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oonajaeadira · 4 years ago

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LOSING MY RELIGION: CHAPTER 11: FUSION

Rating: Mature.

Pairing: Post Season 2 Din Djarin x force sensitive reader (fem, post-Order 66 Jedi). Soft, slow burn on both sides, internal struggles and feels. Alternating POV.

Warnings: Non-explicit sex (P&V, consensually non-protected). Disgusting levels of love and admiration, yearning, fluff. Very little plot, just a barfing of emotional sludge.

A/N: Usually the land of no apologies, I can’t in good conscience do that here. I am super sorry for this. I didn’t keep anyone else in mind but my own needs and wants and have found myself to be a very selfish writer. Every single scene is overly indulgent and I just got addicted to the serotonin-addled goo. Don’t look at me, I’m hideous in my hedonistic tendencies.

Summary: You and Din experience a synthesis, in more ways than one.

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←-Previous Chapter 10: The Deception

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PART 1: DIN DJARIN

Your heartbeat will pound in Din’s ear as he lays his head against your breast, sticking to you as the sweat from your bodies seal your skin to each other in a warm afterglow. But otherwise his mind will be blissfully quiet. He will match his breathing to yours, fingers still entangled in yours, legs lost among your own. He will feel an ache in his chest that will grip him so exquisitely, an ache he has only felt a small number of times in his life--the loss of his parents, laying his benefactor in the traditional unmarked grave of his Tribe, the Night of a Thousand Tears, and most recently, giving up his foundling to another guardian. But this time, the ache that will take hold in him and sting his eyes in agony won’t be tinged with grief, can’t become grief unless loss is someday added to it.

You will shift under him, try to slide away, and he will unwind his fingers from yours and cage your body with his limbs against the bunk. He will press his head heavier on your chest, anchoring you to the bottom of his deep ocean with him. And he will murmur, “No.”

“I can’t go far,” you will grin and whisper. You will put your face in his hair and breathe your words against him, “I just want to go to the refresher and clean myself up a little. You can come too, if you want.”

“No,” he will breathe. “Stay.”

Softly, so softly, you will laugh and he will watch your tummy twitch with it. He will play back your voice in his mind from only moments ago--not so soft then--how you called his name, made it into hymn, used it to beg him to follow you into euphoria, and it will cause the ache to pulse brighter within him. You will graze your hand up and down his back and kiss his hair. You will hum a content sigh and he will hear it wash around your heartbeat, feel it resonate against his cheek. “You’re holding me prisoner? Gonna claim that bounty for your own? I’m pretty sure I just proved I’m worth more to you as a consort than as a reward.”

“I don’t need the credits. Just a few minutes.” He will feel himself stirring again, awakening against your scarred thigh as you trade taunts.

You will feel it too. “Don’t sell yourself short. I think it’s going to be longer than that.”

He will breathe long and he will smile against you. He will inhale you and know your scent as home.

“Yeah. Probably.”

________________

The Mandalorian paces around the outer rim of the cavern, looking for...something. What was it you said? Pinpoints of light? He switches through the helmet scopes, hoping one of them will reveal something that helps you. Maybe these crystals give off heat or magnetic signatures or something. He doesn’t know much about this Jedi stuff. Maybe it will be like Grogu setting off the magic seeing rock. Something in you will just switch on and the whole place will light up. He glances over to the center of the space where you sit straight-backed with your eyes closed, a glowing kyber hovering in the air before you, illuminating your calm face in a dim glow.

After you’d sat and meditated a long while in the dark with no result, he’d watched you disassemble your laser sword to get at the crystal inside, using your powers to light it up somehow. Something about it maybe amplifying your Force? Creating a resonance with any crystals that might be in the cave? That if there were any present, you might see some small white light. He doesn’t understand it, but trusts that you do.

How about the beamlight. If they’re crystals, they should reflect, right?

“Turn it off, please.” Your eyes remain closed and he’s a hundred feet away. And behind you. No way you see that.

He’s not sure exactly what unnerves him about your powers--yours and Grogu’s, Ahsoka’s and Luke’s. He only knows what he can see and hear. Even if it’s filtered or scoped, that’s more...real? Empirical. But what you can do, the things you feel and just...know… Maybe “unnerves” is too strong. “Bewilders?” “Mystifies?” It throws him off. But it usually mellows out to wonder and reverence. You’re talented and powerful and he’s unsure how to meet you in it. You...captivate him.

He sighs, punching the switch with half-irritation, plunging the cave into darkness outside the colored light hanging near you like a festival lantern.

“I know you’re trying to help. But maybe you could just wait outside?” Your voice echoes lyrically down through the deeps of the far cavern corners, feeding into the mystical atmosphere, doubling down on his odd captivation.

“No,” he grumbles, “I don’t know what’s living in here. I’m not leaving you alone in the dark.”

“You make it sound like I can’t take care of myself, Captain. You gonna make sure I don't get carried off by womp rats?”

“You’re still not steady on that leg. And you’ve taken your weapon apart.”

“Hm. I see how it is.” You call back over your shoulder. “Then at least come here and sit next to me. When you’re pacing around my senses keep getting distracted and seeking you out.”

He doesn’t have to be asked twice for any request to be closer to you and takes a seat on a cropping nearby, watching your chest smoothly rise and fall. “This where you want me?”

“Well, to be honest,” you smirk with eyes closed, “the bunk would be more comfortable. At least the first time.” The crystal flickers sporadically, ripping your concentration back through the stone. “There.”

There what? As you struggle to stand he instinctively moves to assist. Wrapping an arm around your waist, he supports you as you move toward the back of the damp cavern, as you push the glowing stone ahead of you, still slightly limping from your recent injury. You’re hyper focused on a patch of wall and upon reaching it, you probe at two tiny jagged outcroppings, laying a hand on each for a moment before they crumble free. Then your crystal dims dark, sinking the cave into complete blackness this time.

Through his thermal sensors you are the only thing he sees, a riot of colors, warmest at your head and heart and belly, your fingers cooler as they roll the two small stones around in your palm. When you turn your gaze up to him, your face is a topographical map of places he’d like his lips to visit, your own mouth burning bright with heat, soft and wet and inviting.

“Can you see them?”

Din barely hears you. “Hm?’

“The kybers. Can you see them shining?”

Oh. The rocks. “Not on the thermals. Wait...” With all scopes off there’s only a void. “No. I can’t see anything.”

“Blast.”

“Am I...supposed to?”

“They’re just really weak. I can barely see the glow in them, but that might just be my sensitivity. If you can’t see them at all, then…. Blast.”

You’re quiet long enough that he goes back to his thermal scopes to find you with your head hanging. A patient defeat, a warrior’s frustration.

“Hey.” He touches your shoulder. Winds his fingers under and around your jaw to cradle your cheek. “We’ll try another cave.”

“This is the third one already.”

“We’ll try another cave.”

You nod, pressing your cheek further into his palm. “It’s just… there should be more here. Zoph was the main source for generations. The only reason the Order switched to Ilum was because those crystals are a little more stable. It’s not like they mined the place down; there should still be plenty of deposits here.”

“One more try. If we don’t find any there, I’ll take you to Ilum.”

Your huff warms the palm of his glove. “I don’t think you want to go there. It’s on the exact opposite side of the galaxy.”

“That’s fine.”

“You’re sweet. But. Getting there would be the easy part. You ever hear of the Death Star?”

“Sure.”

“Where do you think they mined the crystals for the laser? Ilum is a ruin from what I hear. They tore down the temple, stripped it bare, gouged a trench around the belly of the planet, and gutted its heart. I can’t think of anywhere that’s more likely to have residual Imperial presence. Or make me more sick to my stomach.”

The thermal setting is sensitive enough to pick up a tear sliding down your cheek. Nope. No. Not acceptable. He brings you into his chest and, slipping the helmet off, buries his face in your hair. Is this comforting? Din never knows if he’s doing this right, accepted that he lives in continual insecurity with you about how to be what you need. He just knows that whenever you show tears--even from the first day he met you--he needs to do whatever he can to stop whatever is hurting you, and if he can’t do that, at least he can let you know he wants to try. “We’ll try another cave. And then another if we have to.”

There’s a faint glimmer in the darkness below him, a dim white radiance just beyond his sight. “What’s that.” He reluctantly pulls back a little, reaching out to find your hand, opening your palm to show two dim spots of white light. The crystals.

“So you can see them.”

“Yeah. Huh.”

“Maybe...it's the helmet?”

“I turned the scopes off. These are bright enough that I should have seen them through the visor in the dark.”

Your face is just barely visible in the soft glow of the tiny kybers, the light glinting in your hair and showing a growing hope in your sparkling eyes. “They’re tricky things. They’re responsive to truth and openness. Master Yoda used to say that sometimes you have to look with your own eyes unobstructed to see the light in the darkness. Looks like your helmet doesn’t have a setting for Force wisdom.”

“Okay. So that’s two. You need more?”

“Let’s see what these can do.”

________________

In the time that you’ve spent combing through the bag of parts you collected on Nevarro and assembling makeshift sabers, Din’s managed to get all of his weapons cleaned, repair a hole in one of his flight tops, and prep a meal. He has to physically lift a half-finished hilt out of your hands after he sits down behind you on the floor, framing you with his knees and providing his chest as a seatback for you. “You have to eat.”

“I will. I’m almost--” you reach out, trying to snatch back your work, “I just want to finish--”

But he stows it behind his back. “You’ve been at it for hours. Just take a few minutes. You can finish when you’ve eaten.”

You lean back into him petulantly, with a huff. “As your highness wishes.”

“Hey.” He reaches around you to put the plate in your hands, letting your mood roll off him, not taking it personally. “You’ll concentrate better if you eat.”

Your second huff is a mix of disdain and gratitude as you dig in, but your eyes are glassy as you chew. You’re not really here. Din’s never seen you go inward like you have in the past few days and he’s trying to bring you back out. The events on Kessel shook you--left a mark deeper than the one on your thigh--and he doesn’t know how to make you feel safe again. What he can give you is time and closeness. You soften when you’re touched and held. That’s easy enough for him to do. If he knew the right things to say, he’d have said them already, but he’s not as good with words as you are.

When you’ve had enough, you abandon your utensil on the plate, your head finding its home in his neck. A little food has done you good, calmed you. “I feel you...caring.”

He starts scraping a pile, finishing the plate for you. “I don’t really have a choice. I can tell you’re scared.”

“Not scared as much as... helpless. With a bounty on my head, I can’t go home. I can’t stay on Ajan Kloss and risk someone tracking me there and finding Luke and the kids--”

“You stay with me. We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah? What am I supposed to do while you hunt? Stay on the ship? That didn’t work out so well last time.”

“We’ll figure it out.” He reaches back and brings out the in-process saber hilt. “Show me what’s going on here.”

There’s less of a frenzied obsession now that you’ve eaten, now that you’ve talked through your fear and you know he’s here for you. He observes over your shoulder as he eats, how the tiny crystal floats in the air to the resistor, how the pieces spin together under your will. He’s never going to get tired of watching you move things with your mind, trying to hash out how much longer it would take him to twist all those parts individually with his hands.

“Well, here goes nothing.” With a wishful inhale, you depress the switch and a short, white shaft appears from the hilt. At first it’s a triumph. Unfortunately, the triumph doesn’t last. It isn’t as substantial as your sword or the Darksaber; the blade constantly sputters and shifts in and out of existence, getting more unstable the longer it’s on.

“Well, kriff,” a bitter groan comes out of you as you switch it off. “I can’t do this without good kyber.”

“I’ve got one you can have.”

This gets a little sparkle out of you as you splutter out a stupefied laugh and gently jab an elbow back into him. “You can’t shirk your ascension that easily, Mand’alor.”

That’s better. You’re coming around. “I’m serious. You can have it. I don’t want it.”

“I’m not going to take the kyber out of the Darksaber and put it in a training saber for kids!”

“I don’t know. Grogu could handle it. He might take an ear off first, but he learns quick.”

It starts as a giggle. You try to suppress it, but the dry joke is too much and it’s busting out of you with a snort and a gasp of a guffaw before you’re in full-on, head-thrown-back, full-throated laughter, something that’s been curled up asleep inside you and needed to get out to stretch. It’s contagious and his cheeks take on an ache just from the pleasure of seeing you smile again.

“But why not?” he chuckles in concert with you as you calm down. “Why don’t we just take the thing apart? We both get what we need.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

It drifts you back into a moody quiet. You’re still for long enough that he’s about to make another crack about Grogu, but you begin to slowly place parts and pieces back into your bag one by one. Then he watches silently as you stand and lightly lift the empty plate from him, moving to clean up the remnants of meal prep.

When you answer, you do so with your back turned, in a voice so low it enters his heart before his ears. “Because it’s the Darksaber, Din. It has a legacy. If you don’t care about the Jedi half of it, you should at least respect the Mandalorian part of its history. How would you feel if I asked you to just melt your armor down?”

Brutal realization slams down hard upon him.

You know so much about his culture, and not just his faction of it. You understand subcultures and societal history, in some ways you know more than he does. Kriff, you can even speak some of the language. And all he’s done in return is sit back on his bewildered heels when it’s come to you and your ways. He’s balked at terminology and backed off when things got too mystical for him. Why? Because he has no chance at mastering it? Pathetic. Your Force is just as real as his weaponry, he’s seen you wield it. Damn. Damn damn damn. He’s...disrespected you. Hasn’t tried hard enough. You deserve better than that. Kriff.

He can start to fix this.

“Show me how to use it.”

Turning gradually, your eyes transforming from disbelief to expectation, you have to work against a dry throat. “What?”

“You said it has tricks. Show me.”

__________________

“The Jedi were snobs about their lightsabers. I mean, to be honest, they work seamlessly with Force sensitivity, so don’t judge too harshly. But really, anyone with basic sword skills can wield them. Would you, by any chance, happen to know anything about weapons at all or have any sword skills, Captain?”

Rather than guiding his hand, you’ve spun yourself around into him, his breastplate against your back, his grip around yours on the hilt of the humming weapon, following your swing with his body as yours. His other arm is around your middle, helping to support you on your still-healing leg. In response to your sass, he pokes your flank, getting a yip and a twitch out of you.

“I dabble.”

There’s no sunlight on Zoph, nothing but a dim star in the distance radiating a ghost light down on the white clay ground. It’s enough to throw long shadows, and the melancholy landscape pairs itself with the haunting void of the Darksaber. It doesn’t exactly throw off light as much as a glow, softly illuminating your nose and eyelashes, your eyebrows set in determination as you grip the hilt. Din’s trying to take this seriously. He does care. But with you so close to him and holding a weapon, he’s also unsurprisingly infatuated and doing his best to keep it in check.

“The two unique attack techniques are the pierce and the flat swing. Obviously, you can hack and slash all you want and do a lot of damage, but a pierce,” you hitch back slightly before executing a sharp jab and the blade spasms, giving it a split second of barbed blade, “will gouge more violently. It’s good for getting through armor and bulkheads quickly. Leaves a big mess though.” Your arm swings out wide to the side, holding the blade perpendicular to the plane of your body as he shadows his being to yours. “The flat swing is just that,” you turn your wrist and palm downward, blade parallel to the ground, then swing it across leading with force from your shoulder in a wave to your wrist, causing the blade to pancake out into a flat blur. “It flattens the girth, creates less resistance and a faster, cleaner cut.”

When you step away and leave the saber in his hand he’s able to execute both of these easily, experimenting with the force of the jab, the width of the swing. Just by superior force alone he can get more and sharper barbs out of the pierce than you, a wider, razor thin blade off the swing.

After a few minutes of perfecting the swings and getting muscle memory in, he turns to find you watching him, your lips parted, hand clutching the fabric at your heart.

Looks like he’s not the only one with an infatuation.

“Does yours do this?”

“No.” You rip your eyes away from him and unhook your saber from your belt. A brighter light illuminates your face as you extend your blade, putting your weight into your better leg and giving it a whip slice through the air. “They’ll flatten a little, but not like that one. And they certainly don’t barb. The Darksaber was made by a Mandalorian. And you folk are a touch more...brutal than some.”

