that will only be the beginning.

Revan the Conqueror, they’ve been calling her. Now they’ll see just what she’s truly capable of.

There’s the snap-hiss of a lightsaber igniting, and Revan catches sight of a familiar blue blade, and she’s already reaching out one hand, pouring all her hatred into the Force when her eyes land on a familiar face and pale blue tattoos, and the sight is so unexpected she stops.

“Alek?” she breathes. Her voice sounds like gravel crunching beneath beskar boots. He's just looking at her and the bond between them is alight with emotion she doesn't let herself feel.

Because he abandoned her.

She gave him everything with open hands and he refused it all and now her buir is dead on the ground because of his Republic and Revan has no mercy left in her heart.

"Revan-" Alek starts, but she doesn't listen, just yanks her sabers into her hands and ignites both blades.

Behind her, her army is attacking the rest of the Republic soldiers, burning down what buildings she left untouched and seeing to the defenses still aimed at her. Ahead of her, the other Jedi, the one with the white lightsaber, vaguely familiar looking, is talking into her comm and starting for the shuttles on the far end of the base, where Revan’s verde haven’t reached yet. She’s calling out to Alek as she runs, saying come on, we can salvage the fleet if we hurry, we can drive them off, and he starts to turn to look at her.

That’s when Revan lunges forward and swings both sabers at his face.

Alek stumbles back a step, his bright blue blade coming up to block on instinct, and he’s looking at her and pleading silently and she can’t. Her buir is dead and Alek abandoned her for the Republic that killed him.

Every wide, furious attack is fueled by her rage and her pain, her emotions spilling into the Force like blood from a wound (like the blood from her buir’s leg) and turning into raw strength; she can hardly see, between the rain and the tears and the smoke in the air, the steam from their three lightsabers, and little gods, she knows she’s being reckless but she can’t seem to stop herself. She hardly feels human, in this moment - she’s a creature of grief and agony and she can barely breathe past the choking lump in her throat.

She lunges forward and Alek twists to the side, and her boots slip in the mud and she falls to one knee, sabers out in front of her in no position to block, her drenched gloves nearly losing purchase on the hilts, and Alek could end her now but he steps back into a defensive stance instead. He’s not properly fighting her, just stepping away from her blows and blocking and parrying, never counterattacking, and why won’t he fight back? She lets out a frustrated scream and drives forward hard, crashing one saber into his shoulders and driving the other straight towards his stomach, and he can only block one, she could kill him right now, her saber is inches away from him and-

Her saber hilts fall from her hands and then her arms are wrapping around his shoulders, pinning his (thankfully deactivated, and when did he turn it off?) lightsaber between them, and Revan presses her face into his shoulder and howls.

#kotor #knights of the old republic #darth revan #revalek #darth malak #my fic

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daydreambouquet · 3 years

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Zack never survived the Nibel Reactor and therefore couldn't rescue Cloud from Hojo's clutches. From this single point of divergence, the story unfolds.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” - Cid Highwind

Preview of Chapter 23 - The Ancient Temple

“That must be it,” Cid says as he circles the Wutai carrier above a strip of tropic islands. Azure waters shimmer against sandy white shorelines, and rocky beaches press beneath thick jungle canopies.

Despite the otherwise clear weather, dense fog covers an island in the archipelago. Poking above the obscured tree line is the tip of a jet-black temple whose composition alters from glossy to matte with each strike of sunlight.

“Well, that’s...ominous,” Aerith says, leaning against the window.

Cloud couldn’t agree more. The hues of sky near the temple’s apex are sour yellow, and flocks of parrots spiral to avoid its vicinity.

“Can we get on the ground now?” Yuffie moans from the cabin. She’s curled on the floor to stymie her motion sickness while Barret paces and periodically curses Cait Sith.

“I knew that mother-fucker was up to no good,” Barret kept saying, but now that the temple is close, he stands beside Tifa near the pilot’s chair. “That don’t look like something the Cetra could build.”

It’s true. The angle of the crux is perfect. The material has a deep smooth luster that shifts dark colors and mirrors its surroundings like a window into a shadowed world. The Cetra are an ancient race, presumably without the tools or capabilities for such precision. But more importantly, this place does not appear welcoming. And weren’t the Cetra benevolent custodians of the Planet?

Tifa’s arm brushes against Cloud as she points at a clearing near the edge of the fog.

“There, look,” she says.

A Shinra helicopter sits motionless and vacant. Its windows carry a sheen of translucent dust.

“The hell? That it? No troops?” Barret asks.

It’s strange. There should be more Shinra officials or patrolling Turks. But aside from the scurrying lizards, there are little signs of life.

Nanaki stretches and lifts his nose to peer out. Vincent crosses his arms, watching without comment.

“Shinra knows we are coming,” Nanaki says.

Yet maybe not. They have the keystone, so perhaps they’ve already plundered whatever treasure lay within, though judging by the look on Aerith’s face this seems unlikely. She’s concentrating hard as if deciphering a masterful puzzle.

Tifa smiles over at Cloud. He hasn’t spoken to her about last night, but it doesn’t feel necessary. Nothing between her is uncomfortable. Affections turned tangible, and neither has regrets. He likes that he can trust this sensation. It seems the only unquestionable piece of him.

Cid lands the carrier next to the Shinra chopper because there is nowhere else in the temple’s vicinity, and Aerith asks him to get as close as possible.

When he cuts the engines and slides open the doors, a cacophony of jungle noises and hot muggy air assaults them. Giant insects buzz by, and curious predators slink in the outskirts of their arrival. The Shinra chopper rests inert with one door open, interior console blinking on standby as if the pilot had been in an extreme hurry.

The wall of fog is ahead, and beyond that, the temple rises.

The group hesitates. Yuffie swats at a fat mosquito. Nanaki tilts his head at the screen of mist.

“Is it...safe?” Tifa asks, but of course, nobody knows.

Cloud steps into the fog. Immediately, he’s cut off into another world of compact, quiet forest. The distant chirp of birds is behind him, and the sun is blotted out.

“It’s fine,” he reports, inhaling the odorless mist. “Just fog. Must be a weird weather phenomenon.”

There’s nothing alive in the jungle on this side of the border. The trees are frozen in full bloom, but no wind rustles the foliage. The shades of green seem muted and timeless. Cloud touches the leaves from a vine growing around a tree, and the particles turn to dust in his fingers.

