#(or if it's au enough that it makes sense that mando'a would have to be their first language)

[604to647]

The Might of the Realm

8.9K / Din Djarin x Princess!Reader

Summary: Din Djarin, General to your father’s army, finds himself in the gladiator arena of a foreign planet fighting for the success of your diplomatic mission.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Established secret relationship (they are stupid in love), Mando'a nicknames (mesh'la, cyar'ika, cyare), the helmet comes off but reader is blindfolded, bath sex, fingering, unprotected PiV (Star Wars is made up and in space, so we pretend it's fine). A wee bit of angst if you squint.

A/N: Written for @beefrobeefcal's The Glandolorian challenge! This is the same AU that I imagined for my Kiss It Better drabble, with the same Princess!reader: set post Season 3, Carson Teva has dispatched Din to a New Republic stronghold planet to train and strengthen their armies; he becomes their General and falls in love with the realm's princess. I imagine this story to take place before Kiss It Better, when they are still sneaking around 🥰.

Many moons before another General (🤭) came on the scene, I outlined a long story for this AU that I'm not sure I'll ever write, so kindly forgive my self indulgent word count - I really took advantage of this challenge for a chance to write these two 🥰 Struggled a bit with the Dieter Bravo reference, but I think I found something that works (Thank you to @morallyinept for your invaluable character dialogue database!) Also got inspired by someone's Gladiator II premier look and snuck in one (1) The Princess Bride reference 🤭 / Dividers by @saradika-graphics

“No.”

“Princess, it will be fine.”

“I said ‘no’, Din.  We came to pay our respects to the new rule and to affirm that our established trade routes through Flavin 5’s space will remain intact.  We did not come to be participate in some archaic gladiatorial fighting match to assert dominance.”

Even through the blankness of Din’s visor you can tell he’s amused by your hiss of a retort but is holding back his reaction.  His stoic and impassive demeanor normally reserved for others, you know that if he’s being less than fully direct with you it’s for one of two reasons: 1) he doesn’t want to lie or 2) he doesn’t want to risk your ire.  You suppose it’s the latter in this case, and that thought alone is reason enough for you to calm your emotional response to this predicament and reassess.

Taking a deep breath, you rest one hand on your hip and mimic a stance you’ve seen your fearsome General make many times; with your other you gesture at Din to present his argument for voluntarily sending your guard, the top lieutenants of the army he commands, into a battle arena on foreign soil.

“Mesh’la, I know your instinct is to protect your people, but you know as well as I that our troops, and especially the men who have been deemed fit to accompany you on this diplomatic mission, are more than capable of handling themselves in any combat situation.”

Din almost chuckles at the way you tilt your pretty head ready to interrupt, his feisty cyar’ika; he continues hurriedly, but with the calm confidence he knows you respond to, “You diligently studied Flavian traditions and history before embarking on this trip – you yourself taught me all I know of these people.  Despite the new ruling family’s decision to resurrect this ancient custom, what is your sense of these people?  Do they seem barbaric?  Cruel for cruelty’s sake?  This isn’t the Petranaki arena on Geonosis.”

You would roll your eyes at Din’s perfectly level-headed analysis, if you didn’t consider his strategic and tactical mind one of his most attractive qualities; Din’s shrewd ability to consider all angles of any situation is one of your army’s greatest strengths, and one that never fails to weaken you at the knees.  He’s taking this situation as seriously as you need him to, and so, you consider your answer carefully - working through your thoughts out aloud, “No, they are not a cruel people – and you’re right, these gladiatorial games were never about execution or spectacle like they were on Geonosis.  The ancient Flavian events were meant to bring the people, no matter class or station, together to be entertained, usually in celebration.”

“Do you think that tradition is being respected?  Or do you suspect some hidden agenda?”

You remunerate on this, thinking back to the new Flavian royal family you met earlier today, “No.  I believe them to be sincere.  Their purpose in resurrecting this historic custom is, I think, to build a connection with their people.  Participating in the gladiator match would be a show a respect for the Flavian people and a celebration of the new royal family.”  You take a deep breath, “So, we should participate.”

“I agree completely, Princess.”

This time you do roll your eyes at Din, but there’s no arrogance in your expression, “Fine.  But Din, just because there’s no ill intent does not mean there isn’t risk.  We don’t know what to expect from such a fight – there hasn’t been one like it held in centuries.  Who knows what opponents our men would face in the arena?”

“No matter who or what our troops are pitted against tomorrow, Princess, there is no doubt in my mind that they will be able to handle it.”

Nodding thoughtfully, you have to agree, Din did train them himself after all, “I believe it.  Especially since they will have their fearless General there to lead them.”

“No.”

“Din, it will be fine.”

“I said ‘no’, mesh’la.  I cannot leave you unprotected and without guard in the Royal Box,” huffs Din.

Stepping into Din’s space, you lay your hands on the shiny beskar that sits across his expansive chest, swearing you can feel it vibrate beneath your gentle palm from his thundering heartbeat; tipping yourself towards the great warrior before you, you feel his big, gloved hands move to your waist to steady you just as you knew they would.  Giving Din your most innocuous expression, you coo, “There is no need for me to have a protective guard if we deem the Flavian royals to be of honourable intent; if it is safe enough for our soldiers to participate in the gladiatorial games, then it is safe enough for me to be alone in the Royal Box.”

Din’s smile at your cleverness and persuasive tactics is hidden beneath his helmet, but he’s yet not ready to show you he’s given in so he remains as silent and cold as the armour he wears.

You use this opportunity to loop one arm around your hulking General’s neck to bring him closer to you still, your free hand takes one of his from your waist and brings it up to his helmet in a silent request.  The familiar click of Din’s helmet unlocking is the only invitation you need - using your nose to lift the brim of his helmet slightly above his strong jaw so you can find his plush lips with your own, you feel the hint of a smile against your pout before you deepen the kiss.  Opening to let Din lick into your mouth, you melt against the hard metal that represents everything he is to you: extraordinary, flawless, indestructible.

And such a good kisser, letting loose a soft whimper you nearly miss Din chuckle something against your lips.

“What’s that, General?” you sigh dreamily.

“I said, Princess, I saw what you did there, and that was NOT the way,” chastising with no actual bite, Din lowers and relocks his helmet.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” flashing him that breathtaking smile of yours that always makes him forget himself, “I’m only following the logic you already agreed to.  Grogu and I will be fine watching you showcase the might of our realm from the safety of our spectator seats tomorrow.”

“Grogu will be with me in the fighting area.”

“No.”

“Cyar’ika, he will be fine.”

“He’s just a baby, Din!”

“And a Mandalorian apprentice.  You’ve seen what a formidable fighter he’s already grown to be.”

And so on, and so forth – the two of you, the General and his Princess, spiritedly discussing and debating matters that affect your realm.  The thought crosses your mind, not for the first time, that when you ascend the throne after your father you will need a ruling partner who challenges you like this: one who makes you wiser and forces you to expand your horizons, but trusts your compassion and tender heart, and who you trust to keep you and your kingdom safe.  And as you always do when this thought naturally lends itself to an image of Din by your side, tall and proud as your King consort, you push it away as far as you can.  It hurts too much to imagine something that seems to materialize so clearly and happily, as if it could actually become a reality, when you know it could never be.

The crowd in the arena is deafening.  Already amped from the opening entertainment acts, they’re now cheering loud, calling for the main event.

Sitting front row in the Royal Box, you scan over the floor of the arena – knowing that it’s unlikely, but still hoping for a flash of silver beskar from behind one of the gates that line the sides of the arena floor, behind which lay the holding areas for the gladiator fighters selected for today’s match.  Once or twice, you think you spy the sunlight catch something shiny from beneath the stands, but before you can look more closely, someone from the Flavian royal family will engage your attention.  Though your mind never strays far from Din and his, your men, you cannot forget yourself or your role - your purpose for being in this arena today: you’re here to secure the continued prosperity your kingdom and strengthen your realm’s relationship with a long-standing ally. 

If you’re honest, despite the trepidation that sits heavily atop your heart, you cannot help but be affected by the electricity of your environment.  The stadium thrums and pulses with the excitement of thousands of Flavian citizens who have come out in the hot sun to partake in today’s festivities – you see children of all ages waving noisemakers and colourful flags, men and women young and old already cheering for who they anticipate to be today’s victors.  Based on the chatter in your tent, the news of your General fighting today has spread like wildfire through the city – very few Flavians have ever seen a Mandalorian, never mind have the privilege of seeing one fight; today was going to be a day they remember for the rest of their lives.  As for your companions in the Royal Box, you’re happy to see that your and Din’s assessment had been accurate – there is no underlying bloodlust or malevolent show of power associated with these fights, everything is only in good fun; your royal cohorts are all in splendid moods, showing genuine enthusiasm akin to the original spirit of the same games put on by their ancestors.

You’re just chatting amiably with the new Flavian king about having some of the wonderful Flavian wine and fruit you’ve enjoyed in the tent sent up to your room later, when a fanfare of trumpets echoes throughout the stadium announcing the start of today’s fight.  The crowd quiets to a soft buzzing as the amphitheatre’s speakers announce the entrance of your fighters; the volume rises again as the audience goes wild when the might of your realm runs in through the gladiator’s entrance.  You can’t help but beam, chest bursting with pride at the impression they make on the Flavian crowd – a big, broad Mandalorian General, towering in his stance and intimidating in his majestic armour, flanked by your guard: five of the strongest, most formidable soldiers from your father’s army. 

You spy Grogu before the Flavian royals do, but it’s only because you know where to look.  A perch for him has been attached to the side of his father’s jet pack so he can remain secure at Din’s shoulder during combat, but have the flexibility to jump off and join the fray if needed.  The instant the Flavian prince spots him, he excitedly points him out to the others – and you take great pleasure in informing your hosts that they, in fact, have the honour of seeing two Mandalorians today.

With only a few moments before their opponents arrive in the arena, you take a closer look at your fighting contingent – they have been outfitted with Flavian weapons (swords, blasters, electro shields), the standard issue armament of your kingdom they normally carry nowhere in sight; the only exception is of course Din, who carries the gladiatorial weapons like the others and all of his usual weaponry – you chuckle to yourself, imagining the poor Flavian weapons master who tried to strip a Mandalorian of his religion.

A loud voice announcing the incoming fighters for Flavin 5 jerks you back to the scene before you.  The crowd thunders as a squadron of battle droids nearly a hundred strong marches into the arena, each carrying varying sized blasters or blaster rifles in addition to their own swords, a few wielding double ended electro staffs.  You barely have time to fret over how outnumbered Din and your troops are before the king is rising in his seat and giving the ceremonial hand gesture for the fight to begin.

You hear your General shout quick, decisive commands and his trusty men move swiftly into the desired formation, electro shields lit up and expanded in one coordinated movement.  They advance as a team, strong and sure, every aim of their blasters true – each man practiced at covering the comrades at their sides as the droids begin shooting back.

When your men are close enough to the front line of the remaining droids, the intimidating battle cry you hear emanating from Din’s helmet is repeated in response at tenfold the volume by his men, a signal to shift fluidly into a tiered offensive formation that you recognize from watching their training on the palace grounds at home.

The legion moves with precision and speed, the crouched soldiers providing the impenetrable shielding needed by the men who stand tall as a precision sniper team that can’t be touched; your Mandalorian the tallest, unphased by the droid fire that bounces harmlessly off his beskar armour.

The formation is far more effective than the static positions of the droids and in almost no time at all, your fighters have driven the remaining thirty or so droids back towards the entrance gate.  Answering another roared order, your contingent springs apart with an unrivalled ferocity to attack the remaining droids via direct combat.

Din cuts down mechanical fighter after mechanical fighter, mowing through the defensive lines of the Flavian droids that have none of his agility and lighting quick reflexes, bolstered by his trusted troops at his back who move with the confidence of men who have been trained by the best, used to fighting with the best.

Grogu has left his father, jumping from his perch onto and over droids with lightening speed - they shoot at him with their blasters only to miss their fast-moving green target every time and take each other out instead.

You watch their every move with bated breath – every bolt that connects with your realm’s armour quickens your breath, the clashing sounds of weapon on weapon too loud in your ears, and each hit or wound sustained by one of your men jolts a phantom pain through your own body.

When the last droid soldier falls, your men, your man, stand victorious at the epicenter of the arena; bloodied, exhausted to the point that the heaving of their chest plates can be seen from the Royal Box… but all standing.

You can hardly believe it - your heart exploding with pride, tears nearly springing from your eyes in relief.  Looking to your hosts, you half expect them to congratulate you and acknowledge the victory of your fighters, but instead, you see them still engaged with the scene before them, eyes trained on the arena floor.

They smile with genuine excitement and anticipation, and your eyes snap back to Din and your soldiers at the sound of the brassy, melodic fanfare now being played throughout the stadium.  The crowd rises to its feet with an ear-splitting roar as the orchestral horns continue to crescendo, announcing the coming of something.

You glance at the Flavian prince, his face alight with boyish joy – he’s excited in an almost childish way and when he sees you looking at him, he beams and points to one of the gates that’s now opening, voice elated, “Cliff beasts!”

Cliff beasts?!? You stand from your seat and rush to the edge of the balcony, gripping the railing and leaning as far as you can so you can see what new challenger is about to enter the arena.  You gasp when you see it – a woolly beast larger than Din and his men combined, trotting out into the arena on four stubby but powerful legs.  A magnificent horn, the length of which must span at least half of the creature’s massive body protrudes from its snout, thick and battle ready. 

A mudhorn??  Of all the beasts to have entered the arena, what where the chances it would be the beast of Din’s clan signet?  For a moment, you’re alarmed that maybe there have been unseen machinations at play and you’ve been blind to it all – that you’ve somehow failed in your diplomatic duties, failing your kingdom, your men, Din. 

You study the Flavian prince who’s now proclaiming to his father, the king, “These cliff beasts are so large!”  The two of them are enthusiastically waving and gesturing to the other attendees in the Royal Box, their chatter is of wonderment and genuine amazement at the sight of this creature that they’ve never before beheld on their planet - you conclude, with relief, that it has to be a coincidence.  Wait, what did he mean – these? 

Peering down into the arena again you see a second, smaller mudhorn ambling behind the first.  A parent and its child!  Your heart tightens, imagining how scared the two creatures have to be and how fiercely the adult will fight in order to protect its young.  You catch Din’s visor pointed up at you from the arena floor and you know that he understands the distressed expression of your face perfectly.

Immediately, your General gathers his men and lays out his strategy – unknowable to the crowds of the arena, but you can read Din clear as day: he won’t cause harm to another living creature if he doesn’t have to.

Din and his soldiers slowly fan out, purposefully ignoring the young calf while surrounding the adult mudhorn.  As expected, the mudhorn charges in attack.  Trying to blink as little as possible for fear of missing anything, you watch wide-eyed as your men deftly leap and roll out of the path of the stampeding animal.  When the mudhorn stops and turns back towards the perceived threat to its young, the soldiers surround it again – rocking on the balls of their feet ready to evade its charge again.  They aren’t always as lucky or fast enough – you cry out in anguish whenever the Mudhorn makes contact, sending your guard flying, landing with a sickening thud on the arena floor from the force of the impact.  The crowd gasps in worry, cheering louder than ever when your men get up to rejoin their brethren in repeating the same maneuver over and over.

Din’s plan is working, the mudhorn is getting tired. 

Part of you is relieved, the other hopes that its fatigue doesn’t make the creature desperate; though your men are still standing, you don’t know if any of them can sustain more injury to their bodies – an increasing danger that only grows as Din and your soldiers begin tightening the proverbial noose.  You spy Din protracting his fibercord whip from his vambrace by hand only seconds before he does what you suddenly realize he’s going to do.  The mudhorn is pawing at the ground, exhausted and angry while your men surround it, now each only about an arm’s length away, when Din uses a jetpack blast to leap onto its back - throwing the whipcord around its horn and pulling back on his makeshift reins.  The other men scatter and the crowd screams as your General rides the wildly bucking animal around the arena.  At their General’s direction, your men are now divided between two tasks: half shoot at the galloping beast that unwillingly bears their fearless leader and his son, their blaster bolts a distraction but doing little to the mudhorn’s tough hide; the remaining men tasked with capturing and restraining the calf – the seemingly easier task. 

Heart nearly in your throat, you watch as Grogu climbs down the front of his father’s arm and onto the mudhorn, quickly crawling to the top of its head where the massive horn joins the creature’s skull.  With one of his little green hands holding onto the cord his father holds taut and the other placed directly on the mudhorn’s woolly head, you see Grogu close his eyes in concentration.  Gradually, the mudhorn’s steps slow and its movements around the arena become unsteady, then wobbly, before it finally teeters and crashes onto its side fast asleep.  Din jumps off just in time to avoid being crushed by the animal’s huge body - Grogu does a dramatic flip into the air at the same time and lands perfectly in his father’s waiting arms.  The crowd roars its approval. 

The Flavian royals next to you are on their feet, clapping and cheering with astonishment and admiration – congratulating you on the victory of your men and thanking you for the fantastic show you’ve provided them today.  Clasping your hands in appreciation, they heartedly assure you that the documents confirming your planet’s trade routes will be completed and delivered to you tomorrow. 

You express your appreciation before turning your attention back towards the arena, heart full - relieved and proud of the men still on the fighting floor.  You have to admit they make quite the sight waving to the cheering crowds while standing next to a sleeping mudhorn, two of your lieutenants holding a makeshift leash with a smaller mudhorn standing docile at its end.  To the admiring masses, the large beast was subdued by these men, the might of your realm, but you know the truth.  You blow a little kiss to Grogu who pretends to catch it in his little hand before waving back, happy but somewhat tired.

Even with his helmet on you can read Din’s expression as he looks up to the Royal Box.  Where is my kiss, mesh’la?

You smile back a playful smirk just for the unseen eyes behind the dark T-visor.  Later.

You pace in the large, ornamental suite that your hosts have graciously provided – it’s beautiful, a true testament to Flavian luxury and craftsmanship, but you have no attention to spare for its finery.  Not when you’re straining your ears to listen for footsteps coming down the hall, eyes continuing to dart towards your door as if for some reason you may have missed hearing them come.

“Princess…”

Your lady’s maids, Olivia and Serine, pace right along with you, following your tracks around the grand room.  They’re as exhausted as you are, but you know their hearts to be as determined as your own; you give them the most indulgent look you can muster and any plea to ask you to rest dies on their lips.  The three of you continue to take turns listening intently for the telltale sounds of a soldiers’ march.

