#Just two shinies chilling on Coruscant

[ominouspuff]

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Twenty.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C    

word count: 8.2K 

chapter summary:  Din dreams, and Marathel surrenders. 

warnings:  crap tons of angst, mention of blood and injury, violence to women, rape, rape aftermath, non-con sexual situations, sexual situations, suicide ideation, allusion to drug use, description of medical procedures, English and Mando’a cursing 

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***     

You Were Marked: Masterlist

<-You Were Marked: Previous Chapter

Din and Grogu were still on their way to Nevarro to meet with Karga. Grogu was cuddled on Din’s lap on the captain’s chair in the cockpit, and they were currently watching a holovid of what Din considered to be one of the gentlest of rom-coms in his collection.  The story was simple enough: a Zabrak fellow, who was the awkward social pariah in his youth was found to be quite desirable by the hoity-toity former beauty-queen Twi’lek once they were adults.  The two connected because they’d had kids who became playmates, and the children naturally conspired to bring their parents into a relationship.  Eventually, the Zabrak discovered that the former beauty queen been overcompensating for a rough childhood, and the Twi’lek discovered that looks weren’t everything, but character and kindness mattered more. 

Din would have told anyone who asked that the reason for watching this holo was because the story was light-hearted and child-friendly, so it was appropriate for Grogu to watch.  Din had looked up some children’s holos on the sub-ether and had found them to be irritating in the extreme, and he’d rather Grogu watch people behaving decently rather than animated, dancing, shiny space whales singing about shab knew what. 

The real reason for watching the sappy rom-com, though, was an attempt by Din to clear his head and heart of whatever ugliness was within that was causing him to have those dreams he’d had lately.  The dream of him savaging Marathel as she lay in the stream was apparently only the first in a series.  That same sleep cycle, he’d dreamed that he was aggressively fucking her up against a wall. He was pulling her hair with one hand and gripping her jaw viciously with the other, all the while growling “Look at me!”, and she’d finally managed to break loose of his hold, swiping her nails across the bite wound as she screamed “LET ME GO!”  That time, after he’d awoken to another throbbing hard-on, he locked himself in the fresher again, where he harshly rubbed one out, without lubricant, in a vague attempt to punish himself.  After, he’d changed the dressing on the bite wound, and the infection was worse.  He also felt chilled and achy, making him wonder if he caught a cold while on Coruscant.  Running around in the rain, doing a bunch of high-energy high-stress shenanigans, losing my socks, shouldn’t wonder.  Haar’chak. 

The holo ended.  Grogu pointed at the screen, looked up at Din, and said, “Patu Mama!” 

“Patu Mama?  I’m not a Zabrak, you know that.  Mama is not a Twi’lek.  We’re both human.  You, ad’ika, on the other hand, we have no kriffing clue.” 

“Mama!  Mama, Mama!” cried Grogu, slapping his hands on Din’s armorless chest, and Din grunted as the boy inadvertently hit the bite-mark. 

Din took the boy’s little hand in his, gently rubbing the tiny knuckles with his gloved thumb.  “There’s nothing new to tell you. Fennec probably just got back to Mama, and the see-kit doctors are helping her.”  Grogu pouted, his ears drooping.  “I know, little guy.”  Din sighed.  “I wish I could make this whole process go faster.” Grogu grumbled his little chatter. “Seriously, do you think I’m doing the right thing?  Or is this plan of mine insane?”  Grogu shrugged.  “You’re a big help.  Okay, get off me, let’s get you something to eat.” 

After reconstituting some dried meat and a ration bar for Grogu, Din made himself a hot mug of bone broth, which made him feel a little better.  He sent off a holotext to Karga, outlining his intentions, hoping that Karga would start with his request, without a bunch of damn questions.  Karga was too nosy for his own good. 

Din wanted to reach out to Fennec, but he knew that was unwise.  He was still surprised that they’d run into each other on Coruscant as they’d had.  That meant that wherever Marathel was, she must have been close.  Oh, how he missed her.  He hoped she was responding to whatever treatment they were giving her, that she was not in pain, that they’d figure out how to make her stop bleeding, for Frith’s sake.  Din tried to not feel jealous of the time that Cobb was able to spend with her: he got to see her feeling well, in good spirits, having fun at the damn market.  Din also knew Cobb well enough that he knew Cobb probably got a little more than familiar with her — holding her hand, putting an arm around her, possibly more, that flirting son of a bitch.  Well, I’ll be putting an end to that soon.  Leaning back in his chair, he hoped that Marathel was getting better … and perhaps thinking of him. 

Marathel was thinking about Din at that moment, although she didn’t want to.  Certainly not while she was in this position.  Marathel was still in the chair, but she was not immobilized against the blinding flashing light.  Instead, she was now lying back with her knees up towards her armpits, exposed, open, as Cieroprac did … something to her, working to repair some of the damage done by the Dilimgau.  She couldn’t feel pain, but she felt the pressure of instruments and heard the quiet murmuring of Cieroprac talking to Eliadu, who was assisting her.   

Eliadu had continued to try to dissuade Marathel from only repairing the damage.  Marathel knew that she meant well, but Eliadu couldn’t possibly understand just how devastated she was.  The knowledge she now had, when put up against what she knew and experienced, made everything so clear to her.  There was no possibility, no chance of Din’s happiness with her.  She had nothing, was nothing, was so completely unworthy of someone like the armor-clad Mandalorian. 

She only hoped he would someday forgive her.  At the very least, he could forget her.  And Grogu was young: he could easily forget her as well.  Marathel would rather be forgotten than live with their contempt. 

Marathel suddenly sobbed.  Eliadu looked up at her, asking, “Are you in pain, Marathel?  We can put you to sleep, if you want.”  Marathel shook her head, fighting back her tears.  “We’re almost done here; then it’s just a few more tests.”  

“Where is Fennec?” 

“She is out … we put her in touch with someone to create an identity for you, so you can leave here.” 

“Identity?” 

“It’s something we all must have.  We call it an ID.” 

“Eye-Dee?  I don’t understand.” 

“It’s basically proof that you are who you say you are. It’s mostly so you can travel to certain places,” said Eliadu. 

“But I don’t want to go anywhere except back to Unmanarall.” 

Eliadu smiled indulgently.  “Well, it’s one of those facts of life we all have to live with for now.” 

Marathel sighed.  Then the pressure inside her became unbearable for a moment.  Cieroprac quietly apologized while her instruments continued to push around.  “You’re doing great, Marathel,” she said. 

“I just want this to be over,” whimpered Marathel.   

Eliadu put her hand on Marathel’s ankle, giving it a gentle squeeze.   “Won’t you reconsider reconstruction?” 

“No.” 

Cieroprac said, “I think I’m done here.  You will be sore for a while.  You will also still bleed for some time while you heal.  Hopefully it will only seem like an extra monthly period to you; I’ll get you a supply of absorbent pads to wear.   I also recommend a dilator with antibiotic suppositories; this would have been easier if you responded positively to bacta.” 

“What is this bacta everyone speaks of?” Marathel asked. 

“It’s a universal healing fluid; it can be used both internally and externally.  For some reason, you’re part of the tiny percentage that it doesn’t work on,” said Cieroprac as she moved herself and her instruments out from under Marathel. 

Eliadu began moving the large chair so that Marathel was in a regular sitting position.  “We don’t know if that’s an aberration particular to you, or if it’s genetic — your people may not respond to it either.” Marathel shrugged.  “What will you do, when you go back … home?”  Marathel did not respond.  “You live alone, away from your people, don’t you?  You don’t plan to go back to them?” 

Marathel shuddered.  “My people were the ones who did this to me.  I will … I will continue to live on my own.” 

“But why would you want to go back?  It would seem that you have new people who care deeply for you.  Why would you deny them the pleasure of having you with them?” 

“This is how it must be.”  This is the way.  Marathel knew they didn’t believe her.  What they thought didn’t matter.  The only opinion she really cared about was the Bounty Hunter’s … but there was nothing he’d be able to do or say to make her change her mind.  At least, that was what she kept telling herself. 

The chair was adjusted enough to allow Marathel to close her legs, her hip joints making loud popping noises.  Oh, she was sore.  She shifted a bit to lean forward, and she felt a deep ache, not unlike the cramping that came with her cycles when she had them, which was irregular and seldom.  Cieroprac was showing her the dilator device and explaining how to use it, making Marathel distinctly uncomfortable. She wanted to never think of that part of her again.  It had been a source of misery to her for most of her life, and the lives of every woman she knew.  Even though she’d recently had fleeting moments of ecstasy, of fulfillment, the pain and degradation far outweighed any pleasure she had ever received.   

Thinking of physical pleasure brought her mind back to Din —think of him as the Bounty Hunter again, Marathel, it will make leaving him easier, she thought to herself. 

And what of Grogu?  How can you ever forget him?  How can you even think of leaving him? 

It will kill me.  And even then, better so. 

Fennec, meanwhile, was ready to lose her shit.  

There were now so many things she’d rather be doing than dealing with government officials on behalf of a woman-child while running around an Imp ship crawling with who knew how many Imp sympathizers.  Preferable activities included pulling bantha-pups from a pregnant female in the Dune Sea, or possibly getting her cyber-implants replaced while still conscious and juggling vibro-blades. 

Fennec had managed to get some initial identification started for Marathel, naming her as a refugee from Jakuu.  That was far enough away in the opposite direction that no one would bother checking up on it.  There were enough nameless souls in the galaxy without ID that another would hardly matter.  The problem here was that Marathel would require a chip before she could leave this station.  Getting a chip would be more difficult, for that required an interview with the person in question, and Marathel could barely handle asking for a damned cup of tea, much less being questioned by Imps.  This was allegedly a Republic station, but in reality, it was still an Imp-friendly stronghold.  And Imps were big on ID chips.   

Fennec was heading back when she remembered that Marathel also had nothing to wear.  She sought out a clothing shop, but there wasn’t a lot of choice in Marathel’s size.  Din had made a point of nothing blue; unfortunately, Fennec could only get two shirts and two pairs of pants that would fit Marathel , and they were all different shades of dark blue.  Another reason to hate Imps, thought Fennec.  All a bunch of skinny bitches.  Fennec also purchased some undergarments as well as a soft pair of slippers that would do until they got back to Tatooine.  As she paid for these, Fennec impulsively added a light scarf of yellow that had dark orange threads shot through it, hoping it would cheer Marathel.  Cripes.  Now she’s got me doing it, Fennec thought with an exasperated smile.  She liked Marathel, she honestly did.  Marathel was delightful — when she wasn’t miserable — and Fennec only wished that they had met under different circumstances.  Perhaps we could have double dated.  Fennec chuckled.  And brought Cobb along as a fifth wheel.  Fennec laughed to herself at that one as she headed back to Marathel, now in a better frame of mind. 

Marathel stood in the fresher, hot water spraying on the top of her head.  If there was something that she would miss from this new part of her life — besides the people she had met, so different from those she’d always known — it was these hot showers.  Bathing water had never been hot enough for her.  Warm water was only for the men and the boys.  Clean water was only for the men and the boys.  They got to take their baths, and then the laundry was done, and then the women got to bathe. Once she began to live on her own, it took a long time before she felt comfortable enough to allow herself to bathe in warm clean water for herself.  But even then, there was no easy way to fill the laundry tub at the old herder’s hut, so it was only a dishpan or the dry sink for her.   

But this, this, the almost too-hot water cascading though her hair in sheets, was bliss.  No one had told her not to waste water here, so Marathel remained in the fresher until her skin turned pink and her muscles were warm.  The room remained steamy long after she’d turned off the water.  The towels she had access to were neither large nor thick, but they sufficed to dry her off until she could wrap her blanket around her.  Oh, I hope I can take this blanket with me.  I’ve never had a blanket this warm and soft.  It’s like a hug.  Marathel indulged herself in a memory of the Bounty Hunter’s arms around her, making her heart ache. 

Someone knocked on the door.  “Marathel?” It was Eliadu.  “Are you done? Fennec is back.”  Marathel hurriedly combed her hair and left the fresher.   

Fennec was standing just outside with a carry bag. “How are you feeling?” asked Fennec, as she looked at Marathel’s pink face. 

Marathel shrugged. “They think they’ve stopped my bleeding.  Cieroprac is making two more sets of injections that I’ll have to administer to myself.  After that, the hope is … I’ll be cured.” 

“Marathel …” Fennec began.  She thought for a few moments, then said, “What about the rest of the women in your Hold who suffer the same thing?” 

“What of them?” 

Fennec frowned.  “Don’t they deserve an opportunity to get this treatment too?” 

Marathel’s eyes closed as she sighed.  “There’s no point.” 

“Marathel … you can’t mean that.” 

“So long as they don’t … become like me, they’ll be all right.  Now, you went … to get me an ID?” 

“Yes.  And I got you some more clothes.  I’m sorry, but all I could find was blue.” 

“That is fine.  I am grateful, Fennec.  Thank you.”  Marathel took the bag and enclosed herself in her room, leaving Fennec on the other side of the door.   

Fennec went back to the treatment room.  Eliadu was cleaning the large chair apparatus, and Cieroprac was inventorying instruments.  “She loves the hot showers,” said Eliadu.  “Once Marathel found out that we had a fresher, it’s been difficult to keep her out of it.”  Fennec smiled wanly.  “She is such a charming and sweet woman, but hell-bent on inflicting her own misery.” 

Fennec sighed.  “I think misery is all she’s ever known.”  Except for maybe seven days.  And now she’s hell-bent on blowing that up. It made Fennec feel sorry for Din and Grogu.   

“We have done what we can for her at the moment.  The rest of her pain resides in her heart.”    

“If only you would tell me …” 

Eliadu shook her head.  “It is not for me to tell.  I betrayed her trust by using an Imp serum to get the information I needed, but once I learned the full truth about her, I knew I couldn’t just blithely pass on what I learned.  I needed to leave her with some dignity.” 

Fennec understood.  She had her own theories about Marathel’s past, and Cobb agreed with her, based on some things that Marathel had said to him.  If it were true, Marathel deserved some dignity. 

Fennec held out the credits, and Cieroprac shook her head.  “It would be too much. The price was for full reconstruction, not the little we did.”  She gave Fennec a new amount. Fennec nodded and adjusted the stack of credits. 

Just then, Marathel slowly came into the treatment room.  She was wearing the blue clothes and slippers and hugging the folded blanket. She had tied the scarf low over her forehead wound, braiding the long ends into her damp hair.  She looked subdued, exhausted, but also healthier, with good color in her cheeks.  Looking at Fennec, she said, “Thank you for the clothes and the scarf, Fennec.  They seem to fit well.”   

Fennec did her best to seem cheerful.  “You’re welcome.  Again, I’m sorry that I could only find blue clothes.” 

Marathel gave a small smile.  “I don’t mind.  I think it’s the Bounty Hunter who dislikes blue.  Blue was the color of my house at the Hold.” 

Fennec frowned.  “House?” 

“House of Bishop,” said Marathel with a shrug.  “Are we able to go now?” Marathel asked Eliadu, “Are we able to leave?  And … may I … keep this blanket?  I like it very much.” 

“Yes, Marathel, of course you may keep the blanket,” replied Eliadu.  “You are also able to leave.  But please, reconsider your plans.  Your heart is already broken, don’t shred it to pieces as well.”  

