Abbey - Mitski

i first watched rogue one around the time i was doing a lab in ap bio involving potassium sulfate so now i can never remember whether the droid's name is k-2so or k-2so4

new normal

the mandalorian color study artwork

until things get messy

rating: g (word count 431)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31179644

Mayfeld honestly doesn’t believe the guy’ll take off his Mando armor until he’s right there with a kriffing stormtrooper helmet screwed onto his shoulders.

The guy makes himself out to be some sorta moral big shot, y’know? All that this is the Way and you start to think a guy’s serious. Not, like, a strong possibility, but it’s a maybe. It’s out there. ’Cause most people in Mayfeld’s line of work are all talk and nothing to show for it, but then here comes this guy who’s no talk and a hundred percent wicked fighting machine, who can take out four New Republic security droids all by himself without breaking a sweat. Mando’s on a level of his own. Makes Mayfeld think, maybe somebody like that doesn’t have to make concessions.

’Cause the rest of them make concessions all the time. Mayfeld sure does. He’s got a backpack full of excuses and it never runs out.

But if anyone could do it, make it through the mercenary business without stretching their conscience, it’s Mando. Mayfeld didn’t expect to find himself still breathing after he felt a presence approaching him in the prison transport hallway, much less locked up with a still-very-alive Xi’an and Burg. He would’ve pulled the trigger in a heartbeat if their shoes had been swapped. But Mando didn’t.

From a practical standpoint, their lives probably weren’t worth the idealism. Not that Mayfeld wants to be dead, but once Burg and Xi’an get out of prison they’ll track Mando down and kill him. They’ll have to be taken out of the equation sooner or later.

Everybody starts out like Mando, convinced that you’re gonna be the good one when everyone else has failed. Eventually you reach a point when you’ve got to choose between being good and being dead. But a tiny part of Mayfeld has started to think the old buckethead is invincible, started to think that maybe idealism doesn’t have consequences if you’re a Mandalorian. There’s not much that could hurt or even slow down a guy like that.

Maybe it’s naive, but Mayfeld owes his life to Mando’s code. Can’t blame him for starting to believe in the man a little.

But no. Turns out Mandalorians have their weak spots just like the rest of ’em, and this one’s is a little green kid with big ears.

When Mando turns his brand-new stormtrooper face to look at Mayfeld, there’s a clear You happy now? written all over it.

Nah. Think what you want about Mayfeld, he’s not that cold. Doesn’t make him happy to be right.

masks and helmets that hides someone's face in such a way that they become the face themselves my beloved

these are all creatures to me

me: i want to get tumblr so i can nerd out with other people who are just as obsessed with the mandalorian and star wars as i am

also me: gets tumblr and doesn’t interact with anyone except over anonymous asks

in the past hour of working on my fic, i have:

1. deleted (1) sentence

2.

3.

4. that's it that's all i've accomplished

obi-wan 99 problems amv

still cannot get over the fact that ludwig goransson basically invented a whole new musical culture for the mandalorian. like, that soundscape just. did not exist before. bass recorder plus electric guitar?? in star wars??? who even thinks of that???? mind blown.

the debtor

rating: g (word count 598)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32755144

The Mandalorian watches her do the dishes sometimes. Omera isn’t sure why; she wonders for a while if he’s just lonely, but he never speaks or announces his presence. She figures it out when he joins her at the washbasin one day and picks up a bowl.

“Have you been trying to learn how to wash dishes this whole time?” she asks with a smile, handing him a soapy rag.

He tenses.

“I’m not making fun of you,” she clarifies. “It’s—” Sweet. “Appreciated.”

“I don’t have dishes on the Razor Crest,” the Mandalorian says after a moment. “Mostly I eat ration bars.”

“You must be sick of them by now.” Ration bars have all of the nutrients and none of the taste of real food; Omera can’t imagine eating them on a regular basis.

“They suit my purposes.”

He really doesn’t like empathy, does he. She hands him a wet plate and starts scrubbing at the next one. They work in silence for a while, scrubbing the dishes with soap and then setting them aside to rinse later. Eventually, the stack of dirty dishes she’s already run water over dries up, so they rinse off the soapy dishes and set them aside to dry in the sun before getting the dirty ones wet again. Omera picks up her scrub brush and starts on a cup.

“You’ve been very kind to me,” the Mandalorian says, breaking the silence.

She inclines her head. It’s hard to keep a smile from her face, hearing the way this hardened warrior shyly shapes politeness. “You’re my guest.”

“I know my presence is—hard for you. I take up space. And I frighten the children.”

“You don’t,” Omera says, though she’s not sure which part she’s responding to, taking up space or frightening the children. He doesn’t really do either. Only Winta was ever afraid of him, and that faded quickly. The Mandalorian is stiff around children, like he’s afraid he’ll break them if he makes the slightest move, but he is always gentle. No one in the village fears him anymore. And he takes up little space, so little that sometimes she wishes he’d take up more.

“I owe you.”

Is that why you learned how to wash dishes? “You don’t,” she repeats. “Besides, this is your payment for helping us with the raiders, remember? You asked for lodging.”

The Mandalorian’s head tilts toward her before turning back to the washbasin. “You’ve given me more than lodging.”

Not much, she thinks. Just extra bedding and warm food and an ear to listen on occasion. She wonders what his life has been like, that such basic kindness is a luxury. “Hasn’t anyone ever done something for you just to be nice? Without expecting anything in return?”

The Mandalorian’s head scythes towards her, his chest rising and falling sharply. Omera meets his gaze. The question hangs between them: too forward, probably, but she can’t take it back now. She doesn’t bother disguising the mingled nervousness and curiosity on her face, though she does hide the sympathy. She knows he wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Once,” he says.

She hesitates, wondering if he wants her to ask further questions. He doesn’t seem like the sort of person who likes to talk about his past, but sometimes—

“It’s why I swore the Creed,” he says before she can work out a response. His head slants away from her, staring at the last plate in his hands. “I will never be able to repay that debt.”

The Mandalorian sets the plate out to dry and ducks out of the hut.

the way obi-wan is the first to hold the children, the one who actually welcomes them into the world, it's the way he looks at baby luke with SUCH WONDER, HOPE, DEEPEST SORROW & LOVE

something something the way obi-wan & padme are each other's proxies which enables the transference of motherhood and how obi-wan is the one who gets 'cradling a new born child' close-up shot usually reserved for the mother instead.

*foaming at the mouth in utter derangment* isn't it....isn't it ironic how lucas said he needed vader as the father but needed a father figure so he created obi-wan for the OG trilogy, but the prequels accidentally (and unintentionally) place him in the narrative position of the mother.

by have him directly take over from padme; both LITERALLY and SYMBOLICALLY. their similarities in demeanour, personalities and their relation to anakin - as apologists, as devotees, as those who believe in him- makes their narrative roles transferrable.

how making padme die in childbirth and obi-wan be the first to hold the children to - figuratively- be the one who brings them into this world, keeps them safe and watches over them makes him a mother figure in exile, in direct opposition to anakin.

maiden -> mother -> crone

quotes from:

time of death by cavan scott

lone wolf by abel g. pena