“What are you saying.”

“Jedi consider themselves to be elegant. Anything less is barbaric.”

He lets the visor give you his thoughts on this.

You smile. “The Order meant that as an insult. I don’t.”

“I’m supposed to take it another way?”

“Use your imagination.”

The visor almost tilts by itself. “You like this.”

You tuck your smile into your shoulder for a second before coming back to thinly-veiled control. “Something else you should know. Block.” You take a limping step forward and swing your weapon down at him, controlling the landing on the raised Darksaber.

The two weapons sizzle and whine against each other. But right at the moment they come together, he notices a slight pull. “Wait.” He retracts and then slowly brings his blade to yours, feeling them jump toward each other. “They’re--”

“So that bad boy can cut through anything except beskar and other lightsabers,” you hold steady as he tests the magnetic-like pull a few times, testing its limits. “If anyone’s going to come after you, they’re going to have to use one of those two things to stand up to you. If it’s a lightsaber, this is how the Darksaber reacts.”

Because you’re unarmed and unsteady, he pulls a few sparring-form swings on you, allowing the maximum safety but testing the best way to use the added momentum.

At one point you wobble and he uses the Darksaber to push your blade away so he can reach out to catch you by the arm. “Okay. I think we’re done here.”

“One more thing,” sheathing your blade, you topple against him. “If you want to add power to the weapon, it will react to heightened emotional states.”

“I don’t fight like that.”

“I assumed. I’m just giving you the knowledge and if you use it, you use it. If you can’t, you can’t. Look at the blade. Think about something that made you angry. Or pushed at your code.”

“Like what.”

“I don’t know. Like Salo telling you he was going to take your beskar and kill you.”

He tries to remember the feeling of being backed into that corner. The blade flickers.

“That’s what you’re looking for!” you encourage. “Push that feeling into it.”

He doesn’t know exactly what you mean, but he tries anyway. It flickers again, but dims just as quickly. “I’m not a Jedi. I can’t push the Force around like you.”

“No, I know, but I think you’ve actually got something here. Just...how about when Gideon blew up your first ship...”

Another flicker.

“...when he took Grogu away from you--”

A flare. The blade sends a few electric crackles up its length, bright white. You gasp against him.

Din turns the hilt in his hand, not quite believing what just happened. “Was that you, or--”

“No, it’s all you! Grogu.” Another bright flare. “That’s… huh. It works differently for you. Interesting.”

“What does that--”

But before he can finish the question, your hands are on the helmet. “Let me try something?”

He nods in assent and you lift, placing a deep kiss onto his mouth before whispering against it, “Ni akarya'a at gar.”

I am yours. I belong to you.

The Darksaber kicks in his hand, blazing with an electric looking current up and down its length. You both watch it hum and spark, he can feel it almost vibrating in his hand as much as your words vibrate through his being.

“Din Djarin,” you breathe. “I think you love me.”

He watches the blade pulse and swirl, charged with power, almost writhing like a living thing in his grip. If he knew it could do this…. He only meant to cheer you up, didn’t realize that making the effort to know more could result in revealing the most dangerous melee weapon in his locker. Dank ferrik. Lesson learned. No wonder you find this thing so fascinating, he can barely bring himself to look away. When he finally sheathes the blade to reunite with your face shining up through the dim glow, he’s realized with some reverence how much you’ve taught him tonight.

He nods. “Yeah. Of course I do.”

________________

He has to help you up the ramp and to a seat on the bunk before closing up the ship and stowing the Darksaber back in the weapons locker.

You hum from your perch. “You should add it to your belt. Use it more often.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

“I just mean, not only for practice. But if you really don’t want it, and you run around using it, maybe someone will defeat you and then it’s off your hands.”

“That would mean someone would have to beat me.” You roll your eyes at his hubris, overly dramatic, reeling you backward onto the bunk with a flop. It pulls a scoff out of him and the corners of his mouth curl. “Maybe I’m re-thinking. Maybe I should keep it. It’s mine now.”

Once it’s stowed, he works on peeling off a few layers. There’s no population density here, but there’s also no cover and the Crest is out in the open with you in potential danger. He’s been keeping most of the armor on when he sleeps here, just in case. Knows you’re not happy about it. But you haven’t complained.

“It’s not yours.”

“Hmm?” One of his gloves has a weak finger seam. Gonna have to fix that.

“The Darksaber isn’t yours, Din. It isn’t anybody’s.”

There’s a gravity in you that stops him, brings his focus to a meaningful gaze between you. It’s enough to make him abandon his task and come sit beside you as you lay on the bunk, taking his hand and speaking up at him. You’ve got more to teach him and he’s learned to listen now.

“The Darksaber is a piece of history. You’re really just its carrier through this part of its journey. It belongs to legacy, and you’re part of that legacy. To win it is to be strong. That is its Mandalorian legacy. To wield it is to practice the search for wisdom. That’s the Jedi history, and now you have a little bit of that in you too. I know you’re not exactly happy about it. But I, for one, think it fell into capable hands.”

He’s starting to feel the importance through you. Not just its legend, not the symbolic trophy Bo Katan made it out to be. Somehow, the weight isn’t so heavy when you help him like this, when he understands it better and he’s not just shouldering a society’s expectations blindly by himself. Especially when it makes you look at him with pride not just for who he is, but how he’s learning to honor you.

He’s ready to know more.

“You want to try another cave tomorrow?”

His heart falls as you close your eyes and groan in defeat. “I’m starting to give up hope. Maybe we should go to Ilum. Or see if we can go negotiate with the locals on Christophsis. Although we’d probably have as much luck hanging out at Black Spire waiting for a smuggler to show up with something for trade. I’d suggest just going to the source for kimber stones and call it good, but those Yevetha are mean. I’m sorry. I really thought it would be easiest to find them here.” Din reaches over to smooth your hair, stroke your cheek. “Mmm. I don’t suppose you know anyone with a krayt dragon pearl they’d want to part with.”

“A krayt dragon pearl.”

“Yeah. Krayts can form these deposits in their guts if they eat kyber--”

“Those can be used for lightsabers?”

“Well, they sound different, but they work. They’re extremely rare, though.” You open an eye to him when you notice his hand has stopped mid-caress. “Why?”

“You ever been to Tatooine?”

________________

PART 2: YOU

“I want you to shut the panel and stay put, little bird. This might...get ugly.”

Din slipped the helmet on and started the dethaw process on Yilga’s carbonite container.

Normally you’d protest, wouldn’t want to be shut out, but you were still exhausted from the fight and the bacta, from piloting the Crest and waiting anxiously for Din to return from selling the Starless--didn’t like being alone so soon. Din had been wrapped around you all night, but you’d still had trouble sleeping, still had dreams of his death, still felt the echo of that dark thing in your heart. With a little effort, you’re able to slide yourself back into his old bunk and press the panel button, locking you into a little durasteel world.

How in the galaxy did that broad man stand to sleep in that little hatch? And with all that armor on all the time? You were suddenly grateful for your shared bunk; especially the soft padding, because his cot was ridiculously uncomfortable.

The bulkhead dampened most of the sound, but he was right, it did get ugly. Yilga cursed and wailed and screamed like a wet lothcat and you were pretty sure at one point Din might have been using brute force or death threats to get her to talk. You barely heard his voice in all of this. He was most likely more threatening the quieter he got. You assumed. You’ve never been on the receiving end of his wrath.

When the panel opened to his soft and caring face, he scooped you up and carried you back to your own recovery bed, past a pile of black and burgundy beskar and a woman caught mid-scream in a carbonite frame.

“She confirmed Karga’s information,” he sighed, setting you down gently before going to slot Yilga into her storage space. “We’re going to have to fly low for a while, I need you to stay close. She didn’t have any names, which means the bounty was put out by someone who doesn’t want to be traced. That’s...not good. But I don’t want you to worry. Karga’s working on a counterfeit code for you. That’ll help some. As long as we stay out of ports and you don’t have to run your chain before that, we should be okay.”

You trusted him to handle it at the time. It was too much to process and you just wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, to not care and not hurt for a while. You were just aware enough to feel a blanket being pulled up around you and a gloved finger dragging your hair behind your ear.

Otherwise, the next thing you remember was waking up on Zoph.

________________

“Must be a busy port. I thought we were staying out of ports.” If you’ve been here before, you sure don’t remember it, it looks just like every other moisture-lack planet that you have trouble understanding people choosing to live on. Tatooine is a big, beige, two-sun dustball heat-shimmering beneath the orbiting Crest. An orbit you’ve been in for over an hour now. “Can’t we just set down somewhere and wait?”

“This is a Jawa homeworld. If I set the Crest down outside of a port it’ll bring trouble.” Din flips a few switches on the cockpit panel, re-sending the hail. “It’s not busy. I’m just waiting for a particular bay to open. The mechanic there won’t run a code on you.”

As if on cue, the comm snaps to life. “This is Mos Eisley tower to Razor Crest. Requested bay three-five is open and awaiting your vessel.”

“Copy that. Locked in for three-five.”

Din’s landings are always impressively smooth for someone who doesn’t run a mech droid, and the mechanic here must feel confident enough in his skills to come out into the bay while he sets down. Apparently, they’re pretty friendly; she’s already calling out as the ramp opens.

“If you’re going to get another ship, why in the galaxy would you go after another skragging Crest? You should have come to me! I could have gotten you something automated. Got some hookups over at the Mos Espa scarpyards.”

Din is busy piling up some gear at the top of the ramp, pulling on a full pack bag and hauling out a couple of small cargo cases. “Well, you can use those hookups to see if they have a spare cannon pivot. Mine’s about to go.”

“I’m not a weapons expert, sunshine.”

“Then a once-over will do. I’m sure it could use some of your improvements.”

The human woman clicks her tongue, squinting up at the ship, taking what amounts as a fond greeting and compliment from Din. “Yeah, I bet it could.” As Din moves into the sunlight she looks him over as if she’s searching for something. “Where’s the womp rat?”

“He’s...at school.”

She looks genuinely disappointed. “Huh. Too bad. Saw your ship and got my hopes up. Was looking forward to spoiling the critter. So few joys in this life and you have to send him to school? You’re meaner than you look. Seems like you have enough company though,” she tips her chin at you as you come down the ramp. You extend a hand and introduce yourself, not prepared for her hearty grip as she shakes your arm like a ship in a windstorm before clapping you on the shoulder. Hard. “Peli. Hoo lady, do I feel for you. Traveling days on end with this one?” She jerks her head at Din. “Conversation must be scintillating. Where’d you pick him up?”

“Oh, around? Found him in the back booth of some outer-rim cantina.”

“Hm. Sounds about right.”

Din’s obviously eager to get going. “I’m going to need another speeder. You got a lead on anything?”

Peli turns to shout at two of the pit droids passing by. “For the love of sarlaccs, don’t drag that, you’re going to mess up the gear panel!! You! Help him! Pick up the other end. No. The other end, he’s got that one! Seriously.” She shakes her head as she turns back to Din. “Dtoli’s got one he’s trying to offload. It isn’t pretty, but it runs.”

“Great. Thanks. Any chance his shop does detailing?”

“For a price. I mean, the speeder’s not that ugly; if you want it painted, it’s going to cost you. Didn’t think you were into aesthetics, bright eyes.”

“We’re going to need extended docking. We’ll pay up front.” He tilts the visor to you. “I’ll let you handle that. Don’t leave the bay. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

After he stalks out the door, Peli jabs you with an elbow. “You think he’s ever cracked a smile under there?” She’s a funny one, fiery energy, not someone you see Din choosing to tolerate lightly, but you can sense she’s got a good heart. He must really trust her if he’s willing to put up with her snark.

“Under the helmet? Who knows what goes on in there.”

“Huh.” She eyes you up and down, sucking at her teeth. “You, ah, just traveling with him, or…”

The bay is disorganized, littered with parts and tools. The pit droids scurry around, obviously programmed more for personality than efficiency. There’s a makeshift table near the station window, looks like you landed in the middle of a meal. And there’s something else on the table. Something familiar.

“Is that a pack of sabacc cards?”

Her attitude immediately shifts into higher interest. “Sure is. You play?”

________________

You lay on the ramp of the Crest, arms behind your head, one leg crossed over a knee, staring up at the stars beginning to peek through the atmosphere. The engines and the top of the ship are still getting a glow from the setting of the suns. The difference in twilight from planet to planet never gets old. This one comes with a unique soundscape.

Peli’s making a lot of noise as she closes down for the night, grumbling loud enough that you can just hear her through the window in her station, “dumb luck...raising the fees...Dr. Mandible...win it back…” Her pit droids have all crept over near you one at a time, ducking under the ship and collapsing down as far as they can into little pucks.

If she weren’t such a cheater, you might be inclined to coddle her a little, maybe explain that if you play with high agitation it’s harder to beat a Jedi at cards, and oh yeah, maybe tell her you’re Force-sensitive…. But meh. With her not-so-slight-of-hand she’s probably had her own share of shady wins. It’s good to lose once in a while. Builds character.

Not that you would know.

Between the stars above you and the tantrum in the adjoining space, you sense Din a good half-minute before he walks through the passage. Interesting. Either your bond is getting stronger or he’s riding some high emotions. Or both.

When he does arrive, he’s brought the pack bag back with him, as well as a couple more bags and a heavy piece of equipment hung by a cross-pike over his shoulders. The pike bows with its haul, but he strides in as if the load on him had no weight at all.

There’s a crash of tools on metal as Peli slams something down in her comm room. “It’s about time! You’re late!”

As she speedwalks out into the port she nearly misses being taken down by the Mandalorian’s cargo as the bags on his crossbar swing toward her.

Then she brandishes a finger-- “You said a couple of hours.” --and pokes him. Straight in the breastplate.

He looks down at where she’d made contact, and then slowly, very slowly raises his gaze to her. She’s a good head and a half shorter than him, a little volcano of huffing and angry. You realize nobody her size has probably ever had the gumption to poke him before, but if anyone’s going to try and walk away unscathed, it looks like she’s going to claim that title.

“Hey.”

“Don’t you ‘hey’ me.” Poke. “Your lady there?” Point. “More trouble,” poke, “than that baby.” Hard poke. “Ow.” Cringe. Poke.

The Mandalorian’s visor tips back to his breastplate. Then up to you. Then back to Peli.

“Yep.”

This isn’t the response either of you expected. You press your lips together in suppressed laughter. Peli presses hers together in a huff of frustration. If she were another xeno, you’d expect fire shooting out from her flared nostrils. She turns on her bootheel, storming out of the port as you both watch in an apprehensive bemusement. “Now I’m late for an appointment. Dr. Mandible had better still be waiting. Don’t you dare expect breakfast. I won’t be in early because the Maker knows I have plenty of time to once-over that heap and I’m not going to bust my hump if you’re going to take up my entire port. You’ll have to ask the droids if you need something. Have fun with that, dumb as a crate of spanners..…” her voice trails behind her until she’s far enough away you can’t pick her up anymore.

Din swivels to face you, the bags swinging behind him.

You smile. “I like her.”

“What did you do?”

Screwing your mouth up to one side, you give him mock oops voice. “I may have played a few rounds of sabacc with her?”

“And you won.”

“Mmmmmaybeee.”

“How much.”

“Cost of fuel.”

“....And.”

“And water tank refill. And a week’s docking fees. And maybe a portion of repairs.”

He just stares. A bag swings slowly. You wish you could see his face right now.

“She’s never going to let me dock here again.”

“Sorry. Maybe you shouldn’t have abandoned me.” You shrug, pointing your chin at his cargo. “What’s in the bags, your majesty? Did you bring me a present?”

The pet name or the question causes a hot spike of emotion off of him. Something you like. Something you’ve felt at more intense moments when your skin meets his. “Maybe.” As he trudges past you up the ramp, he stops to offer a hand up, but doesn’t drop yours once you’re on your feet. Instead, he grips it tighter, pulling you into the Crest behind him, a soft chuckle slipping through the vocoder. “And I didn’t abandon you. You had your fun. Come on.”

The bags rattle to the floor and the hatch whines close. He lifts the helmet, his brown curls ruffling out from underneath it, and hands it to you, a dangerous intensity in his eye offset by the ghost of a smile. “Would you put that in my bunk?”