Marathel remained silent, and then Cieroprac said, “You have the medicines and injections?  And you remember how and when to use them?” 

Marathel nodded.  “I do.  And thank you for what you have done for me.” 

“Marathel,” entreated Eliadu.  “You can be free of your pain.  Do you understand?  You can be free … but you’re the one that has to let it go.” 

Marathel nodded, and said quietly, “I will be.”  She quickly stepped forward and hugged Eliadu.  “Thank you for your kindness.” 

Eliadu, surprised, hugged Marathel back.  “Marathel, thank you for trusting us.  Please remember that where you came from is not who you are.”  Eliadu kissed Maratgel’s cheek.  “You will need more than a blanket to keep you company in this life.” 

Cieroprac added, “Thank you, Marathel, for coming to us.  May you be well.” 

Marathel pulled back from Eliadu, looking at both women, her throat full of tears, second-guessing her decisions and her plans … but then she remembered that where she came from was exactly who she was.  Marathel and Fennec finished their goodbyes and left. 

Shortly after, Fennec was walking at a brisk pace ahead of Marathel.  “Pick it up, Marathel.  We have a way to go to get to the transport, and you also have to get chipped.” 

Marathel, already breathless, said, “Pick what up?  And what is a chip?”  Marathel stopped.  “Please, Fennec, I can’t walk as fast as you.” 

Fennec turned back around to see Marathel, breathing hard, holding on to a direction sign.  “I’m sorry, Marathel, I just want off this station.  I won’t feel safe until we’re both out of here. The ID I tried to get for you is not enough.  You must get an ID chip imbedded, and you must speak to an Imp to get it.” 

Marathel nodded, nervous. “I will do my best.” 

Fennec slowed her pace, and stayed close to Marathel as they made their way to the ID registrar.  Fennec told Marathel what she had initially told the registrar and reminded her of the original story they had planned to tell the Reconstructionists.  “Where is this Jakuu?” asked Marathel. 

“Basically nowhere.” 

“So is Unmanarall.” 

“Yes, but no one has heard of your planet.  Jakuu is at least known in the galaxy.  It’s also essentially populated by nobodies.  It’s a good place to disappear,” said Fennec with a shrug. 

“Why not say I’m from Tatooine?” 

“Because I happen to live there.  I don’t want people potentially following up where I live.”  An office worker called out Marathel’s name.  “Answer their questions, but don’t offer any information,” whispered Fennec. 

Marathel nodded, and she slowly got up to follow the worker through a door and into a small cubicle within a sea of cubicles.  People of all kinds were moving all about Marathel as she sat on the small chair next to the worker’s desk. The worker, a human with shocking purple hair, kept a disinterested look on his face as he tapped on a keypad connected to a large holo screen. After sitting in silence for quite a long time, the worker snapped, “Name?” 

Marathel jumped, startled.  “I’m sorry?” 

“Name?” 

“Marathel,” she replied.   

“How’d you spell that?” asked the worker.  Marathel didn’t respond, and the worker sighed.  “Another one who can’t read.  Fine.  Look at me and pronounce your name slowly.” 

“Mare-ah-thel,” pronounced Marathel. 

“Surname?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

The worker sighed again and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  “Surname.  Family name.  Name of the people you come from.” 

Marathel assumed that the correct answer would be ap Bishop, that was the name of the people she came from, but she had lived the last two-thirds of her life without the name hanging over her, and she refused to have it tied to her now.  “Can I not just … have the name Marathel?  Is that not enough?” 

The worker sighed yet again.  “Lady, I already missed my smoke break.  I gotta fill in the forms like they tell me, because they don’t pay me enough to put up with the grief I’d get if I don’t.   Just give me a kriffing name.  Make up something, I don’t care.” 

Marathel thought briefly of naming herself Belwhyn; it was at least an appropriate descriptor.   But it hurt her heart too much to do that … and she believed that Fennec, and probably the Bounty Hunter, would dislike it.  Marathel also briefly considered ap Olba, as she had been the only true family she had ever known, her mam that wasn’t her mam.  The worker was glaring at her, so she blurted out, “… ap Unmapeth.  That’s my … surname.” 

“Finally.”  The worker tapped for a while on the keypad.  “From Jakuu?” 

“Yes.”  Again, tap-tap-tap.  Marathel clutched her hands together in her lap as she waited for the next question, the interrogation she expected. The machine before her made a beep noise, and a tiny metal grain-shaped object dropped into a tiny plate.   

The worker grabbed the metal grain and dropped it into what looked like a tiny boomer.  “Arm,” the worker said, and Marathel reached out with her right arm, perplexed.  The worker grabbed her arm and placed the tiny boomer against her inner arm, pulling the trigger. 

Marathel felt a deep, painful pinch.  “Ow!  What in Frith ...” 

“Take this to the front desk as you leave, you’re done,” said the worker, waving a small sheet of paper at her.   

“But what was that …” 

“Lady, you’re done.  Go that way.  Dank ferrik, I’m going for a smoke.”  The worker stood and pulled up Marathel by her arm, pushing her towards a desk with a squatty green creature behind it.   

Marathel approached the desk, and the creature, not looking at her, held out a puffy hand.  “Form?”  Marathel placed the piece of paper in the green hand.  The creature tapped on their keypad for a while, and the creature muttered, “Another one from Jakuu with an unpronounceable name. Damn dustfoots, coming here, taking all the jobs …” The creature sighed wetly, drool cascading over the multiple chins. 

“My name is pronounced Marathel ap Unmapeth.” 

“Sure it is.  Arm,” it said, holding out its puffy hand again. 

“Why?” asked Marathel, wary, assuming some other painful thing was about to happen.   

“Arm,” it said again.  Marathel gingerly held out her arm again, noticing the new red area on her injection-marked skin. The creature, after giving Marathel’s arm a withering look, grabbed her arm and placed a black metal cylinder near it, and a holo projection of letters and a flattened image of her face hovered above the black cylinder.  Marathel gasped.  “That you?” asked the creature. 

“I … I guess so.” 

The creature sighed again, rolling three of its five eyes.  Marathel heard the creature mutter, “A kriffing spicehead, too.”  It slapped another paper slip on the desk in front of Marathel.  “Sign here.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Put your mark, whatever, you’re holding up the line.”  Marathel looked down at the paper, bewildered.  The creature finally shoved a pen in her hand, grabbed her arm roughly, and made Marathel scribble something on the slip.  The creature stamped it with a red blotchy image and said, “You’re done.  Next!” 

Marathel stumbled away from the desk and went out the door she had come in. Fennec was sitting in a chair, scowling at a Rodian child who was staring dumbly at her while sucking on a large lolly.    Fennec noticed Marathel and stood.  “Well, that was quicker than I expected.” 

Marathel looked at her arm again.  “I don’t understand what just happened.” 

“You’ve been chipped.  Welcome to modern bureaucracy.  Let’s get out of here; government offices make me itch.” 

As they left the offices, Marathel said, “They only asked my name and where I was from.  Then … I think they put something in my arm.” 

Fennec nodded.  “That’s the chip.  You’ll need it to get on the transport.” 

“But why?” 

“It’s … just the way it is, Marathel. You have to prove you are who you say you are.” 

“My word is not enough?” 

“Not for the Imps,” said Fennec. Seeing Marathel’s face turn to distress, she continued, “Please, Marathel, try to not upset yourself.” 

“They made me create a family name for myself.  They didn’t care what, just that I had one.” 

“Figures.  What did you choose?”  Fennec was assuming that Marathel would take the surname Bishop, based on her suspicions. 

“I thought about Belwhyn, but … I went with ap Unmapeth.”  Marathel sighed.  “I suppose it doesn’t matter, really.  I only need to have this chip to get back to Tatooine, yes?”  Marathel kept stroking her arm, trying to feel where the chip had been injected.  

“What does ap Unmapeth mean?” 

Marathel shrugged.  “Nothing.  Where do we have to go now?” 

“Ship 2.  While I was waiting for you, I hired a cart to take us there.  I wasn’t thinking that you wouldn’t be up to the long walk, Marathel; I’m sorry.” 

Marathel looked downcast.  “I’m sorry I can’t keep up.” 

“Don’t worry; you just need some rest.”  An open driverless droid cart arrived.  Marathel got on with some trepidation, and Fennec tapped in their destination on the little screen in front of them.  The little cart zipped off into a track with many other carts like it.  

Marathel was initially startled by the speed of the cart, but then she said, “Well, this is fun,” surprising Fennec. 

“How are you feeling, Marathel?” 

“This is much better than walking.” 

Fennec frowned; Marathel was deflecting again.  The trip back to Tatooine was not terribly long, and Fennec had gotten them their own private carriage so Marathel could relax in peace, without the stares of strangers.  Fennec hoped that Marathel would be able to talk at length to Din upon their return, now that she seemed better.  She hoped that Din could talk her out of going back to her home planet.  Marathel was rubbing her arm where they injected the chip.  “Leave your arm alone, Marathel.” 

“They called me a dustfoot.  And a spicehead.” 

“Who did?” 

“The people at the ID office.  They were … quite mean.  I don’t know what they called me, but it obviously wasn’t good.” 

Fennec sighed.  “Dustfoot … that’s someone from a desert planet.  It can also mean someone who is … simple, uneducated, usually poor.  It’s just another term to call someone who you think is beneath you.  But then, Cobb calls himself a dustfoot.” 

“So, it has double meanings, like tymffod.  It literally means funnel, but to call a person one, it would mean … asshole.”  This last word, Marathel whispered. 

Fennec laughed.  “Did you ever call Din that?” 

Marathel turned pink.  “Once, but indirectly.  When he puked up my clam stew.” 

“And I bet you make very good clam stew.” 

“I do!  It was delicious. I even made it spicy like he asked for.” 

Oh honey, he was trying as hard to please you as you were him, to the point it made him sick, poor guy.  “Well, that was a tymffoddy thing for him to do.”  Marathel smiled briefly, and then her face returned to sadness. Fennec then said, “A spicehead is someone addicted to spice.  Spice is an illegal drug that is traded and run all over the galaxy.  It has made many people very rich to the detriment of millions of others.  I’m sure the person there saw the injection marks on your arms and made an assumption.  But you’re not a spice addict, so that person’s just stupid.” 

“But they …” 

“Someday you’ll learn, Marathel, that what other people think of you doesn’t matter if you know they’re wrong.  And especially if that person doesn’t care about you, unlike Din, or me, or anyone at the palace.” 

Marathel fell silent.  She knew, deep down, that the green creature didn’t matter.  But she also knew that she was a disgusting monster and would be found repugnant by everyone at the palace who allegedly cared about her, once they finally learned the truth about her … but I have to tell the Bounty Hunter first.  I only hope he will allow me to kiss Grogu goodbye; then he can be repulsed by me forever. 

They got to the transport bay, and Marathel continued to not speak as they went through security.  Marathel held out her arm as requested, her chip was scanned, and they made it onboard with no trouble.  Fennec made a few attempts to engage Marathel in conversation, but she did not respond, and continued to look at the floor, her brow furrowed as if she were deep in thought.  Fennec finally dropped to her knees within Marathel’s line of sight, and gently put her hands on Marathel’s knees.  Marathel started, but still said nothing.  Fennec said, “Marathel, listen to me.  You don’t have to talk but by this Frith you and Din keep mentioning, you will listen to me. 

“Whatever happened to you, whatever happened in your Hold … None of it is your fault.  You are the victim, Marathel.  Don’t judge yourself on what was done to you in that horrible place.  Don’t push Din away because you feel like you’re unworthy.  None of it was your doing! 

“You took yourself into that Hold but doesn’t mean you deserved what those men did to you. Those women got you out because they love you.  Din got you to us because he loves you.  You are some woman, Marathel, you are sweet and kind and smart, and dammit, I like you.  I pretty much hate everyone, but I like you. 

“Whatever you’re thinking by wanting to go back to Unmanarall … stop thinking that.  You’re going to break Din’s heart, and Grogu’s too, and that little boy just started calling you Mama!  And you’re breaking your own heart too. 

“You need help, you need so much help.  You need therapy and care and healing and support.  You can’t get that if you run away.  We will get you that help if you stay with us.  Please, Marathel, don’t go back.  Don’t do this; we care about you so damn much.” 

Marathel didn’t respond.  Fennec’s eyes were misted over, but her own were dry.  The thought of leaving should have broken her heart as well, but her heart had already disintegrated into ash.  Marathel sighed and gently pushed Fennec’s hands off her lap.  Marathel softly said, “You shouldn’t,” and she drew her knees up and curled herself into a ball. 

The next night cycle, Din put Grogu to bed, and he locked himself in the cockpit, deciding to fantasize about Marathel in a romantic and tender manner before he fell asleep, attempting to manipulate his subconscious.  He thought of her wearing her pretty gown of sunset yellow, made with her own hands, bright against her magnificent warm skin.  He thought of her hair, a waving river of liquid beskar, flowing over her shoulders, tangling around his fingers, capturing his hands with its heavy coarseness, with its scent of flowers and herbs and the heat from her head.  He thought of her face and its features, soft and pale, her eyelashes barely visible against her cheeks as she held her eyes closed. He thought about kissing her softly, first on her cheek, and then moving across her pale nose with little light nips to the other cheek before moving to her lips, and he always kissed with much more skill in his fantasies than he was sure he did in real life.  He thought about gently sliding his hand up her ribcage to cup her full breast, heavy in his hand, molding it in his palm as he gently laid her back on a soft bed, putting a knee between her thighs. He thought of releasing her breast, moving both his hands up to cup her sweet, beautiful face, murmuring my love and my mesh’la before kissing her softly again …  

… and then his hand slid down her throat to her shoulder to her breast, pinching her nipple until she gasped, then moving his hand to her thigh, where he gathered up the hem of her gown and slid his hand underneath it, moving his hand up her thigh and over her hip, roughly squeezing the ample globe of her ass cheek.  Ending his kiss, he lifted his knee to press against her mound, and she moaned, her eyes closed as he hiked up her gown to her waist.  He lowered his full weight on her, sliding his erection through her folds with a rolling pelvis, marking her with his fluids, as he continued to softly call her my mesh’la, my lovely, my sweet, my girl, my sweet girl, my little girl, my good girl as he got to his knees to push her legs wide open.  He spit on his hand and stroked himself before he pushed his cock into her pussy — she was not wet enough but he didn’t want to wait any longer — watching her groan at the feel of him inside her, her eyes closed, and then he began to fuck her proper, holding one of her heavy legs up against her. Oh, my good girl, he said, such a good girl, sweet girl, my baby girl, can you look at me, sweet girl? 

Thrusting faster. 

Good girl, look at me, open your eyes, baby girl.   

Faster.  Grabbing at the neckline of her gown, pulling at it.  

Look at me, baby girl, open your eyes, look at me now, my good girl.  

Harder.  Twisting her gown in his fist, ripping it. 

Baby girl, open your eyes, look at me, you look at me! 

He struck her across the face. 

You look at me, you bitch!  You whore cunt!  Open your eyes, you slut, LOOK AT ME! 

She kept her eyes tightly shut, tears rolling down her temples, and she cried there’s no point as she pushed against him, and she found the bite-mark with her hand, pressing as hard as she could, sobbing, let me go. 