Finally, you hear something.  Faint but purposeful footsteps walking in synchronicity – the herald of well-trained soldiers with an intended destination.  Perked, you look to your faithful companions with renewed vigor and sprint to your door, flinging it open without grace and hurrying into the dimly lit hallway.

They’re still far enough down the hall that you have some time, even with your hastened steps, to study how your men appear to be faring; you know that when you ask, they will insist they are fine so not to worry you.

Two of your country’s finest are limping slightly, one of your lieutenants and a captain.  Your other lieutenant is walking fine, but he has a nasty gash on his forearm, dripped, half dried blood wrapping around his wrist like a terrible bracelet.  The armour of your realm that the legion proudly wears has taken a beating, covered in evidence of today’s bout – marked, dirty and bloodied, but none of the men themselves appear to be grievously injured.

But it’s the man at the front of the pack that you study the most sincerely.  Din’s gait is not too unfamiliar for you to suspect he’s hiding any serious injury - he would know better than that.  After the battle on the Fields of Planoor he had learned not to conceal his injuries from you, that you were so familiar with his body and the way it moves, you would know something was wrong without a single word from him.  As Din stalks towards your group, you can feel the hot gaze from behind his visor assessing you just as you assess him; your General holds himself a bit straighter, his massive frame puffing in pride.  He bears no sign of serious injury, a little sigh of relief escapes your lips as you continue to run down the hall, Olivia and Serine hot on your heels.  But his back is probably killing him.

The men stop to a coordinated halt as you reach them; their weapons sheathed, they each raise their left fists to their chests and bow, “Princess.”

You wave your hands in a graceful but frantic manner, dismissing this need for formality, “Please.  Are you okay?  Is everyone alright?”

Reaching for Grogu, your heart settles a little when he climbs down from his secured perch on his father’s shoulder and leaps into your arms.  Fussing over him, you check his fuzzy green ears and sweet face for injuries; when you run your hands over his limbs and body to do the same, he coos and giggles as if being tickled.  Resting your palm against the security of the beskar rondel he wears beneath his tunic, you exhale in contented relief and place a long kiss to his head.  He’s okay.

Those same words are now being echoed out loud in the low modulated rasp of the voice you trust most in this galaxy, “He’s okay, Princess.  Not a scratch on him, the little womp rat.  The Lieutenant could do with some fresh dressings for his arm, but the rest of us are fine – a bit banged up and tired, but nothing a warm bath and a good night’s rest can’t fix.”

Knowing that Din’s helmet will give nothing away, you study the faces of your countrymen, trying to ascertain if their beloved General is downplaying the damage for your sake.  Finding no deception in their eyes, and knowing that they know you would know, you relent, “Have you eaten?”

“We were given sustenance after our victory.”

You raise your eyebrow at this, suspecting that Din’s words answer only for his men, but not necessarily himself.  Nodding, you give your final charge for the evening, “Olivia, Serine, please kindly see our brave soldiers to their rooms, run their baths and tend to them as needed.”

Your ladies-in-waiting curtsey in assent at your words and intuitively, Olivia extends her arms for Grogu – there are no secrets between you and your closest companions.  Din nods at her and she takes her favourite little green playmate into her arms, happy to help clean him and put him to bed tonight while his father is otherwise occupied.

Din turns to face his men – similarly, there are no secrets between the General and his most trusted squadron, men who love their princess with an unyielding loyalty that rivals only his own.  Your father’s soldiers salute their esteemed leader, bidding their Princess and General goodnight before following Olivia and Serine to their assigned quarters.

Silently, you take Din’s hand and lead him back down the hallway to your room, careful not to hurry should he be much battered and sore, though the urgency in your chest is nearly bubbling over.  Your concern appears to have been unfounded because as soon as the door to your room shuts, Din sweeps you into his arms with a force that takes your breath away - crushing you to his chest so tightly that you can feel him deflate beneath the hard beskar as he exhales his own long held sigh of relief.

You chuckle, “You would have thought that I was the one fighting cliff beasts in the arena today.”

“Cliff beasts?” Din tilts his head quizzically at you.

“I’ll tell you later.  Right now, let’s get you out of your armour,” your fingers slide under his pauldrons, feeling for the familiar release mechanism.

“Cyar’ika, if you wanted to have your way with me, you only had to ask - you didn’t need to send me into a fight arena with a mudhorn,” jokes Din, wincing slightly from the stretch of his muscles as they contract and relax with the weight of his armour being lifted from his aching body.

You cluck your tongue in playful disapproval, even as you continue to make quick work of removing the rest of Din’s armour.  With now practiced precision, you lift off his chest plates and the attachment frame, unhook his jetpack, unclip his cape, slide off his vambraces, unstrap his thigh plates, unlace his boots, unbuckle his belt, unzip his flight suit.  The ceremony of this process is one you will never tire of, nor is its significance lost on you. 

Din, a Mandalorian, willingly lets you touch his armour and remove it from his body – trusting your delicate hands with his most precious property: the physical embodiment of his honour and creed, the very symbol of his people.  Not only that, but he allows you to strip him of protection and reveal his vulnerability to you, exposing him and his softness – he exists as the man beneath the beskar for you and you only.  You’re the most privileged being in the galaxy – the weight of Din’s trust in you is something you will never take for granted.

When Din stands before you in only his boxers and helmet, you begin your study of his body in earnest.  Dancing your fingers across his hard and tanned chest, you trace old scars in order to separate them from new marks; palming his torso and checking his thick arms with the same careful hands.  Rounding your warrior, you continue your roaming examination over his muscular back and listen intently for any change in Din’s breathing when you press down on his tense shoulders – relieved when you hear him groan in satisfaction instead of pain.  As you’re lightly scraping your nails over his wide thighs you hear the telltale unclicking of Din’s helmet – he beckons you.

Rising to meet his lowering face, you use your thumbs to lift the brim of Din’s helmet slightly, always keeping your eyes closed so you don’t see any of his face – not for the world would you betray Din’s trust.  Mouth finding his easily, you kiss Din gingerly – unsure of what injuries he may have sustained beneath his helmet; lightly pecking his soft pout and pressing restrained affection to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not going to break, cyare,” Din grins as if he’s reading your mind.

Snapping down his helmet with a bit more force than necessary, you peer up into the black horizonal stripe of his visor and sniffle, “I can see some big bruises starting to form over your abdomen and on the back of your thighs.  And the muscles of your arms and back are overstrained and need to loosen or you’re going to be more sore tomorrow than you already will be.”  The emotions you held in all day now start to spill over your lash line; dropping your head, you cry softly at the toll today’s events have taken on your strong man’s body and how he bears it without complaint.  Contrite and indebted that he sustained these injuries at the behest of your kingdom - your behest, for you. 

Din gathers you in his arms and pulls you flush to his chest, tilting back his helmet again he kisses you lovingly, devotedly – with every stroke of his tongue, every nibble of your lips, he reminds you that it is not only his duty, but his honour to serve your kingdom, to serve you.  He would do anything for you, without you ever having to bid it.  It is not in him to deny you anything, his heart’s desire is to give you everything.

“I love you, Princess.”

“I love you, General.”

Not without some difficulty, you pull yourself out of Din’s embrace and lead him to the suite’s fresher, running the taps of the large tub and scenting the water with fragrant, healing oils.

“I can do that, mesh’la,” one of Din’s large meaty hands covers yours as you test the temperature of the water.

Shaking your head shyly, you bring that hand up to your lips and kiss its calloused knuckles, “Please. Let me serve you, Din.”

“That is not befitting of a princess.”

“I am not like other princesses.”

Tilting your chin up with two of his thick fingers, you can feel the smile behind Din’s next words, “No, you are not.  There is no one like you in the galaxy.”

“And I’m yours.”

The helmet, never having been relocked, is lifted again and Din sweeps you into a passionate, hungry kiss, different than the reassuring and devoted kisses of earlier – deeper, greedier.

“Get in the tub, Din,” you murmur against his lips while you can, before you forget your task and give yourself over to him completely.

Chuckling, Din can only acquiesce whenever he hears a direct request from your mouth – he never hears you command him as his sovereign, only ever as his love.  No matter – he would obey either way.  Stripping off his boxers, helmet still on, Din slips into the steamy water of the deep soaker tub, letting out a heady groan at the way all his muscles relax in reaction to the sudden heat against his rough skin. 

With a soft footedness that still surprises Din, so used to picking up every little sound with his helmet’s acoustic sensors, you reappear suddenly with a small tray table bearing various Flavian fruits and wine for Din and a thin silk scarf for you.

“I know you didn’t eat after the match,” you say matter-of-factly when Din tilts his helmet in question.  Neither did you.

“Will you join me, cyar’ika?”

“Of course, my love,” you begin to disrobe, perfectly understanding the double meaning of your General’s question.

Though he’s seen and worshipped your naked form more times that you can count, there’s always something about being unable to see the eyes that devour you which makes you shy.  Able to detect the rise in temperature of your face, your bashfulness amuses Din to no end – if only you could see his own expression; every time Din sees you bare before him is like the first time, he thinks you might even laugh at the slack jawed, awestruck expression hidden by his helmet – if Mandalorians were to believe in a literal afterlife, then Din could well be deemed a heretic for he’s sure he’s already seen heaven.

Stepping in the tub, careful not to trip over Din’s strong legs, you settle on your knees in the water near his feet; taking the wash towel from the side of the tub, you lather it up with your own luxurious cleanser, the scent of which you know Din loves and begin to wash his body.  With great care and affection, you wash and massage Din’s feet, calves and thick thighs, the two of you quietly chatting about your individual perspectives on what transpired in the arena today as you move up his body with your loving touch.

Din groans when you wash his groin area, and you smirk and pretend to throw him a look of disapproval even as you stroke his fast-hardening cock with the washcloth.

“Cyare…” he strains.

“Hmmmm?” Humming, you shimmy to straddle his lap and innocently begin to wash his hard chest and tree trunk arms.

“You’re teasing…”

“Not at all, I’m cleaning,” you giggle.  Rising onto your knees, you lean over Din’s mountainous shoulder to clean his back, dangling your wet, supple breasts right at helmet visor level.  Definitely teasing. 

Two can play at this game. Din’s modulator muffles his snicker as he makes sure you’re entirely engrossed in your task of scrubbing his back, concentrating adorably so that you don’t notice when his big paws reach for your chest, groping and kneading the pillowy flesh with hardly any warning.

You squeal and grind down on Din’s cock - in retaliation he zeros in on your already pert nipples, rough fingers roll and pinch, flick and tug your pretty peaks until you forget your work and bury your face into his shoulder, completely lost to the pleasure that only the General can give you.

“Din,” your voice a soft whimper, needy yet still regal and melodic, “… you have to…”

“What do I have to do, Princess?”

His teasing tone makes you gush; this man knows exactly what he’s doing – you try to claw back some semblance of control over the situation, “You need to let me tend to any injuries you may have sustained under your helmet.  And let me wash your hair.”

“Oh, do I?” 

Nodding in earnest with your eyebrows raised, “Yes, and then you have to rest.  Your body needs it.”

“My body needs you, mesh’la.”

Leaning back, your eyes follow the trail of your fingers as they rake down the smooth skin of Din’s broad chest, slowing over the various long-healed scars whose tales of origin you know by heart, you prepare yourself to argue your way.  But the truth is, you don’t want your way – you need Din, too.  Here on Flavin 5, there is no fear of getting caught, no need for hurried kisses or fleeting touches – the two of you have time.  Time to enjoy one another.  Time to let your hearts run rampant with affection and want.

Tomorrow morning is the last morning you can wake lazily in Din’s arms, like any other couple waking to just another day in the rest of your lives together.  Tomorrow you will return home and your love for your steady warrior will once again need to be tucked away close to your heart, safe from the prying eyes of the kingdom. 

So, you don’t argue.

“Injuries first, General.”

“I have none, Princess.”  You can feel Din’s shit eating grin radiating from behind the beskar.

Grinding down a little on Din’s hardening length as a warning, “I should like to see for myself, thanks.”

“Of course, mesh’la.  I would see you satisfied.”  Though still smirking, it’s with enormous feeling that Din picks up the scarf from the side table and with his practiced hand, covers your eyes; wrapping the silk around your head twice before tying it securely.  He doesn’t ask you if you can see, knowing that if you could you would volunteer it.  Sitting prettily with your hands clasped together, you wait for the welcomed sound of Din’s helmet being lifted and set down where you scarf previously lay.

Heart full, your hands reach out to gently touch Din’s face, fingers tracing over the most intimate part of the man you love.  His jaw relaxes as you stroke though his facial hair and his plush lips curl as your thumb brushes over them.  Din’s strong nose feels unbroken, thank goodness – your gentle kiss to the tip earns you a breathy chuckle that tickles your throat.  Mapping the strong lines of his forehead, you discover your first wound at Din’s hairline – the soft curls of his brown (or so you’re told) hair already matted and sticking with dried blood.  When your fingers caress Din’s temple, you find a small superficial cut by his left eye, and your heart tightens further upon feeling a nastier slice on the apple of his cheek.  Even without seeing and Din giving away no hint of tenderness at your touch, you’re sure there are bruises starting to form on the face you love.

Though you’ve never seen it, you know Din’s face – positive that you could pick it out of a crowd as surely as you could your own in a mirror.  It’s the face of the strongest warrior you’ve ever known, one whose honour and integrity is as unbreakable as the beskar armour that covers his body.  A protector who fights without fail to defend the weak, uphold justice, and push back against tyranny and corruption – no matter how hard something may be or the risk to his own self, the man who bears this face will never back down, always standing up for what’s right.  It’s the face of a man who loves fiercely – loves his Creed, his people, his duty, his son, his woman.  You.  You know the face of this man, the man who owns your heart, your body, your soul - wholly and completely.

You wash this face, carefully cleaning your discoveries.  Then, before you wash his hair, you cradle Din’s head delicately and check for bumps and scrapes, sighing in relief when you find none.  Lathering up a generous amount of your shampoo, you distribute it through Din’s curls, massaging his scalp as he groans in approval.  Your smile at the sound could melt even the steeliest warrior’s heart, Din is sure – it melts his.

When his hair is rinsed and face pat dry, salve applied to his wounds, you attempt to get Din to eat from the food on the tray.

“After, Princess,” Din’s voice somehow lower than when it’s filtered through his modulator.

“After what?” you pretend to be confused.

“After I have what I’m truly hungry for,” you can feel the sides of his face lift beneath your hands as the curve of his mouth pulls up into a wicked grin.

You flash him what you think is a mirroring smirk, “And what is that, General?”

Din takes an excruciating long time trailing his fingers featherlike down the column of your throat as an answer.  His massive hand skate over your naked breasts, pinky pretending to be caught on your pert nipple before catching up with its brethren that have moved on to tickling your soft tummy.  When his hand finally dips below the water, it’s no more hurried, no less teasing – knuckling down the front of you, his hand so big and wide, his thumb and baby finger stretch to slowly stroke along the apex of your thighs at the same time with no additional effort at all.  You quiver at your warrior’s languid and gentle touch – that these same hands are trained for weapons and brutality is not lost on you; how lucky are you to be able to feel them as they are now, so close to where you need them, reverent and worshipful.  Hands meant for building up and protecting, instead of tearing down and destroying - and yet you know them capable of both - and moreover, that they can and will do both to you. 

Leaning forward to press your lips tenderly to Din’s, you whisper, “Promise you’ll eat after?”

He knows the condition of the ask is empty - you need him as much as he does you, both of you hungry for more than the food your empty stomachs growl for.  The worry you felt for your Mandalorian every second he was in the arena today has morphed into a blazing desire now that you have him secure once again in your loving arms; even when he was facing blaster fire or the murderous glare of a mudhorn today, Din’s thoughts never strayed far from the moment he could return to your warm embrace.

But he plays along, because he knows you need to hear it, “I promise, cyare.” And then, because your well being is always as much on the forefront of his mind as his is yours, Din adds, “As long as you eat with me.”

“Promise.  Now touch me please, Din,” you’re trembling, not just from want but need, a need for the reassurance that he’s here safe, that the violence you saw in the arena did not touch him.

Even if he had not pledged his fealty to your kingdom, Din would submit to your request, to you – if it were up to him, he would spend the remainder of his days catering to your every whim, carrying out your will, doing anything and everything necessary to ensure your happiness.

He parts your folds with his fingers, finding you slick and ready for him.  As Din glides his thick digits along your seam, your soft moans fill the steamy room, “Ohhh Din, yes right there, please.”

“Such a polite little princess, isn’t she?” hums Din, loving how responsive you always are for him.  He kisses down your neck, nipping at your shoulder as you come to a rest against his chest.  You’re shuddering from the way he’s stroking your pussy, swirling infuriatingly at your needy hole but never dipping inside, teasing you with long broad swipes up to your clit.

Pressing his thumb against your already slippery nub, Din takes advantage of your lack of sight and surprises you by dipping his head down to take one of your breasts in his mouth at the same time – you cry out from this sudden double attack, body trying to run.

The old bounty hunter in him activated, Din chuckles and increases the pressure of his hand on your pulsing clit, and with his free hand, he holds you firm by the nape of your neck - face now buried deep in your cleavage, biting and sucking every bit of soft flesh his mouth can find.  Rolling your pert nipple between his teeth, he seals his lips over the sensitive peak and murmurs, “I got you, mesh’la.  Let me make you feel good.”

At his sure words, you immediately relax and willingly giving yourself over to your warrior, sighing in surrender as he worships you with his fingers and his mouth.  This is the only time that you allow yourself to be covetous of what is not rightfully yours – Din’s face you may know without having ever seen, but the lascivious sight of what he looks like when he loses himself in your pleasure remains a mystery.  You secretly long to see it – wishing to know how dark his eyes burn, how his lips wet and plump, how his brow might furrow or relax in reaction to your whines and whimpers. 

If you were his riduur – no.  No, you can’t let yourself go down that path of longing, it only ends in heartbreak. 

As if he can sense that your mind has started to wander, Din slips two of his thick fingers deep in your heat and curls them, beckoning you back to him.  You fly right back into the moment and to the space of devotion that he holds just for you, gasping for air at the stretch of his welcomed intrusion.

“Need to get you ready for my cock, cyare,” purrs your Mandalorian, bringing you back fully and binding your heart to his in the here and now.