What’s going on here. “Okaaay…” You walk over and open the bunk hatch, laying the bucket on the cot. “You just want it on the cot or--”

When you turn back, he’s pulling off his gloves, very plainly watching you.

“You’re not limping anymore. Looks like that leg’s about healed up.”

A rush of heat pulses through you, causing an uptick in your breathing and a tightening warmth in your core.

Well. It’s about time.

You nod. “It is.”

“Good. Is it tender at all?”

You shake your head but keep your gaze locked to his. “It’s fine. You won’t hurt me. If you touch.”

His eyes search yours. You want--?

Yes, I want.

It takes him just two fast, long strides to get to you.

For someone who came to kissing late in life, he started off with strong instincts and only has gotten better at it in his time with you. He still loves your scent, loves running his lips along your jaw and burying his face in your neck as he inhales you, but he has become an expert at long, passionate kisses and soft, dragging nips. He likes to feel your tongue against his and taste your bottom lip before sealing his own around it, clawing his hands into your back as if there was some way he could defy physics and bring you into his occupied space, make you part of him forever.

And you reward him not only by kissing him back, but touching his face and raking your fingers through his hair; the contact makes him purr in the most beautiful way, causes him to grip your hips and yank you into him.

But tonight he reaches up while he nuzzles you, pulls your hands out of his hair and guides them to his belt buckle. The buckle you gave him, the buckle that saved his life, and now he wants you to start here and do the honors.

He wants you to dis-armor him. Completely.

You know how to do this, he’s shown you. So while you work your way through the straps and releases, running your fingers along the sides of the plates and tripping their buttons, disengaging weaponry and freeing him from cowls and capes, he makes a banquet of you, dragging his lips on you wherever he can reach, tasting what he can, letting his hands roam and squeeze and caress, seeing what it takes to distract you from the task he himself set you on. And if you give in, if you let your focus wander back to shared breath and the feel of his scruffy beard in your palms, he gently redirects your hands, moving them back to the next warm plate, teasing, willing you to be his savior and free him from the armor that separates him from you.

Once he’s down to his flight suit and lower armor, you have a respite from his lips to get his tops up and off. “What brought this on so suddenly?” You demand, breathless, revealing his tan torso, his obscenely wide shoulders.

“Suddenly? I was giving you time to heal.”

You bury your face in his broad bare chest, unable to resist. Oh stars, he smells so good. “I mean today. The second you come back from...whatever you were doing.”

He tips your chin up. “Shins and boots.” Once you kiss his collarbone and peel away to kneel and work on his bottom layers he explains, “We’ll be sleeping rough for a while. I’ll be keeping the armor on. And sand isn’t a good mix for this. It’s now or we wait longer. If you want to wait, we can, but with the dock to ourselves, I thought we might take advantage.”

“I’m done waiting.”

His mustache twitches into a smirk. “I figured.”

You strip him of his final layers and as a reward for accomplishing the task, he grants you the time you need to take him in. Waits patiently as your fingers reach out to trace scars, to skim the soft texture of his skin, to measure the breadth of a splayed hand against a pectoral. Even with the evidence of past violence, he’s perfect. He’s keeping control, his chest rising and falling steadily, but picking up as you run your fingers over the ripple of bicep to elbow, skipping over to follow the dip in the muscle leading from his hip inward and down. He is warm and ready under your hand, and when you wrap fingers around him, he inhales sharply, but doesn’t take his eyes off yours.

“Your turn,” you whisper, inviting him to take on a task of your own that involves fewer obstacles but harsher distraction.

Soft skin belies the hardness underneath, and you go easy on him, loose and gentle. He’s able to compartmentalize for a moment, focus strategically at the task at hand while your hand takes him to task. It’s absolutely lovely watching him try to control his breathing as he works, freeing you of your belt and top layers. In through the nose, out through the mouth, gritted teeth and set brow. But once he gets you half stripped, you’ve got him beat. He can’t stand it, gives a quick shake of the head and frees himself from your touch with a soft growl.

Din spins you around, crushing your bare back to his chest, lifting you slightly so he can kick your feet wider apart, then buries his face in your hair as he plunges his hand under your waistband. You violently take on air as his fingers learn how very much ready you already are, helping you further down that path.

“Please, can we just,” you groan after a few spirals and intrusions, “can we just take this to the bunk already? It’s not your hands I want.”

He says nothing but lets you go, his hand dragging lazily out of your leggings before pulling them hastily down and off, before wrapping both arms around you and lifting, dumping you softly on the bed, gripping your hip and dragging you near, urging you to turn over.

“Hands and knees, little bird.”

A pit opens up in your heart. Really? He wants to take you from behind the first time? That’s not...how you pictured this going.

“N-no.”

A scowl of confusion darkens his face, a mix of betrayal and concern and need. He mouths words more than whispers, “I thought you wanted this.”

“I do! But I want you...above me. I...want to see you.”

His brows soften a little, though they still bear the vertical crease between them. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

He allows you to settle on your back, his touch chasing you as he positions himself, kneels at your ingress, jaw set. He takes an anguished moment to appreciate what he’s got, running hands over you--your chest, your tummy--before gripping under your thighs and taking control, bringing you together. His strength allows both firmness and gentleness at once, slowly opening you, joining you, an easy, perfect fit, a key in a lock, a heart in a hand. Both the culmination of everything you’ve anticipated, but also the most familiar thing in the galaxy, as if he was always meant to be a part of you.

You both breathe into it as he gazes down at you, waiting, making sure you’re prepared to continue.

________________

PART 3: DIN

Din counts one breath at a time, looking at you splayed before him on the bunk, absolutely kriffing stunning, standing by for you to signal that you’re ready for him to begin. He expects a nod.

But he doesn’t get a nod.

He gets...your arms. Reaching for his shoulders. Pulling him forward and down until he is flush against you. On top of you.

The heat of your soft skin against his. Your breasts pushing up to his chest. Your thighs pressing against his own, your arms embracing him. And then your sweet mouth on his, all at the same time, a sensory pool he swims in as every new point of contact yanks a breath out of him, pulling him into the deep.

And It's still not a nod that tells him to proceed. It’s your hips moving up to him, coaxing him further into you, drowning him in you completely.

Oh.

Above you. On top.

This is not something he can do when he’s wrapped in beskar. Can’t crush someone under the armor, can’t move like this with a breastplate and thigh guards between bodies. Easier to pull down pants and take from behind. “On top” has only ever meant kneeling upright or standing at the edge of a bed, meant pulling at hips with roughness, meant just getting it done without fuss or intimacy if his partner wants nothing but the authority of an emotionless visor looking down on them. And sometimes, that’s truly all they wanted from him.

He was prepared to do that to you--take you rough and hard and wanton--if it was what you wanted, but he’d hoped to line up flush to your back and curl himself up as tight behind you, feel as much of you and be as close as he possibly could. Dreamed about it. Pictured it while folded up around you in this very bunk watching you sleep and recover.

But this. This is infinitely better.

You are a galaxy of firsts for him, each one shining bright and accompanied by a million more around it like stars. You are the first to share sleeping space with him. The first allowed to lift the helmet. You were his first kiss--taken in the swirling midst of a festival when you didn’t even yet know his face.

And now here you are, breathing against his neck, yearning against him as his body surges over you, clinging to him furiously as if he’d ever want to leave, wanting all of him, supple and melting and combined into him. His hands want to touch everything at once, his fingers finding soft places to dig in for greed or clamp onto for leverage, and every nerve in his body swells toward every perfect piece of you he can possibly touch.

Though, it doesn’t stop at the skin.

Stars, you can see him, you’re looking directly into his eyes. He’s completely vulnerable; no visor to hide behind, and it shoots through him, a touch beyond touch. This is a powerful first; a heartache he cannot explain, an enlightenment as he moves not just in you but with you.

When you begin to whisper his name though, something primal hooks into him and his body knows you are asking for more. So he gives you more. Your whispers become soft pleas. And he gives you more. Pleas evolve into their final life of song from your pretty lips, your chin lifting to expose your neck ripe for his mouth and teeth, his name coming from a place in you that is tightening around him and traveling up and out to ring in his ears in sweet building agony--

Din has never given his name freely to anyone before you and this is how you use it.

If this is what you do with the things he gives you?

Then he wants to give you everything.

Clutching desperately at your face, he tips your chin back down, asking for another first from you.

“Open your eyes, little bird. Open your eyes. Look at me. Let me see.”

And you do. He can see it’s hard, but you do so well. He gives you just a little more--just a small, hot push and grind over the edge--and then you break open for him, truly becoming his, shuddering and clenching and aching. This is the most beautiful you’ve ever been to him, something he thought impossible until this very moment.

Din curses. Too...good. Not quite overwhelming, but overpowering. The overall physical stimulation is one thing, but you...your kriffing heart...right there in your eyes… He wants to protect and ruin you all at once and the only way he can express it is to help you come apart beneath him, wants to tell you how much it’s destroying him, but it only comes out in anguished groans and growls.

It doesn’t take him long to finish with one final first, a permission given in words some days before, an assurance that all would be well, as he’s allowed to find his euphoria inside you, surrounded by your wetness and your warmth, encircled by your limbs, laid bare by your eyes, his voice rumbling through him--although stars knows what he’s saying or how loud--wave after wave of want pulsing from him to you before shattering on top of you with shuddered breath through gritted teeth, not sure he will ever breathe normally again, but sure that he doesn’t particularly care.

Stars.

He just wants this. From now on. You. Under him. Around him. As in love with him as he can possibly make you, although it will never be enough, can’t ever compare to how he aches for you in this moment as he gives your name back to you in your ear and presses his forehead breathlessly against your temple.

Against you.

You.

________________

Some hours and a few rounds later, you emerge from the refresher, clean and glowing. Pretty. Ready for sleep if you can get it. If he’ll let you get it. If he can control himself. He watches as you step down from the cabinet, stumbling a little, your legs wobbly and weak, and you reach out for the ladder to steady yourself.

“You okay?” Din chuckles from the edge of the bunk where he’s been waiting, pack bag at his feet, his hair a mess of cowlicks and curls where you’ve been tugging and raking.

“I think you broke me. I just got steady again and you broke me. You’re not allowed between these legs for a while.”

“Too bad. You’re going to be riding behind me on a speeder, so you don’t get a choice. Come here.”

“What’s that?” You make your way to him as he holds up a handful of garments.

“Suit up.”

“I thought we were going to sleep. Is this some kind of game you--”

“It’s your present. Where we’re going tomorrow, you’re going to need this. Try it on.”

One by one, he starts pulling the pieces out of the bag while you’re distracted with the flight suit. Two pauldrons. Two bracers. Chest plate. Back plate. Helmet. When your head emerges from the magnetics vest and you catch sight of the armor laid on the bed, he watches your face freeze in shock, then your brow tighten in confusion. He waits for the slow, stunning shift into realization before he speaks, just above a whisper.

“I should have asked what your favorite colors were. I just decided to have them match your saber. I hope that’s okay.”

Oh, the look on your face. He’s watched you cry in shock over realizing that Grogu was safe. He’s seen you laugh and despair at the same time when you were scared and hurt. He knows what love looks like when it rides your features. But this level of reverence and awe, he’s only seen this look on your face once--the first time you held the Darksaber--standing exactly where you are now.

“I need you to understand something about this armor.” He begins to assemble you, starting with the backplate. “It doesn’t really belong to us. Yilga found it on the black market. I don’t know how it ended up there or if the owner is still alive.” He moves onto the pauldrons.”If by any chance we find out who that is, we’ll need to return it to them or their tribe. But judging by the last time this was style forged, chances are they and their clan are long gone.” Then the bracers. “I had your comm set into this one. I’ve already got it linked to the helmet.”

“Din.” The uncertainty in your voice stops him. “Is this really okay? I’m not...I don’t want to be disrespectful.”

His heart twists at your concern, at the dignity you hold for his people. He tilts your chin up and forces you to look into his eyes, does his best to smile and reassure you. “Hey. It’s beskar. It’s in the possession of a Mandalorian. You are under my protection and,” he has to steady his voice, “you said yourself you belong to me. That means you get clan allowance, okay?”

You nod, giving him the quietest “okay.”

Finally the breastplate. As he attaches it in place, feeling his eyebrows arch in hopes you’ll like it, he watches as you reach up and touch the upper corner. Your fingertips trace the insignia painted there, slowly moving over the sharp peaks and valleys of the mudhorn skull.

Tears well up fast in your eyes and you do your best to catch them as they tumble over your beautiful cheeks, wiping frantically and sucking back sobs, well aware that tears should never fall on Mandalorian armor. Din himself doesn’t hold to this sentimental rule, but he knows how you like all the traditions and lore, and he’s happy that it means enough to you to honor it. He cups your face with his hands, being of service as your faithful tear-catcher, allowing you to have your moment and gathering as much of it for his memory as he can.

The way you’re looking at him right now, your easy ability to cry and laugh all at once, your eyes are telling him everything he needs to know, everything he already knows, in a language that does not translate into words but gets written deep into his very being.

“I’d say let’s stop here for now, but I need to make sure the helmet fits. It’s actually the piece you’re going to need most. You ready?”

When he takes his hands from your cheeks, wet with your tears, there’s a moment where he’s not sure what to do with them. He’s not wearing anything, nothing to dry them on. The mention of the helmet has you near to welling up again. So he just looks you dead in the eye. Ruffles his tear-stained hands through his hair. It has the intended effect as your face breaks into a wide grin. And then you hiccup out a laugh and shake your head as he realizes he must have left his curls comically unruly. Good. As long as you’re happy.

“Okay. Helmet.”

Perfect fit.

Now it’s his turn to hold back what’s rising in him as he looks you over, pride welling in his chest at his little bird, his star, his consort, wearing so well the armor of his order. You look...so good like this. There might have been a time when he would have balked to see an outsider in the beskar, but you have shown in every way that you hold the honor and bravery and understanding to wear it with respect--even more so than some actual homeworlders he’s met. With his Tribe scattered across the galaxy, you and your warrior’s heart are the closest thing he knows to another of his kind. He’s damn happy he was led to you.

But you’re not quite complete--

Din picks up your belt from the floor, fastening it around your waist, your lightsaber hanging down your hip.

There.

Jedi legacy. Mandalorian legacy.

A respect. A fusion.

Both of you.

A matching pair.

________________

Chapter 12: The Camp -->

Update: Artwork for this chapter commissioned from @miranhas-art

“Din Djarin,” you breathe. “I think you love me.”

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clonewarsarchives · 2 years ago

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RISE OF THE BOUNTY HUNTERS (#118, JUL 2010)

Eagle-eyed viewers of the second season of Star Wars: The Clone Wars might have noticed some cool Easter Eggs and fascinating trivia. Star Wars Insider takes a look at some of the best!

Holocron Heist

Holocron first appeared in the comic series Dark Empire, published in 1991-1992 by Dark Horse Comics.

Cargo of Doom

This episode features “Kaybur memory crystal”. The initial drafts of the screenplay of A New Hope featured the Kyber crystal: a Force-focusing artifact. Although written out of subsequent drafts, a version of this idea appeared in the novel Splinter of the Mind’s eye as the Kaiburr crystal.

Children of the Force

The mobile over the Gungan toddler’s cot includes a colo clawfish and a sando aqua monster. These underwater beasts can be seen during the journey through the planet’s core sequence in Episode I.

Senate Spy

This episode revisits many environments seen in the live action movies. Padme’s apartment (Episode III), the senate corridor (Episode II) and rotunda chambers (Episode I), the Jedi Council war room (Episode III) and entrance gates (Episode III), and Cato Neimoidia (Episode III) all feature.

Landing at Point Rain

Anakin and Ahsoka are said to have arrived from an engagement near Dorin. According to the Expanded Universe, this is the homewrold of the Kel Dor, Plo Koon’s species.

Weapons Factory

The nose-art on Luminara’s gunship has a clone trooper giving Count Dooku a kick!

Legacy of Terror

This is the second Star Wars story to feature zombies in 2009. The first was the horror novel Death Troopers release by Del Rey in October.