Time suddenly stretched out, slowing to almost stopping.  Entire cycles of the sun passed overhead, and he was no longer ruthlessly forcing himself on her, he was merely gently holding her as he lay beside her, and eventually time fell back into its normal pace, and it was now the deepest night, and he could barely see her in the pale moonlight.  He did not know where he had been before, but now he recognized the brown bed tick he slept on Unmanarall.  He could feel the light breeze as it luffed the woven brown panels that hung around them.  He was with his Marathel, back to where they’d been so close, where he’d fallen in love with his mesh’la, his ma’mwsh ha’laa.  

My Marathel, I removed my helmet like you asked.  My Marathel, I see you with my own eyes. Ner kar’ta. Look at me, he said.  Mesh’la.  Look at me. 

She turned her head away, weeping.  There’s no point. 

He cupped her cheek, feeling her tears on his hand.  Please.  Please, mesh’la, look at me. 

Marathel shook her head.  There’s no point. 

He pulled a blanket over her, covering her, protecting her.  Ner kar’ta, I’m sorry. Ni cuy’ osi’yaim.  Ni cuy’ hut’uun.  I am a despicable person, I am a coward, please, look at me, please forgive me.  He tried to hold her, comfort her, even though he had been the source of her pain.  Please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please look at me! 

Her tears continued to fall as she pulled away from him and stood, her eyes still tightly shut, walking away, pulling the blanket behind her like a train on an elaborate gown as she walked down the front steps of her hut and into the tall grass. The words let me go came back to him in a whisper as she disappeared in the distance. 

Don’t make me, he whispered to the woman no longer there.  Please, don’t make me let you go.  Stay with me. 

But she was gone, the whispers were gone, he was alone in the dark, and he remained there for a very long time. 

When Din began to wake up — realizing he was reclining in his captain's chair — he was unsure of how long he slept.  He felt woozy, not unlike a hangover or a concussion. Since he’d experienced both recently, he took a moment to make sure he was conscious and not still in a dream state.  He also felt … damp? 

Din opened his eyes, and his visor was filled with Grogu’s face, peering in. Din jerked back slightly with a start, and Grogu cooed and slid down Din’s chest.  “What’s going on?”  Grogu patted Din’s chest, and he realized the child was patting the bite area.  He pulled down his thermal shirt and saw that the wound was no longer infected.  It still was red, but it was a healthy red color, not the angry red of the previous infection.  Din also noticed that his thermal shirt was soaked in sweat.  He must have been running a fever, and Grogu had Force-opened the cockpit door to heal him.  

Did the infection cause the dreams?   

Am I still connected to her through this bite-mark?   

Osi’k, that makes no damned sense, do I still have a fever?   

“Was I sick, kid?  Did you have to heal me?” Grogu’s hands reached up to his helmet.  “I’ve been messed up the past couple of days.  I’m sorry, little guy, I’m so sorry.”   

“Mama?” 

What the shab? “Mama?  What about her?” 

Grogu climbed up further and grabbed Din’s helmet.  “Mama,” he said, emphatically. 

The kid knows.  He knows I’ve been dreaming about her.  But … does he know what I’ve dreamt?  Din felt ashamed.  “Yes, Grogu … I’ve been dreaming of her.  Bad dreams.  Dreams where I … hurt her.  But you know, you know I’d never hurt her, right?” Grogu kept staring into the visor, his huge eyes gazing deep into Din’s soul.  “I … I’m …” Din swallowed, collecting his thoughts.  “I’m scared, kid.”   Grogu tilted his head, waiting for Din to continue.  “Patu really likes the idea of Patu Mama, but Patu is just … scared.  Patu is afraid that Mama won’t like the idea of Patu Mama.  Mama is still very sad.  Sad and hurt.  Mama may always be sad and hurt.”  Grogu whined, his face pinching with sadness.  Din squeezed Grogu’s hand, saying, “No, don’t you worry.  Mama will always love Grogu.  She loves you,” insisted Din. “But Mama … she may never love Patu.  And that’s why Patu is so scared.” 

“Sad Patu?” 

Din nodded.  “Very sad Patu.”  Grogu snuggled up under Din’s chin, hugging him.   Din put his large hand on the child’s tiny back.  Sad.  Scared.  Terrified that she may leave me still.  That was the only way the dreams made sense to him; he was overpowering her — in the worst way possible — to keep her from leaving.  Forcing her to remain.  Preying on her fear and her belief that she deserved such treatment.  Calling her by the names that she hated, the ones that the Bishop called her.  And hurting her in such a deplorable way.  

Then Din recalled a recurring theme — she would not look at me.  Was my helmet off or on?  He made a point of telling her his helmet was off in this last dream, although it did not make any difference.  Is she pulling away from me?  Am I making an enormous assumption that she loves me, regardless of what she said on Unmanarall?  Are my feelings for her … misplaced now? 

And what about the bite mark?  The wound that burns every time I wake up from one of these nightmares? 

Oh, he did not want to try to piece that together.   

His father — not his buir, his actual father — was some kind of engineer, he never knew what kind exactly.  What he did remember was his father’s favorite pastime: root cause analysis.  His father spent a lot of time talking to him in his calming manner, asking the questions that mattered.   

What happened to your toy, son? 

Elor broke it. 

Why did the neighbor boy Elor break your toy, son?    

The answer because Elor is a bully didn’t appease his father; Father wanted young Din to fully analyze the situation. Question after question he would ask, each one leading further and further back to where young Din stepped on the path that led to his toy — not that Din remembered what the toy even was, at this point — being broken.  What Din remembered was that his father had walked him right back to the root cause: Din was the reason the toy was broken. 

Elor, a boy close to Din’s age but older, lived two houses down.  Elor lived with only his mother then; his father had just been conscripted due to his felon status.  Din’s father was safe from such a fate; he had an education and a high-ranking job, and he was not a convict.  Elor was not taking this well, and it just so happened that Din had decided to be a right little shit that day.  With his fabulous new toy, Din went down to Elor’s house to show it off and rub his nose in it.  Elor responded to this in the only way imaginable by children, and not only did Din have a broken toy, but also a bloody nose.  The end result — after Din finally got to the root cause — was Din being marched back down to Elor’s house with an apology and an invitation for Elor and his mother to come for dinner.  Elor was over for dinner a lot after that, and lunches too.  The two boys never became friends, but Din never forgot about root cause analysis. 

If Din had to analyze his dreams for the root cause, he’d be hard pressed to come up with answers that weren’t completely fantastical, or at least bizarre.  The bad dreams started when the bite mark became infected, so he could blame the dreams on that … but he also wondered if the bite mark went deeper than that, so to speak.   

Din remembered the night back on Unmanarall, the second night of the Dahls mating.  The bite burned then.  He had felt overheated, almost feverish, not only with lust for Marathel, but also a true physical fever.  That night, he tried to overpower her, force himself on her, but … he finally surrendered to her strength, her physical desire to mate, her pure need.   

But these new dreams, she’d been the one to surrender.  Not even surrender; she didn’t fight to begin with, not until she could no longer bear it, and then, she’d attack the bite, causing him pain in both the sleeping and waking worlds. 

The bite had burned another time, but he had scarcely remembered it until now — the bite had burned as he stood motionless, watching the Bishop hit her, knock out her teeth, savage her before his eyes and the eyes of all the other women and the children. She had told him to be still.  Be still and it will be over quicker for me, she had said … when? 

It was when Marathel looked at him, after her veil had been torn off, her mouth and head bleeding.  She told the Captain to give him the coins, and she looked straight at him, and he’d heard her, clear as day, her voice inside his head, saying be still, be still, be still!  Then, she’d walked straight into the Round Building, giving herself up to her fate, and he did not hear her again, and the burning sensation on his chest stopped.  At the time, he was more concerned with the fact he found himself unwillingly immobile to worry about a burning wound. 

Was Marathel giving up … again?   

She’d sacrificed herself to the Elders, but he’d dragged her out of there against her will.  When she regained consciousness, she had no desire to live.  But somehow, she found a reason to at least try. Was it finding an ally in another woman, like Fennec or Silnima?  Was it finding that there were other men who wouldn’t hurt her, but would protect her, like Boba?  Make her feel like a worthy person, like Cobb? And if that were the case, what would have changed?  What changed so much that her pain would affect him so, at such a great distance, through a … bite wound? 

So, back to root cause analysis: I am tied to Marathel on a metaphysical level by a bite wound she gave me.  She is telling me that she has given up, and that I need to give up on her as well. 

No, I don’t believe that.   I don’t believe that even if I do.  This is real life, not a damned … paranormal rom-com holovid.  I got an infection, I got a fever, I had fever dreams, Marathel is fine, she’s getting better, soon I’ll be back with her, and then we can …  

Din’s holopad pinged, shaking him out of his thoughts.  Grogu was still on his chest, holding him, patting the wound site.  Din reached out and tapped the holopad, and a holo of Fennec popped up.  “Fennec?  What’s happening?  Where are you?” 

“We’re on a transport, heading back to Tatooine.” 

“Already?  Marathel is all better?” 

“She is not better; she is possibly the furthest thing from all right.” 

“What? Why?” 

“The doctors … they found something, said something to her, and she refused all reconstruction.  They got the bleeding disorder fixed, they patched her up, but now, she’s not communicating.  She’s shut down.” Fennec pointed her holopad through a window to what must have been a private carriage on the transport.  Din could see Marathel sitting on a padded bench, her knees up to her chest with her head down to her knees, curled up tightly.  Grogu turned to see the holo, and he reached out with his little hand, whining quietly.  “And it gets worse.” 

“Worse?  Worse how?” 

“She wants to go back to Unmanarall.” 

Din couldn’t speak for a moment. He felt physically ill.   He swallowed and finally grunted, “We’re on our way.”  Fennec clicked off.   

Grogu turned back to Din, pressing his forehead against Din’s helmet.  “Sad Mama.” 

Din nodded.  “Mama needs us.”  Grogu sat back down on Din’s lap, and Din changed course back to Tatooine.  The ship lurched and headed towards the new coordinates.  “Mama needs us,” repeated Din, quietly. 

But … does she want us? 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter ->

[mqgriett]

Crosshair- It Won’t Stop

Prompt: “Hey, look at me. Focus on me alright?” and “I didn’t know where else to go” requested by @bluehumanknightzine !! Thank you so much for the requested

Pairings: Crosshair x Fem!Reader

Warnings: blood and being shot

Summary: Crosshair will never pass up on an opportunity to teach a shiny a lesson, so when someone insults Echo he has to take charge. It doesn’t always go as planned.

Notes: this is based off of @sorry-but-no-sorry ‘s art!! Please go check them out!!

79’s was basically deserted, mainly because it was pushing 0300 in the morning, but Crosshair couldn’t sleep. Not after what had happened earlier that night. 

Typically the callus sniper wasn’t easily pissed off. Odd looks and judgemental whispers from regs was something he was used to by now. He developed thick skin, learned to just enjoy a night of drinking with his brothers and let loose a little. He was used to the rude remarks, Echo wasn’t. 

None of the regs recognized him anymore, his robotic legs and the bolts screwed into his head along with his pale skin made him difficult to recognize. The normal clones would never intentionally bully the lost 501st member, but they would happily bully a bad batch member. 

Crosshair scanned the room for the 312th trooper, knowing he would still be here. Worst thing was, the trooper was a shiny, and he had only identified his battalion by association. 

Sure enough, he was still in the back booth, lips practically swallowing a young twi’lek dancer. He rolled his eyes, strutting over to the pair in the back. 

The shiny seemed to feel Cross’s icy presence, taking a break from his makeout with the dancer to move out of the booth. 

“Back so soon?” asked the trooper, crossing his small arms and jutting his chin out. 

The sniper of Clone Force 99 didn’t waste any time with small talk, he withdrew his fist and landed a punch to the jaw of the shinty. It was so strong that it even knocked the reg back, the only thing that was preventing him from falling to the ground was catching himself on the table. 

The clone rubbed his jaw, eyebrows arching to form a cold smirk on his face. “Lose a touch of common sense in your test tube? Eh, defect?” he grumbled. 

Crosshair didn’t reply and calmly pulled a toothpick from his pocket, sticking it in his mouth and allowing it to methodically roll from side to side. He prepared to charge, but what he didn’t expect was for the shiny to pick up his blaster and shoot him in the side of the stomach where his armor didn’t cover. 

Cross stumbled backwards, hand already gripping the underside of his stomach. 

The trooper had no clue what he had done, he had reacted out of pure instinct and hadn’t calculated the consequences when he fired. He froze momentarily, proceeding to toss the blaster to the side and sprint out of 79’s. 

Crosshair still couldn’t believe what had happened. Even as he started down at the crimson liquid beginning to stain his blacks, he refused that he had been shot. 

He couldn’t go back to the Marauder, he wouldn’t make it back alive. 

There was only one other person on Coruscant he knew he could get to before bleeding out. 

***

At first you thought it was a dream, when you heard the knock at your door. You rolled onto your opposite side, flipping the silk pillow to have the cold side press against your face. 

Another knock made its way to your bedroom. 

If there’s a third then I’ll get up,

Five seconds pass, and the third knock sounds weaker than the first two. 

Swinging your legs off the side of the bed, you reach for your housecoat and move a few pieces of hair out of your face. “Coming!” you shouted, voice a little groggy.

As you enter the living room, you catch a glance at the clock and see how late it is. 

The small droid in your room beeps in attention, it’s different colored panels lighting up. “It’s alright R4, I’ll see who it is.” 

R4 chirps in response, rolling to the kitchen and out of view. 

You opened the doors to your room, the cold chill of the hallway hitting your bare legs. Squinting, you could hardly make out the figure in front of you. “Crosshair?” You yawned, wrapping your robe around your torso. 

His words sounded difficult to push out, “I’m sorry.” He sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth, something falling and hitting your foot. 

“For waking me up?” you responded tiredly, reaching down to pick up whatever he dropped. 

As your hand touched the fallen toothpick, you found that something was dripping from his armor. At first you perceived it to be nothing but sweat; however, the putrid smell that met your nose told you otherwise. 

“R4 turn the lights on.” You said sternly, within milliseconds you could fully see him standing in front of you. 

“Shit.” You mumbled, finally seeing the huge gash in his stomach. 

His entire face was pale and he was obviously nauseous, yet he still refused to let you help him onto the couch. He stumbled his way to the sofa, collapsing once he got there. Every movement that Cross produced was followed by a muffled groan or wince.

You crouched down next to him, starting at ripping all of his armor off while calling out to your droid, “R4, get me the emergency bag.” 

Your hands tore the soiled fabric away from his torso, leaving him with nothing but a sad excuse of a shirt and his pants. “Dank Farrik, Cross.” You said out of pure frustration, seeing just how bad the wound was. 

His head lulled to the side, a small stream of tears falling down the side of his face as his eyes closed. 

“Crosshair, no.” You reached up and pinched his chin, jerking his head to face you. It woke him up, “hey, look at me. Focus on me alright? I need you to tell me what happened.” You were no medic, but every senator was required to know basic medical skills. 

“79’s,” he began as R4 handed you a bottle of alcohol, Cross winced as you poured it onto the gash and shifted uncomfortably, “shiny made-“ he groaned loudly, “- shiny made fun of echo.” His brother’s name was clouded by his shaky breathing as you poured more alcohol. 