Nodding almost mindlessly, you crash your mouth to Din’s.  The kiss is desperate, needy for so many reasons – your tongues licking and chasing, dancing to the song of perfect pleasure that strums along the electric current that connects you.  Din feverishly conducts the symphony of your body – grand upward motions of his fingers in your cunt send waves of bliss that crescendo through your core; the sweeping of his lips against yours keeps you in tempo with his own urgency; his rolling downward gestures on your clit coils the band below your belly tighter and tighter.

No one can play you like Din can – beneath the beskar armour he’s a master musician, lover.  Like the weapons he so deftly wields and handles, your body is an instrument he knows intimately – every shift, slight change or tensing is noted and adjusted for so he can optimize performance, maximize your pleasure.  Din knows you’re going to come before you do by the key in which your breath hitches, the cadence of your fluttering walls.

“Come for me, Princess,” he growls, biting down on your plush bottom lip.  Now it’s your turn to obey – you come with an arch of your back and a chorus sung to your General’s name, Din, Din, Din, Din.

Here you can be as loud for as long as you want and Din can fuck you through your high for as long as you need, withdrawing his fingers and licking them clean only when your cunt is complacent enough to release him, “Always taste so sweet, cyar’ika.”  You sigh at the filthy sounds of another forbidden sight you long, lust for.

Lips finding his again, you taste yourself on Din’s tongue and tease, “I thought we were eating after.”

This time it’s Din’s turn to act coy, repeating your question from earlier with a knowing smirk against your pout, “After what?”

In response, you reach between your bodies and even without the benefit of sight, easily find Din’s hard, throbbing cock.  Stroking his length with your delicate hands, you lift to line him up with your entrance and wordlessly sink down, “After you come, General.”

“As you wish, Princess,” Din groans at the way your pussy hugs him.  When you feel him shift beneath you to plant his feet on the bottom of the tub, you stop Din with a hand on his wide chest and shake your head, “You’re tired and your body needs rest, my love.  Let me do the work.”

Big, loving hands come up to cradle your head and a playful but reverent tone accompanies Din’s protest, “A General’s duty is to serve his Princess.”  You tilt into his paw and nuzzle; your Mandalorian’s affectionate touch and the feeling of fullness combine in making you compliant.  Leaning in close you ghost over Din’s lips, “Together then.”

Half awestruck, half groaning in agreement, Din slides his hands back down your soft body to come to a rest on your waist, holding you gentle and secure, “Together.”

It’s easy to find the perfect rhythm, your bodies already so in tune with one another.  Din’s slow upward thrusts meet your lighter bounces halfway, causing the water of your bath to ripple and splash against the sides of the tub.  It’s tender and patient until it isn’t – with no communication other than your soft whinnying and Din’s grunts and heavy breathing, your tempo and intensity remain matched, building together. 

Always together.  How you love being together with your Mandalorian.  How you love him.

You press yourself to Din, the rise and fall of his chest grounding you as your hips work in tandem with his.  Arms snaking around his neck, you cling to the General as your joint movements become more fervent and passionate, the water now choppy from your lovemaking.

Together.  Everything is better when you’re together.  You were able to get through today, together.

Love, relief and gratitude flood your pleasure wracked body as you crawl up Din’s broad mountain frame to find his lips.  Latching your mouth to your Mandalorian’s, you kiss him heady and desperate.  Every press of your plush and swollen pout thankful for his survival, of today’s fight and of all the fights that came before today so that he could come into your life.  A thank you to maybe that same mystical force that gives Grogu his unexplainable powers, for making the man that fills you so full at the moment the warrior, the father, the man is.  Thankful that he loves you.  For all of him.

Din meets every brush of your lips with the same devotion, somehow able to read the emotion behind your eyes without seeing them - the same way you’re able to read him even when he’s hidden behind his helmet.  He himself grateful for bringing his son and your countrymen back to you safe, for being the one to give you what you needed for the success of your mission.  A thank you to that same power than runs in his son’s veins and makes him a warrior far stronger than Din could ever be, for bringing him to you.  Grateful that a woman as regal, compassionate, and kind as you saw past his hard armoured exterior to the man beneath and holds him in your esteem.  And in your heart.

“Ni kar'tayl darasuum gar,” Din growls with a deep rumble of his chest that echoes off the walls.  I love you.

“Ni kar'tayl darasuum gar,” you cry back in the perfect pronunciation that Din taught you.  I love you.

Neither of you able to hold back your love for one another nor the crest of your bodies any longer – coming together, lyrical song sung loud and shameless.  The Princess and the General have nothing to hide here, tonight.

Later, after you’ve each eaten and drank your fill of Falvian fruits and wine, and you’ve massaged and kneaded Din’s sore muscles until you’re satisfied with the way his aches have melted away, Din guides you, still blindfolded, out of the cooled bath to the bed.

With Din protectively hovering over your naked body ready to take you again, you realize that as thankful as you’ve been feeling, you haven’t actually acknowledged those sentiments out loud to the man to whom you owe everything, “Thank you, Din.  Thank you for being the might of the realm.”

Though he knows you cannot see them, Din’s eyes fill with a love he hopes he can properly convey in other ways, “No need to thank me, cyar’ika, it will always be my honour to fight for you.  You must know - you are the might of the realm.  The realm prospers and remains strong because its Princess is brave, smart, good.  You’re everything, mesh’la.  You’re my might – I can only do the things I can because I do them for you.  I would do anything for you.”

You feel the scarf you wear across your eyes dampen as it absorbs your tears, “I know, Din.”  Happy, content, you welcome your General between your legs once more; and with the rare luxury of time and freedom that the two of you have been gifted tonight, you know it won’t be the last time.

[count-doodoo]

#the idea that CC-2224 named himself ''Cody''#and sometimes the Alphas and his closest friends call him ''Kote'' in a half-teasing/half-complimentary way?#but they still mostly call him Cody because it's his actual name#very cute. love it#the idea that ''Kote'' is his REAL name and ''Cody'' is a mispronunciation or something he tells people he's not as close to?#KILL IT WITH FIRE

(via @maplerosekisses)

okay while I'm here I can swing at some hornets nests

I expect a not insignificant amount of sampling bias on this one

[violetjedisylveon]

Amnesia Chapter 16 - Kir'manir(to adopt)

Bad Batch Omega centric au

Summary: Freyu is planning something special for Omega, unaware of the revelation her ward had that she's been holding close to the chest.

Word count: 4k

Warnings: self loathing, self deprecation, perceived child abandonment

A/N: Hello there from College Hell! I haven't watched any of season 3 yet, no spoilers please.

Enjoy!

Bad Batch Amnesia AU Masterpost

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Freyu got to Mlikix very early in the morning, the sun hadn't even risen yet but she wasn't worried. She hadn't been bothered since giving her threat five days earlier, and the town would still have enough people around that she felt safe. And Cai would provide what she had requested.

Besides, it was a good day. It was a really great day.

Four months ago today, she had found Omega.

Tesi had been encouraging her to do something for it, a third of a year spent living with someone wasn't nothing. She had relented eventually and was now in town to pick up what she had gotten for Omega.

It was sorta like a birthday? They could call the original date she was found her birthday since they would likely never know when the date actually was, and that seemed appropriate, but waiting another eight months was way too long. She could ask what Omega thought of it too before making anything “official”.

Besides, Omega had been upset lately. Freyu could sense the churning emotions she was hiding, she wasn't going to force the answer out. This little celebration should cheer her up.

Freyu hadn't really celebrated anything in years, Maatsu was the one who liked to celebrate all those traditions and holidays. She hadn't really seen the point in celebrating when he wasn't there, she'd of course do something for Jicelli, but those celebrations always felt so hollow.

Then when Maatsu died they became empty reminders- Nope! She wasn't going there! This was going to be a good day.

She couldn't help the smile on her face as she picked up the crate from the shipping dock, and not just because of the worker's expression at her lifting the crate with ease, it wasn't that heavy anyway. No, she was giddy and smiling because… she hadn't really felt this happy in a while.

She was excited.

She hadn't felt this sort of giddy excitement in years.

Freyu made it back to her house without any incident. Her threat really must have worked wonders, maybe they had even left entirely. That would be nice.

…Maybe a little too nice given her history…

Freyu set the crate on the table and got to work.

XXX

Omega smelled something sweet as she sleepily came downstairs.

Freyu's making something tasty! That excitable, buzzy part of her brain said, silencing the heavy, bitter part that hung around the edges of her mind every time she woke up.

She smiled and excitedly descended, shaking off her negative headspace.

“What are you making Freyu?!” She asked as she jumped the last step.

Boa yipped and sat on her hind legs, licking her cheek with her slobbery tongue. She giggled while patting between the Chrysocy's horns. Cassony padded up and rubbed her legs, curling a tendril around her arm in her usual greeting. Omega made sure to give the older Chrysocy some love too.

“I'm making a surprise! Don't come in the kitchen, why don't you turn on the holonet and watch something, or practice some Mando'a.” Freyy instructed from the kitchen.

Omega peered around the corner and found the kitchen curtain had been drawn, blocking her view of whatever Freyu was doing.

The Pantoran suddenly popped out from behind the curtain and gave her a pointed look.

“No peeking Meg'ika.” She ordered sternly.

“Fine.” Omega huffed, crossing her arms for extra pouting effect.

“Nice try but I am immune to the effects of pouting.” Freyu said, tapping her nose gently.

“Now shoo, I'm busy.” She made a shooing motion and disappeared behind the curtain.

“You've got something in your hair!” Omega called out.

“I know!” Freyu called back.

Omega rolled her eyes and went over to the couch to watch something. She and Freyu had been watching the How To Train Your Mythosaur series together, she felt like watching that today.

Once the show started, Boa lept onto the caf table and curled around her feet. Then Cassony jumped up onto the couch and sat on her lap. And then Iri flew down and sat on her head.

Oh I see what they're doing. Omega scowled.

“You gonna have Asichi come sit on me too?” She shouted towards the kitchen.

“No, Asichi is helping me in here.” Freyu answered.

“Wait, what? Really?” Omega craned her neck to see if she could spot the horse's shadow.

“No, Meg'ika, I'm just messing with you. Asichi is out grazing. Tesi is helping.” Freyu told her.

Omega crossed her arms, to the best of her ability with Cassony laying fully on top of her, and tried to be angry. But Cassony was too cute to ignore and she quickly gave in to the temptation to pet the adorable creature holding her hostage.

It took a little while, and the smell from the kitchen was absolutely amazing. Sweet and spicy and citrusy smells were mixing together in a pleasant aroma that made her even hungrier.

“Freyu, are you going to tell me what you're making yet?!” Omega called out.

“Nope! Hey, what's your spice tolerance? Eh never mind, I think I have a pretty good handle on that.” Freyu called back.

Omega waited a little bit longer, catching spare bits of a conversation between Freyu and Tesi. From what she was hearing, Freyu was nervous about something, which was definitely strange, Freyu wasn't ever nervous, and Tesi was talking her down.

Soon after that, she heard the curtain get pulled open and, before she could react, hands covered her eyes.

“Freyu! What are you doing?!” Omega giggled.

“Making sure you don't peek.” Freyu said.

The Pantoran easily lifted her over the couch and set her on the ground.

“Okay and walk forwards, nothing's in your way.” Freyu told her.

Still giggling, Omega walked forwards with her arms out to feel for the table, though she trusted Freyu to keep her safe. She grabbed onto the table when she found it and stopped.

“Okay I'm taking my hands off but don't peek.” Freyu instructed sternly.

“Alright.” Omega agreed.

She heard Freyu step away and set something up before walking back around to her again.

“Open up.”

Omega opened her eyes to see the table filled with food and a very anxious Freyu.

“Is something important happening today?” She asked.

Freyu didn't make this much food at once unless they were having company.

“Oh! Well, you've been here four months today, Tesi suggested doing something and, well I guess I got a bit carried away.” Freyu said, anxiously fidgeting her fingers.

“You're acting funny.” Omega pointed out.

“I- yeah… I probably am.” Freyu chuckled nervously.

“So um, food! I made some food, what do you want?” Freyu asked.

Omega looked back to the assortment of options laid out for her?

Why would Freyu do all this for me? She knew how much trouble she had brought into her guardian's life.

Only a few options looked familiar to her.

“What is there?” she asked.

Freyu brightened almost immediately.

“There's lots of things. Tiingilar, it's usually really spicy but I made it less spicy for you, Cufiasnip, we've got some fruits from the greenhouse, and I made some tarts from Pantora! It's got raspberries in it.” Freyu pointed to the couple of tarts with blue and purple filling. 

“I made an Uj'alayi too, oh, that's a type of cake, it's Mando'a. And there's some snowgrass soup, and I made a couple types of bread, so you can really just take what you want.” Freyu said.

Omega eyed her ori'vod. Freyu was definitely acting weird, but she was smiling and looked happy…?

“Aren't you going to tell her what this means before she partakes in this ritual?” Tesi prompted Freyu.

Her ori'vod's face flushed indigo with embarrassment as she turned on the droid.

“I was going to!” She shouted.

Freyu stubbornly turned away from the droid and looked down to her.

“Snowgrass is an important food for Pantorans, a snowgrass soup is a very… significant dish, even more so when it's being presented to someone outside the community or… or a family…” Freyu trailed off with her face turning purple.

“Okay… why are you being so weird still?” Omega asked.

Tesi rolled her electronic eyes and patted Freyu's shoulder.

“You're a mess, cyar'ika, let me handle this.” Tesi said.

“I'm not a mess.” Freyu huffed indignantly and crossed her arms.

Omega giggled, she didn't see Freyu pout that often, it was funny when she did, her cheeks puffed out and sometimes her cheeks turned purple.

“Cyar'ika, you're the color of a rue leaf.” Tesi chided before turning to her.

“What your ori'vod is failing to say without changing color is that this is a Pantoran welcoming ritual, they share significant foods to bring someone new into their family, and it's an offer of a gai bal manda, that's the mandalorian adoption ceremony. It's a welcoming into a family from both cultures, ad'ika.” Tesi said.

Adoption ceremony. Freyu wants to-

“What?” Omega looked to Freyu with wide eyes, surprisingly, her ori'vod almost looked scared. Freyu was never scared.

“You want me in your family?” She asked in astonishment.

She wasn't that great, not really. Her first family hadn't wanted her, she knew that very clearly now. With the bounty hunters and troopers and her unknown past, she was already far too much trouble for Freyu.

She had been too much for her first family, that's why they left her, threw her out and let the galaxy do what it pleased with their unwanted daughter. 

Why would Freyu ever want her to join her family? Sure it was nice to think of Freyu as a big sister, but why would Freyu want her to worry about?

Why would Freyu want her when… when, when someone else clearly didn't!

Why would she want someone who had already been tossed out?

Omega felt tears on her face. When had she started crying? She rubbed the stubborn tears away.

“Omega? What's wrong?” Freyu asked, voice raising in alarm.

She turned on the Pantoran, crossing her arms. She couldn't speak, if she tried, her stupid emotions would overtake her and she'd be a sobbing mess. Something was telling her that response was wrong and shameful. Just another reason she was unwanted-

“Are… did I upset you?” Freyu whispered hesitantly, fearfully.

Why does she sound scared? That didn't fit with what she knew about Freyu, but then again, there was a lot she didn't know about Freyu.

“Why… why would you want me?” Omega asked.

“Meg'ika-” Omega didn't let her finish.

“Why would you want someone who no one else does?!” Omega balled her fists as the memory flashed through her mind once again.

She had begged. She had pleaded for them to stay. She had screamed for them to not leave her behind.

And they didn't listen.

She wasn't worth enough to keep around so they tossed her out and left her behind without so much as a second thought of what would happen to her after they flew off. They left her alone to fend for herself in that horrible, hostile place.

They abandoned her because she was so worthless!

“Why would you want someone worthless like me?!” She snapped, whirling around to face the Pantoran.

Freyu was kneeling in front of her, one hand over her mouth as she stared at her in shocked horror.

This is it. She knows how worthless you are now, she'll throw you out too! She thought bitterly.

“I found out why I ended up here.” She stated as bitter anger flowed through her body.

“Yeah, turns out whatever family I had didn't want me. I wasn't worth enough to them to keep around. I was too needy and costly for them! They never cared. They threw me, their stupid, dysfunctional, worthless freak of a child out the second it benefited them! They never even cared!” Omega screamed, she screamed in Freyu's face.

“So there it is! Now you know why I ended up here! They didn't want me!” She snarled.

She seethed, feeling the anger rush through her body with only silence ringing in her ears 

“I want you.”

Omega looked up at the small, quiet voice. Freyu was still staring at her, Omega couldn't exactly read her expression, but she recognized anger somewhere in the mix. The rational part of her brain told her Freyu was angry at her first family, but she felt like Freyu was angry at her for the blow up.

“Why would anyone want me?” She scoffed.

“I want you.” Freyu repeated.

“uh huh, why? Give me one reason you would want me.” Omega growled.

“I love you.” Freyu said immediately.

All trace if rage or nervousness was gone from her face, there was only fierce determination.

Omega felt the brunt of her anger fade into confusion and pain, she was hurting inside, she didn't know why.

“Why?” was all she could think of to ask.

“Because I care about you. I love you.” Freyu said.

Omega stared up at those golden yellow eyes looking back down at her with such warmth and honesty. She could believe Freyu's words, her actions more than backed it up.

“You love me?”

Freyu leaned forwards and gave her a light keldabe.

“I love you, Meg'ika.” Freyu said.

Omega cried and hugged her ori'vod. A distressing mix of emotions churned around her insides, anger, confusion, grief, joy, relief, and a hundred others she couldn't name.

“Whoever those demagolka(real life monster) were, they deserve aar'ika(to suffer).” Freyu said.

“If I ever meet them, I will make them feel the pain they caused you.” She swore.

Omega nodded, as bad as it might be, she liked the idea in the moment.

“This is very sweet and all, but the food is going cold.” Tesi said.

Freyu groaned in the droid's general direction and got up.

“Let's get some food, vod'ika, we can talk about whatever you want while we eat.” Freyu said, holding out a hand for her, waiting for her unlike them.

Omega took the offered hand and rose off the floor.

“What's that mean anyway? Vod'ika, you keep calling me that.” Omega asked.

Freyu's face flushed again.

“Little sibling.” She admitted.

“And what's ori'vod?” She asked, she had been using it without knowing the meaning for a while now.

“Big sibling, or special, close friend. It's an important word, it has a lot of responsibility. It's every ori'vod's job to protect their vod'ika.” Freyu explained.

Omega hugged her again, feeling her tense up.

“You're a good ori'vod Freyu.” She said.

“You're a pretty great vod'ika too.” Freyu responded, patting her head lightly.