The others enter behind him until the fog encompasses them all. Aerith leads the way forward. The peak of the temple somehow seems more prominent now and dominates the skies.

They follow her in silence, though Cloud insists on taking point in case of Shinra ambush. But as they venture forward, that possibility seems far remote. There is nothing and no one around. The temperature drops as they weave through the jungle in the shadow of the temple. Their boots crunch over dry leaves and brittle vines.

The base of the temple appears like a sudden sheet of milky glass. There are no markings in its facade nor windows or entry of any kind. The mist creates a low ceiling, the illusion of suffocation. As the others wander on, following the structure’s perimeter, Cloud finds himself caught in the intrigue of his reflection. Whenever he glances away, it distends and reintegrates, shimmers and dissolves. Then when he looks again, right at it, the doppelganger disappears and only his own pale blues stare back. He does this double-take four, then five times before a shout calls his attention.

Tifa yells from a distance. The entire party has moved on, and he rushes through the fog along the temple wall, ignoring the sensation of something at his heels.

He finds Aerith equally enthralled nearby. She stands alone, pressing a hand against the temple.

“Did you hear Tifa?” he asks because she’s acting as though she has not. She’s captivated, and his presence startles her.

“I...I can hear something else,” she says. He gets close and listens. Ahead, he hears the commotion of their friends but no urgent cries. No nearby fauna. He hears nothing else.

“The Ancients?” he guesses.

“I don’t know,” Aerith says. “There are many of them.”

Tifa shouts again, and this time it’s in dismay. Alarm. She calls everyone over. Aerith and Cloud move together, and a gap in the mist opens up.

Tifa kneels near a Turk lying on the ground. Red soaks the white shirt beneath the black jacket from a deep slash. He bubbles blood from his lips.

“Tseng!” Aerith runs to his side. “Oh no. No, this can’t be!”

Barret, Cid, and Vincent stand apart, unhelpful, as Tseng sputters a painful-sounding cough. Yuffie and Nanaki are staring at the droplets of blood leading into a narrow archway in the temple. A pattern as if shaken from a long, slender sword. A masamune.

And the entrance, a pyramidal door, beckons into utter black.

Inserted into an indent below is the meteorite. The keystone. Dio’s collector item, unlocking a thousand secrets. Cloud cannot look away.

“Help him!” Aerith says. “Cloud, give me your Restore.”

He pulls his eyes to the suffering Turk. Tseng’s long black hair hangs over a desperate dirt-streaked face. But Tseng is the enemy and a victim of Sephiroth. The General must’ve been here, sought the keystone, and taken it. Which means he’s just ahead. Inside the temple.

“We were wrong...” Tseng whispers. His hands tremble. “It’s not...the Promised Land he’s...”

Aerith soothes him. When the others don’t help her, she explains, “He was always kind to me. The Turks have followed me all my life, but that doesn’t mean any of them deserve to die. Don’t you see?” Her pleading eyes go to Cloud.

He waits, expecting her to whisk a healing breeze out of thin air, but she doesn’t. Maybe she can’t, or maybe Tseng’s wounds aren’t that severe. Sephiroth would’ve killed him if he’d wanted to. But whatever lay ahead was more appealing than Tseng’s death. The Turk wasn’t worth the time.

Cloud steps over Tseng’s body and approaches the entrance. Nanaki and Yuffie stand aside, but he pauses at the gaping void. Cold air coils from the other side, wraps around his forearms. Someone says his name. He thinks it’s Aerith.

Behind him, he sees her kneeling with blood on her dress. Tifa crosses her arms, and Barret gives Cloud a wary look. Cid paces, and Vincent cranes his neck to survey the temple’s peak. Aerith won’t leave Tseng’s side.

Cloud pops the Restore from his sword and tosses it to Aerith. Then he crosses the threshold.

An immediate cool disseminates like static across his skin. The world behind fades away. He hears Aerith activate the Restore, but the swirl of green light doesn’t reach him. The void pulls him forward, and the darkness shifts like a tangible being, becoming darker and lighter as if creatures were moving in its depths. The hallway is longer than it seems, extending beyond the visible footprint of the temple.

Then a rush hits him. It isn’t a physical sensation, but he knows he is falling. On impulse, he curls, shielding his head, yet his feet never leave the ground. The surroundings come up instead of him going down.

A harsh light flares, and in an instant he is outside, overlooking a vast complex of labyrinthine structures: staircases and archways, open-air walkways that loop into corners and angles of confusing geometry. Everything is pale stone and unadorned. The ledge where he stands is crumbled and worn, leading into a stairway that seems undisturbed for eons. The sky is a malachite haze.

#ao3 #fanfiction #final fantasy vii #final fantasy 7 #ff7 fanfic #cloud strife #black materia #zack dies earlier

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grumpyhedgehogs · 3 years

Text

those who are left behind (share the grief between them)

Summary: Cody goes to find Rex. Ahsoka finds him first. AO3. Part 2 of “scraps” series. Part 1. Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

Warnings: Grief/mourning, canon-typical violence.

Cody tries to find Rex.

It’s the only thing he can think of after he manages to get off the Death Star--a feat in and of itself, as he knew it would be. He’d had a couple close calls; he knows he was on the list to be transferred to a teaching job for new initiates, and clones as a whole were kept under close watch. Too many of the vode had killed themselves or disappeared or went berserk and killed their commanding officers. (Cody thinks about those brothers now and wonders how crazy they really were.) He’s not sure if he was under closer observation than most post-Order 66, due to his place at Kenobi's side for years; those memories are hazy, and upsetting besides. Obviously Vader didn’t think he’d be more of a problem than anyone else now, because even with the close watch Cody’d been able to slip security and hitch a ride on a stolen emergency shuttle with little fanfare. The fiasco with the droids weeks earlier taught everyone exactly how much the Empire let slip between the cracks.

The lightsaber was tempting. It still is. But Vader keeps it in his secure chamber, hoarding it like a Krayt dragon. Cody didn’t even try.

So he gets away and goes to find Rex. Rex, who had told him about the chips. Rex, who Cody had dismissed. Rex, who was made commander and promptly had everything else taken from him with Order 66. Rex, who Cody had seen hide nor hair of during his tenure as CC-2224. Cody tries to find Rex.

Ahsoka finds him first.