“What’d he say?” 

You placed a clean rag on top of his wound, cleaning around it as he tried to continue, “Went back and he shot me.” He ignored your previous question, not wanting to say it out loud. 

“This is going to hurt, but you need to stay still.” You commanded, the threaded needle lingering over the exposed and seared skin. 

Without looking up, you heard him speak again, “what’s happening?” 

“You’re bleeding out.” You sighed, “I need to give you stitches.” 

“No, this,” he wiped his face with his bare hand, examining the clear liquid dripping down his palm. 

“You’re crying, you got shot.” 

He shook his head and tried to sit up, “no, what is happening? This isn’t possible.” He wiped his face again, over and over. “It won’t stop,” he sobbed, “why won’t it stop?” 

You wanted to console him, but you had to get this gash closed. You stuck the needle through his skin, and it was almost like he didn’t feel it due to how preoccupied he was with the fact that he was crying. 

Cutting the thread with your teeth, you handed the needle back to R4 and placed a strip of bacta over his wound. “R4 comm Tech. Tell him to come down here immed-“

“No!” Cross jumped, “he can’t see me like this.” 

You placed your hand on his knee, “he’s seen you hurt thousands of times.” 

He pointed to his face, “Like this.”

His eyes and cheeks were stained red from crying. Blood was dried in his hair and it stained all of his body. You knew how embarrassed he felt because he understood how helpless and weak he looked in the moment.  

You calmed your tone, not wanting him to jump again and possibly burst the stitches, “R4, comm Tech that Crosshair drunkenly stumbled to my quarters in the senate building and is now sleeping on my couch.” 

Beeping in approval, your small Astro droid excused himself to your room to fulfill his duties. 

Your hands would most definitely be tinted red tomorrow morning, rather this morning, at your meeting with Bail Organa. 

Wiping your forehead, you stood back up to inspect the damage that had been done. 

Your white couch was now a lovely red tie-dye, as was your white nightgown. 

Crosshair refused to look at you, “I didn’t know where else to go.” 

“I’m glad you came here.” You ran your hand up and down his thigh, just as a gentle touch to remind him that you were still there. 

“I need a shower.” he mumbled. That was his way of asking you to help him get cleaned up. 

Carefully, you helped him to the refresher. Your back was turned to him as you drew a bath, wanting to give him as much privacy as possible as he undressed. You poured a small amount of salts in the water, to help rid his body of any bacteria that had already begun to settle in his wound. He rejected your offer to help him into the bathtub, his ego not allowing him to accept. 

You sat behind the marble tub, just so you could see the back of him. Placing your hand on his forehead, you gently pulled his head back and poured water over hair. His dusty green eyes fluttered shut each time you did this, his shoulders finally relaxing. 

Once his hair was rid of blood, you moved onto his face. You wetened a clean cloth, and benevolently wiped it under his eyes and neck. He sighed heavily, “he called him a deficient defect.” His jaw clenched under your grip. 

You froze momentarily, feeling your own anger bubble up at the thought of Echo having to hear that. Echo had always been tough, but you knew that that probably hurt him. If it didn’t, Cross wouldn’t have gone back at 0300 to teach the shiny a lesson. 

After wiping the final strip of blood off of him, you turned your head and helped Crosshair up. He wrapped a towel around his waist, flinching as it touched the wound. Luckily the medicated bandage on top of it kept it numb, making it easier for him to do things on his own. 

It wasn’t unusual for the bad batch to randomly stop by whenever they were on Coruscant. When General Kenobi would ask for their aide in a mission they often needed to wait a few nights for approval from the council. This usually led to all five of them sleeping in your bed with you. In the morning Hunter and Tech were frequently found on the floor though. 

You set a fresh set of black pajamas on the edge of your bed for Crosshair, leaving him in your as you went to choose a new nightgown from your closet. You chose the same sleepwear you had on now, just in black and not covered in blood. 

It felt immaculate to shower, and with enough scrubbing all of the blood successfully left your hands. 

Crosshair had already situated himself on your bed, flicking through the holodramas you had recorded. You wrung the excess water from your hair, tossing the dirty nightgown into the trash can and doing the same with the towel once you were finished. 

Once you were comfortable, Crosshair turned his head towards you while his eyes were still fixated on the holo. “What’s the one you, Tech, and Wrecker watch?” 

You raised an eyebrow, “I thought you said it was annoying.” 

He didn’t answer, facing his head back towards the colorful projection. 

“Ails of Alderaan.” you smiled, pointing to the title he was about to skip. 

Despite his lack of core strength in the moment, he still managed to pull the blanket underneath you to get you closer to him. He gently pressed his head on your shoulder, gingerly touching at your fingers before intertwining them with his own. “Don’t tell the boys, please.” 

Crosshair wouldn’t care if you told them he was shot, he was referring to the fact that he cried earlier. 

You moved your head to the side and kissed his temple, “I won’t.”

[boltwrites]

Misfits - Chapter 3

Fandom: Star Wars - Clone Wars / The Bad Batch Pairing: The Bad Batch / Reader (Polyamorous) Rating: M (Rating May Change) Tags: Polyamorous Relationship, Force-Sensitive Reader, Slow Burn

Work Summary: After a year working with the 501st, you've been assigned a new post - Clone Force 99, aka the Bad Batch. You're concerned about the transition - you found it hard enough to fit in with the 501st, and now you had to acclimate to an entirely new squad. As it turns out, the Bad Batch is very accommodating.

Chapter Summary: Hunter insists that you nap on the way to Kamino.

read it on ao3 | start from ch 1 | or read more below

“Get some sleep. It’ll be a while until we reach Kamino.”

Hunter gestured towards a bunk that you could tell was well used. You worried the inside of your lip, considering the offer.

This ship was a far cry from the accommodations you were used to. It reminded you more of quarters you once shared with a pirate crew – cramped, but cozy.

You didn’t mind it, per say… but it wasn’t what you were used to. On the Resolute, you had your own quarters, completely separate from the rest of the clones. It had been both a blessing and a curse – it afforded you some privacy, being the only female Captain, and working with a majority of clones who had never experienced such direct contact with a woman. It was honestly tiring dealing with their staring – which wasn’t even a majority sexual, honestly. They were just curious about you, and while you didn’t blame them, that didn’t mean you wanted eyes on you while you were just trying to get some rest.

The Bad Batch didn’t seem to be quite as bad as the 501st, and you suspected that perhaps because they were a smaller, elite squad, they had encountered women in different environments than just a club full of clone chasers like 79’s. You could feel Wrecker’s eyes on you half the time, and his curiosity reminded you the most of the 501st’s own sneaking glancing. You also caught Tech looking a few times as you set your meagre belongings in the cargo area – he had seemed flustered and turned away, datapad in hand. You had no idea what his fascination with you was, but you assumed you would find out soon enough. It was almost cute seeing how you flustered him, if only because your own men – or, former men – had grown so used to your presence that they had gotten harder to fluster.

But then, there was Hunter and Echo, who both reminded you of Rex. Rex hadn’t been bothered with your gender if only because he had worked so much with Ahsoka the years prior. You didn’t know who Hunter had worked with that made him so comfortable with you, nor Echo, but you were glad that at least your gender wasn’t causing any more awkward tension than it should. You felt strange enough barging into Hunter’s team, where you technically outranked him as a Captain, but knew about as much as a shiny when it came to this squad.

At least everyone was better than Crosshair, who avoided you like a bad smell. He obviously had some kind of a stick up his ass.

But that was besides the point – the real question was: did you trust these men enough to sleep out in the open like this? You didn’t think they would hurt you, or anything quite so dangerous, but you did value your privacy. And it seemed strange to sleep in their communal space while you still felt like an outsider. That was far too… intimate for your liking.

“I’m fine,” you tried to respond to Hunter’s offer with a polite smile and a nod. You didn’t want your refusal to read as rude – you just didn’t want to open yourself up to something so intimate as sleeping in another clone’s bed, even if it was simply a matter of convenience. You didn’t doubt that the clones crashed in whichever bunk was available – the blankets on the bottom two looked more worn than the top, which alluded to the fact that they shared these.

You denied the offer, even though you were tired. You hadn���t slept since the Resolute had returned to Coruscant, and the fatigue was wearing on you. But you were a force sensitive. You could draw energy that way, you hoped. And maybe with an extra cup of caf from the small galley on the ship.

Hunter frowned at you. It wasn’t that he was outright offended by your refusal – he looked exasperated instead.

“I know you’re tired. Rest. We don’t have private rooms like on the star cruisers you’re used to, but it’s safe.”

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head. “No, I- I didn’t mean-“

“I know. I know we don’t have much,” Hunter shrugged, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “But it’s what we’ve got. Took Echo some time to get used to. I don’t blame you.”

You sighed, remembering Echo. Hunter’s looking at you and seeing Echo – another 501st member adjusting to a new place. And, he’s right, to an extent. Maybe you’re overthinking things. The Bad Batch has been nothing but kind to you so far.

“I’m sorry,” you shook your head. “You’re right. It’s different from the 501st. Over there, I had a private Captain’s room. And here-“

“You’re right in it,” Hunter finished. You nodded, sighing. Hunter nodded at you, understanding, before he continued.

“Ain’t no use in separation here. Each member here was selected for a purpose, and each is an expert in that field. I’m a superior in name only – I’m more like a coordinator, if I’m completely honest,” Hunter admitted, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

“So, you guys operate more like pirates or something than an actual military unit?” you asked, with a raised eyebrow and a little quirk of a smile. Hunter shrugged, making a little noncommittal noise.

“I’ve never worked with pirates, but maybe.”

You laughed, relaxing. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, taking a nap in the open. After all, you were going to be working with these men for the foreseeable future. You had to learn to trust them, and if there were any issues with boundaries, you would work it out. It would be fine, especially if the crew operated the way Hunter said they did – you understood that structure far more than you did military hierarchies of command.

“Thank you, Hunter,” you patted his shoulder gently, well aware of the armor that covered it. “If you don’t mind, I think I will take that nap. Maybe up there, though.”

You gestured to one of the top bunks, and Hunter even cracked a smile himself.

“High ground. Good choice.”

You shared a smile, shaking your head at him as he clapped you on the back and made his exit towards the cockpit.

His touch left you warm, even thought it was friendly, the sort of thing the clones took part in all the time. You kind of hated the way your cheeks flushed as you hopped on the bunk, untying your boots and kicking them to the floor, discarding your jacket and what little armor you had (shoulder plates and forearm guards, really) at the end of the bunk.

Not only was the Bad Batch different from the other clones in terms of their operation style – casual, bound by trust rather than duty – they were also different from other clones in certain physical aspects. Hunter’s hair, in particular, caught your eye far more often than it should in a professional sense, even as you tried to ignore it. And that little smile he just gave you –

No. No, you couldn’t do this. You had to work with Hunter, and if something happened between the two of you, you couldn’t count on the fact that you both would be able to remain professional.

You wrapped the blankets around you in a little cocoon as you tried to talk yourself down from all of this. It had been easier with the 501st. Those degrees of separation prevented you from forming those attachments. But here – this wasn’t a military structure. This was a team, a crew. You couldn’t get away from these men – for kark’s sake, they all shared these bunks.

The bunks, including the one you were occupying. They were homey – the blankets wrapped around you were plentiful. A couple were standard issue – you recognized the distinctive Republic insignia emblazoned on them. But some were clearly handmade. There were scraps of fabric entwined, one around another, weaving together to make a sturdy blanket. Another looked to be a quilt, hardy and thick, made to withstand the chill of space travel.

You were enveloped in them, completely cocooned, and you were already starting to warm up again despite the absence of your jacket. You tried to turn your brain off, for just a moment, and relax into the softness of the blankets, into the homey little bunk. The Bad Batch had obviously taken care to make their beds cozy and warm, and you appreciated it – it spoke to how they valued their space, their comfort. It was nice.

You started to drift off, and you couldn’t help but notice that even the blankets smelled nice. Not from a fresh wash, necessarily – no, it smelled more like it was pleasantly lived in. But didn’t it seem like the bottom bunks were the most used by the Batch?

Maybe this was Hunter’s bunk, you considered with a little smile, curling in on yourself. Hadn’t he mentioned the high ground? You imagined that a veteran officer like Hunter might care about things like that – about being able to get a jump on anyone trying to disturb his sleep. He would feel safer up here, like you did. The way this bunk was angled, there was a good view of the outside hatch, so Hunter would be able to see anyone trying to enter the ship.

Maybe it smelled like him, then. You could imagine him wrapped in these blankets too, maybe ones that thankful civilians gave him for his help.

You had told yourself you didn’t want to get attached, but as you drifted off into a light slumber, you couldn’t stop the visions that danced behind your eyes – Hunter in the bunk with you, his broad chest pressed to your back, his arms wrapped around your waist. If he snuggled too close to your shoulder, his hair would tickle your jaw. Maybe he would tell you the stories of the blankets wrapped around the both of you – his fingers tracing over yours as you thumbed over the handmade details, as his low voice hummed in your ear.

You drifted to sleep thinking of him, the thrum of his voice, rough hands against yours. And if those thoughts spilled over into your dreams – that was only for you to know.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

taglist (get added!)

@killtherandomness @pastelpanda19  @nothingadventured-nothinggained @lafy-taffy  @badbatch-simp24 @zazzysseoul @obiwansblog @tired-ninfa

[starculler]

Whumptober 2021: Day 2

Word Count: 2798 || Read on Ao3

Tags/Warnings: Star Wars, Anakin Skywalker, Violence, Choking, Garotte/Strangling, Near Death, Hurt, Mild Comfort

Rex took the lead when they finally made their way through the abandoned city and into the next decaying structure marked on their maps, leaving Anakin to bring up the rear while Ahsoka split off with R2 and half their troops in search of a working terminal. He watched his men flick on their lights, a mix of bright beams from either helmets or blasters, and waited until he was far enough from the entrance that the system’s dying star’s dim light was useless before activating his lightsaber. It hummed, that same, single, comforting tone he’d listened to every day since he’d first found his crystal, and felt the tight tension in his shoulders loosen just a fraction.

The planet — moonless, abandoned, destroyed, and dying — felt like a jagged scrape against the back of his skull. A stinging itch he couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t a void or the sort of suffocating darkness he’d felt on some worlds, but it wasn’t overflowing like Coruscant or even the cooling balm he associates with Naboo. Even Tatooine, much as he was loath to admit it, felt more alive and intact. This planet just … was. His first step off the dropship had sent a skittering chill up his spine, not a warning so much as an expectation that had dogged him every step since.

He breathed in, cool air and dust and decay, and tightened his grip on his saber, shoving every ounce of hesitation and uncertainty to the back of his mind. His men moved carefully, slowly, ahead of him. None of them expected any surprises, but they had a way of finding the 501st like an Akk dog after its dinner. The lot of them had learned to merely expect things would go wrong at some point or other rather than hope for the best and wind up disappointed or worse. Anakin, specifically, had learned that lesson early on as a Padawan. Rarely had a mission with Obi-Wan gone simply.