At Tesi's insistence, they quickly got to eating. Omega helped herself to a heaping serving filled with just about everything at the table that Freyu said she could eat. Some of it was naturally poisonous to her.

Everything was super tasty, each bite was packed full of flavor and it was the best meal she had ever eaten in her life.

Omega got more of the snowgrass soup and the blue and purple rice. It was fresh from Pantora, Freyu had picked it up this morning along with a few other things she had used to make this feast.

“Are Pantoran adoptions really this simple?” She asked.

Freyu glanced up and smiled.

“There's a bit more, the meal is a sign that you're welcome and if you accept, it's a celebration for the following inking ritual.” She answered.

“Inking?” Omega echoed.

“Tattoos, you get the family markings, at least that's how my family does it, I don't know how they do it on Pantora anymore, but that's how it used to be.” She said.

“Do I get a tattoo like you?” Omega asked eagerly, she really liked Freyu's tattoos.

“Oh, no, the flowers aren't ready yet. That's where we get the color from. But once I have it ready, you could do it if you want.” Freyu said.

“That's gonna be so cool!” Omega insisted.

Freyu chuckled and went back to eating.

“Are you forgetting about the gai bal manda?” Tesi asked, leaning towards them from her place at the table sipping some… thing, Omega honestly did not understand that droid one bit.

“No, I just haven't gotten there yet.” Freyu huffed.

“What's the gai bal manda?” She asked.

“You'll find out.” Freyu said cheekily.

XXX

Omega laid on the couch with an overly full stomach, Freyu had accidentally over-estimated how much humans could eat, Pantorans could eat much more. That just meant lots of tasty leftovers the next couple of days.

Freyu was finishing up with cleaning, she'd refused her help when she offered. Tesi had said something about her stalling which had Freyu shouting for Tesi to shut up with a purple face.

A few minutes later Freyu came out with a metal pot full of something. The pot was heavily decorated and looked really old. Freyu set it on the caf table and took a deep breath before turning to her.

“I'm going to let you know something that you can't ever tell anyone else, it's extremely important that you understand how secret this is.” Freyu insisted.

I knew there was something she wasn't telling me! Omega thought.

“Omega, this is serious, if it wasn't I would have told you already.” Freyu told her, snapping her fingers to get her attention.

She cocked her head to the side.

“How serious is it?” she asked.

“The Empire would try to kill me.” Freyu said.

Omega gasped, Freyu covered her mouth before she could say anything.

“I didn't say they would kill me, I said they would try to, okay?” She said.

Omega nodded and Freyu removed her hand from her mouth.

“You can't tell anyone about this.” Freyu said one last time.

She sat on her knees and closed her eyes, holding out her arms in front of her chest.

“Oh and stand back, don't wanna burn you.” She added.

Before Omega could ask what she meant, Freyu snapped her fingers and a blue spark burst forth from her hands, erupting into a blue and purple flame that danced above her finger tips.

She stared down at the flickering flame with a saddened smile, then glanced up to her and extended her hands, and the fire, towards her. Omega backed away from the definitely not normal fire and Freyu withdrew her hands, pulling the fire back close to her chest.

Her saddened face was illuminated by her own flames as she moved one hand from beneath the flame.

“I didn't lie to you… but I didn't tell you the truth either.” Freyu said after a moment.

With a flick of her free hand, part of the flame pulled away and danced around her fingers.

“Freyu… how are you doing this…?” She asked.

“You remember when I told you about Maatsu, right?”

She nodded.

“And when I told you about the Force?”

She nodded again.

“I can use it.” Freyu turned her head away as she spoke.

Omega stared at the fire and Freyu, the flames danced calmly as they hovered over her hand. A million questions raced around her head but only one came out.

“Like a Jedi?”

Freyu nodded.

“You said you couldn't be one.” She felt the need to point out.

“I was too old and emotionally unstable for them to be comfortable, my mom didn't make it very far there either. Guess they didn't want to have another failure like her.” Freyu said almost bitterly.

“Your mom was a Jedi? Why didn't she do well?” Omega asked.

“My mom didn't talk about her life much, I didn't know she was one until very recently.” Freyu admitted.

“Okay… so you can do the stuff Jedi can… why is that so bad? It doesn't seem like something that would get you into trouble.” Omega said.

Freyu sighed and closed her palm around the flame, she didn't extinguish it, but she made it incredibly small.

“Do you remember anything about the clone wars? Aside from what people have told you.” She asked.

“No… why? What happened?”

“Honestly I don't really remember, I never paid much attention to the war shit cause I didn't need to, there was just war one day, no war the next time I checked. But there was a bunch of nonsense about the Jedi being traitors, which I seriously doubt is true, and there's that purge you've heard about. I just assumed that the Empire wouldn't react so kindly to someone like me around.” Freyu said.

“It’s not so different from normal, I've never been open about this, I don't just walk around lifting stuff with my mind or starting fires, that isn't smart. I can usually get away with a lot of stuff because I live here and things are just like that here, but I really don't want the Empire finding out. I don't think it would be very fun.” She added.

They'll attack her! She already said they would try to kill her! Omega realized with a jolt of fear.

“They'll take you if they find out, won't they?” She guessed.

Freyu shot her a sympathetic look, nodding.

“They will probably try, but we don't have to worry about that, because they won't find out.” She said confidently.

Omega gave her a small smile and nodded. She would take this secret to her grave. She wasn't going to let anyone take her family away from her again.

Freyu smiled back.

“Alright, let's get on with this.” With a flick of her hand, the lid of the pot she brought in was removed and whatever was within was set ablaze by the spark in her hand.

The flames danced in front of her, bathing the room in a flickering blue and purple light.

“Are you ready?” Freyu asked.

“Yeah, I am.” I'm ready to be wanted.

Freyu took her hand and held it palm up over the fire. She could feel the heat on her skin, but she knew Freyu wouldn't let any harm come to her. A cool liquid was poured into the center of her palm.

“Once I say your name, we turn our hands over.” Freyu whispered.

Omega nodded.

Whatever was in their hands would go into the fire once it was done.

Freyu took in a deep breath and gave her a nervous, excited smile.

“Ni kyr’tayl gia sa’ad, Omega.”

Together, they turned their hands over and let the liquid trickle off into the flame below.

The fire surged, green flashed through the blue flame. For a moment, the flames enveloped her hand but she felt no pain. Freyu held her hand as the fire danced around them before settling back down.

Then she covered the pot again and the fire went out.

“Welcome to the family, Meg'ika.” Freyu said.

Omega slammed herself into her big sister's side and hugged her, Freyu hugged her back and patted her head.

“Just so you know, you're stuck with me forever now. Even if you hate me, I'm going to stick with you no matter what you say, so I hope you're ready to deal with me for the rest of your life.” Freyu teased.

“I wouldn't ever hate you.” Omega told her honestly.

Freyu raised an eyebrow.

“Just wait til I embarrass you in front of someone you have a crush on.” She said.

“Freyu!” Omega whined.

“Now that's more like it.” Freyu said, playfully ruffling up her hair.

XXX

Freyu glanced up from her book as Tesi came into the living room. She and Omega had been watching a movie and Omega fell asleep on her.

“It's good to see you like this again.” Tesi said softly.

“Huh? What do you mean?” Freyu asked the droid, shifting Omega's weight slightly to be more comfortable.

“Happy, peaceful. It's truly been too long since I've seen you comfortable in your own skin.” Tesi said with her literally shining smile glowing softly.

Freyu smiled down at Omega snuggled up next to her.

“It feels good too.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Pyrokinesis is a thing in Star Wars

I hope you all have a good day whatever that is for you!

VJS Out!

[youeverjustmarryabountyhunter]

Guess who wrote a prologue for the fix it au(Fix it fic? Am I writing a fic? Prologue implies a fic to follow so who knows at this point. I'm making things up as I go, you're welcome.)

Trigger Warnings!: Non-Consensual drugging, kidnapping/captivity, mentions of threats to children, mentions of child abuse, mentions of enslavement and child soldiers (cannon typical for clone wars tbh), mentions of starvation (I think it's only one line but just to be sure!), mentions of children/infant death (not graphic! No description at all really just Jango mentioning his grief over it so I guess the warning would be grieving the death of children?)

Mando'a translations at the end^^

Prologue:

Jango wants to go home. He repeats it in his mind as he hits the ground running and even though his thoughts echo that he doesn't have one, he keeps running and he doesn't stop. They'll catch him.

They'll catch him and he knows they will because they have before but Jango won't stop because he'll be damned if he's kept here like some lapdog on a leash. He'll be damned if he'll let them use him to make child soldiers. 

They'll catch him. The thought hammers into him even as his vision starts to gray and it blurs around the edges like it always does when he gets close to the edge. He doesn't stop running. Not until his feet start to slip out from under him, not until his face collides with the cold, white, durasteel of the floor paneling. They've caught him and when he comes to he'll be a in white, cold room with looming walls that haunt him everytime he closes his eyes and a persistent guilt in his stomach that says "it's all your fault." He's starting to think it might be. 

The world goes black and when he wakes up, it's to stark white walls that burn his eyes and leave a pounding headache behind his skull. He's exhausted and his limbs ache in a way that he can't simply chalk up to getting older. He does it again, and again, and again and in the back of his mind he wonders how long it'll be before he stops running.

Not long, apparently. It only takes 3 more attempts before they drag him down to the lab like the first few week. He's not kicking and screaming when they do, if only because they'd jabbed him with a needle and made him too loopy to fight it. 

His visions cleared some now, enough to make him weak in the knees and his stomach twist in utter disgust and bile rise thick in his throat. 

He's going to be sick. Or would be if there was anything left in him. 

"Your clones are coming along wonderfully, Mr.Fett."

He hates them. Hates their stupid monotone voices, void of any emotion. Hates that they talk to him as if he wanted this. Like this was his plan. Hates that they've taken him and made children. Sentient little beings that they plan to enslave and run ragged. 

Demagolka

The ik’aade-

…his ik’aade? 

His ik’aade are so little. Tiny little forms only just beginning. Floating in- in disgustingly cold and sterilized machinery. There's something so awfully unnatural about it all that makes him physically recoil, sick to the stomach. There were so many. 

He'd wanted ade, but not like this. Never like this.

He hears voices but nothing makes sense. It's jumbled and the only things he can make sound like vague threats. To him? No. No? No. Oh. Oh.

He's already made up his mind before they finish speaking. 

—--

It's funny,  he thinks, how so much and so little could happen in 3 years. It's almost too easy to scheme his way around when he's got nothing but time to think, time to plan, time to- grieve. 

He'd cried, not that they'd known, when he'd learned how many hadn't survived. They hadn't cared. It was a "part of life" and they could "simply make more."

He hated them

6. His ade were 6 years old. Funny. It'd been 3 years but they were 6. Accelerated aging, apparently. Jango tried not to dwell on it. There were bigger fish to fry. He was a Buir and he intended to be the best. 3 years was a lot of time and he'd learned to play nice. 

They'd allowed him to start hunting again. It was too suspicious for them to simply allow him to drop off the face of the galaxy, although he'd argue there were few looking. Not that he'd tell them that. 

It'd taken them more time to believe in Prime but Jango was nothing if not a stubborn man. It'd be his downfall, he was sure, but he wasn't going down without a fight. 

At the end of the day, Prime had been everything they'd wanted and Jango was everything his ade needed. 

-End of Prologue

Mando'a Translations:

Demagolka: someone who commits atrocties, a real-life monster, a war criminal - from the notorious Mandalorian scientist of the Old Republic, Demagol, known for his experiments on children, and a figure of hate and dread in the Mando psyche.. (A rather fitting description for what's happening, I think.)

Ik’aade: Children under three. (What he's referring to here would actually be the tubies that haven't been decanted yet just fyi^^)

Ade: Children/Sons/daughters

Buir: Parent

This is not the style that the actual fic will be written in if it ever gets written. This is left intentionally vague and a little confusing because I wanted to tell it from Jango's perspective and really wanted to hammer in his thoughts and feelings and just overall what he's experiencing.

Genuinely, I'm a little hesitant to post this because my writing is rusty (really gotta get back into that habit) but I'm gonna go ahead and post it before my nerves get the better of me lol

[imarvelatstars]

A Little More Alive

Pairings: Daiyu Veteran Tai x gn!Reader

Content: werewolf reader, medieval/fantasy au, clones speak mando'a māori (translations at the end), some violence, vaguely halloween themed

Word Count: 5.6k

originally posted sept. 26th, 2023

[ao3 link]

The people in this town are a fearful lot - superstitious, suspicious of everything and everyone around them. They fear the woods more than anything. There is some sense in this fear, after all there are things that lurk in the shadows there that no human ought to comprehend. But the woods are not evil. They bring life to everything they touch, shelter for those in need, food for all, and the forest floor is often dappled with puddles, creeks, and ponds.

To you, it's home. Cool in the summers, pleasant and abundant in the spring and autumn, but the winters are hard. You tend to spend your winters in town instead because here there are fires, hearths decorated with cast iron pots that overflow with stews and warm, hearty meals that fill your belly and leave you satisfied. It's not so bad here. But it is lonely.

There is no family to stay with, no parent to hold you on chilly nights and now siblings to offer their comfort when you fall to your lowest, and there is no one to tell your secrets to. The townsfolk are wary of you, but friendly enough when they need to be, when they want something from you.

"Stranger, I need a hare for my family." "I need a deer for the equinox feast." "Get me the best fowl you can find, hunter, and I'll make it worth your while."

Not all of them are greedy, but most of them are. Not him, though. He's not like the others. The chill of the autumn and winter months lingers in their eyes year round, but his eyes are warm. They remind you of the undergrowth in the forest. The frogs and their tadpoles bathing in the mud, the squirrels and birds that build their homes in the tree trunks, the color of the leaves as they turn and fall. The hearth in midwinter, when the fire is sparking and the wood turns to embers, and the bread bakes in the oven and cracks and steams in your hands. He's kind, this man who sits in the dirt everyday and asks for the things he cannot afford.

You wonder if a man like him, with kindness in his bones, would still be so if he knew your secret. If he knew who it was that left him scraps in the dark of the night. You hope he isn't like the others in this regard, but you're too afraid to ever try and find out. For now, your secret is safe and your friend is, too.

This night is the first that's been properly cold. The weather has been fickle this week, hot one day and cool the next, but never dipping too low. Tonight, however, it's caught everyone by surprise. Some families haven't gathered enough firewood yet, so their chimneys aren't smoking. The few stragglers still out after dark are shivering in their boots, too cold to notice the shadow darting by or the coat of wolf fur around your shoulders.

You make into the forest and strip off your clothes, fold them neatly and tuck them into a hollow in a fallen trunk, then you lay out the fur on the moss and curl up on top of it, waiting. It takes a moment for you to relax, but once you do, you feel something stir deep in your stomach. You've waited too long to transform, put it off for too many days. It's going to be painful this time.

And it is. Your bones creak and snap before reknitting themselves into a wolf's skeleton, this is how it always is, but it hurts so much more than it has in ages. Your joints are sore and your gums hurt where your teeth have transformed into canines, your spine aches right where your tail sprouts out, and your muscles are on fire. But finally, it's over and you feel like yourself again.

The moon is only half full and doesn't illuminate the earth enough for human eyes, but for your eyes it's perfect. You can hear everything, every twitch of a whisker, every twig snapped underfoot, every heartbeat going pitter patter, and you can see the glassy, frightened eyes of little critters hiding beneath overgrown ferns.

You hunt. There is an old hare whose mate died earlier this month. HIs sorrow is so strong that you can smell it and it makes him slow. It's better to take his life than the life of the mother around the bend; she guards five tiny little hearts going pitter patter and that is a line you cannot, will not cross. You thank the old hare for his life and the life he will now be able to give to others, and then you move on. His body rests by the tree trunk that holds your clothes. Soon he's joined by a pair of chipmunks, a squirrel, another hare, and a bird whose wing never healed right. Most of your finds will go to those in town - the single mother making stew for her children, the angry old grandfather who lives in the smithy and yells at everyone, the young widower and his baby girl - but you always save something.

The chipmunks and bird are dropped off first, then the squirrel, then one of the hares.

"There you are," he rumbles, the tiny fire he's built illuminating the dimples in his cheeks when he turns to look at you. "Was wondering where you'd gone off to."

Your paws pad lightly on freshly fallen leaves, and the hare falls at the man's feet. You nudge it lightly with your nose before sitting back on your hind legs.

"For me, hm?"

You pant. It's your way of saying "yes, of course".

"That's very generous for an old veteran."

If you were human, you'd roll your eyes. As a wolf, you settle for a moody huff and leave it at that. He often says things like this when you come visit him, that he's old and not worth your time, that a handsome young wolf like yourself ought to be spending time with its pack instead of visiting him. He speaks sometimes of days long past when he was younger and stronger, a soldier in the Emperor's legion, but never enough for you to grasp what happened to him or why he's now a pauper who can only beg for scraps.

But you can sense things in this form that your human form can't. All your senses are more finely attuned, sharper, clearer. You can smell the pain he hides. It's stronger when it's cold. Perhaps the weather makes it worse. Whatever it is, it's in his leg. It seems to radiate from his ankle, up his shin, and into his thigh.

"You must be hungry after all that hunting," he says as he pokes at the fire. The tray he uses to collect coins and food from the locals is balanced above it. He then pats the space beside him. "Stay. We'll share."

A wolf's face cannot flush with heat or embarrassment the way that a human's can, but the quickened beating of the heart is the same, the rush of hormones in the blood. Do you panic, do you stay, do you go? You want to stay. You like him. He's the safest thing you have beyond the forest. But he's no fool. He must know you're no ordinary wolf. Wild wolves aren't like you, they aren't nearly as friendly and nowhere near as considerate. And he speaks to you like you understand him, like he can hear the very human thoughts running through your head.

"Stay, wuruhi. I won't bite." His tone is soft and his mouth is smiling. He probably thinks he's funny.

"I shouldn't be seen with you," you say, but it comes out more like "rrrrrgh oooowa". It could be dangerous for him if you linger. But then you pause, trace your eyes over his profile as the fire illuminates it, you see the creases by his eyes and the gray in his beard. You wonder if he's as lonely as you are here. You wonder if it wouldn't be so bad to stay for a bit, just this once.

You huff again, somewhere between irritated and resigned, and walk around the edge of the fire to come to his other side. You have to be gentle, you don't want to jostle him too much and make him hurt more, but finally you find a comfortable position and rest your chin on his thigh. The pain still radiates through his sinew and bone, but you sense his body react to your warmth almost immediately. Hopefully this will help.