He's on some backwater planet, somewhere bleak and angry looking; drab grey roads and trees with no foliage against a blood-red sky. The people here live in hovels and call themselves lucky. Cody closes his eyes as he leaves the tiny fishing market on the edge of the docks. The smell clogs his nose and makes him want to retch, but for a moment he can almost feel the weight of Obi-Wan’s hand on his shoulder. He can picture the exact curl of Obi-Wan’s mouth, the twitch of an eyebrow as he tells Cody to find the beauty in the small things. The people here are born with silver scales lining their cheekbones, their fingers webbed with thin, iridescent skin that catches the light just right and turns to millions of colors. There are children who actually play in the street here. There are no stormtroopers raiding the stalls. Happiness comes in small packages, Obi-Wan would say. Cody exhales the smell of dead fish and wraps the robe tighter around himself.

It was probably too big on Obi-Wan by the end; it fits comfortably around his shoulders, and although Obi-Wan was a little taller, he certainly wasn't wider than Cody even on the best day. He’d slimmed down during the war too; they’d had few rations going around in the hard times--it was always a task getting the general to eat when his men were going hungry. Cody nearly put him on an IV a couple times.

The robe covers what’s left of his stark white stormtrooper armor well enough. He’d stripped the leg armor off immediately, stole some fatigues from a clothesline when he’d landed on the first planet he could find and slipped those over his blacks. He’s been planet hopping for a while, chasing rumors of rebels and crossing imperial battlegrounds. They’re burial sites now. Cody doesn’t know enough about the Force to do more than read the fallen their last rights and ask them to be well as they pass on. Every place is the same; empty, except for bones. The Mando’a prayers spill from his lips easily but his voice is rusty and Cody usually settles for a silent vigil instead. There are so many dead.

After the first graveyard, Cody stripped off as much of the white paint from his vambraces as he could. It’s a shoddy job, but it’s the best he can do. Paint is a luxury he can’t afford. Cody doesn’t have a credit to his name.

He bows his head to the small woman who pushes a package filled with row after row of tiny fish into his hands and chatters at him in an unknown language. Places like this, even as untouched by the Empire as they seem, know hardship. The people here are kind. Obi-Wan would be proud to have met them. Cody tries to be proud too, but his chest is so hollow now. The robe flutters and whips against his knees as he walks away.

He’s outside town limits, thinking about a campfire and shelter, when he hears it. There’s the scrape of a boot on rock somewhere above him in the hills that line the dirt road. He should have gotten off the path into the treeline when he’d had the chance. The hood is good cover from the light rain but it gives too much of the movement of his head away; by the time Cody whirls around, there is no one behind him. He scans the trees anyway and counts how many bolts he has in his blaster. He’d taken out those troopers on Florrum weeks ago. A couple of hunting trips when he couldn’t beg or work for any food in townships. He’ll have to make the shots count.

But before he can do more than pull the blaster from his sleeve, they're upon him. There’s a sound of ignition, one that has Cody thrown years into the past, and then a flash of white. A figure in dark clothes bears down on him with a white lightsaber, and Cody doesn’t mean to react how he does, he really doesn’t, it’s not red but—

But he’s spent years as a slave to a lightsaber wielder dressed all in black and he can’t do that again, not after watching Obi-Wan fall. He can't go back to the Death Star. Cody pulls his blaster and fires a shot, dodging to the left and then feigning a stumble, hoping to get around to the attacker's other side. The other fighter, also cloaked and hooded against the rain, is spry and wiry--perhaps female--and obviously trained. One of those Knights of the Empire they were talking about training? They dodge another bolt as Cody curses and then a second ‘saber lights up and--the handles are the wrong way around.

They’re holding their lightsabers wrong. Cody nearly does trip this time, only just scrambling back from a slice that surely would have taken his head off. As he does, the figure speaks.

“Where did you get that robe?” They hiss, and prepare to strike again.

“ Ahsoka?”

“Wh-- Cody? ”

“Oh, Force,” Cody says, feeling like he did when Longshot knocked all the air out of him during a sparring session. He pushes his hood down hurriedly. Rain splashes down his forehead, rolls off the end of his nose, fills his mouth. “It is you. You’re alive!”

He’d been so afraid of being alone.

Ahsoka, older and leaner and sadder than he’s ever seen her, lowers her own hood. One ‘saber stays in her hand. Good. “Cody. You’re...you.”

“I remembered,” Cody chokes out. It’s hard not to vomit when he thinks about it for too long. “Who I was, before the Order. I remembered.”

Ahsoka’s eyes are sharp. Her mouth is a thin line. “Good men lost their lives that day. Dead men walked among us for years afterward. I--I’m sorry for your loss, Cody. It has been a long time.”

“I’m sorry too,” Cody says. It tastes like ash in his mouth, like the pyre he should’ve given Obi-Wan and never got the chance to. “The vode weren’t the only people lost that day.”

She softens, if only just. The lightsaber is hooked onto her belt under her own robe. “It really is you. Come then, I have a fire.”

They settle around her campsite, small and remote, on a perfect vantage point, before she speaks again. Cody is waiting for her when she does. He unwraps the fish, ignoring the mud splashed onto the scales from their impromptu fight, and lays them out on a flat rock in the fire. They are too small to debone individually; they’ll have better luck eating around the skeletons and hoping for the best. (“If you kill my grandpadawan via choking on a fish bone I will never forgive you,” jokes the Obi-Wan in his head and Cody suppresses a snort.)

“The robe.” Ahsoka murmurs. Her lekku twitch, in apprehension or agitation Cody isn’t sure. The pit in his gut, always there, yawns wider. She’s Obi-Wan’s family. Next of kin. He by all rights should give it to her, but… “It has Obi-Wan’s Force signature infused in it, but I recognized that yours was different. I thought…”

“I’d taken it off his body.” Cody finishes for her. Ahsoka nods, grim. He nods too and flips the fish. “You’re almost right. He didn’t leave behind a body, just his lightsaber and the robe. Vader killed him; it’s what woke me up. Chip’s stopped working, I guess. Too old.”

“I felt him when he went.” Ahsoka’s eyes are far away when Cody snatches a glance at her. She sits, back ramrod straight, unyielding, steely. He thinks Obi-Wan would have been like this in the end; untouchable, almost. He was statuesque, carved from marble, right up until the moment he died. “His light went out; that day the Force got much darker.”

“Wasn’t sure it could get darker.”