They checked under fallen columns and crumbling duracrete, poking their noses in any space large enough to hold a sentient being or pint-sized droid. Anakin listened with one ear to his men’s chatter on their internal comms, tinny through the modified ear-piece he’d connected to his communicator for use on those rare missions that required a stealthier approach. It wasn’t technically necessary here, but the thought of breaking the city’s still silence any more than necessary had made his skin crawl. When the last trooper called in the all-clear on their section of the second floor, some two hours after they’d first walked in, Anakin gave the order to move on to the next.

He sighed, bent over yet another stack of warped metal and crumbling columns, and hoped Ahsoka’s team was having better luck finding anything at all. The space underneath the mess looked tight, but just big enough for someone or something about his size to squeeze through. He held his lightsaber up, shifting around suspiciously cracked sections of flooring until he knelt in front of the gap, balanced on his mechanical arm as he squinted into the shallow, blue-lit tunnel of debris.

Something skittered at the edge and he tensed. Held his breath. Slowly, cautiously, he shuffled forward, a firm grip on his lightsaber as he leaned in. And sighed, nearly slumping when a beady-eyed rat squeaked and squealed at him before darting forward and past him to scurry off and hide elsewhere in the room. He leaned one shoulder on the jagged edge of a column, pulling his weight off his other arm so he could tap a quick “all-clear” into his wrist-comm rather than risk inhaling a suffocating cloud of dust in the cramped space.

He waited for Rex’s response, an affirmative and a quick update on who was checking which parts of the, frankly, cavernous space. He spared himself a brief break before moving to catch up with the others, switching back to the general channel from the private line he used to communicate with Rex, to listen in on the troops’ chatter. Apparently, the argument of the hour had devolved into a scavenger hunt of sorts. Two parts rat-hunt and three-parts treasure hunt. One of the shinies, Net, was winning. Rex was in fifth place out of fifteen and Echo in last.

Anakin grinned as he moved back out, glad they, at least, were finding a way to pass the time. It wasn’t quite relaxed, and Anakin still felt that itch in his skull and the skitter in his spine, like cool fingers wrapped around his bones, but it was better than all of them jumping at shadows. He sat up, glad for a fresh breath of air instead of just grit and dust, and pushed up onto one knee with a halfhearted groan. More to hear something other than their collective, echoing steps and the quiet, tinny chatter fed into his ear.

He heard a faint crunch behind him, the same sound they all made as they picked their way across the room, but paid it no mind. Some trooper, he figured, who’d doubled back for one reason or another, and Anakin had never minded having one of his men at his back.

Until he did.

Everything seemed to grind to a halt for one long, breathless moment. Anakin didn’t breathe. His troops didn’t talk. The seconds didn’t tick forward. The planet didn’t turn. For a moment, there was nothing at all but the pluck of a string, pulled in from his navel and out through his back. A nauseating note, out of tune and out of place, screaming at him. Warning him. And then, abruptly, there was everything.

He moved. To duck. To turn. To get away, but the warning came too late and his reaction too slow. He’d barely registered a brush of warm skin against his jaw, a puff of hot air in his hair, the press of a solid, unarmored body against his back before the sting of cool, thin wire cutting into his throat and stole his focus.

The world around him narrowed down until it was just: Thick, leather gloves. Knuckles pressing and digging into the back of his neck. Wire pulled taut and tight against his throat, forcing him up onto his feet and further back against his attacker’s body or risk it slicing clean through. The clatter of his lightsaber, fallen from his grip as panic pulled him into frantic motion. His own choked, gasping breaths as his fingers scrabbled uselessly at his throat.

His attacker pulled tighter. Anakin felt the painful arch of his spine, desperate to find relief. Felt blood bead and drip and soak into the collar of his tunic, staining his hand and glove as he pried and reached and pulled and finally found something vulnerable even as reaching for it threatened to wrench his shoulder from its socket. He dug his nails in, scratching and tearing the way he had in the few fights he’d gotten into in the dry heat and desert sands, too little and too weak to do anything else.

They hissed, and it felt like victory until the wire pulled even tighter, cut deeper, and all Anakin could do was flail. He lost his grip. His chest burned, panic and suffocation and the horrifying, gut-churning realization that he would die. Helpless. Weak. Dark spots blooming in his vision and blotting out what little he could see of the room and what few men had yet to join Rex further in. He would die at the hands of a coward determined to leave Padmé a widow, Ahsoka without a master, his men without a general, and Obi-Wan—

Anakin had always struggled with his temper. He ran too hot. Too bright. He felt too much and the wrong way and he’d done his best to learn control and peace and serenity until he hadn’t. Until the war and his marriage and the toll every campaign took on him and those he cared for made those ideals seem so much less important than they’d been when he was young.

Anakin had always struggled, but rarely with the Force. He knew control. How to pace himself and hold back even if it burned to do so. He knew its song and its touch and the deep, endless depths he never reached out to for fear he’d lose himself in it despite how it called and crooned and begged for him to do so. He had before, a handful of times. Scared and small and so powerless that he’d clung to that familiar well like a child would its parent. Like he had his mother.

The air seemed to crackle, alive and electric around him. Roaring a pulsing, pounding beat synced to his own heart’s frantic pounding until there seemed no difference between the two. He reached for the peace and calm Obi-Wan had done his best to all but beat into him, and felt it slip through his fingers. Felt his thoughts fall away. The panic and the pain dimming and fading — aware that he was dying and yet watching it happen as if it weren’t his body there. In the dark. Bleeding and gasping and choking.

It felt a little like falling into a pool of ice. Shocking and numbing and so overwhelming he could hardly wrap his head around it.

He wanted to fade. He wanted to stay. He wanted to see the people he loved. Protect them. Be with them. He wanted a life with his wife. To see his padawan knighted. To help end the war not just for the galaxy, but for his men and the Jedi dying in droves. He wanted to see his former master, old and gray and content and proud.

He didn’t reach for the well so much as he dove into it. He sank into the depths from the tips of fingers down to his toes until he wasn’t so much a body or a person, but the air and the stars and the thrum of sudden, anxious adrenaline coursing through his men’s veins. It was odd. It was home. He stretched far across the galaxy, deep into the core and out into wild space. He huddled, small and compact and contained in finite flesh.

The Force swayed. A chorus. An ocean’s undulating current. The wind whipping and howling in a storm one moment and a gentle breeze the next. It held him close and pushed him away, moved through and around him until he could hardly find where it ended and he began.

It knew him. Loved him. And for a moment in that endless stretch of infinity, he was it.

Then, he wasn’t. He crashed back to himself, a tidal wave of electric power that shook the very floor he stood on, raining dust and debris from above and shoving everything else away with a concussive force he could barely comprehend. He gasped, choking and coughing and spitting as he fell to his hands and knees under a nauseating wave of vertigo. Trembling and numb, he heaved in huge gasping gulps of air only to choke on the burning bile crawling up his throat and half-swallowed sobs.

His fingers curled into cracked duracrete, stinging where sharp edges cut into his fingers, but it helped. He followed that small point of pain up his arm to his throbbing, dripping, draining throat, and from there to the new burn on his cheek and the painful pounding in his head until he’d made a mental map of pain in his body. His living body. He would have laughed if he could, relief and loss mixing into some complicated feeling he wouldn’t dissect until he was safely locked away in his room on the flagship.

A hand on his shoulder startled him, and he bristled, coiled and ready for a fight, until he heard his Captain’s familiar voice, though he could hardly make out a word. Rex’s hand squeezed his shoulder before slipping away and Anakin could have cried for the loss of it. He didn’t, but he could have if he weren’t still struggling to breathe. He heard other voices, no less muffled than Rex’s. Saw white plastoid armor with patterns painted in 501st blue, and felt as one of his medics checked him over and patched him up.

By the time he was done with Anakin — shining lights in his eyes, applying bacta and wrapping bandages, shoving the mouth of a flask against his lips once he could breathe again — the men had settled around the room, blasters ready while Rex stood, not too far from Anakin, helmet off and talking to the tiny, blue-tinged holo-image of Ahsoka projected on his wrist.

“Kriff,” Anakin rasped, hissing in pain when the cut on his throat throbbed in response. He could feel the medic’s arched brow and scathing look through the man’s helmet, and flushed, chastened even as he waved him off.

“Sir,” Rex said, turning back to him as Ahsoka’s image winked out. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit,” he signed back, grinning when his medic — Dent? He was pretty sure it was Dent — sighed. Rex laughed and clapped the medic on the back in, he assumed, solidarity. “What happened?”

It was Rex’s turn to sigh. “I don’t really know, sir. It looks like they followed us in, which explains why we didn’t catch them in our sweep, but not why we didn’t find them on our scans. I’d already taken half the men out to start looking through the next wing by the time you called in.” Rex pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding his helmet, his pistols holstered at his sides and the other mens’ lights keeping the area around Anakin lit. “We rushed back as soon as we knew something was wrong.

“Got here just in time to watch you use your magic —” Rex waggled his fingers as he said the word, resolutely ignoring Anakin’s pout at the playful jab and quickly signed correction — “to throw them back and nearly bring the whole building down.” Anakin winced, hoping he hadn’t hurt any of his troops though he was mostly sure Rex would have told him if he had.

“Don’t remember that,” he signed, slow and almost uncertain, brows furrowed and lips pressed in a thin line. “And what about this?” He gestured to the bandaged burn on his cheek. Rex nodded looking equal parts proud and rather like he wanted to strangle someone.

“Someone,” he said pointedly, louder than he needed to, and Anakin thought he saw one of the troopers across the room flinch, “took a shot when he found an opening, managed a solid hit to your now-dead assailant’s shoulder but nicked you in the process, sir.” Anakin nodded, lips tugging into a small smile.

“Remind me thank him, Captain.” He raised his flesh hand to his neck, tracing the edge of the bandage with scraped, dusty fingers. “Most likely saved my life,” he added.

Rex nodded woodenly, eyes a fraction wider than they’d been, but said nothing. Anakin was … glad. Relieved. He knew, logically, that the whole ordeal had lasted a handful of minutes at most, if that, but it had felt so much longer. It had felt a lot like walking a tight rope blindfolded, swaying from one side to another in a fight for balance except Anakin knew he’d tipped just a little too far one way. He shuddered, shoving the thought away to be dissected, or not, when he wasn’t filthy and hurt and surrounded by troops that didn’t really need to be worrying about him over something as trivial as this.

“Help me up?” He looked between Rex and the medic, who was definitely Dent now that Anakin was a little more settled if not much less shaken.

“Sir, you really shouldn’t be—” Dent started in that firm tone of voice every medic and healer Anakin had ever met seemed to have. Was it taught to them? Part of whatever training or curriculum they were given?

“Come on,” Rex interrupted, holding out a hand that Anakin took all too happily. And perhaps a little smug if Dent’s helmet-modulated huff was anything to go by.

A little bit of near-death was, unfortunately, not reason enough to hold up their mission. Besides, the faster they finished, the faster Dent could haul him to the ship’s medbay and do everything his little medic heart wanted to him.

All the way through, behind the slowly easing headache and the aching, throbbing pain of his wounds, the itch in his skull and the skitter in his spine continued to dog him. Not a warning. An expectation. And Anakin wasn’t sure he wanted to know the cause after one near-death already.

[countessofbiscuit]

@ct-1994 adopted a list of one-liners for a SW prompt game (loved the idea), and then this happened in the Arabian Sea. This is the result. 

Happy Hour | Ao3

Teen, 1000 words, Commander Fox & Admiral Salima, Background Foxiyo

“No shit, there I was, a TIT getting soggy and tit-faced off this crazy stacked falleen, procured and paid for by the Provost Marshal Commander of the goddamn Republic.”

— CT-4000 Weber, in a story posted on GAR tacChat, since deleted by the mods. . . . “Commander, if you could spare a moment,” said Admiral Salima, when the Coruscant command meeting adjourned, “there’s something I’d like to show you.”

Obliged to oblige, Fox followed her. Wardroom caf and confab on the Adherent had never been worth sticking around for; and he understood his presence only threw a chill over both.

Salima’s reserve was more familiar. She simply enquired after Thorn (the only brother with a changing view); congratulated Fox on Operation Luster and his promotion (a glorified flimsi shuffle, really); and nearly made a snide remark about his new boss, Admiral Tarkin (the glorified flimsiweight, fashioned from ossified wax) — all in short order. Her conversation remained hard-shouldered throughout; Fox had learned how to corner it comfortably.

She’d been something of a mentor to him, back when Fox and the rest of the Corrie-bound Guard had been little better than cargo from Kamino. He’d been fool enough to hope for mutual attraction; now, he recognized benign curiosity and was grateful Salima had only corrected him in private, with a stern reminder to maintain the straight-and-narrow among his men. She’d had the power to do much worse.

Through the labyrinth they walked. Down the turbolift and straight on till Zhellday, so it felt.

Like Fox, the shine had worn off this ship. The factory smell had long since lost the war of molecular attrition to concentrated crew life, too. The cologne alone exhausted the finest air scrubbers. Home Defense was the gentle proving ground for Core kids who liked home-cooking and Corrie nightlife; the only fleet with a birther majority.

“No doubt it’s just gone on viral on your network, but since you’re here ... ” Salima stiffly prefaced as they entered hangar command. The skeleton crew inside excused themselves, and the Admiral assumed a station at the window. Fox joined her and looked down.

The normally clear flight deck bristled with hardware. Anti-armor weapons, sniper rifles, sonic blasters, carbines galore, power packs, and enough dets to make an EOD tech nervous.

Fox blinked. His helmet would have glitched trying to identify it all. Quite a cache. Quite a coup.

“The shuttle?” Fox said, when comprehension clicked. An unregistered, offbrand Nu-class had been seized yesterday — when it’d been easier to blink away a ‘shabla fucking fuckton’ of Sep and stolen weapons.

“Yes. The pilot was so confident in her scrambled transponder, she didn’t reckon on a visual,” Salima said. “The interdiction team had a hot welcome. Left no one standing.”

Fox hummed his approval. But if Salima had brought him here expecting tears of joy, she’d be kept waiting. He’d only ever wept for Riyo Chuchi — and she approved of weapons about as much as she appreciated hopelessly dead criminals.

If anyone deserved a cry, it was the working party who’d been tasked with dressing the deck down to the inch, tagging everything, and squinting for scrubbed serial numbers. The layout was so religiously uniform, it could only be clone work. And only on Kamino, only to the audio instruction of Jango Fett, had Fox had ever seen grenades arranged rings-inward, two-by-five, to make them easier to count.

“Commander Kathcar’s bright idea,” said Salima, her expression hard. “Claims it was for my birthday. Nerfshit.” She spat the word. “Forget the Seps: ever since I’ve had the misfortune to command him, he’s been locked in an epic battle with CorSec’s OCU for the most testosterone in one holopic.”

Fox glanced at her, completely at sea. He’d only ever fielded complaints up his kama. Collected them like sourgums, and chewed them into a more palatable mass for higher. But a superior griping to him? And birther-on-birther bitching, too? Goddamn unnatural.

“Truly, it’s a mercy he’s on our side,” Fox offered, exerting himself to meet her tone.

“We sing a song of thanksgiving.” And if he wasn’t mistaken, that was Salima sarcasm. “His efforts have been amply recognized,” she went on. “Kathcar’s entire staff has been assigned to the second inventory, the pack-up, and multiple walkdowns.”