The night is soon filled with the smell of cooked rabbit. He feeds you for the first time since this unofficial partnership began. He's hesitant at first, and wisely so, but he doesn't need to be afraid of you. You'd never do a thing to hurt him.

It's easy to drift to sleep then with your belly mostly full and the fire warming your paws and nose. His body is soft and comfortable, like something you've been longing for all this time but never even knew was possible to have. His hand is broad and warm when it settles atop your head just between your ears, and you find yourself thinking that this is... nice. Better than the forest and better than the tavern full of raucous drunkards.

Everything is warm when you wake up, almost stiflingly so. Your entire torso is nearly overheated, although your limbs and nose are a little cooler than that. Your first thought is that you added too many layers when you went to bed last night, but then you properly open your eyes and see that you're outside. It's startling for a moment, but not entirely unexpected. You've fallen asleep outside after more arduous transformations before. But that doesn't seem right. You don't remember falling asleep in the forest, and you realize now that you're not even in the forest, you're...

The weary veteran is snoring behind you. The sun has crested above the trees and hilltops and distant mountains. It's daytime and the moon is gone, and you're still a wolf, but you're out in the open. Exposed. Visible. Vulnerable. His little camp is just on the edge of town by the main path that leads to other towns and kingdoms beyond this one. Anyone could see, anyone could ask.

You wriggle up and out of his arms in an instant, tail tucked between your legs as you start to panic. You're so disoriented from your heavy sleep that for a moment, you can't remember where your things are. Your clothes, your shoes. The things that make you human. Where are they? What if someone sees you? What if they know, somehow, just what you are? What if, what if, what if-?

The leaves and dirt scrape and shift behind you, and you turn on your heels, teeth bared and ears pinned back, ready to fight, only to see him. The veteran. His bark brown eyes and ember sparked freckles. His hands are raised and he's withdrawn into the little fence he'd fallen asleep against.

"Easy, wuruhi, easy. 's just me."

Your mouth snaps shut and your ears prick forward a bit. You'd never hurt him. Never. It hurts to think that you've scared him, but you don't have time for this, you have to get out of there before someone sees.

He tilts his head to the side just slightly, likely eyeing the fur that's raised along the ridge of your spine and tail. "What's got you worked up? Hm?"

A rooster crows just inside town. A sharp breeze whistles between the houses and barns. The nearest house creaks when its front door opens. You turn to run and you don't look back.

You make it back to the tavern and you don't leave until hours later, not until your heartbeat has evened out and the adrenaline has stopped pumping through your veins and you stop hearing voices clamoring to chase you out of town.

That was too close. You let your guard down. You can't afford to do that again. As much as you don't like some of the people here, this town gives you a purpose to focus your time on, people to interact with and casual friendships to make, the money you need for clothes and finer, pretty things that you aren't able to craft.

You sigh as you press your forehead to the door of your room.

You can't let yourself close to him like that again. It's not safe for you and you can only imagine what might happen to him if he were seen interacting with a creature like you...

Monsters. Beasts. Demons. These are the words the folk in the tavern use when they tell stories late into the evening and the days grow shorter. "Beware the wolf that roams these woods" is the warning bestowed to travelers. "He'll tear your throat from your chest and feast on your heart." They laugh and shiver and drink from their tankards, and then one will nudge another and say, "and avoid that old beggar on the road."

Those stories hurt more than the ones they tell about your kind. You know the truth of living a life half between wolf and human. You were never cursed by a witch, never damned by the devil, nor abandoned by your mother for being the foul offspring she never wanted. You were simply born like this and your family was lost long ago to hunters and soldiers, fearful townsfolk like these who start at every shadow. But the things they say about the man with the gentle eyes and tired smile makes your blood boil.

They don't know what they're saying, who they're speaking in the presence of. They don't know that he's yours to protect, or even that he's worth protecting. All they know is their simple, pathetic existences and crass jokes made into beer foam and hissed between moldy teeth. They're fools.

But some good still comes from their mockery. It reminds you that the "old" beggar is still alone, probably wondering what happened to the wolf who fell asleep warming his injured leg. And he's probably hungry. It's been several days since you brought him something.

You eye the credits you've most recently earned and count them up, then catch a glimpse out the window. Sunset isn't for a few more hours; you still have time and opposable thumbs.

Hardly an hour later, you've purchased a bundle of potatoes, turnips, apples, and old bread, and are marching out to the edge of town. It's nerve-wracking, this decision to finally interact with him as a human, and you're half convinced he'll see right through you. He won't, of course, he has no reason to even suspect you, but you're nervous all the same. Your stomach's all knotted up and your heart's in your throat. So many "what-ifs", so many worries and anxieties, so many unknowns, and it's stupid really because he's always been kind and gentle, never been a threat to you. Why do you even care so much about how he might react?

"Hello," you say when you finally see him. It's about all you can say, but it's embarrassing that it's all you can muster for your very first conversation.

He doesn't start - must have heard you coming - but he does look curiously at you. As if he can't figure you out. Or maybe he thinks you look familiar. You really, really hope that isn't it.

His response is halting and unsure. He nods at you. "Hello."

Your arm shoots out of its own accord and the bundle swings wildly in the air. "I thought you might be hungry."

His eyes flicker, sizing up the bundle, sizing up you, curious, searching, questioning, but... grateful. It's not easy to miss the way his shoulders relax and slope just a bit. "Thank you. That's very kind."

Your body switches to moving on instinct and you soon find yourself on a knee, just across from the spot where you'd fallen asleep with him before. The bundle is handed over and the new rabbit skin gloves that cover his knuckles catch your eye. Roughly sewn, some fur missing in spots where his knife or your teeth must have caught, but clearly made by his own hands. It strikes you as oddly sentimental despite being the smartest, most logical thing he could have done. He didn't make them because the hare came from you, he made them because he was cold and winter is coming, you know this, but still. He preserved your little tooth marks. He keeps them close to him. It may mean nothing to him, but you find that it means everything to you.

So you return to him once night falls and the moon is out, against your better judgement. You can't help it. You want to see him again, you want to see if he enjoyed the food, if your human presence is something he wouldn't mind sitting with again.

"How is it?" you ask when you come trotting out of the woods, but it's muffled by the critter in your jaws and comes out something like, "ghghghgh ooofgh".

He smiles when he sees you. "There you are, little one." He scratches you behind the ears before you've even dropped it for him and it's so embarrassing, but your tail starts wagging. Like any number of the stray dogs that enjoy attention from the townsfolk, even from you. "'s good t' see you again," he chuckles.

Your nose nudges the sack of food from earlier, played off to look as if you're curious or seeking out an interesting smell.

"You smell that, huh? It's from a friend."

I know. But it makes you feel good to hear it.

"It'll make a good meal for us, eh?"

And it's then that you wonder when you went so soft for a man you hardly know. He cooks for you and tells you stories while you lounge at his feet. He tells you about his big brother, Appo, and his commander, Rex. He tells you about the blade he took to his shin and the cannon explosion that sent shrapnel into his knee. Most importantly, he tells you his name and it's something you immediately tuck inside your heart.

It suits him, this single syllable.

"It means 'the coast' or 'the tide'. It was my father's tongue." He seems distant when he explains this, like he's no longer here with you. "He was from a land far, far away from here. An island kingdom. Full of warriors and great chiefs."

You rest your head on his knee and exhale softly through your nose. "Tell me more," you whine. It's a tricky translation.

He doesn't seem to understand you because he shifts and runs his palm over the scruff at your neck. "I know several tongues, but I don't know yours. Don't even know your name." He smiles, Tai smiles, and scratches your shoulder. "Don't suppose you'd ever tell me, would you?"

"I'm a wolf," you grumble, something like "ooowa woogh", which only makes him laugh.

"Perhaps one day, wuruhi iti."

He does eventually learn your name, though he doesn't know it belongs to the wolf that visits him most nights. There are moments when it seems he might, when he looks at you for a little too long in either form and you think your cover is blown, but it never is. He remains steadfast long into winter and you remain his, loathe to admit it though you are.

And then the worst happens. The shadows become too dark and too long, and the townsfolk become too afraid tucked away in their timber and stone homes, huddled around their hearths. Maybe you became too at home in the warmth of Tai's fire and you let yourself get lazy when it came to covering your tracks. But one day the people present arms and they come for the wolf they've heard tale of on the darkest nights.

You don't realize what's happening at first. You think maybe you've missed out on another festival with all your distractions of late, so you follow the crowd to the fence at the edge of town.

"Find the wolf!" someone shouts, and your blood runs cold. Several silver blades are brandished in the air.

"Get up, old man!" "Tell us where the wolf is!" "Give up the monster!"

Tai. Oh God, they know. How could they know? You were so careful. Had you really become so careless?

He struggles to his feet with a grunt and leans heavy on the fence. His eyes are tired in the light of their torches, weary and unsure. "What is this?"

The mayor steps forward. "Where is the wolf, old man?"

This the moment you've been dreading. He's sure to give you up, any human would. To them, you're just another monster that stalks their dreams and lingers at the forest's edge. You were foolish to ever think otherwise, even for him.

But when you turn to leave, he speaks. "What wolf?"

You pause, back still turned, too afraid to see his face, too afraid to hope.

"The werewolf. Your hellhound."

Tai scoffs. "I have no such thing." You turn.

"Liar!" One of the local women scrambles through the crowd then, her torch burning brightly as she brandishes a pitchfork in her other hand. "I saw you! You were talking to it, casting spells into the fire!"

"I am no witch, nor am I warlock or any other caster of spells. I'm simply a man."

"Are you lying to cover for the creature?" asks the mayor, now getting so close that his spittle catches on Tai's beard. "Or are you one of them? A demon sent to damn us?"

How can they say such things? How can they even dare to think them? Do they not see? Can they not comprehend? Have they no fear? If he were really the wolf, shouldn't they be afraid of his wrath? Or has their stupidity outweighed their senses?

To his credit, Tai doesn't rise to his bait. "You'd like that. Wouldn't you?" He smiles, but his dimples lack their usual depth and his eyes are cold for the first time. Cold like freshly dug earth over a grave. "I'm as human as you are, Lord Mayor. And even if I knew where your so-called beast was, I wouldn't say."

He's a better man than you are. Because you are seconds away from ripping this town apart.

"You'll tell us."

He just blinks. It's not a verbal refusal, but it's as clear as day. Their search ends with him.

But stories like this never end there, do they? You've heard of them from other wolves, ones less fortunate than you. Humans, when pushed to the limits of their wildest fears, are more monstruous than any wolf you've ever known. You know bloodlust when you see it, you know it because you feel it now, bubbling and broiling inside you as you fight with everything you have not to let it consume you. You know this town is dying of thirst and they will see red tonight, whether it's your blood or someone else's.

You run. You're not even out of sight, you're simply tucked under the roofing of the nearest dwelling. You pull your clothes off with enough force to tear them and you don't even bother with your undergarments, you just throw the wolf fur onto the ground and curl up on top. You gaze up at the sky where it begins to turn from pale blue to midnight black, and you summon yourself. It's all a rush of adrenaline and blood in your ears and fur melding with skin, senses coming into focus, limbs shortening, growing, folding, until you are one with yourself again, and then you howl.

There's no need to translate it, they all know what it means: death. You skirt around the edge of the crowd with your teeth bared, snarling, snapping at anyone who dares to step too close, and you barrel right into the mayor, knock him down so that he tumbles into the fence and takes it with him. The torch goes flying, the silver blade in his hand drops, and he screams.

You never liked him anyway. Too greedy and conniving to care much for the people of this town. His life won't be missed by many.

When you've had your fill, you saunter off of his body and begin to pace the gap between Tai and the others. Most of them are horrified, too shocked to even move, let alone try and fight you. Good. There are a few here that you've come to like during your stay and you'd hate to kill them. But you will. As a wolf, your life centers around your pack. The pack is yours to protect with your life, and this is the promise you have sealed with the blood of a human. There is no going back.

"Let him go." They don't understand you exactly, but they get the idea. Tai is off limits.

It takes a while for them to back down. They could perhaps overpower you, but you think the sight of their leader bleeding out has put them off attempting anything more without him. The torches become distant dots of light as the people retreat to their homes. Doors and shutters slam shut, the whole town goes quiet, and the sun falls below the horizon. The only light left is that of the stars and the embers of Tai's fire.

You pounce on him the moment you deem it safe. He yelps a little at first, startled and very probably afraid of you, but you don't care. Better afraid than dead. All that matters is seeing if he's safe. Your tongue is darting out across his skin, your nose sniffing under his tunic and his beard. Is he safe, is he safe, is he hurt. It's all you can think. Even if he hates you now. Even if this was all for nothing because you took a life for him and by human standards, that should disgust him. Even if you never see him again after this night, all you need to know is if he will survive.

He starts saying words. They sound so foreign to you that you think at first he's saying his father's tongue, the language he sometimes mumbles in or uses to call to you. But no, it's your name. Your real name. The one you gave him as a human. The one he isn't supposed to know is yours.

His hands come to gently cup your cheeks. You're still a wolf, yet he holds you now as if you were as human as he is.

"Is that you, wuruhi iti?"

What do you do? What do you say? "I killed someone for you. I'd die for you. You're mine, do you understand?"

Tai says your name again and the entire world stops. You whine. This is so much more painful than you thought it would be, this not knowing.

"It is, isn't it?"

Your tongue lolls out a bit when you whimper. "Yes, yes! It's me!" You want to howl it from the mountaintops, but you settle for licking his nose and panting.

He smiles. His cheeks dimple, and his eyes are the same type of warmth you find in the fires he's been lighting for you for the last few months, sparking the kind of embers you didn't even know you were capable of. He's warm again, not cold like the steel of a wolf killer's blade, but cozy like the forest floor after a day in the sun, soft like the hide of a hare. Home like the forest has always been.

"How did you know?" you ask later under the light of the full moon, your wolf fur laid across the back of the stolen cart and your head tucked under his arm.

The town is long gone, so far behind you that it is little more than a bad memory, though you hope none of them gets a wild hair and decides to come after you. As far as you're concerned, this cart and the goods you stole from the mayor's house are yours and Tai's now. The horse, too. If anyone is foolish enough to try and steal from you, then their fate is on their own head.

He grunts. He keeps falling asleep on you, even though he's trying hard to stay awake. "Know what?"

You butt him in the cheek with your nose. "That it was me."

"Oh." Tai laughs. "It was your eyes. I'd know them anywhere."

Now that you're human, you can feel it when your entire body flushes. What a silly reaction to such a simple statement, but you can't help it. He's been so gentle with you since you transformed, never touching anywhere that might be inappropriate or too presumptuous, never lingering for too long, but always comforting, always there.

"Really?"

"You're different, ipo. Special."

A lifetime of hearing otherwise from other humans has you feeling utterly speechless and a little breathless at his admittance. "How so?"

He hums as he tilts his head back to watch the stars. "You took care of me. Still not sure why you did, but I'm grateful all the same." His arm tightens around your shoulders. "And then you came to me as a human and you looked at me, and I just knew. Couldn't bear to lose you after that."

Your throat is threatening to close on you, your eyes are misty. "Tai..."

"Something about you made me feel a little more alive and far less alone. Thank you."

There's something growing in your throat now, something beyond the tears or the awkward tightness they cause, something you've been hesitant to name but never hesitant to act on. Something you've known for some time but never dared to voice.

"Tai, I don't regret what I did." He looks as if he wants to say something when you pause, but he holds it for a moment, waits for you to continue first. "For those like me, other wolves..." And he doesn't cringe, doesn't shy away from the word. He stays. "It's a promise that you're part of my pack. I, I know that this is not exactly normal for you, and I wouldn't want you to stay with me if you didn't wish to, if perhaps you were afraid of me-"

"I'm not."

Your belly feels warm with this knowledge.

You may as well say it. With the stars in his eyes and the moon highlighting the swell of his nose like some majestic carving in a noble family's manor, he doesn't look like the haggard veteran you've always known him as. You see something beautiful. But then, he's always been sort of beautiful to you.

"I care about you. I'd kill for you, I'd do it all again, I swear, just to keep you safe. And if you don't feel the same, I would understand, but Tai." Why is it so hard to say? Just spit it out! "I think that I love you. And I would like to stay with you, however you'll have me."

You wonder momentarily if that sheen in his eyes is just the reflection of the moon.

"Wuruhi iti." His fingers are shaking when they trace your browline. "I'm an old man trying to make his way in this wide world. Why would you stay with me?"

You smile. "I happen to like you, old man. And you're not so old as you seem."

"Perhaps not, but there are others you might spend your time on. Younger humans, less damaged. Other wolves."

"I will go if you ask me to."

But please don't. Such a request would break your heart.

Finally, he shakes his head and your lungs surge with relief. "I could never. I'm too selfish." He slips something into your palm then, and presses your fist to his lips before settling it on your breastbone.

"What's this?"

He rumbles a bit while he tries to find the words. Is he suddenly feeling bashful? "Token of my gratitude."

The moonlight reveals a small piece of wood, sanded and carved so intricately that you can only make out all the details through touch. There are all sorts of whirling spirals and delicate lines latticing the wood, so many that at first you don't realize there's something more to the design. Then you raise it a little higher and squint, and you see the shape of a wolf's head come into focus.

"It's beautiful."

"Whakairo. Another piece of my father and the land he came from. These carvings were the ways which our ancestors would tell stories. This one is ours." He brushes his thumb over one section of the wood. "Our fire." Then to another section. "The hares and the turnips. And you."

Every inch of your body is about to burst from beneath your skin. How are you so fortunate to have met this strange, wonderful man? But - "Where are you?"

His hands closes around the wood. "I'm here." Then he reaches, slowly, waiting until you nod to move any further, and taps his fingers on your collarbone. "And here. If you'll have me."

You will always have him, and he will always have you.

māori translations:

wuruhi - wolf wuruhi iti - little wolf ipo - beloved, sweetheart whakairo - carving (the wh- is pronounced like f-)

[czigonas]

Like Roving Storms

Summary:

No one had seen a jedi in years by the time the ginger-haired human or near-human wandered through the grimy cantina door in the nameless backwoods town his current hunt had led him to. Once upon a time, Jango would have called them out in public to fight - and kill - any jedi that crossed his path. These days it just doesn’t seem worth it, despite that the Empire’s bounty still stood.

All Hallows JangObi Week Day 3: Monster AU

Under the cut for length. Also on AO3. Mando'a is in-line translated here.