“Obi-Wan spoke once to me,” Ahsoka tells him after a long silence. She takes the food offered and nods her thanks. Cody’s heart is dead, has been since he left the Death Star, but he curls his fingers into the robe’s edges and listens anyway. He never stops hurting these days. “Through the Force, I mean. It was right after--right after. Just a fleeting thing, a feeling. He wanted to make sure I was safe, that I knew he--”

Cody doesn’t move when her words cut off. He knows. She knows.

It is like stripping off his own skin with a dull blade when Cody shrugs out of the robe and offers it up. “Here.” His voice is hoarse, tortured, not his own. “I just--you’re his family, but I can’t... please.”

Ahsoka is beautiful even when she cries. The robe looks worn, dingy in her hands, but she holds it close, like a child. She has to work hard to get the next sentence out. “You loved him.”

Cody nods. His face is wet too. “Still,” he whispers, almost inaudibly over the fire. “Still.”

“It’s yours,” Ahsoka promises. “Let me meditate with it, just once, and then--it’s yours. It’s yours.”

Ahsoka goes still; her shoulders stop hitching after a while, her cheeks dry, her breathing evens. Cody does not sleep, but he does drift. He knows she will not mind the salt water on his own face when she wakes. Obi-Wan would tell him to release his grief, perhaps that Obi-Wan is not worth it; Cody holds on almost greedily, bottles up the pain and sorrow and regret and keeps it with him, cold as ice in his chest.

He knows she comes back by the small cry that slips past her lips; she jerks in place, nearly toppling from her meditation pose. Ahsoka straightens again and clenches her hands in the robe, head bowed. “Alright?” Softly, softly. He knew her when she was just a child.

“Meditation is rougher than it used to be,” Ahsoka admits, and, reluctant, passes the fabric over in a bundle. “Thank you.”

“I miss him too.”

“What are you doing out here?”

Cody smiles without real feeling. “Following you. Or the Rebellion in general, I guess. Thought maybe I could find Rex that way.”

Ahsoka raises her eyebrows. “The Rebellion hasn’t been here for months; I’m just here checking up to make sure refugees we helped are still doing alright.”

“You guys got a head start on me.”

Her laughter is quiet, like Obi-Wan’s used to be. Cody looks away, twists his hands in the robe.

Wait.

He knows Obi-Wan won’t mind. He lost so many during the war anyway, went through them like tissue paper. It was a game among the 212th, who could find them on the battlefield first.

Cody looks up, eyes Ahsoka shrewdly. She’s taller, more muscular than she used to be. He’s no seamstress. “Scarf or sash?”

Ahsoka blinks at him. He presses his lips together and nods. “Sash. Won’t get in the way.”

The sleeve comes apart at the seams easily enough. Cody ignores her protest, and tears the other sleeve away too before pocketing one--someone else will want it, someone else who can hold vigil with Cody and Ahsoka both. Then he tears open the remaining sleeve and flattens it, before holding it out to her. “Through the belt loops,” he advises, blandly, like the tears on both their faces don’t exist. Her eyes are the size of dinner plates in her head. “Won’t get in the way when you pull your weapon.”

Ahsoka’s lips tremble when she takes the scrap of fabric. Cody doesn’t watch her loop it through her belt, taking the time to wrap the rest of the robe around his shoulders in a makeshift poncho; the hood hangs down his back still, and the ends of the robe are still long enough to cover most of his breastplate, some of the only trooper armor he has kept. There is a scratch on the shoulder from when an overconfident Jawa took a shot at him on Florrum.

Ahsoka gasps when he looks up. She gestures at his chest. “You…”

Cody splays his hand where she indicates, over the insignia he painstakingly etched into the armor covering his heart. The lightsaber was tricky to overlay on the 212th logo. It took him hours. He has a lot more time on his hands now that he’s not being controlled by the chip, though; it was worth it.

“Yes,” Cody answers. “I--I don’t want to forget again. Never again.”

Ahsoka reaches out and takes his hand over the fire that gutters low in their makeshift hearth. A thousand lives lie between them, and a thousand deaths. Her hand holds his so carefully. Cody squeezes back and feels Obi-Wan smile. “Never again,” Ahsoka vows.

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pigeontheoneandonly · 3 years

Note

For your WIP list: Childhood Friends AU and Collateral Damage?

Thank you!!

Childhood Friends AU answered here.

Collateral Damage is a one-shot fic about Nathaly’s first real deployment after training, on a planet called Aonia, which was mutually claimed by both the Alliance and the Hegemony. Their two colonies were separated by an open battlefield, and locked in a stalemate. (Laine is her C.O., which is how they got to know each other well, though they met in N1.)

Shepard, who is still enlisted at this point, but working her way towards being admitted to OCS, eventually comes up with an idea to break the stalemate, based on exploiting a tactic the batarians have used to great effect on other battlefronts. The Alliance is victorious, and are in the process of mopping up batarians, when the batarians learn who orchestrated their demise-- and that it was a lowly corporal. Furious, they decide to take revenge.

The story is told after the fact, as Shepard relays it to Anderson. It came out of a challenge to write a story backwards, and became a key part of her backstory.

(It’s also how Nathaly caused Laine to lose his leg, if you remember that little anecdote from one of the early flashbacks in Labyrinth-- he got hit by a grenade during the action, and he playfully blames her because it was her idea.)

Excerpt:

Shepard plunked the cigarette between her lips. Her lighter flared against the twilight. She inhaled, to convince the flame to catch, and blew out smoke. “Where the hell is Cheng?”

Private Brill scratched under the neck of his hardsuit. “Only thing less likely than us getting daylight patrols again is Cheng strutting out on schedule.”

The fourth member of their squad, Kozlow, snorted a laugh and stubbed out his own cigarette, grinding it into the Aonian dust. The trees carpeting the Relagris river valley undulated in the light breeze. The wind was welcome; local high summer at this latitude usually meant steaming flat days that left even the water too hot to offer any relief. Body armor only made it worse.

Shepard took another drag. “Last time we had a daylight, three guys got shipped back to Arcturus with missing bits. The colony brass may be thick but they’d never be that stupid.”

“Never say never. You are talking about the guys who backed the L.T.’s crazy-ass plan to get at the batarian base.” Brill paused. “I’ll grant you it worked, though I don’t know that Lieutenant Laine’s too happy about sitting tight for a few months growing out the new leg.”

Shepard buried the flinch of guilt, and tapped off the cigarette. “Cheng had better get her ass in gear. Bravo Squad left more than ten minutes ago. If I have to order a hold there’ll be hell to pay.”