Still unsure why he’d been brought to bear witness, Fox mirrored her satisfied stance. Wasn’t hard. Justice had been served, and that was a satisfaction that swelled readily within Commander Fox.

“Don’t suppose you men recognize birthdays,” Salima mused, severely pivoting the conversation. Her hands fidgeted behind her back. “Do you even know when you took your first breath, Commander?”

“I’m sure it’s in the metadata somewhere, sir,” Fox replied, tapping his temple, because birthers assumed they were chipped in the head.

Salima laughed. A real chestful of mirth. And Fox suddenly remembered what he’d seen in her.

“Well, if the troopers responsible for this sexy jigsaw here have ever celebrated a birthday, it must’ve been a muted affair. My staff tell me they’ve never left the ship.” She seemed to buckle under this admission; braced herself on the console with the visible weight of decision-making. Fox tensed. “Two years in space. Mother of Farrik.”

Two years in space, four years in clone, all time that had never belonged to them anyway. Fox shifted his helmet, to worry his left thumb raw instead.

“If you can fit them on your transport — the traffic troops and two more squads, I’d be grateful,” she said, straightening herself and her jacket. “I figure, if anyone can show some young men a good, mostly law-abiding time in Galactic City, it’s your staff.”

Fox was somewhat gobsmacked. But he’d suffer a vac-head shiny upon his lap, if it meant they finally enjoyed some shore leave. “I might know a solid establishment or three.”

Salima actually shook his hand, transferring a high-denomination credit chip from some unseen pocket. “Forty-eight hours. Let them have a birthday party. For me. Don’t make anyone regret it and you can keep the change.” Her mouth scrunched against a smile.

“Yes, sir,” Fox replied, equally guileful and all appreciation.

An all-expenses-paid night on the town was a rare thing. But watching whitejobs practically shit slugs at a mandatory invitation from the strong arm of the law? Always priceless.

. . . . . 

(Ao3)

[tragedy-for-sale]

Everything I wanted

Okay, but I needed some Jesse angst so ya'll gonna get some Jesse angst.

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥

It hardly rained on Coruscant, so when it does, the world was different. Captain Rex was speaking, but Jesse didn't hear. He didn't hear anything, not the Captain, the tears of his brothers, not even the rain. All Jesse heard was Fives' voice, his voice, and it haunted him. He'd heard Fives' voice and it would send a chill down Jesse's spine. He turned his head away as he starts to stuff his feelings down, desperately trying to wipe the fact that he'd never see Fives again aside from in his mind. This happened all the time, his brothers died all the time. So he shouldn't be surprised, he shouldn't feel so sad, he should be used to this. Use to death.

But here he was, feeling weak and vulnerable as if death was a completely new concept. He was a child, a child lost in darkness. There was no light, Fives was his light, and now he was gone, and there was only darkness. Jesse was always in darkness, and Fives gave him light, gave him hope. He never had to see without him, without that light. Without his light. His brother, his older brother, who picked him, him, out of all the shinies, Fives picked Jesse to take under his wing, introduced him to the Captain, when Echo died, Jesse pulled Fives off the barrack floor, they had each other's back on Umbara, they were a team.

Then to be alone, standing in the rain alone. He felt Kix's hand on his shoulder, but he couldn't move, he didn't move when Fives' coffin started to move, Jesse couldn't move, all he could do was cry. He didn't fight back as Rex and Kix walked him back to the transport, he didn't breath. Jesse rocked to the rumble of the shuttle, eyes staring blankly into nothing as his cheeks flooded with tears.

It was slow. The first few days were slow, and it was all a blur. It was a haze, Jesse wouldn't recall a thing. In those first few days, it was quiet. Kix stayed with Jesse all through the day, and Rex all through the night. When he laid in bed, he'd be staring at his brother's face and he'd squint his eyes. Because if he let his mind wander and gave into anything but reality, he'd see Fives, and if he closed his eyes and let his brother talk, forcing himself to pretend, it was Fives' voice.

Kix and Rex watched him carefully. Watch him narrow his eyes until he inevitably closed them. But he wasn't sleeping, they knew that, though they couldn't figure out what he was doing. They didn't ask though, they couldn't ask, for when they had, he opened up his sorrowful eyes and his face, that got so close to happiness, his face: dropped. He'd get so sad when Jesse saw them. When he saw Rex and Kix over Fives. He always looked so disappointed.

He was. Jesse was disappointed. He knew not to be, but he was all the same. Or he'd get angry. Angry at Kix and Rex, for being the wrong brother. It made Jesse hate himself more, that he couldn't just let himself be grateful that he still had two of his closest brothers by his side. But right now, Jesse didn't care. He knew he was being selfish, but he had to be. If he wanted to survive Fives' death, he had to be selfish. To let himself pretend that Kix's eyes are Fives' to ignore the hint of grey, Jesse would pretend Rex's voice and Fives' were identical, even though Fives' was more sharp.

Jesse would lie to himself, lie to every part of himself, to pretend. Pretend everything is alright and that Fives didn't get shot by a brother, that Fives didn't die in Rex's arms, that Fives and Jesse never got to say goodbye. Beause they were both alive. They didn't need to say goodbye.

But one day, Jesse woke up, and reality slapped him in the face. Well, it was Fives, actually. In his dream, Fives came, then, Jesse woke up. He got out of bed, legs shaking as he stood on his own two feet. He was still alive, Fives wasn't, but he was. His lungs were still filled with air and his heart was still beating. He still had the horizon. With each step he took, he fought the urge to fall to his knees to give up yet again, Fives wouldn't want him to give up.

Jesse grabbed his boots, he put them on, "I made you a promise," putting on each shin guard, "And I'm going to keep that promise," snapping on each piece of armor and putting it on, "I'm going to keep my promise, Fives," the gauntlets were on and lastly, he grabbed his helmet looking in the mirror, "I'm going to be an ARC," he put the helmet on,

"I'm gonna make you proud of me,"

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥

|| Tag List ||

@ct7567329 @a-lil-perspective @mageofcole @advcntura @crying-at-ikea @stuckyjacos @crahsystor @obiorbenkenobi @satan-incarnate-666 @kalm421 @passionofthesith @mackstrut @flyingfreeyt @jonathananubian @kamino-mermaid

[starwarsfic]

Gai'se bal Mande 1: Alpha-17

Originally posted September 4, 2020

Summary: There's one basic fact of the galaxy that lots of people agree on: Qui-Gon Jinn does not deserve to raise Obi-Wan.

Details: Alpha-17 & Obi-Wan. Time Travel AU. Mandalore Mission AU. For the Punch Qui-Gon and Adopt Obi-Wan challenge.

xxxxxx

Death came in battle, it was all that Alpha-17 could hope for.

That it was battle against the Vod'e, the younger siblings he'd raised and trained and who'd gone suddenly, horrifying blank-faced before turning on the Jedi around them, left something to be desired.

He thought of the ones off Kamino, legions of Vod'e that could very well be doing exactly the same thing. Trusted--some even loved--by the Jedi around them.

He thought of Kote. And how he'd entrusted him with Obi-Wan.

His heart ached.

And then he hit the water, the impact knocking him out, the current sucking him under, and stopped thinking.

***

Alpha-17 came awake with a gasp. He hadn't expected to come awake at all, so he did as he had been trained to and accessed the situation before allowing any signs of waking. He was lying on grass, somewhere with moderate temperature on the cold side. There were at least two people in the immediate vicinity, he could smell the faintest fumes of blaster fire but not hear any of the telltale sounds of armor.

"Hey, are you okay?" The voice was on the young side, the words were Mando'a, the accent familiar--achingly familiar, he realized.

He opened his eyes and a too-young version of Obi-Wan was leaning over him, staring down at him. Was this the afterlife? Were one of the religions that said there was some sort of 'heaven' after death right? But he'd think he'd be staring into Obi-Wan's face as he'd been when they first met, that those eyes would be alight with recognition.

This...this kid was younger than a shiny and definitely didn't recognize him. He had the telltale Padawan haircut, which looked somehow extra ridiculous and extra adorable on his fluffy red hair. He wasn't wearing robes, though, instead dressed like some sort of spacer.

Beside him was a girl, a little older than him, light colored hair and--oh.

Oh.

The Duchess. His General and the Duchess.

"What--what year is this?"

The two exchanged looks, clearly concerned for him. "You fell out of the sky, there aren't any ships around. Whatever happened to you--you're disoriented."

"I'm not," Alpha-17 insisted, sitting up and inspecting himself.

The blaster marks were there on his armor, but the wounds were gone. His bucket was missing, too, but that was probably for the best--the armor he might be able to pass off as Mandalorian style, but he couldn't do that with the helmet.

Neither of them recognized him--neither of them would have seen Jango Fett before, he didn't think. How old would Jango have been right now? Would they be too close in age and looks to risk showing his face?

He spared a moment to think about tracking him down, it wouldn't be hard to get a slip on him, he wouldn't be expecting anyone to know as much about his skillset as Alpha-17 did.

"It's 7938 CRC," Padawan Obi-Wan finally says, watching Alpha-17 for a reaction.

"Right, that scans," he stated, in acknowledgement, remembering his General liked that sort of thing. "I want you to reach out with your Force banthashit, and ask it if the next thing I say is true or not." Obi-Wan's eyes widen and, after another quick look at Kryze, he nods. "I'm from the future."

Kryze lets out a disbelieving noise. Obi-Wan, who'd been crouching beside him, falls flat on his ass, still staring. He believed him, then. That made things slightly easier.

"Duchess, you're dead. I'm dead, or was. You...Obi-Wan, you probably are, too. There was a war," before Kryze could say anything about how there was currently a war, he waved a hand, "a galactic wide war. Lots of people died. If I'm back here, now...it's so we can prepare for it."

All through his words, Obi-Wan's eyes hardened, his face chilling into the determined look Alpha-17 recognized from battle. He'd been in battle, he realized, now, and before now, even. He'd said as much when they'd talked about his past. Obi-Wan might be missing a few decades of experience, but he wasn't missing his earlier knowledge of warfare.

"You believe him?"

"The Force is--it's hard to explain, Sat'ika. It's ringing with truth all around him, screaming at me to believe him."

Kryze had the resigned look of someone who had worked with a Jedi for long enough to know they were all completely crazy and also actually did have mysterical powers.

"Fine." She stood up a little straighter, looking down at him with an air of authority at odds with her dirty spacer disguise. "What's the plan, then?"

***

He told them enough, Obi-Wan confirmed anything with the Force that Kryze thought was just too unbelievable. It wasn't hard, after that, to get their help tracking down Jango (Alpha-17 remembered just enough about his stories to have a good guess of where he might be) and, even though neither of them seemed too hot about it, killing him.

Taking his identity felt creepy, but they needed it--the Duchess of the New Mandalorians and the Mand'alor of the traditionalists working together? Yeah, they needed that.

And if anyone noticed the gaps in "Jango's" memory, well, there was a lot of trauma there. No surprise he'd repress most of his old life.

Eventually Jinn tracked them down, too, clearly not knowing what to make of the fact his charge had gone so far off the rails she'd allied with a missing political rival.

Definitely no one was surprised that "Jango" didn't want a Jedi involved in anything (Obi-Wan didn't count, of course, but there were lots of reasons people could give for that), and he blocked him out of their planning meetings.

Frustrated and petty, Jinn drew Obi-Wan away just a day after they all reached Sundari. "I...suppose our work here is done, then. Padawan, it's time to return to Coruscant."

"So you can send him off alone in another warzone?" Alpha-17 challenged and the people around them tensed in anticipation, knowing how much "Jango" liked the apprentice. "Let him starve for a few more months when he's supposed to be growing?"

Jinn's eyes flashed with anger, his expression reminding Alpha-17 of Anakin--who'd been nineteen, not some old man entrusted with raising multiple kids. It was impossible to believe this guy raised someone like Obi-Wan Kenobi, though he figured that was because Obi-Wan mostly raised himself.

"Obi-Wan is my Padawan learner, as his Master--"

"You're supposed to take care of him, not treat him like a neglected strill that will keep obedient because it doesn't know better."

"Jango," Obi-Wan tried to interrupt, but Alpha-17 shot him a look and he backed down and shuffled away, Satine gripping his arm, both seeming more curious than concerned.

Maybe it was Obi-Wan's easy obedience towards Alpha-17 or maybe it was the protective anger Jinn was feeling in the Force, but he stepped forward, looking down at Alpha-17 like his height was something to be intimidated by and not just a quirk of genetics.

Alpha-17 had spent too long dealing with the longnecks to give a shit about Qui-Gon Jinn being taller.

"Our mission is over, Mand'alor," the title was hissed in displeasure, "and it is time to return to our home."

Alpha-17 turned towards Obi-Wan, whose eyes were wide. They'd discussed this--the need to prepare Mandalore for what was to come, the fact that the Republic, the Jedi Order, couldn't be as ready. He took a breath, let it out steadily, as he did when he was releasing emotions in the Force. Then he nodded.

"Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad," Alpha-17 stated, the room erupting into chaos as "Jango Fett" adopted a child.

Jinn clearly didn't know what that meant, but knew there was some significance. He strode forward and, instead of stopping in front of Obi-Wan to speak to him as Alpha-17 had been expecting, he grabbed Obi-Wan's arm.

"We're going, now, Padawan."

He didn't get more of a tug in before Alpha-17's fist landed cleanly in his kidney. Letting out a wheeze, the older Jedi stumbled away, Obi-Wan just managing to get out of his grip. Satine was whispering frantically to him, glaring at Jinn as she did, probably telling Obi-Wan how unacceptable Jinn's move had been even if Obi-Wan had been conditioned to think that was alright.

"You're leaving, Jinn. And you're not taking my son with you."

The Mandalorians around them weren't the Vod'e, would never be as close or know him as truly, but they were still Mando'ade, and quickly filled in the space to block Obi-Wan from Jinn's view as he turned his attention back to them.

The Jedi Order would protest the whole thing, probably fed some lies by Jinn about what actually had happened, but there were more than enough people here to know and spread the truth through the sector. There was nothing more Mandalorian than fighting the Jedi and with any luck this might even get Death Watch interested in "Jango's" rule.

xxxxxx

"gai bal manda" is the Mandalorian adoption rite, it means "name and soul." This is me doing my best to pluralize that into "names and souls"

[rogueclonesftw]

hello! i don't know anything about your OC's, but i saw your post. could you perhaps list all of them with a short summary? 🙏🏻💕

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! sorry this took so long to answer. I moved house and it was A Lot. My OCs are legion so for the sake of everyone else’s dashes I’m putting this under a read more

These are just for the clone wars era I’m leaving the rebels out of it

Thanks for asking!! Feel free to ask about anyone if you want to know more.

fair warning this is long af

I’m splitting it into sections to make this easier

Heretics

Jedi

Bela Rant

Togruta Jedi Master and mother Master of four Padawans children. Not a favourite of the Council due to differences in interpretation of the Code. Had an ongoing feud with Qui Gon Jinn that lasted until he died. She died in the war ten years later and Col took over her command.

Alask Racor

Grumpy Twi’lek first Padawan of Bela, had two Padawans of his own but was killed by pirates before the second was knighted.