No one had seen a jedi in years by the time the ginger-haired human or near-human wandered through the grimy cantina door in the nameless backwoods town his current hunt had led him to. Jango isn’t even sure most people knew what they were - besides a faceless, monstrous traitor the Empire told them to hate - but most of them could sense that something was different about the weary traveller.

The bartender is clearly reluctant to serve them, but their credits are good and they don’t seem inclined to make too much of a spectacle of themselves, settling at a shadowed table and studiously not interacting with any other patrons. Once upon a time, Jango would have called them out in public to fight - and kill - any jedi that crossed his path. These days it just doesn’t seem worth it, despite that the Empire’s bounty still stood.

The jedi keeps to themself in the corner, weaving subtle suggestions into the air to ‘look away, look away, there is nothing interesting here’. Jango has no trouble seeing through them, thanks to his long years of training, but he makes sure to keep his own observations vague to avoid them sensing him in return.

They’re clearly tired - understandable for a being constantly in danger of being exposed - but they’ve kept themself well. Their clothes are simple but clean and tailored, boots worn but still comfortable looking. Despite the dark bruising under their eyes, their skin looks healthy and they seem to eat well enough for someone who must perpetually stay one step ahead of the Empire’s attack dogs.

Jango doesn’t really plan to trail the jedi when they set out the next morning; the two of them just happen to be travelling in the same direction. When the town has disappeared behind more than a few bends in the pitiful excuse for a road, the jedi steps off the path, making their way through the thick trees with uncanny stealth.

Jango follows.

“Hello there.”

He doesn’t startle when the jedi steps up next to him, despite not knowing when they had the chance to circle around. His hands do tighten reflexively on his blasters though, and he consciously relaxes them to avoid a possible misunderstanding.

“Was there a particular reason you were following me?” They continue when Jango stays silent.

He doesn’t snarl at the presumption, but it’s a near thing. “I wasn’t.”

“Ah, apologies,” they nod, as though meeting strangers in unfamiliar wilds is normal. For a jedi though, who knows; it might be, especially these days. “Might I ask your business in coming this way, then?”

“You might,” Jango replies flatly, and the jedi smiles faintly in return.

“I only ask because the way through is unsafe.” They hold up a hand before Jango can inform them exactly how dangerous he can be. “Yes, even for you. I know who you are - your reputation precedes you - but unfortunately the beast I’ve come to slay is rather more dangerous than the usual for these parts. I would rather not have anyone caught in the crossfire, especially should I fail.”

Jango looks the jedi over more closely, trying to determine if he’d ever met them before but he thinks he would have remembered someone so striking. “I’m on a hunt.”

“May I ask what it is that you’re hunting?” They ask, though it seems like they already have a suspicion.

He sighs when he realises he’ll have to give them something. “If you know who I am, you know who I’m hunting. Heard he was out this way not too long ago.”

“I had hoped you were just passing through,” their mouth twists briefly in resignation before they give in. “Yes, he was here. I’m cleaning up his messes, as always.”

“Where is he now?” Jango demands. The thought of the trail he’s followed for the last several years going cold ignites a special kind of urgency in his bones.

“I wish I could tell you,” the jedi sighs, with what seems like genuine regret. “I had hoped to find a clue in what he left behind here.”

They hesitate briefly, then dip their head in a facsimile of a bow. “I know that you deserve your vengeance, but please, the monster guarding this place is truly horrific. Let me take care of it - and any other surprises - and I swear I will not keep you from any information that remains.”

That’s far more consideration than he ever expected from a jedi. On the other hand… “Is there a reason you don’t want help?”

“Besides the fact that I didn’t expect you of all people to offer?” They reply with a wry grin. “The short answer is collateral damage. It’s been more years than I can count since I had the opportunity to fight alongside another being. I’m not sure I remember how.”

Jango bites back a scowl. They’re not wrong to doubt his offer of assistance under normal circumstances, but this is one hunt he’ll never abandon. If it takes working with a jedi to reach his quarry, then that’s what he’ll do.

“You can’t stop me,” he states implacably. “Either I follow and get in your way for sure, or you tell me what we’re likely to fight and we make a plan to take it down together. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you talking around what you expect to find up there.”

“I’m not entirely certain,” they hedge, grimacing when he gives them a flat stare in return. “From all available information, there is at least one terentatek guarding the gate and a small pack of mykal infesting the tower, though how twisted they are from exposure to his magics is still uncertain.”

Jango blows out a long, slow breath, staring at the trees around them as though he can see through them to the stone building that had been rumoured by the locals to be the hideout of a great and terrible demon. Terentateks are some of the Empire's most vicious creations; if there is one up ahead, it will be a tough fight even for two highly experienced beings like themselves.

“You know what it means if there is a terentatek up there, don’t you?” Jango asks, watching the jedi from the corner of his eye.

Their face falls and they nod again. “Yes. We’ve long suspected he has been working with the Empire on the side. A terentatek won’t be solid proof, but it will hopefully convince the last holdouts that he has no longer simply gone rogue.”

“We?” He hones in on their slip; an admittance that their people are not as wiped out as they might wish to appear.

The jedi closes off in a flash, growing still and silent as any predator, the air crackling with a taste of their rising magic. Jango raises his hands slowly, palms out, in an effort to diffuse the tension he only now realises was previously absent. “Easy, jedi. I don’t hunt your kind anymore.”

“Yes,” they murmur, eyes like chips of ice even as their body language thaws slightly. “The thousands of simulacra made in your image did that well enough, I think.”

This time Jango can’t hold back his snarl, though he keeps his hands pointedly away from his weapons. He’d barely had a hand in that, having been tricked into the contract at the end of a long hunt. If this jedi knew who he was after, they would know all of that and why. Before either of them can say something to further ruin their fragile peace, however, the jedi sighs out an apology and turns away, moving slowly into the trees. Jango takes a deep breath and follows.

They walk in silence for a while, both still somewhat brittle, until the forest around them starts to thin. Here and there, the trees bear smooth patches where the bark has been rubbed away or, occasionally, deep claw marks with their edges spidered from some creeping poison. Several are knocked down completely and then further splintered where they lay.

Jango decides to speak up, before they reach the point of no return. “Are you going to introduce yourself, jedi? Or should I just call you Atin’bur [Stubborn Guardian] in my remembrances if you fall here?”

The question startles a sharp laugh from the jedi, who turns to look at him with far more mirth than they’d previously allowed to show. “I would have been surprised to be included at all, but I have been rather rude in any case. I am Obi-wan Kenobi, he/him. I usually go by Ben out here though.”

Jango nods, waving a hand around at the destruction. “I assume we’ll come across the terentatek first, so how do you want to handle it?”

Ben grimaces slightly. “They’re immune to most of my magic, but vulnerable in all the rest of the usual ways. Their hide is quite thick, but there are a few places between the plates where we can slip a blade in. Eyes as well, of course, though they’re a significantly smaller target.” He touches one of the scored trunks gently. “And especially be wary of both their teeth and claws, as they’re quite venomous.”

“More blades than blasters, but don’t get too close, huh?” Jango hums. He eyes Obi-wan shrewdly. “You do have one of your fancy light swords, right? Or are they immune to those, too?”

Obi-wan laughs softly, a silver hilt appearing briefly in his hand before disappearing into the folds of his cloak again. “Thankfully, they’re not. I’m not the only one with one of these here, though.”

Jango’s brows raise, and he tilts his head in agreement. “How’d you know?”

“Like all blades forged in the same manner, it… sings, for lack of a better word, and that song resonates with its wielder.” Obi-wan flashes a small smile over his shoulder. “You’re unusually well-matched with it, for not having forged it yourself. You should use it,” he continues, seemingly oblivious to Jango’s uneasy silence on the matter. “At least against the terentatek.”

Before Jango can think of what to say to that, Ben holds up a hand. Straining his senses, Jango can hear the deep, heavy breaths of a large beast somewhere ahead of them. With a flurry of hand signs both familiar and not, they briefly argue over the plan they should have come up with well before reaching their prey. Still, they come to an agreement and split to circle through the sparse trees in opposite directions, doing their best to blend the sounds of their movement into the general noise of the forest around them.

The terentatek isn’t huge but it’s still on the larger side for monsters Jango’s hunted before. He takes a moment to look it over, trying to pick out the weak points in its hide that Obi-wan had said were there. They lock eyes across the artificial clearing the beast has made for itself and, with a nod and a quick hand sign, they spring into action simultaneously, as though they’d been fighting together for years.

In the end, it’s easier than Jango thought it would be to take down, though that’s not to say they make it out entirely unharmed. The terentatek is obsessively fixated on Obi-wan, focussing on him exclusively, and the jedi is thoroughly bruised in short order, though he has at least avoided the venom. His distraction allows Jango to get in a few good, crippling strikes on the beast’s flailing limbs, however, and take only glancing blows to his armour in return. He climbs its back as it stumbles, riding out its panicked thrashing and stabbing his dark sword into its spine beneath its crest at nearly the exact moment that Ben pierces it through one eye with his own light blade.

They both scramble out of the way as it falls dead, sharing twin looks of disgust at the sight and smell. Jango hopes there was only the one because, though they escaped serious injury this time, a terentatek is not the kind of monster he enjoys pursuing. Besides, the faster they clear the tower, the faster he gets his information, and the faster he can get back to hunting his real prey. Obi-wan tips his head in the direction of the broken gates now just barely visible through the trees, and Jango nods in agreement.

They walk in silence for a few minutes before he can’t help but break it. “What were you going to do if you found him?”

“I’m not sure I can answer that, really,” Obi-wan sighs softly. Before Jango can do more than scowl, he continues. “He’s of my training line, so I’m sure you can see how I might feel conflicted. It doesn’t matter anyway,” the jedi perks up again, shooting Jango another small smile. “I would hardly stand in the way of your revenge.”

“Why not?” Jango asks quietly as they push their way cautiously through into the tower yard. “Thought you jedi didn’t like senseless killing.”

“Ah, but it wouldn’t be senseless, would it?” Ben counters absently, eyeing the high windows as he spreads his magic over the area. “He’s done enough damage to enough people that I would be shocked to learn you were the only one hunting him just to kill him.”

Jango concedes the point with a shrug, drawing one of his blasters and heading for the only visible door. Obi-wan follows, still with part of his attention on the skies. Continuing their run of good luck, the mykal are sleeping in the rafters when Jango eases the door open and peeks through. Holding a hand up to stop the jedi, he pulls a sonic screamer from a belt pouch, sets the timer, and tosses it in. The ensuing cries from the mykal resonate jarringly against the screamer’s unnatural shriek, but the results are unmistakable; there are only a few of the pests remaining for them to clean up when the noise dies down and they can enter the tower proper.

“How much of this do you need to convince your holdouts?” Jango asks as they dig through years of research notes and abandoned experiments, searching for any clue of where their target may have gone next.

Obi-wan hums in consideration, setting the occasional piece of evidence aside from time to time. “Not much, I admit. The confirmation of the terentatek should win most of them over, and those who doubt I fought one would not have believed me even if I brought it back alive.”

“Do you have to report in person?”

“I suppose not,” Ben replies slowly, still half-focussed on the pages he’s flipping through. “There are a few ways I could send what we find here to them securely. Why do you ask?”

Jango doesn’t look up from the desk he’s hunched over, staring down at its messy surface with a scowl. He’s not sure how to word his request in a way that doesn’t feel like admitting to a weakness that doesn’t exist. He curses to himself under his breath.

Obi-wan sets down his pile of papers and shifts closer in concern. “Jango..?”

“Do you want to help me take him down?” He blurts out before the jedi can take more than a step.

There's a brief, startled silence. “You’ve found something then?”

Jango gives a tight nod, tapping decisively at the map under his hands. Obi-wan steps into place at his shoulder as though he’s always been there.

“Of course,” the jedi breathes when he sees just which of the surrounding marches Jango is pointing to. “In that case, let me send these off and then,” he offers Jango a sharp smile. “Let’s hunt.”

Jango’s sure his answering grin shows just as many teeth.

“Oya [Let's hunt].”

[starwarsfic]

II.29

Originally posted December 28, 2020

Summary: On a diplomatic mission to Mandalore, Obi-Wan meets someone he didn't remember he already knew.

Details: Jaster/Obi-Wan. Reincarnation AU. Dark.

Content Warnings: Consent issues.

xxxxxx

"This is ridiculous," Obi-Wan insisted, though he'd given up fighting against the priests who were in the process of 'cleansing' him.

He'd been through many odd rituals in his lifetime, even some where they assumed he was someone or something he wasn't, but this was the first time he'd had to deal with anyone mistaking him for the reincarnation of their ruler's spouse.

Coming to Mandalore, he'd known there would be some traditions that seemed completely foreign to him, no matter how many Republic worlds he'd traveled to. The quaint idea that the Mand'alors were cyclical, that every one of them had been Mand'alor in lives before, and would be again in the future, was one of the details he hadn't seen as overly important.

Perhaps morbid, when he found out their spouses were expected to kill themselves immediately on the Mand'alor's death so they could have a higher chance of reincarnating along with them, but inconsequential to a diplomatic mission as a Jedi.

Until he'd stepped into the throne room, met Mand'alor Mereel's gaze, and...the world had shifted. Like gravity had turned blinked off and back on, so quickly only his sense of equilibrium had noticed. He would have dismissed it, himself, meditated on it later, perhaps, but Mereel had shouted Mando'a orders and suddenly Obi-Wan was being separated from the rest of the diplomatic team, all but dragged (in a very gentle manner, for a Mandalorian commando, he was sure) deeper into the palace.

Then made to wait, confused, before the Mand'alor had come in spouting nonsense about thinking 'Ben' had been lost to him.

The story he'd worked out, from bits and pieces Mereel and others would say, was that Rid'alor Ben had not taken his life, because Mereel's first rule had not ended in a challenge, but instead a betrayal. He'd been murdered and his teenage heir made Mand'alor, with most believing he would not last long. Ben had stayed alive for his child, protecting him and guiding him, restabilizing the Empire of that time. And missed the window to reincarnate.

Or so they thought, until Obi-Wan had met Mereel and now they were claiming they'd been wrong, that their Ka'ra had rewarded Obi-Wan for his dedication to his family.

No one actually paid attention to Obi-Wan's protests. Not as they kept him locked up for days, not as they dragged him to some Temple for the ceremony he was being prepared for. The details made it sound simple, and not overly dangerous, and so he had decided he'd play along. Once he proved them wrong, he could hopefully leave and this would just be another unexpected detour in a mission.

Mereel waited for him at an altar, a bowl with what looked suspiciously like human blood and a brush that Obi-Wan realized with a sinking feeling might explain his own nudity beside him. He was directed to lie on the altar, to hold still as Mereel painted symbol after symbol onto his body.

"I never thought I'd have the chance, but I learned it all, memorized it just in case," Mereel was saying, voice fervent.

If what the Mandalorians believed was true, this was at least the sixth or seventh life Mereel had lived, maybe more. Obi-Wan thought if he had been the man's spouse, he would have wanted him to move on, to find happiness with someone else.

He didn't bother saying that, the last time he'd suggested it, Mereel had not reacted well. And when he'd brought up to anyone--to the priests, to the guards, to Mereel's current (and supposedly former) heir Fett--that he didn't want to be anyone's spouse, that too had been dismissed.

Whatever was in the 'paint', he realized, must not just be blood, not with the way it was starting to make his skin ache. The feeling was sinking deep, making him worry he'd end up with welts afterwards.

Around them the priests were chanting. Obi-Wan knew just enough about Mando'a to recognize it was an ancient dialect. At first he thought it was completely unfamiliar, but as the ceremony went on he began to pick out more and more of the words he knew. Focusing on the chanting meant he had a distraction from the odd feeling in his body, the ache not quite painful, but becoming overwhelming.

He thought he might be crying, as Jaster finally set the brush down and gathered him into his arms, the way he would after a harsh battle where Ben had lost too many of his verde.

Obi-Wan sucked in a breath, realizing what he'd just thought with a thrill of fear. He could remember more, now, like a flood--meeting Jaster for the first time, the other Taung impressed with his skill with a blade, even more impressed with how he poked holes in all of the plans the great 'Reformer' thought up. Finding Jango, so tiny and fragile, and bringing him home to much celebration. A vow to be as one, always.

"It's alright, cyare," Jaster was crooning above him, rocking him as he might have Jango, "you're back. You're mine again."

[sheresh0y]

Mar'eyce Introduces:

Ro Donetta-Awaud: He/Him, 30-ish

Along with his family:

Dagon Donetta-Awaud: He/Him, 28-ish

Tann Donetta-Awaud: 11-ish

Kato Donetta-Awaud: 5-ish

Ellis Donetta-Awaud: 5-ish

A/N: I decided to go balls to the wall with the rest of these characters. So much backstory. All of it. I'm dumping it right here. Drabbles will added, moodboards whenever the fancy strikes. The rest of Arumorut has had their stories told at this point in the story so, fuck it, whatever. I love these OCs too much and I'm screaming it from rooftops, baby. I know suck at writing children and these Awaud children are definitely come across as way too old but go with me on this. I also left the children's pronouns empty because I'm not entirely sure what they're all trying to tell me yet. I'll update it when they let me know.

Warnings: This fic and AU is 18+ for a reason. Mentions of parental death, swearing, slavery and unwanted children mentions. Ro's a little sad boy under all that armor.

Read from the beginning: Mar'eyce Masterlist

Ro Doneeta was born to Volya and Rol Doneeta, Twi'lek freedom fighters turned Rebels. When Ro had turned four, his parents went a on a routine trip for supplies and never came home. He was adopted shortly after by Kai and Ilyah, a quickly and quietly whispered pact made by the only two parents in their corner of The Rebellion after one too many close calls.

"Take care of them, for us. Please."

The Awauds openly encouraged Ro to participate in Twi'lek culture. Just because he was a Mandalorian now didn't mean he stopped being a Twi'lek as well. The entire clan learned Ryl and Kai and Ilyah found mentors for him to teach him the things they couldn't. They were never sure if they did right by their son, but they tried their best.

After the Awauds retired from the war and were sent back to Arumorut, when Ro and Kaiyah were sixteen, Ro threw himself into the deep end of medicine. It wasn’t humble in the way that Ba’buir was, he didn’t want to train the clan in first aid or help children with their sniffles. Ro had lost so much to the galaxy and this was his fuck you.