Private Cheng emerged breathless from the barracks, slapping together the last pieces of her grenade launcher. Shepard rolled her eyes. “If you bothered to oil that thing once in a while, it might not take eons to assemble.”

“Fuck off.”

“I wouldn’t want to encroach on your specialization.”

“At least I’m not some bitch who thinks she’s an officer ‘cause she got some kind of probationary MOS change to N. They give you little spec ops training wheels with that?”

Shepard regarded her evenly. “Keep talking, and I’ll show you just how much of an officer I’m not.”

Cheng held her eyes a brief moment, and glanced off. Shepard drew her rifle. “This patrol won’t walk itself. We’re due for rendezvous at Checkpoint Delta by 2100, so let’s move it.”

At approximately 2015, Shepard ordered a halt. Two months after putting boots on the ground, the navy built a bridge over the river. Since then, the batarians had blown it up three times. The bridge was currently in its “intact” phase, and after the beating their main base recently took, Shepard doubted the batarians had the appetite to try again. But it remained a choke point, albeit one she’d traversed a hundred times, and tonight something about it made her uneasy.

Kozlow’s brow furrowed. “Shepard, what—”

“Shut up.” She took a few steps forward and raised her gun. The wrongness was an itch at the back of her neck. The bridge wasn’t much to look at— a cheap composite span three marines wide, no railing, maybe thirty meters long. Thick shrubs clustered near the riverbank. Further back, where they stood, trees rose up, their roots nibbling at the path and the thick march of trunks obscuring line-of-sight.

Cheng hiked her pack up higher on her shoulders and made a sound of exasperation. “The longer we stand here the more my boots hurt.”

A puddle sat near the edge of the span. This time of year, the river ran low and sluggish. She could smell the algae bloom from here. “Why is the bridge wet?”

Shots exploded out of the bushes on the far bank. There was a pop as her shields collapsed. She dove for the trees and plastered her back to a trunk. A quick scan showed her team likewise positioned, all still standing, returning fire. Her hand pressed to her ear, activating her comm. “Alpha squad taking fire by the bridge! Requesting backup!”

She knew full well this would be over before help arrived. Shepard snuck a look over her shoulder. Batarians pounded across the span. It shook with every step, drumming the water up around their knees. One slipped. His comrades leapt over him and kept charging.

She angled her rifle low and let off a stream of shots at knee-height. There was no aiming, just as many bullets as her weapon could supply, enough to overwhelm their shields and do some damage. They were outnumbered two-to-one. “Cheng!”

“Working on it!” The private couldn’t leave cover for even the few seconds it took to set the grenade launcher and light them up.

Another batarian collapsed, a victim of Shepard’s kneecapping. Her cooling indicator slid towards the red. She cursed, and switched to targeted shots, quick bursts to avoid overheating and losing the weapon entirely. A lucky shot to the head took out a third. Almost at even odds.

Cheng took a breath, swung out of cover, and sunk to one knee to brace herself, bringing the launcher up to her shoulder as she moved. Even this economy of motion was too slow. She fell back with a scream, her grenade launching high into the air.

Shepard never saw it explode. A bag dropped over her head. She whirled in place, wielding the rifle like a club at anything in range, felt it connect and heard a grunt. But then other hands had her arms. Something wet and foul pressed against the bag, over her face. The fight disappeared, and though she started to fall, she never felt the impact of the ground.

Velvet black. Fuzzy pinpricks of white light. Blink. Stars. Sour stench— slime on her face, vomit— and the acrid tang of scorched grass. Murmuring voices. Alien. Batarian.

The urgent realization was a shot of adrenaline. She blinked again, trying to clear her head, trying to ascertain even a little of what was going on.

She came back to herself flat on her back, in a small clearing she didn’t recognize, with no sense of time at all beyond “later”. Much later, judging by the darkness. The bag was gone. Someone had zip-tied her hands and feet. Shadows moved in the meager moonlight, none of them paying her any mind at all. Her translator was useless at these volumes. After eighteen months on this rock, she’d picked up a decent amount Dherak— the Hegemony state language— but not enough to catch much meaning from whispers.

Somewhere to her left, she heard the low hum of a shuttle. Her heart’s pounding accelerated. She wriggled her hands, but found no slack in her bonds. Shepard could get her feet under her and stand, she was certain of it, but hopping away would never work. If she could reach her knife…

She rolled onto her side, ignored the nauseous lurch in her stomach, and curled into a ball so her hands could reach her boot. She could have died of relief when her fingers brushed the haft. But the position was awkward, trying to grip it with her arms lashed behind her, and she fumbled it into the grass. Shepard sucked in a breath and wriggled in a circle, searching.

“Stupid bitch,” said a voice from across the clearing, loud enough for her translator to pick up. Not that she needed it for curses. Everyone learned those first.

She scrabbled at the ground. If she could just get her legs free before he reached her—

Her fingers closed around the handle. She bent backwards, slashing at her bonds, not caring whether she stabbed herself, because that was better than staying here and much better than being packed onto that shuttle. Footsteps stomping towards her. The blade stuck in the dirt. She tried again—

A hand grabbed her wrist, none too gently, and jerked the knife away. Shepard stared up at him with eyes that could burn holes through steel. He turned the knife over in his hands. “Clever. I won’t ask where you hid it.”

She spat at him, but lacked the necessary projection. It fell on her shoulder. He chuckled. “You won’t make a fool of me twice, little girl. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

“Moon’s just about set,” said a second batarian. “We need to move.”

“First things first.” He shoved her shoulder, hard and without warning, pushing her onto her stomach. Before she could roll any further, his knee crushed into her spine with all his weight behind it. The air went out of her. She couldn’t move.

“Fuck you,” she wheezed.

That he ignored. His burly hand gripped the back of her head, holding it still. “Can’t have your pesky Alliance tracking you.”

She felt cold steel press against her ear and had barely a moment to comprehend what was about to happen before he began to cut. Her body bucked with all its might, as much a reaction to the searing fire engulfing the right side of her head as a fight for survival. He grunted his irritation and increased his grip. “Blame your navy for wiring you with an internal comm.”

Blood spilled down her face, filling her mouth with hot iron. She made a second, feebler attempt to throw him off.

This time, he lifted her head by her scalp and slammed it full force into the ground. Her nose splattered. An odd ringing filled her head, and she found she couldn’t focus her eyes, or string even half a thought together.