Brain Invaders

Mace Windu’s efforts on Dantooine and Kit Fisto’s knowledge of Ord Cestus are two minor nods to the Expanded Universe. During the first Clone Wars micro-series Mace fights a droid army on the plains of Dantooine, and the novel The Cestus Deception features the grinning Jedi Master, Kit Fisto!

Grievous Intrigue

According to the 2003 book, Inside the World of Attack of the Clones, Eeth Koth died in a gunship crash on Geonosis. Fans of this Jedi were delighted that he appears alive and well in this episode.

The Deserter

Respected film editor Rober Dalva directed this episode. His many credits as editor include Jurassic Park III and Hidalgo—both directed by classic trilogy art director Joe Johnston.

Lightsaber Lost

When Ahsoka is researching underworld thieves, a mugshot of Brea Tonnika, one of the Tonnika sisters seen in the cantina in Episode IV, appears on the monitor.

The Mandalore Plot

The elongated shape of the Mandalorian helmets in this episode was inspired by the Boba Fett animation model used in the making of The Star Wars Holiday Special.

Voyage of Temptation

Anakin, noticing Obi-Wan’s anxiety over his reunion with the Duchess while ascending in a turbolift, recalls the scene in Attack of the Clones in which the younger Jedi is teased by his mentor.

Duchess of Mandalore

Deputy Minister Jerec’s description of the tumultuous time on Mandalore as “a period of civil war” echoes the original title crawl from A New Hope.

Senate Murders

Mon Mothma, a character seen in Episode III and VI, was produced as an animation model for this episode, though the air order of The Clone Wars had her appear in “Duchess of Mandalore” first.

Cat and Mouse

Chronologically, this episode precedes all the others that have been broadcast thus far. “Cat and Mouse” is followed by Season One’s “The Hidden Enemy” and then The Clone Wars feature film.

Bounty Hunters

The episode begins with an unusual title card, specifically mentioning Akira Kurosawa, an influential film director admired by George Lucas. The original Star Wars was very much inspired by the works of Kurosawa, particularly the 1958 movie The Hidden Fortress.

The Zillo Beast

When the Zillo Beast first surfaces, it tramples a clone trooper who emits a distinctive scream. That sound effect is affectionately called “the Wilhelm”. It’s a decades0old audio recording that has become a pet sound effect to many sound editors and appears in all the Star Wars features.

The Zillo Beast Strikes Back

The droids tending to the Zillo Beast include re-purposed heavy labor droids first seen in Star Wars: Episode III Revenge of the Sith.

Death Trap

Admiral Kilian was named after Star Wars: The Clone Wars’ concept artist Kilian Plunkett.

R2 Come Home

Plo Koon mentions the Hydian Way, a navigational hyperspace route that was created in the Expanded Universe.

Lethal Trackdown

Hondo Ohnaka’s cluttered office and desk are inspired by Dave Filoni’s cluttered workspace.

#season 2 #insider #i118

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no-droids · 5 years ago

Text

Why is the Girl Here?

Part 1 of 2 of The Locked Door Series

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/fem!Reader

Word Count: 12.8K

Summary: The Clone Wars have launched the galaxy into darkness, and hundreds of Jedi have fallen. With nowhere else to turn, the Order seeks to ally with powerful Force users from the Unknown Regions. Just a three-cycle trip from Ilum, the planet s’Ziscari is home to the largest army of Force sensitives known to the galaxy, three times the size of the Jedi Order and with no current allegiance to the Republic. There, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi and his newly ordained Jedi Knight are to negotiate an alliance with the s’Ziscari government on behalf of the Order and the Republic. As the separatist army grows ever stronger, the fate of trillions rests in their hands…

Warnings: THIS WILL BE A FUCK OR DIE-ESQUE FIC. Smut will come in the second part.

***

“Why is it,” you ask, the heels of your leather boots clicking in perfect synchronization with the cloaked figure to your left, “that the greatest negotiator in the Jedi Order wields a blue saber, and not a green one?”

While you're unable to see his gentle smile from underneath your dark cowl, you sense a general wave of amusement reverberate through the Force from his direction. The energy somehow feels like the equivalent of a lift inside the cavity in your chest; transparent, tinted a soft blue in color, comfortable, calm, and familiar.

“Perhaps we should trade,” comes that crisp and precise Coruscanti accent you've ached to hear for the past two years. “No matter how much you lamented its color as a youngling, you know I have always been rather fond of yours.”

It’s true, you think. The color green never really… agreed with you, and much less what it represents to the Jedi, but your Master always said he found the pastel hue of the saber currently clipped to your belt to be unique and appealing. Green—any shade of it, really—is the color of the Jedi Consulars. The peacekeepers, the diplomats, the healers and seers. Their—your—inner nature and connection to the Force speaks to concord and harmony, and though you’ve come to accept your place amongst the pacifists and mediators in the Order after years of training and meditation, you still remember what a shock it was to discover the color of your kyber crystal as a youngling.

You always thought you’d have a blue saber. The mark of the Guardians—the second of the three branches of Jedi. Their skills are focused in battle, and any saber towards the far end of the color spectrum typically leads to specializing in lightsaber combat and warfare tactics. That’s what you always thought your soul spoke to most—the warriors of the Order. The soldiers and the members of the Jedi Core, the battle tacticians, the security of the Republic and law enforcers. You were always a bit of a brash and emotional child compared to your peers, a bit of a handful as a youngling, and you were certain your saber would be some shade of blue because of that. At that age, a yellow saber was maybe a possibility. Though you didn’t really have the amount of friends a sociable, service-oriented Sentinel would have, you still felt that if you didn’t have a blue saber, then yellow was far more likely than green. Yet, you still remember blinking down at your tiny, open palm deep in a cave on Ilum, stunned, a pale mint kyber crystal held precariously in it and nearly vibrating with how loudly it was calling to you through the Force.

“Did the Council do that on purpose, you think?” You ask, the both of you taking a sharp right down another unfamiliar marble hallway with no spoken direction. “Pair their most combative Consular with their most mild-mannered Guardian all those years ago, hoping we’d make a good team?”

“You know as well as I do that I chose you for a Padawan myself, young one,” your Master hums. “And that… we have always been.”

It’s been two years since you last saw him. Two years, since you passed your trials and graduated from his tutelage. Knighthood has been good to you with the exception of your former Master’s extended absence, a consequence of your newfound independence as a bonafide member of the Order. Though the circumstances surrounding your much anticipated reunion with him certainly aren’t ideal, you’re glad nonetheless that you’re face-to-face again—or, currently, shoulder-to-shoulder.

You hide the ghost of a smile under your hood and maintain a steady, calm signature in the Force, keeping in stride with him and speaking in hushed tones. “Things must really be desperate if they’re putting us back together again.”

“I do not wish to alarm you,” he drawls, sarcastic in cadence but a hint of affection weaving through his voice all the same, “but we are in the middle of a war.”

“Fair,” you acknowledge with a tilt of your head, though being on a planet so far removed from the chaos currently wreaking havoc on the rest of the galaxy allows you the privilege of pretending for the moment. “A threat to the very fabric of the Republic is the only reason the Council would sanction the two of us reuniting.”

Though you say it jokingly, there’s something hidden in it. An unspoken apprehension you’re attempting to mask with the high spirits of seeing him again. The stakes of the forthcoming interplanetary negotiation are absolutely staggering, and though it remains unsaid, you understand that just as well as he does. Scared isn’t the right word, and neither is worried, but—

“I sense a mild trepidation in you, young one,” your Master murmurs, and yes, that’s it. A mild trepidation.

“I am…” You close your eyes and attempt to find the right words. “I am… considering the long-term consequences should this endeavor fail,” you eventually settle on, allowing your feet to lead you left as you keep your pace with him. “While I consider it a great honor to lead this negotiation on behalf of the Galactic Republic, I’m concerned the Council’s faith in me is… ill-placed.”

Your Master turns his head just marginally in your direction, and though you both can't technically see each other, you know the face he's making under the hood of his robe: his eyebrow is raised, his chin is tilted, and there's the faintest hint of an amused grin threatening to morph the slightly sassy expression to one of genuine humor. “You distrust the Council’s judgement?”

“Failure and any potential repercussions will be mine alone to bear,” you clarify. “It’s not the Council I lack faith in, but rather my own skills as a mediator.”

At this, the Jedi does chuckle. “And I'm to assume I'm just the tauntaun next door in this scenario?”

The apprehension clears, almost immediately, and you can’t help but grin gently in return. He always did have that effect on you. “Better be,” you toss out, sensing the large congregation of lifeforms gradually burn brighter in the Force as you both continue your quiet approach. “This is my negotiation, after all; the Council’s instructions were clear.”

“Very well,” he agrees. “And, since this is your negotiation, I’m sure you’re more than aware of s’Ziscari etiquette and tradition? Wouldn’t want to offend them by accident.”

“Of course,” you nod. “But a… a quick refresher certainly wouldn’t hurt.”

Your Master just tsks quietly, but launches into a brief explanation for you all the same. “It is the Council’s understanding that Queen s’Zerthia is absent from the Palace at the moment. In lieu of an audience with her, Ambassador Zyther is the only other member of her Royal Majesty’s court who happens to be fluent in Basic, so be sure to address only him when you speak, and to speak slowly and clearly, as it’s crucial they understand our intentions are purely diplomatic in nature. Do not forget the s’Ziscari are a Force sensitive race; they’ll be able to spot deception the second you think to speak it aloud. Not that I anticipate the need to mislead them for any reason, of course, but please. Be mindful.”

Instead of answering him, you direct an affirmative through the Force, and your Master continues.

“They are known to take offense to extended eye contact and they’re not fond of humor or small-talk either, so skip directly to the point: the Jedi are here on behalf of the Republic to garner the support of their planet during these times of war and great unease. Intel tells us they have amassed an army of Force sensitives three times the size of the Order. While we’re hoping for a pledge of at least a thousand soldiers to fight in the Clone Wars, we are more than willing to compromise and accept any assistance they’d be gracious enough to provide nonetheless.”

“In exchange for what?” You ask, the throne room doors now in sight. You were formally debriefed on mission details during the three day trip to s’Ziscari, but the answer to that specific question was kept purposefully vague, even for the likes of the Council. Presently, you still have no idea what exactly you’re meant to be bargaining with, not for.

“In exchange for the continued security of having a peaceful and harmonious neighbor with which to share the galaxy,” he replies breezily, the both of you coming to a halt directly in front of two large wooden doors. “Now. Are you quite ready?”

“Hang on,” you say, turning to face him, and he carefully ducks his head and removes his hood with two hands as his body rotates to mirror yours. “You’re telling me that we’re walking into the most important negotiation in the entire galaxy without actually having anything substantial to offer on our behalf?”

Slowly, the dark cowl is lifted from your head as well, and your eyes lock with a pair of calm cerulean blues staring back at you as he gently soothes the fabric down by your collar. He looks older—ever since the Clone Wars started, Jedi Master General Obi-Wan Kenobi has aged significantly. Gone are the long, flowing locks he sported for most of your youth—the short hair with a clean part is more refined, the beard fuller and more mature. More… attractive than you remember him being, even though you always remembered him being… achingly attractive.

Instead of answering your question, however, he simply moves both hands to rest over the curve of your shoulders, lowering his head and lifting his eyebrows at you in a look of genuine sincerity that makes your heart thump painfully in your chest.

“I am so very proud of you, my former Padawan,” he tells you quietly, and you feel yourself nearly swell with warmth. You’re strong enough in the Force to subdue the sentiment before it bleeds into your signature, but you can’t help the way your face flushes slightly and a girlish little smile pulls tight at your cheeks. “You’ve grown into a fine Knight and an exemplar for the Order. No matter the outcome of this mission, nor of this war, please know I’ve been truly blessed by the Maker to have been given the privilege of training you all these years.”

Master Kenobi tilts his head forward just slightly, allowing his Force signature to brush delicately against yours for just a moment, the soft periwinkles and lavenders of his energy swirling gently through your pastel seafoams and teals.

And then he clears his throat, straightens his spine, and claps his hands tight to your upper arms.

“Come now, Jedi,” he winks, turning his head to the double doors and breaking into a brilliant grin, the skin around his eyes crinkling with age but the sparkle in them still lovely and youthful and bright. “The fate of the galaxy awaits.”

***

Master Obi-Wan Kenobi remembers very clearly the day he chose you as a Padawan.

You were a fiery little thing. The Sentinels who raised younglings at the Academy would often speak about you at length to the Council, each of them reporting back with the same issues and concerns. Too emotional, too chaotic, too rebellious for the likes of the Jedi. You threw tantrums, you had outbursts, and to him, you were very likely the worst possible candidate for a negotiator to take on as an apprentice, if only because by all accounts it appeared that you were nigh impossible to negotiate with.

But then you caught his eye one day when Master Yoda was in the process of introducing him to your class. You should’ve been paying attention to the wisdom being shared by the oldest Consular in the Order (and, admittedly, so should he) but instead, you were gazing quietly at a dove that made its nest on the transparisteel dome arching across the ceiling. Obi-Wan remembers feeling your energy cautiously reach out towards it, gentler than anything he could’ve expected from a child of your age and reputation, and the moment stuck with him.

The younglings were each allowed one possession at the Academy, and when it came time for him to choose a Padawan, he swiped yours, if only to see what you’d do. A stuffed rancor you’d endearingly named Cory—rather hideous looking thing, if you asked him—and he was told you were fiercely protective over it.

Obi-Wan remembers carefully setting the stuffed animal down next to him in one of the old storage rooms in the isolated training area, locking the door manually and then taking a quick second to cloak his Force signature. You had three options, he figured, if you were able to find its location. Use the Force to unlock the door, use the brand new saber clipped to your belt to create your own door, or leave without your stuffed rancor. Based off your reputation as an emotionally volatile little youngling, he was assuming he’d have to replace the frame and wall paneling altogether, but regardless, Obi-Wan figured that if you had the nerve to break into the locked room to retrieve your missing possession, he would train you, and if you didn’t, then he’d find someone else.

He waited patiently, meditating for a few hours on your signature from across the Academy. He went through the subsequent stages with you. A bright flare of panic, probably from noticing its absence from your quarters. Sharp sparks of frustration for the next few minutes, likely in response to nobody knowing where it went. He was expecting some sort of distraught next as you began making your way through the Academy to search for it yourself, some sort of upset, but then you surprised him for the second time.

All at once… Quiet. Serenity. Your signature carefully sweeping out in all directions as you walked through the halls, calmly attempting to locate your missing possession.

Obi-Wan pondered this as you approached, and what it might mean. Were you just an excellent student when you felt the stakes were high enough? Were you capable of listening to instructions despite what he’d heard about you in passing? Were you simply just strong in the Force? Or was there perhaps more to you than what others had told him?

Soon, he could hear your footsteps come to a halt in front of the locked door. He waited silently; hidden in the darkness, hidden in the Force, barely breathing while he listened for either the sound of a lightsaber turning on or a lock clicking. He knew you’d find some way to breach the entrance somehow; he knew you wouldn’t just give up and leave.

Except, then all he heard was a quiet little rap of knuckles against metal.

“Master Kenobi?” A small voice called through the door, and Obi-Wan froze.

To your credit, he wasn’t focusing on hiding himself the way he should’ve been. Had you been roughly ten years older, he might’ve taken the time to concentrate a bit harder on it, but truthfully, that’s not what surprised him the most.

You didn’t break in at all.

Instead, you… knocked.

“Master Kenobi?” You tried again after a moment, your knuckles tapping quietly on the door once more.

“Em…” He eventually cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“I think you may have accidentally taken something of mine on accident,” you carefully said after a moment, the overly cautious intent not to offend or intrude suddenly striking him as an invaluable trait in a potential negotiator. “May I please have him back please?”

You were quite a handful at times, Obi-Wan thinks, but it’s been so long. So long since he’s had to correct you in any way. As the years passed, you aged from an emotional Padawan to a refined Knight, a hot-tempered adolescent to a disciplined and capable young Jedi.