Reya Meraska

Alask’s first Padawan. A human from Jedha and compassion incarnate. Had an uneventful apprenticeship and grew up to be comparatively quiet compared to the rest.

Ben Edo

Reya’s first and so far only Padawan. The model of a perfect Jedi except for thinking their interpretation of the Code is bullshit. Would have made one hell of a politician if he could stand the Senate. From Dantooine.

Tol Koden

Alask’s second Padawan, a very polite Zabrak. Alask died when he was 17 and Jos took over his training. He and Ben are the same age and were raised basically together.

Jos Vel

Stubborn and opinionated Kiffar. Bela’s second Padawan. Had her own (equally stubborn and opinionated) Padawan and then took over Tol’s training when Alask died.

Harlan Konshi

Jos’s Padawan. Also a Kiffar. Would also make a fine politician because being raised by Jos taught him to argue. He’s a bit of a jackass but in a charming way. Like, he’s a prick but you still like him.

Azaana Tyl

Harlan’s sweet, quiet, shy Togruta Padawan. Jos laughed so hard when she heard about that. Harlan is trying to teach her self-confidence. The baby of the family.

Col Blackmoor

Bela’s third and most disastrous Padawan. The former Temple Problem Child (now Temple Problem Adult). Not that he spends much time in the Temple. Was so far out on the Outer Rim he didn’t find out there was a war on until he had to come back and take over Bela’s legion. The worst case of ADHD the Temple has ever seen.

Lena Sola

Col took her in after an incident with her former Master almost saw her kicked out of the Order. Col intervened. She’s still uncomfortable around most Jedi, but they’re working on it. Sweet kid. Kage.

Aden Jadus

Bela’s final Padawan, knighted just before Geonosis. Yes, she’s from Tatooine. No, that does not mean she knows Skywalker. Stop asking.

Not-Jedi

Vale

The oldest of the bunch, Reya’s Commander. Has enough Big Dad Energy to build a deck at 20 paces. Meat grills in his presence and the shinies all fear his disappointed frown.

Nill

Jos’s Commander. Deeply claustrophobic. A nice, likeable guy unless you piss him off. Caffeine demon.

Jax

Clone Commander and Col Wrangler in Chief, Col regards his Commander with barely disguised awe. He considers him his closest friend. For his part, Jax thinks similarly highly of Col. He likes to draw when he gets spare time (rarely). Grew up with Sonny and Cody. Very protective of Lena.

Crater

Professional Ray of Sunshine, the exact opposite of his twin. Crater and Crash grew up with Wolffe. Crater was assigned to Ben, and he likes his General, really, but the man never sleeps. It’s starting to stress him out.

Click

Professional Salt Mine assigned to the Galaxy’s Politest Jedi because apparently the GAR runs on irony. Makes Wolffe look like a ray of happy, happy sunshine.

Pip

The perpetual optimist to Aden’s incredible pessimist. Remains stubbornly cheerful by choice, because if he doesn’t laugh he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop crying.

Dexter

Professional Grouchy Bastard. Likes Harlan well enough but will absolutely tell him he’s full of shit. If Azaana likes you, Dexter will tolerate your existence. If you make Azaana sad they will never find your body. A training accident left him with scars and a deep growl in his voice that makes him sound angrier than he is.

Stitch

Col’s CMO and the only person Jax legitimately fears. Deeply wishes his siblings and General would get injured less and look after themselves more. Is willing to enforce this with sedatives.

Zip

The Right Hand of God (Stitch’s second in command). He who wields the big needles.

Layne

Cheerful but stressed Captain of a company of reckless idiots who really should know better but apparently don’t. He should be used to it. He grew up with Rex.

Trip and Tap

Two survivors of Krell reassigned to Col. Tap has a nervous habit of tapping his fingers. Trip can trip over thin air.

Jazz, Snap and Void

A trio. Jazz likes to wander off. Void likes to hide. Snap likes to complain they’re giving him grey hair from the stress of having them disappearing all the time.

Ray and Rico

The product of an embryo that split, Ray and Rico lived in fear of being culled as defects on Kamino. They’ve since left Kamino, but the fear hasn’t left them.

Lys

A tired medic who would like Dexter to drink something that isn’t caf please.

Tyke

The medic with the most agreeable Jedi (Tol). He barely has to bully him into seeking medical attention at all. Such a shame that his Commander seems determined to make up for it by being a complete bastard. If Click wants to get tackled in the hallway, that’s his lookout.

Rill

Has a particular interest in medical research. Or he would if he ever had the time. 

Corrie

The youngest CMO in the GAR. Just barely 18, only on the field for six months and never meant to be CMO at all. But she’s the only medic Pip’s got left after that clusterfuck, so they’re all doing their best. She might be young but she will absolutely yell at a commander you see if she doesn’t.

New Dawn Crew

Not-Clones

Mira Vin 

A female Kiffar former Jedi whose Master died on Geonosis. The Council were going to knight her and make her a General, so she told Windu to stick it up his ass and ran away to the Outer Rim to harass slavers and save “defective” clones.

Kell Vekarr

An Alderaanian former Jedi who was rescued from slavers as a child. Finally took the 20 remaining members of his command and ran when the rest were killed over Ando. Jaster’s boyfriend. Autistic.

Jaster Toran

True Mandalorian bounty hunter who was betrayed by a client and sold into slavery. Joined the crew upon his rescue four years later. Kell’s boyfriend. Autistic.

Riye Toran

Jaster’s older sister who joined the crew to look for him and then stuck around because she liked it there.

Volya’tar

Twi’lek former slave who freed herself and stole a ship. Pilot, mechanic and Mira’s best friend.

Pash Colton

Dyspraxic dyslexic Corellian with more brains than sense. An engineering genius who has wisdom as his dump stat. Also sometimes a smuggler.

Jaina Bell

Tiny and terrifying. Orphaned at a young age and grew up to be a smuggler, mechanic and pilot.

Ela

Nonbinary Lorrdian. Has a long horrendous Lorrdian name they never use. Joined the crew because slavers suck and anything that makes their lives difficult is a good thing. Stuck around for the people.

Black Company

Halcyon

An ARC Captain known for his green hair and endless patience. Considers Kell a close friend but calls him Commander regardless. Used to fight Rex a lot as a kid. Please let this man rest.

Bones

Halcyon’s batchmate and Black Company’s CMO. A cranky bugger, but that’s understandable considering what he deals with daily.

Pax

The peacemaker between his idiot brothers and everyone else for as long as they can remember. A chill guy, but even chill guys have limits.

Tracyn and Carud

Two of the Nightmare Children. Their names are fire and smoke and they cause a lot of both, raising Pax’s blood pressure and driving Bones into apoplectic rage.

Isa

Jaro’s long suffering sister. Usually has to track him down to make him go to sleep. Has a weekly commiseration session with Ari (alcohol optional but recommended).

Jaro

Named for the Mando’a word for reckless and boy howdy is it accurate. The ADHD doesn’t help.

Ari

Rio’s batchmate and she loves her brother dearly but she is so done with his shit.

Rio

The last of the original Nightmare Children, ADHD disaster and source of most of Bones’s workload.

Kee and Jam

Nonbinary comms officers who bicker very cheerfully. Usually with each other. Often at high volume through the halls of the ship.

Torin

Gay artist baby.

Kol

Gay artist bastard.

Charly

Honestly he’s just here for a laugh and his brothers respect him for it. You’ve got to find your joy where you can get it these days.

Dys

Takes great delight in moving Set’s things just a couple of centimetres. Just enough to annoy him. Will deck anyone else who tries the same thing.

Set

Also known as Corporal Square Corners. Everything has to be neat and tidy. He was a godsend before inspections. Now he’s just the reason people have somewhere to sit.

Slip

Known for giving his trainers the slip and disappearing into the bowels of Kamino when they were doing training exercises he didn’t like and then getting stuck and having to be retrieved by Chase.

Chase

More like chase-ing his brother through the halls of Kamino to keep him out of trouble. There’s a running joke that he should have ended up in search and rescue.

Bright

Was he named for his bright red hair or as an ironic comment on his general outlook on life? Who knows? Not him. A pessimist if there ever was one.

Impulse

Full name Have-You-Ever-Heard-Of-Impulse-Control and no, he hasn’t.

Cuyan Squad

Sonny

A naturally blond, autistic, Force-sensitive Commander who survived Kamino by the skin of his teeth. Grew up with Cody and Jax. Hyper efficient Can, will and has broken people’s faces for saying shit about the Coruscant Guard.

Zak

Force-sensitive Captain who despises soup and has incredible claustrophobia. Good with kids though. Autistic.

Ru

Force-sensitive autistic Lieutenant. Quieter than Zak, and fully supports his vendetta against soup. Has his own vendetta against food that stabs you in the mouth.

Bang

Force-sensitive bomb-tech. Partially deafened in an explosion which also gave him some pretty intense scarring. Gets nervous when he can’t see people behind him.

Bit

Force-sensitive techie with a penchant for weapons modification and data slicing. Gives the best hugs in the squad.

Tink

If it’s broken Tink can fix it. The resident ADHD Force-sensitive techie. Has a tendency to hyperfocus on projects to the exclusion of all else.

Flow

De facto squad medic because he’s the best at Force-healing of the lot of them. He does not appreciate this, this is not what he trained for, you’re voiding his warranty, vode please. Dyed his hair purple because he could.

Edge

Thrill seeker with electric blue hair and boundless energy. The ADHD doesn’t help with the fidgeting, but he likes to go fast so Force-augmented speed is pretty great.

Ry and Cas

True twins born from the same tube, they’re the Fred and George Weasley of clones. They’ve got the red hair and everything. Judicious use of the Force makes pranks far easier.

Other

Caj, Chess and Blade

The brothers in charge of the homebrew alcohol. The taste is a work in progress, but the last batch didn’t make anyone go blind.

Rictor and Sike

Survivors of Krell who deal with their trauma in very different ways. Rictor is terrified of authority in case they turn out like Krell. Sike figures if he survived that he can survive anything and mouths off constantly.

Kano and Oly

Batchmates who were reconditioned separately (for nightmares and injury, respectively) and reunited upon Kano’s rescue. Oly had been with the crew for months by then. They both cried.

Sitrep, Conn and Sig

Three more nonbinary comms officers. A cheerful bunch who like to argue. Usually with each other. The problems started when they started arguing with their General.

Aran, Orar and Tay

Three heavy gunners who fight TJ a lot because the little twerp is asking for it (literally). Tay is relentlessly cheerful, Aran the exact opposite, and you’re lucky to get three words out of Orar in a row.

Ani, Mirdir and Dajun

Techies and mechanics who prefer wires to people. Mirdir and Dajun have known each other since birth and bicker a lot. Ani mostly ignores them.

Dane

A captain who finally snapped and told his General where he could stick his suicidal orders.

Sprint

Full name Slow-Down-There’s-No-Need-To-Sprint, a six foot ball of energy and barely contained enthusiasm. Usually found hurtling around the place at ludicrous speeds.

Crash

An anxious, autistic pilot who has never crashed his ship. He has, however, crashed himself into doors, siblings, training sergeants.

Rainer

A really chill guy who got shipped off for being too violent after a misunderstanding about a sparring match. TJ’s favourite sparring partner.

TJ

Likes to fight, does not care if his opponent could physically snap him in half. Sometimes he just has to beat his brain into submission via getting the crap beaten out of his body. Usually succeeds in provoking the heavy gunners into fighting him.

Zero

TJ’s perpetually worried brother. Really wishes TJ would chill. Dyslexic and has a recurring leg injury that won’t heal. Gets bored easily.

Brook and Storm

A pair of total nerds who get so engrossed in arguing that they don’t realise they’re about to walk into a tree. Frequently wander off and have to be returned.

Jai, Tala, Teek, Niko and Galaar

Five ARCs who got sent back to Kamino for telling their General to go kriff himself. Jai is Force-sensitive. Galaar is just a prick with a terrible sense of humour.

[meteor752]

The reptile squad cuz I love my boys

Molly made me do this, blame her

Alright..so. The reptiles, let’s talk about them.

If you’ve forgotten, we’ve got Turtle, Gecco Cobra, Mongoose and Tori (At this point T7)

Let’s start with Turtle!

CT-4166′s a soft boy who doesn’t deserve any of this. He’s tough when he needs to, obviously, but when he doesn’t he cries a lot and likes to pet things, especially Cobras hair.

The boy rocks hair that reaches just below his face, with his bangs being kept up by a ponytail on the top of his head (hair done by T7, cuz she has the best fingers for it). He has the tattoo of a four-pointed star on his forehead, two lines that go from his temple to under his eyes and one that goes from his neck down his back.

Turtle got his name when he was physically around eight, when he was teased by Gecco for losing a simple race, calling him a turtle. Turtle got annoyed, and demanded a rematch, and lost that one too. After twenty rematches, with both boys huffing and puffing and their vods watching them with extremely amused expressions, Gecco once again calls him turtle, but this time the boy just grins, stands tall and declares his name now as Turtle. Why he would choose that name is a mystery to everyone, but it was his choice, so whatever.

Eventually, Turtle does graduate and starts serving in the 327th under General Secura and Commander Bly. He is merely a simple foot soldier, yes, but he still greatly enjoys his new family, and the one he had during growing up. 

He died during battle, shot in the chest, and it hit his vods hard. Because that was when they finally realized that their cadet days were over, and they would all most likely die one by one

Anyways onto Gecco!

CT-3939 is the one that everyone’s surprised that he’s alive by this point, because what? How?! YOU’VE BEEN SHOT THRICE IN A ROW THIS SHOULDN’T EVEN BE POSSIBLE!!!

He’s a wild boy, with neon green shoulder long hair that’s literally everywhere at once cuz who has time for brushing amiright? He does however lack any tattoos, but that’s because he wants to and not cuz he thinks it will hurt!

Gecco’s name Story is pretty basic, where after Turtle got his name he had the brilliant idea that they all should be name after reptiles, cuz come on guys, it’ll be fun!! So yeah, he chose Gecco.

Gecco gets a place in the 104th under General Koon and Commander Wolffe, and he shows great pride in his position. His death was during a mission where the 107th lacked Pilots, and he of course volunteered to fly. Problem is, he is no pilot and was shot down from the Sky. Cobra, Mongoose and T7 never forgave him for this.

Next is Cobra!

CT-1591 was the “by the book” guy of the squad, and mostly tried to keep his Vod’s out of trouble, a job he did very poorly. He’s also the one who tries to keep up his soldier mannerisms all the time, a facade Turtle happily shatters.

He’s also the only one in the squad who stuck to the basic look, with no haircut or tattoos. Parts of his face however were heavily damaged because of an explosion when he was still a shiny, and he lost both his left ear and eye.

His name story is similar to Gecco’s, after his vod proposed the ‘names after reptiles’ idea. He just simply saw a Cobra one day, thought it looked cool, and here we are.

Cobra, unlike his fellow squad mates, served back on Coruscant as a Coruscant Guard, under Commander Fox. Cobra was perfectly fine with not being on active battlefields, and enjoyed to hear his Vod’s stories about it. He was teased by Gecco though, but that’s unavoidable.

Cobra died because of a simple robbery, and was unfortunately caught in another explosion, this time taking not just his eye but his whole being.

Mongoose time!