First, his ryma and kora, then his lek, now his buir. Kai’buir was physically there, but mentally, emotionally they were nowhere to be found. It was like he had died without dying. Ro decided he was going to fix it all, no one in his family was dying again. Nobody was getting left behind. For everything the galaxy took from Ro, he was going to drag back to this life with his bare hands.

After a few months of shadowing Ba'buir Nejaa, Ro was decided to pursue medical school on Naboo. It was a relatively peaceful planet, since tourism was most of the economy they were malleable to whoever was in charge. This meant that Ro couldn't just walk around anywhere. The Empire was still standing and he was a Mandalorian who may or may not be wanted.

Ba'buir Nejaa said no immediately. Their reasoning was the armor. Armor was important, every Mandalorian wore it all the time. The only reason Nejaa didn't anymore was because Kaiyah needed a new set and they had gifted their set to her. Ro didn't have this exception so he tried a compromise: he would wear the chest plate under his clothes. The plate was the biggest piece of armor he had and helped the most with regulating his temperature anyway. It wasn't comfortable but it was the best he could come up with.

About four years into his medical education, Ro met Dagon through some mutual friends. It was terror at first sight, the poor Zabrak man was missing nearly all of his right ear and Ro knew it was his fault. His stupid plan to fight an Aryx head-on had consequences he didn't full think of at the time.

Try as he might to avoid Dagon, it didn't matter. It was like the up and coming designer was everywhere, Dagon seemed to have his own gravity and Ro was quickly pulled in.

It didn't take long for them to fall in love, by the third official date Dagon was asking Ro to move in and by the fifth they were married. For his part, Dagon took everything Mandalorian related in stride. He barely blinked when Ro explained soulmates and the reasons they were both all scarred up on the first date. He just asked if 'his Mandalorian' had anyone to take care of him.

When Ro graduated school, not quiet a doctor but close enough, the couple had a long talk about the future. They both knew they wanted kids but The Empire was still looming. It wasn't safe for Mandalorians to be openly walking around and they were both faced with the thought it might never be. Dagon understood that his children would be raised Mandalorian. It was close to the way Zabraki culture was. Clans, fighting, it made sense for the most part. Even though he had parted he had parted ways with his family, Dagon knew Ro couldn't do that.

He had been officially introduced to most of the Awaud clan when Ro had graduated, Dagon threw a little get together in honor of his riduur and the only people on Ro's must invite list was his family. They had a bond that went closer than blood and Dagon knew his clan of two needed to do.

He moved the clan of two back to Arumorut, using the ship that Nejaa and Kaiyah brought to move the stuff that Dagon couldn't or wouldn't sell, Ro never seemed to hold on to much.

Ro was furious, initially. Dagon had plans, big plans, to be a designer and he was right at the cusp of finally getting his own line. Moving back to Arumorut would be a step back for his career or end it entirely. In Ro's mind, he could at least play security while Dagon chased his dreams and then they could settle down wherever. It didn't matter to Ro as long as he got to see his family regularly, somewhere Mid or Outer Rim, he didn't want to be too far in case of an emergency.

The move ended up being the best thing to happen to them, not a month after settling in Kaiyah brought home a little Twi'lek girl. She couldn't have been older than five, but with her malnutrition it was hard to guess and she didn't know. She didn't even have a name and barely spoke Huttese.

They named her Tann, for hope.

A year later, while debating on putting their names with an adoption agency now that The New Republic existed and Ro could get his record expunged since his Rebel activities were no longer deemed as 'treason' or 'terrorism', the twins fell in their laps. A woman had shoved the babies on Jax, who was working on a bounty at the time, she said she couldn't take care of them and knew that the Mandalorians could. Jax didn't have a soulmate at the time and knew that the Donetta-Awauds were thinking about adopting again, so he asked if they would like to add the Zabraki twins to their family. The boys couldn't have been more than a few months old, their skin was more pink than the vibrant red it now was.

Kato, for Dagon's father. Even if they didn't talk he still liked the name.

Ellis, for Ro's buir. It was her clan name before she joined Kai.

Ro knew he made the right choice when Kai-buir cried. It sounded terrible at the time, like he enjoyed making his father cry, but it was such a relief to find out that he could. That Kai wasn't entirely gone, just not always there.

Ro still asks Dagon if he regretted it. Losing his fashion line, being a boring tailor to people who didn't really need a tailor. On those days Dagon holds Ro closer, his chin resting on his Mandalorian's head, "Never. Not once. I've never been happier than when I'm with you. 'Boring tailor' and all. Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, cyare."

^ Ro in his full armor. Isn't he a handsome boy?

Translations & Other Headcanons:

Ryma: Ryl, mother

Kora: Ryl, father

Buir: Mando'a, parent

Kai-buir: Mando'a, masc parents typically go by the first three letters of their name followed by 'buir'. The Donetta-Awaud children don't really follow this rule since they have one Buir and one Edalinare (Zabraki, family).

Ba'buir: Mando'a, grandparent

I headcannon Ro as a doctor who did all the bookwork, but never the internships which I believe is eight-ish years of school? Correct me if I'm wrong I just wanted to keep the timeline in some kind of order for myself (leaving Arumorut at sixteen + eight years of school leaves Ro somewhere near 24 when they have Tann, 25 for the twins). I also know that half the stuff Ro does in Arumorut a unlicensed doctor could never do in real life, but in his mind it got him close enough to what he wanted to do, hence the joke about 'not a doctor but close enough'. He was pretty over med school, honestly. Besides, he learned the good stuff from Nejaa (who is nowhere near doctor status, think closer to field medic/EMT who has Seen Some Shit).

Riduur: Mando'a, spouse

Tann: Ryl, hope

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, cyare: Mando'a, I know you forever, beloved.

In my brain, Dagon is like 6'4", 6'5"-ish and Ro is a short king comparatively coming in at a hot 5'8", 5'9" (he swears up and down he's a solid 5'10". He's not.) Ro is almost always little spoon and doesn't mind it one bit.

I feel like I need to add a disclaimer: did I accidentally create Numa and her uncle with Tann and Ro? Yes, yes I did. Do I really care at this point? No, because it makes moodboards easy. Numa and her family belong to Disney and Lucasfilms, I did not create them and I don't want anyone to think I did. That arc plus the fact she shows up in Rebels makes me cry.

[voxmyriad]

Thank you for the tag @nottonyharrison! I haven't thought about my writing much lately.

how many works do you have on Ao3?

50 total, some a little long, others very short.

what’s your total Ao3 word count?

102,048, I finally broke 100K this year

what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Full of Surprises: MCU, Tony/AI!Jarvis, odds are the first one ever considering I wrote it the same weekend Iron Man came out in 2008. 1,009 kudos.

All Life Is Yours To Miss Remix: Harry Potter, AU Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, a companion fic to the AU fic All Life Is Yours To Miss, but from Harry's POV while he's in a magical coma. 604 kudos.

To Stand Like a Flag: The Hobbit Trilogy, Eowyn/Frerin Durinul, part of the Sansûkh Appendices. 592 kudos.

Status Quo: Team Fortress 2, gen, a snippet addressing the passage of time. 241 kudos.

In the Merry Month: The Hobbit Trilogy, Tauriel/Kíli, Tauriel and Kíli elope and show up on Bilbo's doorstep. 225 kudos.

do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try to respond to comments on the newer things I've written, but I fell off on comments for years and now it feels strange to go through and answer them.

what’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

That might be In the Merry Month. I don't want to spoil it, but the ending of that is pretty dang cute.

what’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Most horrifying, left to the reader's imagination, probably Glory, but angstiest, possibly Pyre. Although Even is pretty up there.

do you write crossovers?

I just have one, I think. I like crossovers sometimes, so I wouldn't be against writing them, but I need the right idea for it.

have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not hate, I don't think. I've had a few comments that said this wasn't what they expected because of some reason or another, but my policy for hate is to delete it immediately before it has time to take root, so it's possible and I've just forgotten.

do you write smut? if so, what kind?

I do, but I don't know what kind. Sometimes E, sometimes M, misuse of touchscreens once.

have you ever had a fic stolen?

I had some fics reposted on a site once, along with a lot of other writers, but I submitted a takedown order. As far as I know, it's just happened once.

have you ever had a fic translated?

I've had a couple of fics recorded as podfics! (Shout out to @kd-heart) I don't think I've had anything translated.

have you ever co-written a fic before?

I've twice written fics inspired by other people's fics, or in the same universe, but I haven't technically co-written a fic. Although I love RPing in such a way that it feels like co-writing, they've just never been edited and published.

what’s your all-time favourite ship?

I have no idea. I have such an armada of ships I don't think I could ever choose one.

what’s a wip that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

In The Merry Month is complete only because I knew it wouldn't be continued. I had plans for Silvan and Dwarrow and Hobbit wedding traditions and was going to make a whole thing of it, but I just lost the fire for it.

what are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and putting senses on a page. I'm good at moments that feel very sharp and visceral.

what are your writing weaknesses?

Well, right now, actually writing is a weakness. Trying to get anything done that's long enough to be written past one sitting.

what are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

It's off-putting if it's more than a word or two that's common enough to be known. I don't speak anything fluently but English, so I'd be relying on translators anyway, and what would be the point? Sometimes I'll put conlang phrases in, like Mando'a or Khuzdul, but there's a glossary at the end every time.

what was the first fandom you wrote for?

I wrote a spec for an episode of Power Rangers when I was ten and submitted it, and got a note back from their head writer telling me they had written all the episodes for the season, but that it was really good and I should make sure I keep writing. My second fandom was Star Trek The Next Generation.

what’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

I'm still proud of All Life Is Yours To Miss Remix, but that was inspired by someone else's fic. For my own, Bite Strength is growing on me.

Not tagging anyone specifically, I don't know who else has been tagged, but tag me if you'd like to answer it!

[achantersayswhat]

30 Day SWTOR OC Challenge (Ruqi and Tig Edition Day 26: Skills & Talents

Heeeeeey, so, I ended up taking a couple of unscheduled days off from this because everything is terrible right now and for a couple of days there I had the requisite amount of can for playing video games but not very much else, and rather than churn out something my heart wasn’t in I opted to give myself a break and get back into this when I was feeling it more. Which seems to be now! So there may be more skipped days in the future depending how I feel, but I am definitely still planning to finish.

SO.

What non-combat skills does your OC have? What ‘crew skills’ do they have? Why? Are they something your crew does or do you consider it something your OC knows? Does your OC have any particular talents, such as singing or dancing? What skill/talent does your OC lack that they wish they had?

Re: crew skills, both of them have Synthweaving, and thus also Archaeology and Underworld Trading, because I tend to give people the skill sets that go together rather than the ones that probably make most sense from an IC perspective. I've never really thought about it being an actual talent they have IC, but now I'm imagining that it's something they both took as an elective in their respective Academies and years later in the Alliance they bond over how annoying it was, only Tig is complaining about how hard it was to get advanced weaving techniques just right and Ruqi is complaining about how the instructor would threaten to feed you to the k'lor'sugs if you fucked up the weave on that chestpiece ONE MORE TIME.

Aside from that:

Ruqi

Among the oddly specific headcanons I have is that if I ever wrote a regency AU (which I currently have no plans to do and yet I have random headcanons for it because that's how I do) Ruqi would play pianoforte in a way that is captivatingly passionate enough to make you overlook her numerous small technical flaws. So I'm not really brushed up on my Star Wars-verse keyboard instruments, but whatever common keyboard instrument they play in the Empire, she can play it. She's good with languages--speaks ancient Sith and Huttese fluently, and knows enough to get by without a translator in Mando'a, Cheunh, and Twi'leki. She's also really good at visual/tactile puzzles, a pretty good cook, and a decent singer and dancer. She's NOT particularly good at any activity where it's advisable for you to sit and read through all the directions--no really ALL of them, don't skim them, don't carefully read the first two and skim the rest, DON'T DO IT--before you start.

Tig

Tig is a born leader--whatever elusive quality it is that makes someone look at a person and go "yes, I will risk my life against insane odds with only minimal complaining because this person asked me to", she has it spades. She can draw really well, although she doesn't often do much of it besides idle doodling during meetings and the like. She's good with languages, although she's put more effort into learning a smattering of words/phrases in as many different languages as she can than becoming really fluent in them, and the only things she's truly fluent in other than Basic are Huttese and binary. She has a pretty good singing voice but doesn't know any instruments, and she's not a very good cook but can handle convenience foods well enough.

[starwarsfic]

II.8

Originally posted September 27, 2020

Summary: The Mandalorian pantheon barely survived the Excision. But just because a god dies, doesn't mean they're gone forever. .

Details: Jango/Obi-Wan. Mandalorian Gods AU.

CW: gore, character death

xxxxxx

Obi-Wan was good at zero-g, he always had been, even beyond being a Jedi. The way he felt, though, was what he was sure people who were bad with it had described to him.

The world off-kilter. Every attempt to right himself just seeming to make it worse.

Not that he'd been feeling particularly settled. Not for the weeks since he'd been taken from Geonosis, not for the years since the last time he was on Mandalore. Maybe not ever.

Fett said he'd feel better soon, more like his "old self," and that terrified him. Because as much as he wanted to write Fett off as delusional...too much had happened that would be too hard to fake.

The Mandalorians had all sorts of gods, once. And a few lingered still, despite the Dral'han, despite their culture being destroyed piece by piece. A god of conflict and strife--the God of War--was certainly the most likely to survive, even as the traditionalists died off or moved onto other religions.

Obi-Wan knew there were still those who worshiped that particular god because he'd seen it. When he'd been hiding in places like Keldabe with Satine and he'd seen the small blood sacrifices made for the god's favor in battle. When he'd been infiltrating Death Watch cells and he'd seen them dedicate their attacks and the death they caused.

It was easy enough to write "Jango" off as someone vaguely naming their child after the God of Conflict and Fertility, Ja'rango Vhetine. Perhaps not unheard of to imagine some famous bounty hunter being chosen as a template for an army (a trap and thousands and thousands of new worshipers in one). But there was no way to hide the powers Fett had or the regard that the Mandalorians were giving him.

But even if he was telling the truth. Even if he was one of the few of the Mandalorian gods remaining...Obi-Wan had a hard time believing what he thought Obi-Wan was.

Yes, he had always accessed the Force oddly, had always seemed different from his Jedi peers. And, yes, he had felt at home the moment he'd first set foot on Mandalore and had learned the language and culture so fast that Satine had assumed he was using "Jedi tricks" to do so.

That didn't mean he was a god.

There Fett's story became nonsense, the wishful thinking of a being who'd lost too much. Suu'mirjah might have been his counterpoint, but if that god had existed it had died out with the rest. With Mandalore itself. During the Dral'han.

And how could that describe Obi-Wan? The God of Peace in the Mandalorian sense--coming to terms with trauma after war, accepting loss during battle. The one who would guide the faithful to their march away so that the God of Death could judge them.

He grimaced, then dismissed all of the memories that came to him that did explain it.

Being here was affecting his mind, that was all. No matter how hard he tried to block out the screams coming from the Sundari streets below, he felt the deaths. The New Mandalorian life snuffing out, their blood sinking into the barren soil, infusing it with power and--

No. No, he couldn't think this way. Whatever was driving the traditionalists Fett had brought along into some sort of frenzy of violence and murder must be getting to him. That was it.

His skin was not buzzing with energy. There was nothing scratching at the corners of his mind as though with just a little push more he'd know things he wasn't supposed to know.

At some point, he couldn't keep from drifting. It felt almost like meditation, but he hadn't chosen it.

When he came back to himself, he was standing in the bloody ruin of the New Mandalorian Temple of Suu'mirjah. Satine had told him of it, once, of the New Mandalorians wanting to prove to the traditionalists that they weren't "destroying" their culture by picking one of their old gods to worship. How Suu'mirjah became their God of Peace.

Obi-Wan had known without being told that they'd twisted him to fit some narrow, ahistoric meaning.

Twisted him.

He stepped further inside, staring at the altar (for show, the New Mandalorians performed no sacrifice of any sort, not even of the loss and emotions that their supposed god fed from). Fett was there, looming over it, glowing from somewhere inside.

Satine was lying on it, chest pulled open, still-beating heart on display.

"They wanted to make you their toy. I tried to counter them, with the Haat'ade, with Jaster, who understood what you were meant to be. But you were reborn as the slave of our enemies, of your murderers."

Fett's anger festered in the building, creeping across Obi-Wan's skin. Yet, he was compelled to keep moving closer. He could see the tears in Satine's eyes, the blood trickling from her mouth that said she must be silent because her tongue had been removed.

"I didn't--he didn't take sacrifices like this."

The slip made something soften on Fett's face, leaving him looking like some blood-drenched version of the tender kidnapper Obi-Wan had been dealing with before they reached Sundari.

"Just this one. Just to break their hold over you, ner'riduur."  

This didn't feel like the sort of thing Obi-Wan's spouse would do, but he knew the words were true, now. As true as all the others.

He also knew, as he stopped in front of the altar, as Fett plucked the heart from Satine's chest, that it wasn't just the New Mandalorians that had perverted Obi-Wan's nature--Death Watch had worshiped Fett for just as long.

One problem, he decided as an old familiar sorrow sank into his bones, at a time.

xxxxxx

A/N: There's actually a decent amount of Legends info on the Mandalorian religion and this is not at all it lol This is inspired by plotting on my discord where someone joked about the clones having hooves, I joked about fae AUs, someone brought up satyrs, I brought up Jango as Bacchus, and, uh, well. Here's an end result of some back and forth with multiple people lol

Mando'a: ner'riduur - my spouse

I completely made up the names of the gods, I spent way too long staring at mandoa.org before deciding to just take some words that related to what they were and smush them together. I'm not translating them here because the exact meaning of them isn't relevant.

[starwarsfic]

Breathe In With Hunger

Originally posted September 13, 2020

Summary: Obi-Wan had spent his whole life keeping his species a secret, until the Clone Wars made that impossible.

Details: Sithspawn Stewjoni AU.

xxxxxx

Obi-Wan hadn't known what to expect from the clone medical staff--he'd seen how efficient the troopers were, he almost hoped that he'd be able to get in and out of medical without any fuss.

That, however, was not to be.

"General," the medic, who had finally introduced himself as Sleep, seemed baffled by something and Obi-Wan braced himself. "Your medical records require Council authorization."

"Ah."

His casual acknowledgement called more notice to them than he'd thought it would, the focused attention of so many similar people clawing at him in the Force.