Now he looks on as you greet the s’Ziscari Ambassador to the Republic, your head bowed in respect and your eyes focused somewhere near the man’s chest. It appears the two of you have an audience for your audience—members of the Royal Court are sitting perched in a tiered viewing gallery, speaking quietly amongst themselves as you introduce Obi-Wan and state your purpose to the room.

Your voice rings out sharp and clear, and throughout the entire negotiation, not once does he feel compelled to assist you in any way. You do everything right—you make fair points without stepping on any toes, you never allow the Ambassador’s booming voice intimidate you or sway your collected composure.

Obi-Wan meant what he said. He’s proud of you.

Though… though at one point throughout the mediation, something about this starts to not… feel right.

It’s the Royal Court, he realizes. They’ve stopped talking, they’re… paying attention. It doesn’t make sense—none of them speak Basic, they must just be reading the energies in the room. Nothing spectacular has happened—no outburst, nothing to draw their attention any more than when you both first made your entrance. The Ambassador’s voice continues to echo throughout the vast ceilings and contrast with the pleasant and tranquil alto of your steady responses, but then Obi-Wan suddenly goes rigid and spins around—

The Royal Count immediately stands in unison as the Ambassador abruptly cuts off, and a familiar signature reveals itself in the Force.

***

The Queen.

The Queen is here.

You keep your head down and follow the intricate laced bodice of her gown as she makes her entrance into the grand throne room, gliding right between you and your Master before climbing the stairs and collapsing down onto the throne with a sigh. The Council was misinformed concerning her whereabouts, apparently.

The Court finds a seat not long after she does, and you clench your jaw at the unfortunate twist of events. Her presence means that whatever progress you’ve made with the Ambassador is now, for all intents and purposes, moot.

There’s also just something… odd about her and her energy, you think, something you can’t quite place. The second she turns her head and looks in your eyes is the second you forget all about avoiding eye contact with her, but if she’s offended by your sudden lack of etiquette, she displays no signs of it. In fact, you’d almost argue she looks intrigued.

“Your Majesty,” you greet. “I was just—”

“I got the gist,” she waves a manicured hand at you. “What was your name again, little girl?”

You tell her, and put a hard emphasis on your full title. She may be a monarch, but you are a General in the Clone Wars and a Knight of the Republic, and an attempt by the opposing party at intimidation by flippant degradation will not be tolerated.

“Pleasure,” she nods. “May I ask what your people are willing to offer in exchange for the military assistance you’re seeking?”

You swallow thickly, your stomach sinking. “Truly, your Majesty, I… I cannot provide you with a specific answer to that at this time. However, we would gladly be willing to—”

“Perhaps you can answer me this, then, little Knight, since I never was able to obtain anything satisfactory from your High Council,” the Queen interrupts, studying her jeweled manicure and sounding bored with the conversation she just initiated, and you feel your Master stiffen behind you. “If we s’Ziscari are so incredibly important to the Jedi, as you previously insisted to the Ambassador multiple times, then why in Maker’s name does the Council reject invitations to partake in our people’s most sacred of ceremonies year after year?”

You’re… you’re at a complete loss for words. The Sentinels have dedicated ambassadors to travel the territories specifically for these reasons, to keep political relations agreeable between outer-rim planets and the Jedi. There would be no discernible reason as to why the Council would reject attendance to an annual s’Ziscari cultural celebration, especially if their standing military was even half as powerful in the Force as rumors would imply.

Obviously you’re not privy to any of this information, so you subtly reach out to Master Kenobi’s Force signature with a tiny flicker of uncertainty, silently questioning your next move. However, before you can barely even mentally gauge the calm, sky blue of his aura, your Master’s outer-shields slam into place and even so much as shove against your open question in warning.

“It was—” You trip over your sentence, heart thumping in your chest with panic at his unprecedented response to you, “—It was never our intention to cause any offense, I’m certain—”

“And yet great offense was caused nonetheless,” the Queen returns. “However. As it just so happens, you’ve arrived on my planet the day the Sh’inzith Ritual is to commence. Because of that, I am more than willing to allow the Order to remedy their grave lapse in judgement tonight, in exchange for…” She tilts her chin at you, considering. “Ten thousand soldiers to fight in your little war. What say you, Jedi?”

No, this is wrong. This is all wrong—an addition of ten thousand trained Force sensitives would put an immediate end to the Clone Wars. Full stop. Instead of being tempted by the bait, however, you’re just becoming increasingly wary of it.

Regardless of how on edge you are, you keep an unbothered composure and continue stunting any major change to your signature. “You cannot expect me to agree to a deal before knowing the finer points of its terms, my Queen.”

“Of course not,” she agrees diplomatically. “My terms are simple, really. All you have to do is—”

“If you will pardon the interruption,” Master Kenobi’s voice suddenly rings out from behind you for the first time in what feels like ages, and he takes a few steps forward until he’s standing directly adjacent to you. “Apologies to the Court, but my companion and I have grown very weary from a long tr—”

“No apologies necessary, Master Kenobi,” the Queen grins, her eyes flicking away from yours. “Thought I saw you back there. Shall I elaborate? I’ll make it quick, so you don’t fall asleep.”

There’s a tense, pregnant silence that fills the throne room as everybody waits for his response, and you’re left wondering how your Master knows this woman.

He breaks eye contact with the monarch first and stares down at the floor while he considers his answer, before finally settling on a quiet, “Leave us.”

The Queen nods exactly once and everyone in the gallery rises and slowly files out. You take a moment to glance around at the handful of guards surrounding the throne room, waiting for their perfect statuesque posture to falter. Only, they remain completely motionless.

You turn back to the Queen, watching you thoughtfully from her elevated throne, and then to your Master, who’s… still looking down at the floor.

It takes you a bit longer than it should, even then.

Obi-Wan says your name in a tight, urging tone, not even bothering to turn his head to address you. “Please.”

What?

You? He wants you to leave? But… the Council said… they said that this is your negotiation. Clearly they failed to provide you with some very crucial piece of information, so now he’s dismissing you because of it? Openly? In front of the other party?

“But… But I was supposed to—”

“Padawan,” he all but snaps at you. “Please.”

You stand there, holding yourself as still as possible, absolutely stunned. Your Master has never spoken to you this way. You’ve never heard him speak to anyone this way.

The Queen just smiles down at you saccharinely from her throne, clearly enjoying your blatant discomfort and embarrassment.

This is humiliating.

You’d never say it out loud. But as you quietly leave the throne room, two guards on either side accompanying you to your chambers, you practically shove the words at him through the Force, trying your absolute hardest not to let the hurt through. Though in hindsight, you may have emphasized the last part a bit too harshly.

Of course. Master.

***

Obi-Wan realizes the grievousness of his mistake the second it comes out of his mouth. He doesn’t need the extended moment of silence as you work to process the unintentional insult. He doesn’t need the way your Force signature suddenly seems incredibly small, like it shrank in on itself in mortification. He most definitely does not need the spiteful remark reverberating around his brain as your footsteps fade into nothingness, the thought so sharp and directed that he’d likely have trouble blocking it out.

“Strange,” the Queen drawls out in his direction, breaking him from the whirlwind of his thoughts. “Do you really still view her as a Padawan? But she’s such a pretty girl. And she was doing so well.”

“I will not speak of this with you,” Obi-Wan replies candidly, abandoning all pleasantries now that they’re alone.

“Oh, but you will,” s’Zerthia tuts, somehow sounding disapproving and gleeful in equal parts. “If you want your army, that is.”

“Must you be so cruel, Your Majesty?” Obi-Wan sighs, lowering his head and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Maker, he’s getting a headache. “Are the Uncharted Regions truly that dull?”

“Come now, old friend,” she grins, tilting her head at him as she relaxes back in her throne. “You’ve known of my nature since we were introduced at the Senate all those decades ago. There is a reason you’re still with the peace-loving wizard monks and I am now the reigning monarch over twenty thousand square parsecs of territories.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan acknowledges. “And now we are grown. Though it appears someone has yet to remind you.”

“Contrary to what you may believe, General Kenobi, this is not about me,” the Queen sighs. “My people do not look kindly upon the Jedi. The Ritual is a celebration of our connection with the Force, and denying an invitation, to them, is akin to denying their existence as a Force sensitive people. I can give you your army at any time, of course—I am Queen. But I fear that will not be enough. The s’Ziscari will not willingly fight for you until you pay your due respects to our culture.”

“Queen s’Zerthia,” he exhales, clearly exasperated, “I cannot call myself Jedi and partake in such… proclivities. The Council will never agree to such measures. There must be some other way.”

“There isn’t, old friend,” she huffs shortly, her signature beginning to spark with impatience. “Make your choice.”

“I am not having sex in an arena, s’Zerthia,” he hisses.

“Then the Republic shall fall.”

“You’ll let trillions die—”

“Do not speak to me as if you are not the only person who can change that, Jedi!” The Queen suddenly barks, her voice echoing throughout the empty throne room and booming with frustration. “I cannot make them fight! They love their Queen, but I am thirty-nine years old, for star’s sake! These traditions have lasted for millennia! Would you abandon the ways of your religion simply because your leader ordered it so?”

“That is exactly what you’re demanding of me,” he returns sharply.

“Yes,” s’Zerthia acknowledges. “But you are but one martyr, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Not an army.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “I’ve… s’Zerthia, I’ve never… It’s forbidden. And now you’re asking me to break my oath in front of an audience… with someone I don’t know?” He keeps his voice as steady as possible, but he knows it’s useless. The Queen of the s’Ziscari will see the wavering in his Force signature. The underlying pulse of fear at the center.

It’s her turn to sigh. “The Sh’inzith is about celebrating our connection with the Force… consensually. I… may be able to speak to some of my people about the possibility of you participating in private, due to the,” she clears her throat, “delicate nature of the situation, as well as your particular upbringing. However. You will have to project during the… closing ceremonies, if only to prove your direct involvement. This is the best I can do. Do we have an agreement?”

Obi-Wan drops his gaze. “I… I don’t know. I must confer with the Council first. But… but with their permission…” He chooses to leave his sentence unfinished, still so unbelievably uncomfortable with the terms of this nightmare to agree to them aloud.

“Understood,” she nods. “Then I shall arrange to send someone to your chambers at midnight unless you notify my staff otherwise. Which would you prefer—a man or a woman?”

He stays silent, his stomach churning in discomfort. He doesn’t think he’s ever even considered the question before. He truly doesn’t know how to answer it.

Intuitively, the Queen moves on. “No matter. What of the girl, then? A man would do well for her, I’m assuming?”

He lifts his head, furrowing his eyebrows. “The girl? What girl?”

“The girl,” s’Zerthia repeats blankly. “All Jedi present will need to participate, of course.”

“No,” Obi-Wan says immediately, taking a few steps forward. “No, that wasn’t the deal. The girl has been a Knight for barely two years, she’s never even heard of the Ritual. She has no part in this.”

“And yet she was meant to lead this negotiation, was she not?” She tsks in disappointment, each staccato click of her tongue echoing throughout the vast ceilings and rafters of the room. “Is that how you Jedi treat your women? Throw her headfirst into a mediator’s position with none of the details she needs to be successful, dismiss and humiliate her when she inevitably fails, and subsequently refuse any involvement in a potential solution on her behalf because she ‘has no part in this’? Perhaps I should be offended that the Jedi thought so little of the s’Ziscari as to assign someone of her standing to lead this negotiation, but as of right now, considering the mere fact that my palace is still intact, I’m actually starting to believe your little Padawan may just be the best of you.”

Obi-Wan says absolutely nothing in response, his heart panging in his chest in shame hearing it put into words that way. He’s never been one to question the decision-making of the Council, but assigning you to this mission had admittedly been something he himself couldn’t quite puzzle out. Obi-Wan understands the need to further develop your diplomatic skills, but the terms of this specific negotiation were just far too complex and far too crucial to the survival of the Republic to gamble on one of the youngest Knights in the Order. By all accounts, you shouldn’t be here, but the Council was very specific in their instructions. You were to lead negotiations, and Obi-Wan was to act as reinforcement should anything happen to go awry.

The Queen quietly studies the Jedi Master all the while, tilting her head thoughtfully. “None of this makes any sense, does it?”

Again, Obi-Wan maintains his silence with a furrowed brow and a far-off look on his face.

“What’s so different about this one?” She asks him, sincere curiosity appearing to overtake her in the moment. “This girl, specifically, out of everyone—why would they choose her for this negotiation? There’d be no discernible reason, unless they wanted her to—”

She cuts herself off abruptly as Obi-Wan quickly flicks his gaze over to her. When she’s silent for too long, he has to prompt her. “Unless they wanted her to what?”

“Ah,” she whispers at once, her expression immediately clearing in understanding. “Clever. Diabolical, manipulative, and entirely unexpected from a group of glorified cultists with brightly colored laser swords. But oh, so clever.”

Obi-Wan is starting to become very frustrated with this conversation.

“You know,” the Queen continues, back to studying her manicure, “I used to lament my lack of free will as a member of royalty by marriage. My husband, Maker rest his soul, could never yearn for what he did not know, but as the daughter of a Senator, I was born as low as you. I was a Miss once,” she laughs airily, as if the thought of her holding that title is absolutely ridiculous now. “I knew the difference between a life of freedom and that of a puppet. But. At least my superiors revoked my autonomy to my face. Your Council sees fit to pull strings from behind a curtain.”

“You think the Council wanted this?” He can’t keep the intense skepticism from lacing his tone, despite his best efforts.

The Queen suddenly looks up from her jeweled fingernails and pins him with a hard stare. “Will you bed a stranger even with the direct permission of your betters?” She shoots at him, quite unexpectedly and shameless in her phrasing.

Obi-Wan nearly jerks back, the abrupt change in subject and rather personal question startling him. “I—”

“Would you have asked your Padawan to accompany you here if you’d been put in charge of negotiations instead?”

“I’m not sure I—”

“Do you think it simply a coincidence the two of you were scheduled to arrive on my planet exactly ten hours before a festivity that only happens once every five hundred and some-odd cycles begins?”

“I can assure you I was not privy the t—”

“Why is the girl here?”

He… he doesn’t understand. It’s like she’s trying to have four conversations with him at once. He’s getting whiplash. “s’Zerthia.”

“Obi-Wan. Come now, don’t be daft.” She goes back to picking at her fingernails, clearly done with her interrogation for the time being. “She’s here because she is a thousand times more prepared to participate in the Sh’inzith than you are, of course.”

Obi-Wan blinks. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means the Council knew full well what the terms of this negotiation would be,” the Queen shrugs. “Though you may not be too familiar with Jedi-s’Ziscari interplanetary relations, I can assure you we have openly voiced our offense to their denial of our invitations multiple times. We still send them, of course, as is tradition. We have for a few centuries at least. A formal alliance would obviously require some act of rectification on the Council’s behalf, so therefore the only logical assumption to be made is that the girl was chosen for this mission specifically with that in mind. She likely didn’t take an oath of celibacy or something of t—”

“All Jedi take oaths of celibacy,” Obi-Wan interjects with a startlingly unfamiliar edge to his voice, clearly warning her not to continue on in this direction.

”Oh, apologies; I misspoke,” she clarifies. “She probably didn’t take an oath of celibacy seriously, or something of the sort.”

“Mind yourself, s’Zerthia,” he warns her. “I care not of your position nor our history, you will not speak of my protégé that way—”

“Oh, she’s your protégé now?” She grins, amusement flashing in her eyes. “I see. Because we both have been referring to her as your Padawan up until the moment someone other than you decided to insult her, so I wasn’t sure. Forgive me.”

Obi-Wan flushes and opens his mouth once, twice. He is quite honestly speechless at how his… long-time acquaintance is so truly gifted at creating sentences that somehow manage to turn themselves into icy daggers in midair, so instead, he takes a different approach. “E-Even… even if you were slightly correct with that… a-absolutely baseless accusation, it makes no sense,” he reasons desperately, still trying to find some way out of all this. “Breaking an oath of celibacy in her youth does not at all mean she’d be any more likely to lie with a s’Ziscari to complete a diplomatic mis—”

“No,” the Queen agrees, “it means she’d be more likely to lie with a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan stops dead.