“Stop squirming,” he said.

She lay still, too dazed to offer even a curse, as he resumed his work. At some point she blacked out, and the second time she came around, she was bundled on the floor of the shuttle, staring at batarian legs.

They’d wrapped wire about her, an improvised rope to prevent all but the smallest movements. She took some grudging pride in that. Her ear and nose still hurt terribly, but that had gone on awhile now, and she found she could think past it. A similar, less urgent pain in her forearm suggested they took her omni-tool as well. And she was dressed in only her thin undersuit. Her hardsuit, and its biomonitoring suite that was perhaps her last hope of being quickly located, was nowhere to be seen.

The same batarian spoke a few sentences, to general laughter. She caught maybe a third of it, her translator gone with the rest— something about a woman, her, and something about not being dead.

Shepard concentrated on counting her breaths. Once they got wherever they were going, when they had to move her again, she’d find an opportunity. She just had to hold together until then.

#ask me anything #nathaly shepard #wip meme #torture tw #whump #ljandersen

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aliens-and-shiz · 4 years

Text

Part 59: Retribution

More here: @aliens-and-shiz

The day began like any other. Quiet. Reserved. The birds began chirping with the sunrise, the dew clinging to the grass and trees, making the valley glisten like a field of crystals, shimmering with the breeze. And front and center, a single yellow flower. Simple, elegant, with 6 small yellow petals with a bright read heart. It danced in the breeze, softly swaying.

Until the boot came down, crushing it and killing it, forcing it into the earth. The marching army, flattening the pristine landscape, before now untouched by man nor beast of burden. But such is the way of progress and war: until all is consumed and cast asunder; until the enemy has been thoroughly routed, exiled, or desecrated.

With the boot came roaring machines, machines designed not for pleasure or any domestic purpose, rather conceived with but one concept in mind: destruction. The tanks rolled past the marchers, on into the neck of the valley. Emblazoned on the sides a red, white, and blue banner with scattered stars.

Before the machines, ahead of their way, two monolithic mountains stood guard over the valley past which the quarry of man lie.

We fall back to that first boot. Still stomping over the dirt, crushing without care nor concern what lie beneath its sole. Moving up and out we see two legs, attached to a torso of a man. The man was outfitted head to toe with black armor, matte finished, and it’s face covered in a mask with black goggles and a ventilator. He carried a long firearm, similar in aesthetic construction to the common AR-15, but with far greater firepower. To their left, another individual, similarly decked out. To their right, yet again. And so on and so forth.

Before long, the valley filled with these creatures and their metal beasts, slowly funneling their way through the sacred place. They spooked up the native wildlife, causing them to scurry away en masse, using paths made for an altogether different season, but necessary today. But for one small, purple, 4-winged beast.

For this little one, curiousity got the best of him. He flew over the ranks of these new creatures, and went to see where these loud things were headed.

As he flew past the mountain, a place that it had called home its whole life, the red, greens, and oranges beneath the purple sky, it flew to a place it had never gone. Towards where it’s ancestors warned to avoid, as larger beasts tended to live there. Ones that detested it’s presence, and would cook him over an open fire just as easily as snap his neck and throw him away. And he found one of their settlements.

It was a flurry of activity. The blue Rekkans not giving a care to the creature as it observed them rushing into vehicles, scrambling over each other, setting up walls and blockades, and letting the small fires go and build.

Then, a boom. And the sound of whirring.

The creature glanced toward where it came from, and saw smoke beginning to rise. He saw two small dots quickly growing in the sky, and one long stream of smoke trailing behind a bright light, growing far quicker.

The creature lifted its wings to fly, but time was not on its nor this towns side, as the missle split into 6, and proceeded to pummel the town in a massive destructive wave, tearing the wings off its torso before it could even flap them once in a futile attempt at self preservation.

And with that time... froze.

The shock wave rippled through the town, flattening buildings, tearing clothes and skin off people’s backs, turning them into a salsa of rock, dust, blood, and plant matter.

They didn’t have enough time.

They weren’t warned.

They didn’t care to listen to the stars.

They didn’t care that the planet they found, a death world far from home but rich in resources, was the only thing within a hundred light-years that was making any noise.

They didn’t know the consequences of messing with humanity- and never thought maybe that’s why they were alone in the first place.

Kidnapped seasons past by yet another race, enslaved, tortured, sold to the next highest bidder or gifted as a favor, the human race spread among the Coalition with ease. In no way a legal sale, as business where sentient lives of any kind are bought and sold for profit was among the most strictly outlawed practices among the vast collection of planets. Then again, sentience was legally defined as membership within the economic sphere that spanned galaxies, so if you were to find something fresh, it was ripe for the picking.

Then again... normally they do not fight back. If this could be called fighting.

For that is the human war machine. It is a testament to destruction, an ode to chaos, and a love song to mother death herself. It is efficient to its core, an unstoppable force fueled by rage, emotion, lust, and ingenuity. If you steal from them, if you touch their people, if you give them impossible odds- be warned. They are relentless and unmerciful. You may not see it today. Or tomorrow. Or a year from now. Even a century.

But they will come. For they do not forgive. And they certainly never forget.

For this reason, on they marched. Sure, they could open a communication, they could negotiate. But then the universe wouldn’t learn. Those that took from them would have no remorse forced upon them. Until every family is reunited, every home mended, every child found and accounted for, they would not cease their advance.

The legions of man sifted into the forests. And as they marched, the cavalry instead turned, funneling at an angle into the trees- feeding the battle to their very whims. In file the men entered, until a sound rang out. A siren in the distance. The first wave charged into the forest. They had given them enough time to prepare now. Exactly as much as the original extraterrestrials had given humanity all those months, soon to be years, ago...

...just enough time to pray.

#space orcs #humans are space orcs #sci fi & fantasy #space australia #humans are weird #space war #humans are fucked up #long reads #humans are wild #sci fi series #az’krah #space austrailians #science fiction #fiction #books #books of tumblr #new part #masterpost #alco

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ace-dindjarin · 3 years

Text

the best i can do is regret | ch 2: cin vhetin (fresh start, lit. white field)

Fandom: Star Wars: The Bad Batch

Relationships: Hunter & Omega, Crosshair & Female OC, The Bad Batch, minor Hunter/Male OC

Summary: Where Omega wasn’t Hunter’s first daughter. He thinks he made the right choice with her; but he's not so sure about Omega.