It also didn't help Sleep's attitude and, from the bags under his eyes and the tell-tale sign of stim-caused tremors, Obi-Wan was beginning to understand the name was possibly an in-joke. "General, I can't treat you if I don't know even the basics about you. It's the entire file except your name and birth date! Even your gender is redacted!"

He shifted, glancing around them. Only clones.

Whatever that meant. As he still wasn't sure how he felt about Jango Fett creating a supposed army for the Republic.

Alpha-17 was there, shifting closer to them with his tell-tale scowl. Beyond him, a few other troopers lingered, ones that had been on the recent mission with them, back-up when no other Jedi, not even his Padawan, were available.

Thus, too, why Obi-Wan wasn't being seen by a Jedi healer who already knew about him.

They all felt safe. Alpha had certainly proven himself time and time again to Obi-Wan.

And if the war continued on as it was going, they would all find out sooner than later, regardless of how careful Obi-Wan was. Perhaps an early warning would garner him the troopers' help in hiding himself in plain sight.

"Do you know what a Stewjoni is?"

Sleep blinked at him, like a droid that had just rebooted, and then startled. "You...but...." His fingers flew across the datapad in his hand, most likely at whatever medical information he'd been able to collect from their own databases. "That would explain the copper levels," he finally allowed, seeming to fumble over his words.

Beside them, Alpha-17 let out a low string of curses in Mando'a, a few that even Obi-Wan didn't know. "That would have been good to know, General," he bit out the title, condescending. "Especially with how the Sith are always all over you."

"I apologize for the oversight, Alpha. It has never been necessary information for those who temporarily worked with me, before."

Obi-Wan needed the distraction from thinking about the Sith--the feel of them against his senses, the smooth Darkness that flowed out of them. His instincts were dulled by over three decades with the Jedi and still they were so, so hard to resist when he was injured and someone like Ventress was right there.

He still remembered the taste of the Sith on Naboo, his instincts tearing through him after watching the killing blow delivered to Qui-Gon, feeling their bond start to come undone. It had just been the slightest amount, enough that he'd come out of the encounter with not even a bruise, but it had made his food taste like ash for months after.

"What do I need to know, sir?" Sleep dragged his attention back from places he really shouldn't let it go.

With a sigh, he motioned for the datapad and reluctantly logged into his own medical profile, watching as two lines became a short lifetime of information. "This is full access, trooper. I expect you to be discreet."

Sleep nodded and, distracted as he was, barely said anything when Obi-Wan slipped from the room. It wasn't as though he had gone alone, Alpha-17 was at his back the whole walk to his own temporary bunk in Tipoca City.

"If you're looking for another apology, Alpha, I'm afraid one isn't coming."

That just earned him a snort, Alpha-17 closing the door behind him and standing in the private room like he was a common fixture and not a new oddity in Obi-Wan's life.

"Your blood was blue."

"Excuse me?"

"After Ohma D'un. I thought it was some trick of the weapon you'd been exposed to."

Obi-Wan licked his lips, glancing down at his wrists where carefully crafted tattoos gave the impression of near-human blood vessels under his light toned skin. "I have an implant," he said, finally, "that helps make my blood look red, or close enough. It had failed by the end." The added iron often made him feel sickly and he'd been almost glad that it wasn't working, with how much damage his body had taken.

"Do you need...accommodations?" When his answer was a raised eyebrow, Alpha-17 glowered and continued, "Like General Koon or General Fisto need. Environmental? Special rations?"

"Have I given any indication that I do?" Now it was Alpha-17's turn to give him a look. "It's not...you must understand, my people were manufactured. We're quite capable of living in very diverse environments and, when our preferred food is scarce, living off of nearly anything." He gave a wry grin. "Though, despite it all, I'll never be as fond of live insects as my Padawan is."

Alpha-17 grimaced, remembering a few particularly harsh campaigns where Anakin had become creative with additions to their GAR-issued rations. He remained silent for a few moments, clearly working through something serious, and Obi-Wan took the time to prepare some tea for them. The ritual of it, adopted from his own Master (who adopted it from Dooku, though Obi-Wan tried not to think of that), was comforting.

As much as he'd deny it, this was a nerve-wracking evening. The last time he'd revealed himself had been when he'd taken Anakin as his Padawan, needing the boy to understand the idiosyncrasies he might notice and the difference in emotions that would flow down their bond. Anakin had already been facing so many changes, and had such a unique perspective compared to the Core and Mid-Rim peoples that Obi-Wan normally encountered, that it had gone easily.

He wasn't sure how the clones would actually take the information, when they had time to process it. Obi-Wan was aware that how human he looked could often be unsettling to those who knew the truth. That his whole being could come across as a lie in itself.

"Are you holding back?" Alpha-17 asked into the silence, after Obi-Wan served him tea in a delicate cup, as if sensing his thought process.

"What do you mean?"

"During our fights. Are you holding back because you're...hiding."

Obi-Wan stroked his beard with one hand, the fingers of the other tapping against his cup. "I suppose, if you wanted to be fully accurate, I am. But it's not because I worried you would find out," he hurried to add, "it is because if I were to stop...it would be very difficult to come back from that."

"What does that mean? You would...go feral?"

He coughed out his sip of tea, trying not to laugh. "No, Force, what sort of odd fictions are you troopers reading?" Alpha-17 had the good grace to look embarrassed. "I could far more easily take on someone like Ventress or even Dooku himself if I used my...natural abilities. However, I do not know if I could stop myself from...feeding from their essences. Which in turn would kickstart a healing process in my body that could very well reverse all the very extensive, and expensive, surgeries I have had over the years and possibly get the Order in trouble for harboring such a dangerous creature as I."

"Right. Because...you don't really look like this."

"Is that a problem, trooper?"

Alpha-17 regarded him and Obi-Wan was confused by the weight of the hurt settling within him at the hesitation. "No, General. I can't say I'm not curious about what you'd really look like, but it's no problem from me." He scowled. "I'm not some longneck who is going to judge you for not being exactly what I was expecting."

***

Sleep died in an explosion four months later. Alpha-17 disappeared into Tipoca City to train ARC troopers after severe injuries towards the end of the first year of the war. The others who new were picked off here and there, the rate of survival for the troopers worryingly low.

Obi-Wan told the medics of the 212th, when he was finally assigned to them, but he did not tell anyone else. The longer he went without doing so, the less he felt like he could.

It was Ventress who told Cody, taking great delight in stroking the scars along Obi-Wan's exposed back as his vulnerable Commander struggled against his bonds. She had a thing for stripping clones that Obi-Wan didn't like, anymore than he liked how she kept chaining him up whenever she caught him.

"He's a pretty thing, isn't he?" she cooed at Cody, carding a hand through Obi-Wan's sweaty hair. "But...why? Isn't it odd, Commander, how he seems to be nearly everyone's type?" Her smirk was self-satisfied and Obi-Wan wanted to kick it off her face. "As if he were...made...to appeal to people, regardless of their species."

Cody just seemed confused, at least at first. What he might have said was lost behind the gag that Obi-Wan found himself more and more thankful for as Ventress continued, pointing out the marks of his surgeries. Where his spines down to their very base had been dug out, where his eyes had been capped over with lenses, where his ears had been cut down and reshaped.

When she stripped down his lower body and gave Cody a view, the anger and distress coming from the clone had sharpened into rage.

As soon as they were free, it was all Obi-Wan could do to keep Cody from beating Ventress to death with his bare hands. Which was...more flattering than he wanted to admit.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Commander," he said, as they settled into the command center of the ship they were now alone on and waited for their rescue.

Cody stared at him. "Sir, that's private information. As long as the medics knew, that's all that I would expect from you."

"Truly? You're not...unnerved?"

The answer was a shrug and what might have been the beginnings of a blush, Cody's shields once more impeccable enough that Obi-Wan couldn't actually tell his feelings in the Force. "I admit it...answered a few questions I had...but it's none of my business."

"Questions about my attractiveness?" he supplied, remembering Ventress using that as a starting point.

"You do, uh, seem to garner a lot of...cross-species interest, General."

Obi-Wan gave a gentle smile, an expression he'd practiced as a youth after noticing how the humans around him responded to it from others.

"My people weren't originally created by the Sith, like every other species of what are called 'Sithspawn' they took us and twisted us to their purposes. Sith Flesh Alchemy allows for otherwise incompatible species to breed, so that they can adopt attributes the Alchemists thought would be useful." His smile turned wry, an expression that felt more natural on his face these days. "I am attractive to so many species because I was genetically engineered to be so. The closest translation into Basic for 'Stewjoni' is 'Siren,' if you know any old Aldeeranian myths."

That got Cody's attention. "You had me read those. I thought it was just...entertainment."

"Ah, you've caught me, my dear. They're not accurate per se--as you can tell, my people no longer spend much time in the water--but they serve as warnings."

"You thought we needed a warning about you? Sir, we know you would never--"

He held up a hand, stopping whatever Cody was about to say. "When Sith are involved, Cody, when they've created you, in a way, you can never be fully trustworthy. There's always the chance that somehow, someway, they still have their grip on you."

His kind weren't prone to nightmares, but everyone he'd had since the war had started was the same--Dooku's shadowy Master finding a way to turn him on his people, on his troops, with little more than the properly worded phrase.

Cody watched him, sadness seeping out from his shields. "General...Obi-Wan...just because those demagolka changed your people somehow...that doesn't mean you're monsters."

"Not just monsters, perhaps."

***

Obi-Wan was not capable of hate, not in the way most species felt it. He knew what it was, knew what it felt like rubbing against him in the Force like a tamed tooka, what it tasted like flooding him as he sipped from a Sith opponent, but he didn't feel it.

If he could, he was almost certain that he would have fallen sometime between being shot at by his suddenly blank-feeling troopers, hearing from Yoda of how most of the Council had confronted Palpatine--Sidious, and having to watch the recording of Anakin slaughtering his way through the Temple.

"You went hunting a Sith without me?" the hiss in his words was the only sign of his emotional turmoil and he tightened his hands and tried to get himself together.

How many of his colleagues--his friends--would still be alive if they had waited?

“Important, it was, to strike quickly.” Yoda’s ears were tucked closely to his head, his shoulders slumped, but Obi-Wan had little sympathy. “The Will of the Force, to act.”

“To act without thinking, to rush headlong against a Sith powerful enough to hide from all of us,” he shot back.

Obi-Wan had known--had accepted--that a war against the Sith would mean exposing himself fully by the end. He’d even imagined that it might end up being against the hidden Sith Master, had looked into ways of reversing some of the procedures he’d gone through--at the very least for claws and teeth, and venom--and none of that mattered, apparently.

He didn’t think he could take Sidious by himself, not when the man would be prepared for attacks and surely knew what he was.

If they’d waited until Obi-Wan had returned, he could have given them the upperhand. “I sincerely doubt the ‘Will of the Force’ wanted the Jedi slaughtered,” he muttered, finally, starting off into the catacombs they hid in.

“Go to face Sidious, do you?”

“No, I’m going to find Anakin. There’s nothing we can do against Sidious, not right now.”

***

The first place he thought to look was with Padme. How many times had he and she played a game of pretending he didn’t know Anakin had spent the night there? How many times had he taken up the role of possible illicit paramore to draw attention from her closeness with Anakin?

She was near-panic, clouding the Force with her strong emotions, but she understood what they needed to do. If Anakin was caught in a torrent of the Darkside, they’d need to be very careful in talking him down.

“If we can’t reach him...will you kill him?” Her hands clutched her rounded belly, as though the children within could understand the conversation and needed comfort.

Obi-Wan took long breaths, staring down at Mustafar as the ship approached. The whole planet was rife with the Dark, making his instincts claw at the back of his mind. But it was Anakin he felt most strongly, the blazing sun of his Force present nothing but rage and fear, now.

“If we can’t reach him, that means it’s not Anakin anymore. We don’t know what Sidious did to him to get him to this point.” His hands clenched, imagining some of the stories his people shared of Sith crimes. “There might just...be nothing left of him.”

He was upsetting her, perhaps unnecessarily, but he needed her to know. Needed her to be prepared.

“Your children must be your priority, Padme. It’s what he would have thought, too.” They stared into each other’s eyes, her trying hard not to flinch away from him.

Outside, the volcanic air was harsh enough that Obi-Wan worried for her health--and Anakin's. The Force could do much, but if he wasn't careful, Anakin would ruin his lungs. He'd always been so reckless with his own body.

xxxxxx

A/N: This got a little too long to just be shoved in my drabble collection (where you'll find some other stuff using the same headcanons) so I decided to make it it's own work, even though I rewrote the ending like six times over the last few weeks. 

This post has everything so far about my headcanon, but in short: Stewjoni were originally sentient predators that fed off of Force users in particular and when the fallen Jedi alchemists met up with the Sith and found out about them, they experimented on them and made them into basically Sith hunting pets.

The very original idea was because I really can't stand Stewjoni (considering it was a joke that Lucas refused to back down on) and "Stewjon is Space Scotland," and there's this Scottish legend called a "baobhan sith" that's like a siren.

Sleep is one of my clone OCs.

[starwarsfic]

I.40

Originally posted September 11, 2020

Summary: On some nights, outsiders on Mandalore should stay indoors.

Details: Werewolf AU. Mandalore Mission AU.

xxxxxx

There was something...happening to him. Obi-Wan had started feeling odd, his body itchy and achy, his Force senses just slightly out of tune, the day before, but now it was so much worse. The light of the sun was too bright, the noises of the desert--and it was he and Satine alone! the settlement they were skirting around was too far to hear!--too loud.

And the smells. By the Force, the smells were so, so strong.

He hoped he wasn't getting sick. He couldn't afford that, not right now, so close to Keldabe and the traditionalists who might not support Death Watch, but wouldn't hesitate to let Satine die to them.

"We have to find shelter," Satine was saying, though it was hard to concentrate on her words. "We can't be exposed at night out here, not tonight of all nights."

"...What's special about tonight?"

Through his muffled Force senses, he could read her tension still. "It's...once, sometimes twice, a year the so called 'Faithful' have...they have some sort of ritual. I don't know all the details, just that they're...even more dangerous. Some claim there was a curse placed on all the Mandalorians of old and that the ritual is part of that. The same people who claim wild things like Mandalorians turning into beasts during battles and tearing their enemies apart with teeth and claws." She sniffed in derision, before becoming worried again. "I don't know what it is. I just know when it happens people, the ones they'd consider outsiders, end up dead."

Aruetiise, Obi-Wan's mind supplied the Mando'a word for outsider, and traitor, with ease. Satine refused to speak the language anymore, but Obi-Wan had only gained greater fluency over the months they'd been running.

"Maybe that's why the Force feels weird," he muttered, but she ignored him.

They ended up in a run down farmhouse, barricading the entrance at Satine's insistence. Exhausted, they would normally sleep well in such an environment, but Satine was on edge with fear and Obi-Wan with a bubbling anticipation he couldn't explain.

The howling started an hour before sunset. It wasn't like any animal he knew of, the sound sending a thrill through Obi-Wan, a need to...to something.

Satine covered her mouth in her hands, curling into herself, the smell of her fear at once sour and...and appealing. Whatever Obi-Wan was picking up on, he didn't want to be near her.

Despite her protests, he slipped out the window, sitting on the roof to "keep watch."

The howling grew closer and the itching ache of his skin grew worse. He leaned back, closing his eyes, biting his lip to keep from...from trying to answer, somehow. It didn't make sense.

His mouth hurt, his gums feeling too sensitive, too much. He could taste blood. His fingers, too, the nailbeds were...they were bleeding along the edges. The muscles and tendons felt inflamed, every movement painful.

What sort of sickness was this? He could only hope Satine hadn't caught it, too.

The noises were nearby, now, dozens of strange Force presences just out of sight over the hill. They called to him and he shakily jumped off the roof, the Force reluctant to catch him. He stumbled towards the hill, legs feeling wrong underneath.

Down in the valley were inhuman shapes--huge, hunched beasts with thick fur and glowing golden eyes. One seemed to sense him, then all of them, watching him as he watched them.

He didn't dare move, staying low to the ground, unthreatening. There were screams, stuttering to a stop with the sounds of rending flesh and the scent of fresh blood. Outsiders, he thought, watching the figures feasting on humanoids they'd dragged deep into the valley.

Obi-Wan stayed there until the awful pains faded, until the Force seemed, not clear, but less weird. It meant he saw was the figures grew smaller, their fur receding, until many looked humanoid, some even full human.

A small group came up to him, slowly, their arms out to show they didn't have any weapons. "Why are you alone?" one of them asked in Mando'a.

"I was...pulled here."

"But...no one else was?" They exchanged looks above his head, as if that was odd. "Haven't you been learning from a Mandalorian? Preparing?"

He knew they didn't mean Mandalorian as Satine did. Even if they weren't largely in kute and pieces of beskar'gam, the traditional undersuit and armor, he'd know that. "I've been learning, but not from any single person." He sat up, feeling dizzy and weak. "I'm not a Mandalorian, I won't be one."

One of them snorted. "It's probably too late for that, if you're this far gone. The curse doesn't take hold of anyone but Mandalorians."

Shivering with the sudden sense of foreboding, Obi-Wan glanced at his bloody nailbeds, then back to them. "Curse?"

He only half understood the Mando'a that followed, the story of how the Taung took Coruscant and their culture was cursed for it. How it flowed through the souls of the Mando'ade and marked who was an actual Mandalorian and who wasn't.

There had been nothing about it in the info packet he'd been given, nothing but the folk stories Satine had spoken of, the wolf-like creatures people claimed the Mandalorians could become...on battlefields where there were no survivors and so the stories were easy to dismiss.

Why hadn't the Force warned him? Why hadn't he sensed the curse taking root? He could only hope that abandoning what Mandalorian culture he'd adopted would be enough to disrupt it. Satine knew the language, but didn't respect the traditions, and she wasn't cursed.

The Mandalorians offered him a place to stay, but he hurriedly dismissed it. They hadn't shied away from talking about the harsh, horrible realities of the curse, but they had been proud of it, too, had thought he'd want to be a Mandalorian and want to embrace the curse as they did.

But he was a Jedi, he couldn't be some beast.

xxxxxx

A/N: We were talking about werewolves on the Sunflare discord and I got the idea for the Mandalorians to have been cursed to be werewolves. It's connected to their own innate magic through the Manda, so spread by being a Mandalorian. I didn't get into it, but it would have some connection to the Force, beskar would block the change/instincts and there's some stuff with the Darksaber crystal helping Tarte control himself and be a Jedi and Obi-Wan eventually getting the Darksaber in my head, but I don't know if I'll ever get there lol