She laughs, a soft tinkle of a sound, taking in the underlying shock of his demeanor. “By all their faults, the Council is not stupid.” She almost sounds… impressed. “Think, Obi-Wan. Pair the Greatest Negotiator in the Order with his newly ordained Knight? The one young enough to not have the strict pillars of your cult of a religion so hopelessly cemented into her mindset? The one who so very clearly considers you to be far more than a mentor to her? The Council knew you’d be incredibly reluctant to bed anyone, let alone a stranger from the Uncharted Regions, but they also knew of our history as friends—if anyone in the Order was in a position to make the deal with me, it was you, so if anyone in the Order was in a position to therefore… persuade you to follow through with the conditions of said deal, it was her. To gain ten thousand more Force sensitives and win a galactic war, all your Council had to do was shove two of their most agreeable Generals into bed with one another. Beautifully executed, Machiavellian at its core. Stars. I knew politics suited the Jedi, but this is just…”

Obi-Wan feels his chest sinking deeper and deeper by the second as she kisses her fingers animatedly.

“…Masterful,” s’Zerthia finishes, turning to smile widely at him, positively delighted in her demeanor. “I do say, I may have met my match in your superiors, Obi-Wan. Perhaps they shall make better allies than I’d originally assumed. If nothing else, this little display of cunning and manipulation gives me faith that perhaps the Republic isn’t so completely doomed after all.”

“Do you truly think they’d be so cruel?” He finds himself asking quietly after a moment.

“These are times of war, old friend,” she tilts her head with as much solemn comfort in her voice as she can reasonably provide. “They knew the terms, and they knew you wouldn’t agree if you knew them in advance. This was the only way. And honestly, should a… well, let’s face it, a rather attractive coupling be all that stands between the galaxy and total destruction, I’d say that may just be a fair price to pay. My only lament thus far is your rather timid demeanor. You two would’ve made for a crowd favorite.”

The Queen’s assertion startles him so much that Obi-Wan outright defaults back to skeptical pragmatism instead of entertaining elaborate and incredibly far-fetched conspiracy theories. “Yes, yes, s’Zerthia, but—but this whole entire scheme hinges on the completely incorrect assumption that she and I would actually be willing… willing to…” He can’t even finish the sentence.

“How old are you, Obi-Wan?” She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at him, thoroughly unimpressed with his sudden lack of articulation. “We are of similar age, correct? Are you outright incapable of saying the word ‘fuck’?”

“Quit being foul,” he snaps. “It suits your personality, not your tongue.”

“So quick-witted in conversation for someone so incredibly dim-witted in practice,” she muses, as if this entire thing is incredibly entertaining to her. “Do you really not see the way she looks at you?”

“She respects me,” Obi-Wan declares meaningfully. “She’s loyal. She thinks much higher of me than I deserve. She’d stand alone in the face of an army if it pleased me and she’d stand tall—”

“That’s not the only position she’d assume to please you,” the Queen mutters under her breath, pausing to give him a sweet little smile as Obi-Wan burns a hole through her with his glare. “The only variable remaining is your willingness to please her. After all, the offer to lie with a s’Ziscari instead will always be up for the both of your considerations, as is the ability to walk away entirely at any time of course. I’m assuming the Council was relying on the fact that you’d pitch an absolute fit after being informed her involvement was required—which, naturally, you did. And then they gambled on the answer to a question you’ve yet to ask yourself.” She leans forward and tilts her head at him, lacing her manicured fingers together. “Perhaps it’s not a matter of how willing you are to sleep with your Padawan to save the galaxy from complete and total annihilation, Master Kenobi, but simply a matter of whether or not the clueless little thing will want it bad enough to be able to convince you to do it. This—this is a real negotiation for her now.”

“s’Zerthia—” Obi-Wan sputters, “—I—She—I’ve traversed her consciousness more than anyone in the entire galaxy, and not once has she ever even hinted at the possibility that she—”

“And can you blame her? My, the scandal it would cause!” The Queen presses the back of her hand to her forehead and collapses dramatically back into her throne. “A Jedi Knight secretly harboring feelings for her Master? In my good temple? Shame! Shame! Sha—!”

“You think you know more of my successor than I?” Obi-Wan interrupts sharply, somehow more irritated now at the insinuation than he’d been the entire conversation. “The youngling I raised? The one I handpicked to take my place in the Order, you think you know more of her heart than I?”

“Yes.” s’Zerthia answers him simply, straightening up on her throne and abandoning all theatrics. “Because you did not see her face when you called her Padawan. I did. And I also happen to know far better than most that hiding the truth from nosy Force sensitive authoritarians is most easily accomplished by controlling one’s energy signature. Jedi, s’Ziscari, it matters not the culture—you lot spend far too much effort reading into the Force than simply looking someone in their eyes to learn the truth. Look her in the eyes next time, Master Kenobi. Then you will understand.”

***

You’re furious.

The Jedi are not meant to feel fury. But you are a Jedi, and by the Maker, do you feel it.

“Padawan?” You hiss, pacing the length of your bedchamber with clenched fists, trying to control the volume of your voice so desperately that the words come out shaky and slurred. “Padawan? Is that what he thinks of me? That I’m still a youngling?!”

You haven’t been this upset since you were a small child. And the thought stops you dead in your tracks.

You are a General. You are a Consular. You are a Knight.

Regardless of what he may believe.

So you climb up onto your unnecessarily large bed, crawling the incredibly soft fur blanket of an animal you’ve never seen before to sit yourself in the very center of the mattress, crossing your legs. Though it takes you longer than it has in years, you’re finally able to relax your breathing and clear your mind, slipping into a deep meditative state.

You don’t know how long you stay in that position, nor do you really care to. But when your Force signature feels the slightest brush of your Master’s, likely just looking for your location within the palace, you’re a bit too late in slamming your mental barriers up in response. You know he still senses the reciprocal shove he gave you earlier, the shocking feeling of being practically hurled out of someone’s mind with unprecedented ferocity. But he also knows where you are now.

So, like you’re a youngling at the Academy again, you just pretend to meditate. Like an actual child, you close your eyes and focus on just sitting still. You shouldn’t be responding this way, you tell yourself. Restraining your emotional response has been hammered into you for decades—keeping calm when you’re upset is your default, it’s how you’ve lived your entire adult life. Why can you not seem to accomplish it now?

What… what is this? This toxic, absolutely dreadful emotion? It's hard placing them sometimes when you were taught from infancy to just will them away instead of processing them. It’s not fury, not anymore. It isn’t sadness, either. You’ve been sad—you’ve been sad for two years straight, and it feels nothing like this.

You’re throwing a tantrum, you realize. That’s what this must be. You’re reverting back to your childhood, back to when you felt discounted and disapproved of by nearly everyone around you. You haven’t felt this way in years, not since you met Master Kenobi. This is hurt. Just pure, irrational, emotional pain, and it’s manifesting itself in truly ugly ways.

You can feel his signature glow just marginally brighter in the Force as your Master steadily approaches. You take slow breaths, trying to rearrange yourself into something at least mildly composed and tranquil, but it feels almost impossible. So instead, you just try to ignore the past few hours and think back on all the things your Master used to tell you when you were like this, this raging turmoil of emotions overtaking you and causing you to lash out.

You are a Consular, child, he’d say, and if you focus, you can practically hear the musical cadence of his calm, comforting voice. A peacekeeper. A dove. When faced with a locked door, what must you always do?

Master Kenobi’s knuckles rap on the entrance to your quarters quietly, and you blink your eyes open, taking another deep breath before replying. “It’s open.”

The door opens and he takes a few steps inside the room, stopping immediately when he lifts his head up and sees you sitting on your bed.

You both stare at each other in silence for way too long, and you’re not… really sure why. You’re obviously just waiting for him to say something, take the lead in this conversation since he was clearly a better fit to take the lead on this mission, but he just looks at you. For an eternity, he looks at you. Completely blank.

He suddenly jerks his spine straight and breaks eye contact with you, coughing and flicking bright blue eyes around the space as if he’s just noticing it. “Ah, I… Apologies, this is the wrong room. I thought… my quarters are—I must confer with the Council. Please, excuse me.”

And then he turns around and leaves.

You blink a few times, wide-eyed and completely bewildered as the door slides shut behind his billowing cloak.

He… he knocked on the door to his own quarters? And then… and then he waited for you to call him in?

What in Maker’s name is going on?

***

“This is unbelievable,” Obi-Wan sighs, and the hologram of Master Windu rubs his blue flickering temples in slow circles, looking equally as exasperated as Obi-Wan sounds. “Did you know the Ritual was to take place tonight?”

“The Council had no idea,” the fellow Guardian murmurs, and something pulls tight in Obi-Wan’s chest, remembering the Queen’s assertion that the s’Ziscari continue to send invitations to the Council every year. Perhaps… perhaps there was some sort of an oversight, he thinks, due to the Clone Wars taking precedence for the Order. “Intel told us she’d be off-planet for at least another week.”

Well now, that doesn’t make much sense, not if the Ritual is to begin soon. None of what Master Windu has said throughout the conversation has made any sense at all regarding the situation. Obi-Wan… Obi-Wan thought he’d feel better after speaking to another member of the Council, not more uncertain.

“What does Master Yoda think of all this?” He eventually tries, but the holographic projection of Master Windu sighs and tilts his head regretfully, his upper body flickering and waving with intermittent static.

“Master Yoda is currently dispatched to Rugosa to convince King Katuunko to allow the Republic to build a base in Toydarian territory,” he replies solemnly, and Obi-Wan… needs to meditate. Yes. Meditation sounds like a phenomenal idea. “Are you certain there is no more room for negotiating?”

“An ultimatum was given,” Obi-Wan says shortly. “These are the terms.”

Master Windu takes quite a while before responding, but when he does, he speaks calmly and with purpose, addressing him with a formal opinion. “Then the Council will leave this matter up to the discretions of you and your former Padawan, Master Kenobi. This mission designation has hereby been elevated to the highest level of classified and your subsequent choices need not be reported, nor will they affect either of your places in the Order. May the Force guide you and be with you both through these uncertain times.”

The transmission is cut and Obi-Wan feels his insides twist.

He collapses onto his bed and groans quietly, burying his face in his hands and finding it easier to just conceal his Force signature altogether than attempt to mask the anxiety and crushing pressure he feels threatening to overwhelm him.

This is not good. This is, in fact, very much a disaster. This is a mess. This is far worse than anything he could’ve possibly imagined when he was first assigned to this mission.

Obi-Wan slowly rakes all ten of his fingers down the sides of his beard, lifting his chin and then letting them drag all the way down his throat, and the quiet scratchy sound it makes mixes in with another longer, even more exhausted groan.

Maker. First things first, he needs to apologize to you and explain the situation. Neither one of those things will be easy to accomplish, but in the grand scheme, they’ll be far simpler than anything else facing him.

He… he takes a second to think about you, about the awful way he unintentionally disrespected you earlier. Stars—he handled this terribly. He was caught off guard and he owes you an explanation, but he’s at a complete loss as to how to go about it.

And why… Why must you have been sitting on your bed? Staring up at him silently, waiting for him atop the very place he’s just been given permission to… to…

Obi-Wan shakes his head and clamps his eyes shut, rubbing them with a bit too much vigor to be from tiredness and stress alone. He should meditate. He should meditate, let his mind break free of the nerves and sudden change of events, but he doesn’t have time to even begin unscrambling the chaos of his thoughts. It’s getting late, and he has an obligation to tell you about the situation as soon as possible, to give you as much time as he can to process the decision facing you before the clock runs out.

He’s dreading this. He’s absolutely dreading it, but it needs to be done.

***

After your Master leaves, less than a half hour passes before you hear another knock on the door.

By then, you’re just sitting there. Sitting there, empty. This is good, really. Truly, this is a good thing. A flat emotional state is what you should always strive for, but… nothing about it feels like peace, really. No, this just feels… grey. Desaturated. Dull.

“It’s open,” you call once again, and Master Kenobi quietly enters your chambers. This time you don’t look at him, though. You don’t really… feel the need to, especially from the way his signature is still just barely presenting itself to you, still so guarded and cautious around you when he’s never been this way before.

Your Master comes to a stop right in front of the edge of the mattress, and stands there for a few moments in silence. You just blink down at the mattress and wait, undisturbed, until you hear him heave a long, heavy sigh, before spinning around and unceremoniously sinking down to the floor at the foot of the bed.

Something about it breaks through your blank, almost dissociative state. Your eyebrows narrow just slightly where your gaze is pinned to the fur covering the mattress, hearing him sigh heavily once more out of your line of sight, but it’s enough to urge you to crawl forward until you can see him sitting on the floor at the foot of the mattress, bent over on himself, his head buried in his hands. You’ve never seen your Master look so… vulnerable before. So small—not in all the years you’ve known each other. His energy is so concealed that you’re just barely able to sense anything besides the mere presence of his signature, but he’s clearly distraught with just as much emotion you were struggling with earlier, and suddenly…

Suddenly a calmness sweeps through you. A gentle sort of kindness fills your soul, slowly flooding your energy with color once again at the sight of someone who’s usually so composed struggling so openly in front of you.

Carefully, you lower yourself down until you’re seated on the floor next to him, your back pressed up against the side of the mattress as he continues to hide his face from you. You stay there, not touching him, not saying anything, but just radiating a steady tranquility through the room from the very center of your being, anchoring him through his storm until it clears.

The sun goes down through the window before either of you speak. Your Master eventually drops his hands from his face and takes a deep breath, choosing to break the silence first.

“Before I begin,” he finally says, his shoulders still uncharacteristically tight and full of tension, even though his voice is soft. “I must… I must sincerely apologize to you. This type of subject matter makes me extraordinarily uncomfortable and I took that out on you, and it was absolutely unacceptable behavior on my behalf. Unfortunately, I can offer you no explanation that wouldn't count as an excuse for something that was completely inexcusable.”

“I understand,” you reassure him, just as quietly, but then quickly correct yourself. “Well, no—I don’t. I don’t understand, but. Judging from your demeanor, I can only assume things have become… a bit more complicated.”

Your Master takes another full, deep inhale. “Yes, that’s…” he empties his lungs of air with a huff, amused but in a way that’s not really amused. “That’s certainly one way of putting it.”

“Do you…” You blink at the floor, still keeping your voice and energy as gentle as possible. “Just—before… before you begin… Do you truly think of me as your Padawan still?”

“No,” he answers firmly. Immediately, and with less hesitation than anything he’s said so far. “I do not.”

You nod, the finality in his tone leading you to believe that’s the end of his sentence, but then he eventually lowers his voice and continues.

“But sometimes, I…” Your Master sounds conflicted, like he’s not sure he should be saying this aloud. He still hasn’t looked at you. “I find myself… wishing you were. That we could go back to those days, the days before the war. Before fighting armies, and leading them… and now recruiting them. The happiest and most fulfilling days of my life were spent with you by my side, young one. I am not telling you this in an attempt to justify or defend my actions in any way, I am telling you this simply because I don’t want an egregious misunderstanding of this magnitude to continue to fester between us when it can be addressed right here and now. In the face of incredible discomfort, I selfishly reverted the terms of our relationship back to what they were two years ago—not because I subconsciously think of you as my Padawan still or that I somehow haven’t recognized your unprecedented list of accomplishments as a Knight—but because you, the former title, and the nature of the relationship it entails were the only things familiar to me when everything else around was so incredibly and uncomfortably foreign. I humbly beg your forgiveness for ever allowing you to spend a single second of your time thinking differently, never mind hours of it.”

You blink, startled by the sudden articulation and sincerity of the apology. “I—it’s… it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Master Kenobi softly counters, “but your forgiveness is greatly appreciated, no matter how undeserved.”

You smile at him. It’s one of those gentle, sad smiles—the kind of smile that would feel fake if it wasn’t for the comfort you’re trying to provide with it. Carefully, you place a hand on the bend of his knee. “Do you have a place you’d like to start, or would it be easier for you if I asked specific questions?”

He looks at you. Finally. For the first time, his clear blue eyes rise to meet yours and he looks… grateful. “Ask. Please. That would be so much better.”