Notes: This is the chapter that’s been fighting me. Hopefully it’s readable. CW: descriptions of blood, kinda gory descriptions about body parts, genocide, mentioned insomnia, and minor character death. And Hunter has a breakdown.

Something is wrong.

It’s not the planet, although Concord Dawn is definitively the strangest planet Crosshair’s been on—and the Bad Batch have been to Wild Space. Glass that shouldn’t be there crunches beneath his boots as he pushes forward, rifle ready to fire. In the atmosphere, a behemoth rock wall looms, formed by one end of the asteroid-blasted hole in the planet. It casts a permanent shadow over the region, and still there’s light blinding Crosshair’s sensitive eyes from the war-blasted glass reflecting a distant fire. A planet of hypocrisies, things that shouldn’t be.

And yet, it’s not what’s wrong.

“Up ahead,” he calls. Squinting past the agonizing brightness, he points his rifle in the general direction of the fire and searches for the source. He hears the tinkling of the glass distantly behind him as the rest of the squadron rush to meet him. When he tilts the scope towards the brightest area, white assaults over his eyes, sending a burning current through the veins of his eyeballs.

“Osik.” Crosshair drops his rifle, trying to blink away the flash. There’s still a bright blue blob obscuring his vision. “Hunter, you up for this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be,” he snaps, and pushes Crosshair out of the way.

Hunter’s the one that’s wrong. Ever since they received the Concordian distress call on the Marauder, the sarge’s gotten snappier—to the point that Tech grumbled under his breath that he was worse than Crosshair. It wasn’t just his attitude; he was wrong down to the way he stood. Crosshair saw it all: his slumped shoulders, hands hanging aimlessly by his side, and a permanent crease between his eyebrows.

Most worryingly, he’d skipped one of his sleep cycles. Crosshair’s the oldest; he’s been with his squad throughout their entire lives. He saw how their “desirable” mutations took a toll on his squadmates—Wrecker’s ribs had to be rebuilt with durasteel fibres because they couldn’t support his mass, Tech came out of the tube with a faulty lung that had to be replaced, and Crosshair himself still used an inhaler. Hunter’s curse was insomnia, caused from nights interrupted by the sounds and sensations of everything, everywhere. Crosshair used to accompany him to the Kaminoan’s therapy wing once a week and he still reminds him to take his medication every day.

A relapse, however small, is very bad. But Hunter leaves the cockpit every time Crosshair brings it up.

All he can do is keep an eye on Hunter. Hunter falls to his knees, picking up shards of glass and letting them fall against the ground. Crosshair sticks close to Hunter as he follows the trail, his eyes still bleary from the blinding light. Tech follows, nervously gripping his datapad. He’s been quiet since Hunter decided on becoming Crosshair 2.0. He’d normally be talking their ears off about the properties of the glass. Instead, he’s flitting wide eyes from Hunter to the fire and back. Wrecker gently bumps his vambrace against Crosshair’s pauldron—his way of asking if Crosshair’s alright. He nods, warmed by Wrecker’s constant nature. At least Wrecker is his brash, kind self, no matter what.

When they’re a couple paces from the source, blaster fire shatters the glass before their feet. Wrecker throws the lot of them behind a jetty of rock, and Tech starts laying out some cover fire. Crosshair blinks out the last of the bleariness and raises his rifle to the source of the blaster bolts. Beskar flashing against light, red jai’galaar on black paint.

“Mandos,” he calls back. “Death Watch.”

Hunter swears. “Cross, Wrecker, you two handle them. Tech, you’re with me.”

Tech looks very much like he’d rather die by the hands of a Viszla. Crosshair decides to give him a break.

“Tech’s better with Mandos.” It’s true—Tech once engineered an altered deactivator that somehow targets beskar. “I’ll go in with you.”

Hunter stares at Crosshair. His eyes are cold behind the dark visor.

Crosshair sighs. He doesn’t want to fight right now.

For once, Hunter’s on the same page. “Fine. Stick close.”

Crosshair obeys, slinking away from the rock jetty with the sergeant as Wrecker distracts the Mandalorians. Once Crosshair checks that the skies are clear of further Death Watch, he turns his gaze to the source of the fire.

It’s a village. Ornate, dirt-baked houses burn in shambles. There isn’t a wall without a hole through it. The acrid scent of blaster fire fills the air, enough for Crosshair to want to reach for his inhaler. Fresh red fruits lay scattered across the road, bruised from the harsh treatment. Bodies, strewn across the village, lay limp, covered in ash. Some have died next to more, smaller bodies, and others grip blasters in their cold, swollen grips. Every one of the corpses have eye coverings, whether it be a colourful silk fabric or a sturdy metal band.

Crosshair’s only met one other Miraluka. A Mandalorian Protector who’d rescued the Batch from a Separatist planet when they’d crashed their old transport—the one with Senator Amidala painted on the nose. He remembers his long white hair, blinding grin, and the blue fabric tied over his eyes. He’d gotten along with Hunter; the Mando had made the stoic sergeant laugh as they worked on ship repairs. Crosshair imagines it would be nice if someone made him laugh.

Oh.

Crosshair lays a hand on Hunter’s pauldron. Even through the thick duraplast, he can feel Hunter shaking. “Where is he?”

Hunter lets out a trembling exhale. “I don’t know,” he whispers.

They perform a routine inspection, searching from left to right, then back to left. Hunter’s holding his blaster like a lifeline. Crosshair tries his best to ignore the itch in his throat from all the smoke he’s inhaling. He wonders what the Miraluka remnants had done to earn a wipeout by Death Watch, then decides he’s better off not knowing.

“Crosshair.” The distortion of the comms highlight the tremble in Hunter’s voice. Crosshair turns to see Hunter standing in front of the ruins of a small hut. The building’s so thrashed by ammunition, it’s barely recognizable as one anymore. Death Watch clearly had a vendetta against the resident.

Crosshair surveys the hut from corner to corner. It’s difficult to find anything, since everything’s covered by a thick layer of ash. All that said, there’s no silhouette of a body, nor charred beskar.

But Hunter doesn’t move. “Can—can you hear it?”

Crosshair tightens his grip on his rifle. If Hunter hears something, it means they’re in trouble.

For a long minute, all Crosshair hears is the distant crackling of fire and wind whistling against glass. Then, Hunter makes a hurt noise. “Fuck, Cross, it’s—it’s a karking baby.”