CT-6670 is a lazy boi, who often snuggles up to one of the other four and takes a nap. Of course he serves when he needs to, but when he doesn’t he takes it fairly chill.

Just like Cobra, Mongoose has the basic haircut, though it’s messy most of the time cause why bother? He has the tattoo of three dots under each of his eyes, and a cobra on the side of his forehead, in memory of his name story.

Speaking of his name story, he named himself after his biggest accomplishment! He literally just beat Cobra in hand to hand combat, and since Mongooses kills Cobras he chose that. Gecco got a little salty, cuz we had a theme, don’t break the theme vod!

Mongoose became a soldier in the 501st, working under General Skywalker, Commander Tano and Captain Rex. By doing this, he worked very close to his sister and more than once did they share bunk just to have a familiar presence, especially after first Turtle, then Gecco and last Cobra’s deaths.

Mongoose was present during the Battle of Umbara, where he like many others lost his life, in his case during the 501st vs 212th battle. This was the action that made his sister desert, and therefore saving her life.

Lastly Tori!

CT-7526 heavily values free will and equal rights for clones, and can be extremely salty towards clones that merely see them as soldiers (*Cough cough* Dogma), the same with generals that view them the same way.  Other than that, she is a fairly chill person who really just wants to be left alone, and rarely loses her temper (Except for Fives, Fives knows how to push her buttons and he does it quite often).

She, as I explained before, has her hair cut in a mohawk, and has a zick zack pattern going under her eyes and the female logo on the side of her forehead.

Tori’s name story came fairly late in her life, unlike basically all of her brothers. During Umbara, and after her near execution together with Fives and Jesse, she just...announced her name. Said it was Tori. She had actually thought about her name for an extremely long time and found the name Tori (That means Victory) when she was still a cadet. Why she was so late for it was because she hadn’t found herself worthy of a name. Now she did.

 Tori served as an ARC-trooper under General Skywalker, Commander Tano and Captain Rex, though unlike her fellow squadmates, she had a pretty high rank in her battalion. She got this position partly because of her amazing cadet scores, and also because of straight-up yelling at the General once or twice, gaining his respect. She is a very scary woman, I tell you.

She died much later in her life, when she was biologically in her early thirties and physically her early sixties, during the Battle of Yavin. She was one of the many pilots that lost her life in the battle, but at least it was a better way to die than to get executed.

Other shit I couldn’t fit here/Fun Facts

Turtle, Gecco, Cobra, Mongoose, and Tori were all in a polyamory relationship since their cadet days

After the death of Gecco, Tori becomes incredibly salty and quite rude towards Wolffe, as she blames him for his death. She did calm down with her attitude after the fall of the republic, but she never came over her anger.

All five of them had the other fours symbols on their armor; a cobra, a mongoose, a gecco, a turtle and a seven

Tori had them tattooed on her back  after the war

With being the only female among a lot of men, there was a bit of confusion and awkwardness when Tori became a teen and started having her periods. She had read a lot about the female body and knew what to do, but she was blushing fiercely when she explained to everyone why she couldn’t train that week and why she was having such mood swings

It was even worse when she started having breasts, and many of her brothers had a hard time looking at her because this is many of them’s first time actually meeting a woman. So she always wears binders.

When the squad was put in different battalions and were separated a lot more often from each other, they made it a tradition that each had a flower assigned to them, and then the four others had to find that flower. Turtle was a Daffodil, Gecco a Lotus, Cobra a Poppy, Mongoose a Periwinkle and Tori a snapdragon

Tori kept all of her snapdragons, and has a box filled with thousands of dead ones. Sometimes when she’s out, she may see one of the others flowers and just as a reflex picks it and puts it in her pocket.

All of them at one point had a crush on Shaak Ti

Tori was the only one of them that got to talk to Jango Fett. It was brief, mostly asking why she was like she was, but it is a moment she often looks back on

These guys never actually fucked each other, they didn’t deem it necessary for their relationship.

Tori may be a very withdrawn person, but she’s a total beast as drunk. Once she and the boys from 501st went to 79′s, and after just a couple of drinks, she was dancing on the bar in a very arousing way, if ya know what I mean. If anyone ever mentioned it to her, she twisted their arm.

Tori did have a very good relationship with 99, as they were both “Defected”. His death hurt a lot.

But that was fucking nothing compared to the end of the war where she First lost her Vod’ika’s, and then the whole empire thing. She found out about the fall of the republic at her job, and almost fainted. She cried a lot that day

[themikeymonster]

viridescent skies - 6a

part 6a of the ageswap au where Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker is Qui-Gon’s former padawan and Obi-Wan is the shiny new padawan on the block; TPM au part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part 6a - 6b |

part 6a, or the realization of a terrible dream; (cw: it’s exactly what you think it is) (cw: the author :\ at angst so this shouldn’t be gut-punchy)

The young Queen of Naboo does not seem to be overly invested in being polite or neatly out of danger's way.

Anakin is running off much less sleep than he'd like when he - along with his former master and his brother-padawan - are summoned by the Jedi Council and informed that they'll be escorting the Queen back to Naboo.

It sounds insane. The reality turns out to be even worse. While the Jedi were trying to investigate the matter of the Darksider that seems to be set on either capturing her or killing her - capture seems more likely, given that the Sith attacked Qui-Gon, who is not fourteen or female (at least not as far as Anakin is aware) - the young Queen has cast the Senate into chaos by ousting the Chancellor. Anakin only discovers this after some days have passed, but once he knows and knows to look, he can sense that the ripples of this are strangely far-reaching.

There is not love to lose between Anakin and the Senate, but the unease is contagious. He tells himself it is merely his lack of sleep speaking when he feels like some kind of unnatural darkness (hungry, always hungry, sometimes feeding but always destroying) has grown stronger, and stretches long into the shadows.

On the surface, the disturbance must not seem like much to the young Queen. She is neither Force Sensitive or patient with the troubles of Coruscant when her own planet - an admittedly very beautiful planet - is under siege. Her heart is set on returning to share the fate of her people.

On one hand, it's a very admirable heart that beats inside her chest. From what Anakin's been able to learn of her, she's one of the 'good ones' who are far too few in the galaxy. Anakin is bound by his own moral rules to do whatever he can to help her, especially if her cause is noble and good.

Even if he weren't ordered to by the Council, the young Queen Amidala would only have to ask, and Anakin would be at her side.

On the other hand, the shadows her light casts plant misgivings in his heart. She is being hunted by a Sith that the Force itself forewarns to be Qui-Gon's executioner. The Jedi Council is using her as bait; if not for their visible reluctance to act, Anakin would almost think they put her up to this plan to return to Naboo.

The quickest way to the heart of the matter is through the Sith's chest, after all. It will certainly solve a lot of Anakin's problems. At least then, he and Obi-Wan will be able to sleep easy.

"Master," Obi-Wan says after they're a respectable distance from the Council chambers, "Why did Master Windu and Master Yoda seem troubled by the news that the Chancellor had been removed?"

Anakin glances back at him somewhat incredulously while Qui-Gon hums beside him; he'll definitely have to work on his sabacc face where it comes to the little monster. Was reading Council faces a skill taught in the creche or something? Anakin himself had barely noticed a difference - not that he tends to stare at the Council. He hardly needs to look closely to find the disapproval they always hold toward him.

"You were taught that the Jedi are beholden to the rule of the Chancellor of the Republic?" Qui-Gon asks, and Obi-Wan gives the affirmative. "While we largely rule ourselves, we still answer to the Chancellor. Any decisions the Council makes when there are no Chancellors may be called into question by the Senate, or the newly elected Chancellor, should he so chose."

Politics, Anakin huffs internally. Why the Jedi should answer to anyone is an utter mystery to him. Their teachings speak only of helping people. As far as Anakin has been able to tell, answering to the Republic has only hampered and complicated their efforts. Lift any corner of any world, and scum would scurry away from the light.

"But the systems don't come to a halt just because there isn't a Chancellor," Obi-Wan says, perplexed. "Naboo still needs our help."

"That's true, and so we are going to help it," Qui-Gon agrees approvingly. "Yoda and Windu are troubled, however, because the new Chancellor might be less understanding of the needs of the Order. There have been Chancellors before who treated the Order as their own private guards. Others as a threat to levy against those who disagreed with their policies."

"It was mentioned in the supplementary reading," Obi-Wan says with the face of someone who has just recalled something unpleasant. "But the Republic and the Order are at peace now, right? Shouldn't it be fine?"

"Sometimes times of peace are more fraught than times of unrest," Qui-Gon answers vaguely. Obi-Wan looks a bit daunted, and not a bit reassured.

"It'll be fine, Obi-Wan," Anakin says, setting his hand on the boy's narrow shoulder. "You'll see. Even if the new Chancellor is some Joh Sleemo."

The Knights are still teaching the Padawans curse words on the sly, judging by the offended expression Obi-Wan levels at him. Qui-Gon affects not to notice, or he still has selective deafness when it comes to Anakin's foul language and isn't up for another arguement about all of Huttese being a 'foul language.'

Just wait until Anakin has a chance to give him an earful about feeding Padawans and not on a diet of trepidation and fear.

--

Qui-Gon sweetly says that their mission is to 'protect the Queen' - they can't just storm the control base or overthrow the Trade Federation's blockade. They were assigned as negotiators, not as mercenaries to win wars for whomever they judge have a good cause.

Politics, Anakin huffs again with feeling. One man - or one Jedi - can't win a war, but they can upset or tip it dramatically.

Still, their mission is only to 'protect the Queen' - and for very specific reasons. It calls the Sith out of hiding, and he comes - so chemical-cold that he should be casting mist in Naboo's temperate climate. It chills Anakin only briefly before his plasmic heart churns, roiling and filling him with harsh energy.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon says mildly, "Our mission falls to you. Let Anakin and I handle this."

"Master," Obi-Wan protests; his voice is high and quavers slightly, and his face seems pale when Anakin glances. He smiles reassuringly, but Obi-Wan only has eyes for Qui-Gon; the fine threads of Force that tie them together as padawan-brothers strum and strain with the stress of the boy's fear. Anakin wonders what the bond with Qui-Gon might look like, given that Qui-Gon doesn't look back.

Whatever doubts Padme Amidala has about the Jedi's methods, she seems to have recognized in a very short time that Obi-Wan is no simple child - no more than she is. Still, she must also know what Qui-Gon and Anakin already do: that Obi-Wan stands a better chance of surviving blaster fire than a Darksider.

"Obi-Wan," she says, gently but with urgency. "I entrust my safety to you."

And still Obi-Wan hesitates, though he too must know this - or: of course he hesitates. The Sith grins at them, awful and sharp and wide. The Force swirls and eddies, disturbed, and the clouded filth that escapes the creature makes the hairs on the back of Anakin's neck stand on end. Sick whispers of promises tease his ears: cut down the old man. Cripple the knight. Maybe the whelp will live? Maybe spit the whelp. Drown them when they're young. Get the Queen.

All for my Master. A galaxy all of our own.

A thousand suns 'around which a hundred thousand planets spin - extinguished. Forever in darkness.

(It devours)

The hot hum of Anakin's lightstaff blade cuts through the numbing Darkside static. Their opponent clearly knows so little of them: the loss of his leg hasn't slown Anakin down at all. This is not some mythical boogeyman from Jedi history, but another sentient addicted to the Darkside trying to terrorize them. It looks like it can bleed, and if it can bleed, then Anakin can kill it.

"Go!" he says impatiently, not daring to look away from the Sith. He'd like nothing more than to cut it down and leave it dead at Obi-Wan's feet and say: there, see? We are Jedi. We do not die.

But they can't afford the distraction: the Queen and Obi-Wan have to leave, or otherwise Qui-Gon's death becomes a certainty.

For one moment longer, Obi-Wan lingers. Anakin hears him inhale, and he says, "Of course, your Highness. Immediately." The pitching fear isn't gone, but controlled and buried. Anakin's chest burns hotter, and he feels his mouth curl.

The Sith seems entirely unconcerned with his quarry's escape. This is between the Sith and the Jedi - and Anakin and the dream he will shatter into a thousand pieces and melt with a welder's torch and leave forgotten but for a charred mark that many will wonder at but none will fear.

There is no death, there is the Force.

And the Force is with them.

--

Qui-Gon -

--

The swirling plasma of that heart goes supernova

--

falls

--

devours everything in its path and destroys whatever is beyond that

--

(and so does Anakin)

--

and collapses under the weight of its own destruction

--

--

--

It's the sensation of someone else screaming that brings him out of his fugue.

No one is actually screaming, young Queen Amidala calling "Knight Skywalker?" with carefully controlled worry aside. Her words are barely a blip on Anakin's senses. He rouses from his fugue and hears her, but it's the walking wound she's hurrying to keep up with that commands Anakin's complete attention.

Obi-Wan's eyes are round holes in his shock-white skin. He has freckles. Anakin never noticed before. Maybe they weren't there before Tatooine burned them into his skin. True-green Twi'leks freckle up under the suns, too, and go for high prices to the right buyers.

Much like the suns, the wretched, horrible sensation of someone screaming directly into his ears is doubled. Dual. Anakin stares across the walkways at the boy staring back (not back, but down) and remembers with a sickening lurch that Obi-Wan had been bonded to Qui-Gon when -

Anakin wrenches their bond shut. Obi-Wan stumbles, tearing free of the young Queen's restraining hand - she's seen, she sees where Anakin kneels on the floor, she let's him go - and Anakin lurches to his feet. The body tumbles over onto its side and his lap is cool against the air, and Obi-Wan says "Master!" It's an awful sound. It crackles and snaps and shatters like kyber crystals and ice shelves. Something vital and solid giving way. Someone is saying "no" like a glitched holo caught on repeat.

Obi-Wan's feet are fast but Anakin is faster still; he intercepts the boy meters before the body, hooking his arm around his stomach when the boy tries to duck past. Anakin scoops him up off his kicking feet and clutches him against his chest. A bony elbow glances off his cheek. Obi-Wan struggles, wild and skilless, calling, "master! Master!" over and over again.

Anakin is distantly aware of the young Queen standing not far from them. His mouth is numb and it's not until he moves to say something harsh against her - how dare she bring Obi-Wan down here to this - to this - to this -

It's only then that Anakin realizes it's him - he's the one saying it. He's the badly compressed holo glitching on repeat, pale and distorted and barely even discernible as human. The boy in his arms struggles to reach his fallen master and yet - and yet - and yet - and yet Anakin stands in his way. More than prevents him, but actively removes him from his goal.

Two handmaidens and a guard are only a little behind the young Queen, but Anakin sweeps by them all. The Sith is dead - the sith is little more than a jumbled pile of burnt cloth and burnt flesh, red-and-black-and-dead. But a moon has suddenly crashed from the sky and fear claws up Anakin's throat because if the ground is stolen from beneath his feet as well, then -

Something awful is twisting to life inside him, clawing at his guts and ribs.

"Don't look, Obi-Wan," he says to the silent boy in his arms (tiny fists locked into his robes). "Don't look." They are nearly hallways distant already, and no one has followed them, but Anakin says, "Don't look."

Don't look. Don't see. There's nothing to it. Nothing to see. No reason to grieve. Jedi don't die. They don't. They don't. They don't.

("I wish that were true," Qui-Gon said so many years before.)

--

cont -> part 6b