“A ritual begins tonight,” you say after a moment, studying his handsome facial features for some kind of confirmation of the information you’ve managed to piece together, but then your Master abruptly breaks eye contact with you and lowers his gaze once more. “Yet the Sentinels historically choose not to partake. Why?”

“Because… the Ritual… contains proceedings that stand in direct opposition to the values and teachings of the Jedi,” he explains to the floor. “It goes against the core pillars of our religion to even spectate. The Uncharted Regions are… different. They follow neither the laws nor the customs of the Republic. It was decided long ago to politely decline their invitations, though we offered many times to meet during another time of the year. The Council had no idea the Queen would take this much offense.”

You have to ask. It’s important for you to know, but his rather vague explanation serves to peak your trepidation just as much as it does your curiosity. “…What is…” Maker, you’ve gone unbelievably quiet. “What is the Ritual, Master?”

Obi-Wan goes just as quiet, looking down at his hands as they fiddle idly in his lap. “Ah. Yes. That. Well, the—th-the Ritual is, uh. Uh—”

You blink softly at him and his abrupt loss of articulation, trying to rearrange your expression to be encouraging without appearing too eager.

He suddenly cuts himself off and looks up at you, pinning you with an ocean-deep blue gaze once more. “It’s a celebration of fertility.”

You blink once more at him, this time quite stupidly.

“People are encouraged to be intimate with each other. Openly. Shameless displays of fornication between two consenting adults are commonplace in almost every conceivable forum, said to permanently connect the s’Ziscari to one another through the Force—which is why they usually project throughout the act. In fact, they even have a gathering here at the palace capital, an ‘opening ceremony’ of sorts where people… perform. It’s debauchery disguised as a holiday.”

You… for some reason, the fact that he stares so intently at you while he says it makes your reaction marginally subtler. He gives away no emotion as he takes in how your mouth has formed a soft O shape, how a solemn understanding seems to flood through you. Of course he’d have incredible trouble with something like this. And somehow it’s only then that you fully forgive him for his previous mishaps and mistakes on this mission. You understand now, you get it.

“Ah. Okay. And… and in exchange for the s’Ziscari’s assistance in the Clone Wars, they want us to… what, exactly?” Maker, why is your throat so dry?

“They’ve presented the ultimatum of either walking away from the deal entirely or partaking from the privacy of these chambers,” he answers. “Together.”

Okay, so your reaction is a bit more pronounced this time.

Your eyes widen for a fraction of a second, all the breath in your lungs whooshing out at once. Maker, it’s like he punched you in the chest. Muscle memory alone allows you to almost completely muffle the burst of shock that radiates through the Force, but your face is still a dead giveaway.

Is this… is this a trial? Are you hallucinating? Perhaps a vision, if it wasn’t so beyond ludicrous or had any basis in reality whatsoever. How many vaguely similar scenarios have you imagined throughout the duration of Obi-Wan’s tutelage? And yet never has one been so incredibly creative. Or elaborate.

And then, the thought suddenly hits you.

Oh. Oh, no, this is dangerous.

It’s one thing to harbor a dark, hidden crush on your Master for years, something you refuse to even let yourself think about most of the time. It’s one thing to learn how to bury your needs deep down and refuse to let them see the light of day, to learn how to build a mental fortress around a dirty, terrible secret from your youth and guard it with a saber and matching ferocity. This is the way of the Jedi.

It’s another thing entirely to have it offered to you on a silver platter. To be given just a sample of Darkness, knowing you’ll never have anything close to it ever again.

***

Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’s studied your face this closely in his entire life.

It feels almost… unnatural, how meticulously he’s trying to read your expressions. Outwardly, you don’t appear to be anything more than surprised, really. Not horrified at the idea, just… stunned.

“What did you tell them?” You eventually ask him.

“That I’d need to discuss it with the Council first,” Obi-Wan answers carefully, “and then that I’d need to discuss it with you. And I’d make a decision by midnight, when the Ritual is to begin.”

And—there. He sees it. Your Force signature continues to radiate a gentle calmness outwards, unwavering and unbothered in its beautiful gradient of pale greens and chartreuses and golds, brilliantly contrasting with the cool blues and periwinkles of Obi-Wan’s own signature, but there’s a flash of… something in your eyes, and he sees it for maybe a split second before it’s gone completely.

What did he say? What did he say? He tries quickly to remember. That he’d need to discuss it with the Council first, and then that he’d need to…

Obi-Wan sighs, instantly realizing his mistake. He both openly admitted and proved to valuing the opinion of the Council over yours. He valued the collective opinion of a group of Jedi tens of thousands of light years away who put you in the middle of this ghastly situation more than your opinion. You. The only other person directly involved with this absolute shipwreck of a negotiation, even though you never asked to be. The person whose opinion on such a delicate situation should’ve mattered the most.

Stars, s’Zerthia was right. Has he always been this blind?

“Though… though now I realize that was incredibly dismissive of me.” Obi-Wan’s head drops and his hand comes up to cover and rub at his eyes, feeling halfway stuck between amused at his endless list of mistakes and miserable at how they’ve affected you. “I’ve done absolutely nothing right on this mission so far, young one. And you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. The Queen of the s’Ziscari said you’re likely the best the Order has to offer and I’m very quickly beginning to see her point.”

You jerk back comically. “She said that?”

He peeks an eye open at you through his fingers, watching you look at him like he’s grown two heads. “…Yes?”

“And not as an insult to the rest of the Jedi?”

Obi-Wan drags his hand down his beard, trying to hold the corners of his mouth down, but it does nothing to stop the small smile that begins to peek through. So he doesn’t try to hide it. He just smiles at you, exasperated but so incredibly fond, shaking his head meaningfully. You sit there and stare at him with your mouth hanging open, completely discombobulated, and Obi-Wan actually begins to chuckle quietly to himself, marveling at how your reaction to the praise practically doubles its sentiment.

You’re the only one who’s been able to make him truly laugh in the past two years. You did it despite his wild discomfort concerning the unfortunate situation the two of you have found yourselves in. You did it despite the foreign territory, the foreign government, the foreign planet, the foreign customs, and the foreign subject matter. And you did it all entirely unprompted, despite everything he’s done to wrong you.

“The lady in the big chair? The one with the fingernails?” You lift your hand up and wiggle your fingers, both looking and sounding like a droid in need of a hard reboot. “The fingernail lady, she said this?”

“Why is that so surprising to you?” Obi-Wan asks with a gentle grin, leaning back to rest his shoulder blades against the bed, his muscles considerably less tense than they were even just two minutes ago.

“Because I don’t—? People don’t—??” You wave your hands around uselessly. “I’m not used to… that.”

“To what?” He prompts, still not removing his attention from your face.

“High praise? I mean—I spent years being told that I was quite possibly the worst of the Jedi,” you laugh awkwardly, and then you change the subject too quickly, like you’re attempting to fill the silence before it can be read into too much. “Not to mention she looked positively delighted when I was dismissed.”

There it is again, he thinks, your eyes once more betraying your signature, tone, and countenance. He only allows himself a beat to silently vow to himself to consciously voice his recognition of your dedication and achievements more often. It’s just… with the right ratio of patience and prompting, he always thought you were such a brilliant student. Obi-Wan is unable to recall the exact moment as a teacher he began to recognize any positive trait you exhibited in his presence as simply part of your hidden, untapped given character instead of a very purposeful mindset you had to actively work to embody. Perhaps the true reason he’s so skeptical about s’Zerthia’s assertion that you care more for him than you let on is because he cannot possibly fathom why. Not when it feels like he’s spent years by your side and is only somehow only just now seeing you.

“Ah, yes, well,” Obi-Wan says, easily glossing over his quiet moment of contemplation without arousing any suspicion, “the Queen is arguably obsessed with seeing how much torture a person can endure without actually having any physical pain inflicted upon them. She gets bored, see. Not many visitors to the Uncharted Regions. She likes to play games with her guests whenever they do arrive.”

You quirk a brow at him. “Then shouldn’t she have revelled in my suffering instead of defending me because of it?”

“I’d say she’s entirely capable of doing both, especially considering just how torturous it was for me to sit there and be reminded of all the many different ways this has been so terribly unfair to you,” he admits softly. “She paid you the compliment as a direct commendation for enduring such mistreatment and still leaving the walls of her palace standing.”

Your expression goes blank again, and Maker, this is more difficult than he thought it’d be. It’s a legitimate challenge to gauge your emotional state when you’ve so clearly mastered your control over your energy signature, to a degree of which Obi-Wan was almost entirely unaware before today.

“You’re sure this is the only way?” You eventually ask. “We either do this together or we go back empty-handed? That’s it? No other options?”

Obi-Wan takes exactly zero seconds to consider the implication behind his answer before confirming your assertion with a solemn nod. “No other options. I’m sorry, young one.”

Later, he’ll reason he refused to present the Queen’s first suggestion to you because he couldn’t agree to the terms, even if you could. It would be of no use for you to share your bed with a s’Ziscari when he was incapable or unwilling to do the same. Yes, that makes… logical sense, he supposes. Right now he just has far too many things on his mind to contemplate it, and the sudden reminder of the situation he’s in causes his heart to start beating faster in his chest.

“Okay. Well…” You look uncertain, your eyebrows furrowing slightly even as your energy continues to glow soft and undisturbed from the center of your being. “Well, what are—what are your… concerns? Is there anything I could do to make this easier for you?”

Because Obi-Wan has absolutely no clue how to answer that question, he just keeps quiet. He supposes it shouldn’t be so surprising that the Uncharted Regions feature so much… uncharted territory. He truly doesn’t know how to go about this; upon explanation of the situation, he had hoped you’d supply a firm no so that the burden of choice was taken away from him. He doesn’t want to offend you, but at the same time, the more you’re not directly protesting against the idea, the faster his heart begins to pound in terror at the realization that… breaking a sacred vow he’s honored his entire life is quickly becoming a very likely probability.

And also… why? Why are you able to be so… calm about this? Why are you not panicking and struggling with this decision the same way he is? When s’Zerthia first suggested you’ve already broken your oath of celibacy, Obi-Wan didn’t want to believe it, yet here you are—asking him if there’s anything you can do to make this easier for him when both of you should be having a crisis about this hypothetical. Are virgins typically so considerate? Is he just being over-dramatic about this? Is this just a manifestation of the serene hue of your saber reaffirming itself? Is this just your cool head prevailing when the one person you’ve spent years looking to for guidance is clearly on the verge of spiraling?

Why? Why aren’t you protesting more?

“Are we actually going to do this?” You ask after a moment, and Obi-Wan unintentionally cringes. Good Maker above, he truly doesn’t mean to. It has almost nothing to do with you—in fact, he can only assume you're genuinely trying your best to adapt to the unfortunate twist of events, and you’re actually managing to be somewhat successful where Obi-Wan is just hopelessly, miserably failing. You must be just trying to maintain some sort of base foundation for his turbulent mental state, but—but then he sees another flash of emotion in your eyes at the way he flinches away from the question.

He opens his mouth to respond—to apologize, or… stars, something, but then you supply a quick reassurance instead. “I won’t—I won’t take offense, if you need me to, you know,” you shrug, very much avoiding his gaze and your voice suddenly sounding incredibly small. “I don’t know. Not make any sounds? Or hide my face? Or… something?”

“You’re…” Obi-Wan’s mind, previously struggling with far too many chaotic, rapid-fire thoughts, suddenly can’t seem to conjure a single one of them. “You’re… serious?”

“It’s not a big deal—” you quickly tell him, “—either way, we don’t have to make it a big deal. I mean, I wouldn’t want it to be… It doesn’t have to be… terrible for you, or anything.”

Maker, is that what you think? That this isn’t a ‘big deal’? He stares at you, the word you used resonating with him. Terrible. On one hand, of course it’s terrible—the whole thing is terrible, it’s something out of an ancient Jedi parable he was told as a youngling, about the sins of passion leading to the Dark Side. On the other hand, he knows you can’t possibly mean it like that, and… you’re somehow managing to interpret this conflict all wrong. Asking him if he needs you to hide your face?

He eventually shakes his head just slightly. “I… No. No, young one, I will not…” he clears his throat, “I will not… require such a thing.”

Though neither of you say anything for quite a long time after that, the loud knock on the door still feels like it’s interrupting a crucial moment.

You quickly call that it’s open, and Obi-Wan turns his head to see the door swing forward and two s’Ziscari in thin black robes, standing in the hallway. A man and a woman.

His heart suddenly thunders against his ribcage and he scrambles to remember the hour. It can’t be midnight yet, no, he needs more time—

The male s’Ziscari says something in his native tongue, and the woman calmly translates to Basic. “Her Majesty the Queen formally requests your presence in the great hall for dinner and the start of the festivities.”

“Respectfully,” you nod at the guard while Obi-Wan struggles to regain himself, “if it pleases her Majesty, Master Kenobi and I would prefer to eat in our quarters tonight, as we are still discussing the nature of our potential involvement in the festivities.”

The woman repeats back your polite and much appreciated response to the guard, and he looks between you two, before clearing his throat and saying something that sounds remarkably similar to his first sentence. The translator turns back to you both. “Her Majesty formally and… firmly requests your presence in the great hall for dinner and the start of the festivities.”

When you don’t respond, Obi-Wan suddenly realizes you’re waiting for him to speak.

“Very well,” he eventually sighs, reminding himself that you both are still guests on this planet. “We shall be there momentarily.”

Regardless of the language barrier, the guard appears to understand the sentiment of his response through the Force, not needing a translation. He says something and then turns to leave as the woman walks into the room, revealing a black bundle of fabric from behind her back to drape along one of the side tables. “Zashir is currently placing your ceremonial robes in your quarters, General Kenobi. If there will be nothing else?”

Maker, his what? Obi-Wan’s pulse stutters. “I’m sure that—that won’t be necessary, my lady—”

“It will be,” she nods shortly. “If there will be nothing else.”

And then she spins around and walks out without bothering to wait for an answer. You blink at the closed door as Obi-Wan drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose once more, so far beyond stressed concerning how tragically the events of this cursed mission are unfolding that he almost wants to laugh.

“Something tells me the s’Ziscari don’t like the Jedi too much,” you offer after a moment of silence.

“Nonsense,” he counters, lifting his head and sighing helplessly, apparently reverting to sarcasm when everything else he knows is all but ripped away from him. “Wherever could you have gathered that?”

Obi-Wan eventually moves to struggle up to his feet—struggle, being the key word, if only to maintain some essence of behavioral uniformity throughout these past few hours—when he suddenly feels your hand on his elbow.

He glances down at you, your soft features and gentle eyes blinking up at him in his half-standing position next to you.

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” you remind him quietly. “Either way. Not a big deal.”

It’s strange. He knows your primary intent is to put his mind at ease, but everything you’ve been saying just seems… too disconnected. Good people are dying as you speak—civilians, children, innocents, you both know this, and yet…

Perhaps… perhaps Obi-Wan is simply just too emotional right now, too chaotic. He’s certainly not being fair to you. He realizes he’s responding negatively no matter how you’re attempting to go about reassuring him, and though he recognizes it, it’s more difficult than it’s ever been to reign in his mental state.

He clears his throat. “The Queen has assured us that we are free to decline her offer and walk away at any time. Her only stipulation is that we’ll have until midnight to… i-initiate the…”

Stars. Initiate the what? Is this a self-destruct sequence? It may as well be, Obi-Wan thinks, but you nod your understanding and rise to your feet nonetheless, far more gracefully than he does.

“Well,” you sigh, walking over to the side table and pulling the black robe off of it, turning to face him and balling the silky fabric in your hands awkwardly. “Uh. I guess. Fate of the galaxy awaits, and all.”

And then he sees you wince, your subtle call-back to the beginning of this mission landing flat and clearly not contrasting well with your previous assertion to him that this is no big deal, but… for some reason the mistake and subsequent display of self-consciousness makes Obi-Wan relax just marginally. Even if you’re not necessarily panicking, at least you’re still clearly nervous, and that fact alone is more reassuring than anything anyone has said to him since this disaster first started.