Alarm flashes through Crosshair’s body. “Where? Here?”

Hunter doesn’t respond, but the way he falls to his knees and starts brushing off the ash on the floor is telling enough. Crosshair picks up a synthfiber broom that miraculously survived the firefight to help Hunter’s crusade. At first, it’s futile, just glass and threads of a carpet long gone. As Crosshair gets to the corner of the hut, he sees a tiny crack in the flooring—far too even to be a fault in the ground. He follows that line, sweeping out a rectangular panel.

“Here?” he asks Hunter. The sergeant places his hand on the panel, taking off his helmet to get a more direct feedback.

Hunter’s eyes fly open. “Yes—fuck, we gotta open this.” Pulling out his knife, he works on prying open the panel. Crosshair runs his fingers across the rim of the panel, searching for a grip, a handle, or—

A button. The panel springs up upon pressing it, not jumping fully out of the way but lifting enough for them to get a grip. Crosshair can hear the wailing now, faint under the thick glass but still ear-piercing. They work together to get the panel lifted, a slow process of one-two-three-pull interrupted by the gradually loud screams of the infant underneath. Crosshair wants to clap his hands over his ears. He imagines it will be worse for the sergeant.

With a final heave, they pull the panel up from its slot. They set it down to the side and hurry back to the pit they uncovered. Crosshair hopes Hunter will be ready for what he sees.

The Mandalorian lies at the bottom. White hair stained copper, head slumped over to the floor, helmet scattered to side. For a moment, Crosshair thinks he’s dead—then he sees the minute shifting of his shoulders, indicating breath.

Crosshair looks up to Hunter: eyes shaking, abnormal breath speed. So Crosshair does what he’s done for his brothers ever since they were children—he grips the sergeant’s arm tight and presses their foreheads together. “He’s alive, okay? He’s breathing.”

“He—the baby—” Throat constricting, legs twitching—

Crosshair tightens his grip, fingers certainly digging a bruise into Hunter’s arm now. Out of his own fear upon seeing his sergeant so unravelled, or for Hunter’s sake, he’s not sure. “Hunter. Help me pull him out of there.”

Hunter’s eyes flicker for a moment more. Then, his eyes harden. “Okay.”

They debate a bit on how to get down, ultimately deciding that the foundation can handle two grown men hanging off a grappling hook without shattering. Hunter lands at the bottom clumsily (legs toppling under him, hand shooting out to stabilize himself, eyes widening in panic) and scrambles his way to the Protector’s side. By the time Crosshair’s hit the ground, Hunter’s got the Miraluka’s head resting on his lap.

The Miraluka lifts his face. His eye covering is long gone, exposing the eerily empty heat pits that sit in place of his eyes. He draws a shuddering gasp.

“Shh, don’t push yourself,” Hunter whispers, carding his hand through the blood-caked hair. His eyes are glassy at the corners.

“Hunter,” the Mando breathes, Core accent highlighted in the rasp of his breath. He coughs, splattering blood on Hunter’s chestplate. “Ni…enteyo ven jorhaa’ir…”

I must speak with you. Crosshair drops to his knees, placing a hand on Hunter’s shivering back. He’s tempted to reach out and comfort the Miraluka as well, but he feels like he’ll burst their moment if he interferes.

“You can tell me when we get you out of here,” Hunter says, and it sounds like law out of his mouth. He looks at Crosshair, and it’s years of working together that lets Crosshair know what he wants. He reaches for the Miraluka, wrapping his arm around the Mandalorian’s torso. Hunter supports the Protector’s other side.

“No, no, nayc—” The Miraluka tries to struggle against their grip, but he’s so weak Crosshair can barely feel his squirming. He’s covered in wounds; Crosshair counts at least three capital injuries along what he can see of his torso. “Hunter, gedet’ye, ni kar’tayl—”

The sunlight decides to enter the pit then, shining a light onto the stained dirt under the Mandalorian’s body. Where a child wails.

Crosshair’s seen a lot of babies, but it’s the first he’s seen one that doesn’t share his face. He’s entranced by them—by the way the child’s nose sits wide on their chubby face, by the way white, fuzzy hair sticks haphazardly out from their round head, by the way the silk eye covering sits against soft skin.

For a moment, everything fades in the face of this child. Crosshair feels a smile tugging at the corner of his lips—almost.

Then he notices the way the child’s cheeks round, their familiar brown skin, their pouty lips. Crosshair’s seen the same in thousands, millions of babies. It’s…impossible. Clones are sterile. The Kaminoans never documented fertility as one of Clone Force 99’s mutations.

But when Crosshair turns to look at Hunter, his face is turgid with the same fear blinding Crosshair—the fire, once again.

The Miraluka suddenly groans, slipping out of Hunter and Crosshair’s grip and tumbling to the floor. Before Crosshair can reach for him again, the Mandalorian curls into himself, gasping and coughing. All the grace, ease, confidence of the man who saved their lives long ago is gone. The Protector’s arm stutters as he reaches for the sergeant.

Hunter takes it, clasps it with both hands. Presses a kiss against the bruised knuckles. “Onnik…”

“Ni kar’tayl, Hunter,” the Mandalorian says, so hoarse Crosshair can barely hear him, “gar kaysh buir.”

Buir. Crosshair feels dizzy.

Hunter shakes his head. Eyes wide. Hammering pulse. “I can’t—”

“Hunter.” All of a sudden, the power is back in the Mandalorian’s voice. “Swear it.”

This is crazy. Hunter is in no position to do what the Protector demands.Crosshair looks to Hunter. He looks as lost as Crosshair feels.

And yet, he says the words. “Haat, Ijaa, Haa’it.”

The Miraluka’s grip relaxes. A smile spreads across his face. “Vor entye, cyare.”

Crosshair sits back on his legs, tips his head to the sky and rubs his hands over his face. His heart’s hammering in his throat. He replays the words that have been spoken in front of him.

I know you as this child’s father.

I swear it, on truth, honour, and vision.

Thank you, beloved.

Fuck, he’s so dizzy he can barely think. He pushes through, though, despite the way his head throbs and his eyes burn, because he hates the haze, how the reflected glass blurs the truth.

He focuses on Clone Force 99, forces himself to breathe. Would they be on the run, from the Republic that was their home since their birth? Would it be worth it, however blindingly bright the small chubby-cheeked baby was?

Somehow, despite everything, Crosshair hopes it will.

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