“Yes,” he murmurs with a companionable, albeit hesitant smile, patting your shoulder just once before moving to leave. “The… the fate of the galaxy.”

Stars. He’s… well.

Fucked, isn’t he?

#obi-wan kenobi x you #Obi-wan Kenobi X Reader #obi-wan X reader #obi-wan x you #fanfic #self insert #no-droids

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raven-of-domain-kwaad · 3 years ago

Text

Your OC as the solar system

bold what applies - italicize sometimes - strike out never. tag some friends to play along! & repost don’t reblog!

Original post can be found here!

Amarra Kine

SUN • egotistical • melted wax wings and fingers • stretching sunburnt skin • the most generous soul • blood in the fruit • halos • anger on fire • high vitality • thunderous laughter • is pride really a sin? • halogenic aura

MERCURY • expansion of the mind • silver-tongued • an everlasting wanderer • polyglot • high dexterity • handwritten letters • innately critical • en vogue • eyes in the trees • hidden libraries • there’s always room for improvement

VENUS • in love with strangers • iridescent waters • love potions for your mirror • selfless devotion • shattering crystal • seafoam upon sand • the golden ratio • drowning in your own passion • material value & high principles • luring • plush lips

EARTH • fresh springs • tree hugger • we can start again tomorrow • a blazing rainforest • respects survival of the fittest • nature’s adversity • lazy bones • constantly evolving • flowers sprouting from wounds • a granite altar • fossilized remains

MOON • illusory • silver shimmer off the ocean • secrets and gossip • cycles of reincarnation • a crybaby • physically ethereal • shared glances with a stranger • cat eyes • mistrusting their intuition • fear is a prison • ornate magic wands

MARS • healthy competition • attraction and repulsion • magma and rubies • a blade being forged (literally engineered by her mother) • wrath wrath wrath • malefic • intense eye contact • cannon fodder & fireworks • blood floods • copper taste on your tongue

JUPITER • red robes and a suit of armor • beacon of stability • leader by birth • thunderbolts and lightning • guilty but can’t stop • secret rich kid • golden touch golden tears • innate optimist • failure isn’t an option • constantly reaching for more • unfinished symphonies

SATURN • traditional • overbearing energy • a sculptor of reality • this existence is a karmic one • has a heart it’s just.. way down deep • law, order & justice • avoid all necessary risk • the sound of shackles clanging • sisyphus’ struggle • grappling with the reality of time • self-governing

URANUS • psychedelic funk music • overflowing cups • a rebellion with skin • looking good in photo id • oblivious but caring • middle fingers in the air • double rainbows • icy diamond exterior • holographic • afraid of their own mediocrity • pearlescent smoke

NEPTUNE • an elegy for the lost • dissolving boundaries • white horses • the burden of mystical conditions • deceptive • escapism is their reality • a polarizing entity • artists soul • paranoia • searching for the unseen • a siren’s swan song

PLUTO • angel statues over graves • power • the cycle of necrosis • transformative • unfathomable depths • an ivory tower toppling over • screaming at the sky • violets and irises • eclipsed darkness • speaks with their shadow • sex, death, rebirth

tagged by: @cyrraluu Thanks very much!

tagging: @sleepswithvillains, @chaoticspacefam, @kyber-heart and anyone else interested in doing one of these

#oc: amarra kine #perhaps unsurprisingly amarra was most associated with mars in this #i admit i did laugh aloud at 'wrath wrath wrath'#like yes she is the empire's wrath i know it was kind of a major part of her story lol

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soundwavefucker69 · 4 years ago

Note

Baby Tal'ika: Mace officially taking them as his Padawan

fhdskfhdkjshkjf okay let’s do this

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“If the honorable Senator Weezin doesn’t want us to investigate a missive from his own planet, perhaps the Senator should not be doing things that requires an investigation, Chancellor Organa.”

A headache was starting to grow just behind Mace’s eyes, a steady and aching pressure that was driving him to distraction, and today was not a day where he could afford a headache that set him off. He’d have to go to Vokara before heading down to the salles.

“Mace, I’m just trying to figure out what is actually going on here, because I’m getting conflicting reports. I don’t like Senator Weezin, either, but I also need to know what’s happening when it regards one of my senators,” Bail said, and rubbed at his eyes.

“Well, we aren’t sure what’s going on, either, and when I have information, I will forward it as relevant. Master Secura just left, and I have nothing currently to report,” Mace explained. “If he wants to pitch a fit, he can pitch a fit to the child king he made the mistake of trying to turn into a figurehead.”

“The reconstructionists want to order you all back to Coruscant. Again,” Bail said quietly, and Mace tried to bat down the growing irritation.

“And they will receive the same answer. You all signed the Palpatine Accords. You can’t void it now that you’re mad militarizing the Jedi has lasting consequences. We are beholden to the Republic, not the Senate, and it is going to remain that way,” Mace bit out, and Bail sighed, sunk down in his seat on the other end of the holo transmission.

“Is Senator Weezin corrupt?” He asked quietly, and Mace bit back the information he had.

“That’s what the investigation is for.” He was absolutely corrupt, but the Jedi handled their own investigations now, and only delivered their reports once everything had been fact checked at least four times, with independent consultants verifying their information. They had to protect themselves.

“Well. I hope Master Secura is thorough.”

“She has Bly with her. She’ll be very thorough,” Mace assured him, because there was nothing that got a Jedi going like showing off their competence to their partner. “Speaking of Bly, is Rizz doing alright?”

“Rizz has put the fear of the manda into Senator Tectate, and I am very much looking forward to them doing it again,” Bail said wryly. “I was worried you’d sent us a pushover when I met them, but they’re practically running the Senate at this point. I’ve never seen the reconstructionists so scared to take the floor. I think they’re going to be my replacement in another ten years.”

Mace was not satisfied with the assessment. He wasn’t, but it was a close thing.

“Rizz is made of firmer stuff than you’d think. I think they’re planning on making another committee.”

“The Senate is not going to survive if they make another one. Please talk them down,” Bail almost pleaded, but Mace knew he wanted it.

“I’ll have Fox talk to them. In the meantime, I have an appointment, so can we continue this discussion at a later time?”

“Tal’ika is twelve today, aren’t they?” Bail asked mildly, deceptively so, and Mace let his lips twitch in something that was almost a smile.

“They are, and I believe they’re in the salles,” he replied, and Bail looked extremely pleased.

“I look forward to your next trip to Coruscant,” he said, and Mace thought of Tal’ika in the Senate chambers. Force, that was going to be a nightmare.

“I’ll keep the theatrics to a minimum.” He wasn’t going to keep them to a minimum. He was going to encourage them.

“Please don’t. Rizz has been talking about today, and so has Padme. They’re excited.”

Rizz was going to be handling their political education. He wasn’t going to let Padme anywhere near Tal’ika. They were bad enough with Anakin.

“I’m sure they are,” he agreed, as serenely as he dared, and stood up to give Bail a severe bow. “Until next time, Chancellor.”

“May the Force be with you,” Bail said, and inclined his head.

“And with you.”

The transmission cut out, and Mace picked up his robe. A quick painkiller, and then he had a Initiate to locate in the salles. The exhibition was starting soon.

With a sigh, he rolled out his shoulders and shrugged on the robe before sweeping out of the empty Council chambers. Quick steps led him through the twisting labyrinth that was the new Temple, and he breathed in the serenity and clarity he had sorely missed. Five years since the end of the war, and fires were still being put out across the galaxy. The separation from the Senate and Coruscant had been sorely needed, and he found that he didn’t regret it as much as he possibly should have. It was better this way. Clearer. With firm boundaries, and actual treaties to keep their independence. The war had been hard, as short as it was, and painful. It had left deep scars on the Order as a whole, but here, they were healing, no longer held hostage by their beliefs.

All because of one time traveling impossibility. A flicker of fondness rose in his chest as he strode through halls made from trees and stone, and he let himself breathe in the reality that things were better now. Some things had changed, some things had remained the same. He didn’t necessarily think their monastic principles prior to the war had been wrong. Far from it. Jedi had families. They had lovers, and healthy attachments. But things had changed in an irrevocable way, and they had to move with the changes. They had sustained scars, and deep ones. The picture of a galaxy where the people had turned on them in such a vicious manner was a hard one, the future Tal’ika painted bleak, because it had all been a trap, and they were blamed for falling into it, despite the fact that they really had no choice. They’d come out with scars, and while they were luminous beings, not constrained by mortal flesh, they were not unlike a body that had sustained heavy damage, and needed to correct as necessary to survive it.

And now they had a new home, made of tree and stone, with a world removed from the strife and conflict, but still participating on their own terms. The world they came to had been renamed Refuge, and millions of refugees from across the galaxy had gathered there, seeking solace. A new culture had rose up, part Jedi, part clone, part bits and pieces of the shattered remains. It was a culture of healing and acceptance, with the leadership populated with clones and freedom fighters like Saw and Stella Guerrera. It was strange, monks existing in the midst of a hardened warrior culture, but it was a nice strange. Even Guardians of Jedha had come to help with the rebuilding. Two of them, Chirrut and Baze, were a fan favorite among the Initiates, and Tal’ika adored them, spoke of how they had hidden them and Plo once upon a time. A kyber cave had been discovered, and the Guardians stood watch over it.

He was happy. It was a strange thing. And now, today was a day to take another step into normalcy. Fox was very anxious to hear about how it went, like it was ever in doubt. It wasn’t like anyone was going to sweep Tal’ika up under Mace’s nose. Tal’ika knew who their master was. He’d already gotten the master-padawan quarters set up, not that they knew that. Fox had helpfully provided their favorite blanket from his house, and Obi-Wan had swung in to be present for it today, and Ahsoka was beside herself with planning for the confusing lineage dinner tonight. Anakin had helpfully broken into Yoda’s quarters with Caleb’s assistance to steal the ingredients for swamp stew. Mace needed to thank him privately for that one. He was turning Caleb into a borderline delinquent, but Mace wasn’t going to complain. So long as Luke and Leia didn’t follow in his footsteps. He wouldn’t be able to handle the twin terrors turning their attention onto him.

Depa was, of course, serene and above it all, but he had a feeling that she was the one that gave Anakin the idea.

The salles were drawing near, and he realized he was going to be late if he didn’t get a move on. The meeting with Bail had dragged out longer than he thought it would.

The open salles were a mess of prospective masters watching the new initiates. Tal’ika was stretching in the corner, breathing through the stretch and pull of their muscles, and Mace settled in next to Obi-Wan.

“Picking a padawan finally?” He asked mildly, and Obi-Wan gave him a side-eye, like he didn’t damn well know he’d had his eye on the tiny Zabrak Nightbrother Boil and Waxer had ‘liberated’ from Dathomir. Tenacity was cute, and an unholy terror when Tal’ika started their instigating, but he managed to get them to slow down on occasion. He was a good, calm, grounding influence. Obi-Wan, after all of the bullshit Anakin put him through, definitely deserved a calm padawan.

“It’s my child’s choosing day,” he said with a dignified sniff, but his attention was drifting to the tiny little brown child helping Tal’ika stretch. Anakin, the new fledgling Battlemaster, was chatting with Cin Drallig in the corner. Cin had been preparing him for the role over the past five years, and this was the first year Anakin had really been set loose on the temple and Initiates. It was a good role for him, and it kept him from causing more diplomatic incidents. Mace rather liked being able to nail him down to Refuge and not cause problems. Padme probably appreciated it, too. She loved her husband dearly, and loved their visits, but she also appreciated the Order keeping him in line and out of her work. After the fifteenth Ohnaka incident, Mace couldn’t say he was upset to have Anakin practically quarantined to the planet. The very idea of Anakin taking another bundle of padawans for a liberating slave run when they had Knights for that was enough to make him grateful for his lack of hair to lose.

“Have your friends made any more incursions into Dathomir?” Mace asked, and Obi-Wan went suspiciously silent.

“Well, if they did, they didn’t tell me outright.”

“... Obi-Wan.”

“They are simply not on the planet at the moment,” Obi-Wan sniffed, and Mace sighed.

“They’re not helping our reputation.”

“We didn’t snatch them. And they had the fathers’ permission last time.”

“They kidnapped the fathers last time, too.”

“And they are now in wonderful, fulfilling relationships. Boil and Waxer are quite taken with their husbands. Did you know they started a communal garden?”

“I’m sure it’s lovely.”

“Alright,” Anakin called and clapped his hands. “In your lines! Remember your blood circle!”

“Why does he keep calling the safety circle a blood circle,” Mace muttered, and Obi-Wan sniffed delicately.

“It stresses the importance of responsibility.”

And the Initiates were giggling. Again. But they were also lining up quite nicely, so Mace couldn’t be too upset.

“Let’s run through our katas!” Anakin called, and ignited his saber. Hisses broke out across the salles, and the Initiates all fell into proper form. A beat, and then Anakin started walking through their warm-ups, counting in time. Fifteen Initiates followed suit, and Mace’s attention was drawn to his future padawan adding in some excessive flourishes they were unashamedly not trying to hide. Ah, well. They were Obi-Wan’s kid, it was to be expected.

The warm-up lasted ten minutes, and he hummed as he watched Tal’ika comfortably fit into the flow of the proceedings.

“If you’re asking Tenacity today, bring him to the dinner,” he said, and Obi-Wan shot him a look.

“I didn’t say I was asking him.”

A nudge of the Force had the woven strips of leather to stand in for a braid shifting in Obi-Wan’s pocket, and Obi-Wan gave him an answering nudge to make Tal’ika’s beads clack in Mace’s own pocket.

“I had Depa bully Grey into making tiingilar. He liked it when Boil and Waxer made it,” Mace said, and Obi-Wan huffed.

“It’s rude to make them share the same day,” Obi-Wan sniffed, and Mace rolled his eyes as Tenacity’s gaze shot to Tal’ika as his wrist copied their unnecessary flourish.

“They share everything, anyways. Tal’ika is going to be miffed if they’re apprenticed before him, and he’s going to be disappointed.”

“Fine, yes, you caught me, I’m going to ask him,” Obi-Wan muttered, and Mace’s lips twitched up.

“Good. Fox is coming.”

“Did you invite the whole planet?”

“Absolutely not. Ahsoka did. Your lineage is going to make a mess of my quarters.”

“I’ll make sure Anakin picks up after himself.”

The warm-up came to a close, and Anakin ordered the little ones to take a water break before pairing up. Unsurprisingly, Tal’ika grabbed Tenacity and dragged him to the very center of the salle, like they somehow had something to prove, and Mace’s nose screwed up as the two shared a water bottle before Tal’ika gave a pointed pat to Tenacity’s horns and shot a deliberate glance over at Obi-Wan.

“I told you. They’d be mad,” he added, entirely unhelpfully, and Obi-Wan sighed.

“How many people will be at this dinner and do you have the space for another?”

“I already made space for him. And you, me, Tal’ika, Tenacity, Anakin, Depa, Grey, Yoda invited himself, and Plo followed, Wolffe is off world on the threat of swamp stew, Caleb, Fox, Cody, and Ahsoka. Anakin might bring the twins, so keep a close eye on your lightsaber. Leia has grown a penchant for blatant theft.”

“... Yoda is coming?” Obi-Wan looked downright pained, and Mace shot another glance at him.

“I have it on good authority that a mysterious thief pilfered his pantry.”

“Oh. Then that’s fine,” Obi-Wan said, and Mace snorted.

“He probably has a secret stash of ingredients, so put your negotiator face on, and you might survive.” Yoda was suspiciously absent from the proceedings, so Mace didn’t have much hope for escape. He should have really considered the logistics of lineage blending before he set his eyes on Tal’ika and decided on the spot that they were his padawan.

“Force spare me,” Obi-Wan muttered, and Mace bit back a smile. It was almost worth it to choke through the stew to see Obi-Wan’s reactions to being subjected to it for the umpteenth time.

“They’re starting.”

Tal’ika was giving Tenacity a bow, and Tenacity was following suit. A break, and then the exhibition started. As ever, Tal’ika was aggressive, in possibly the most blatant tease Mace had ever seen. Tenacity met it with good humor, his blade flashing as he smiled that quiet little smile he had perfected when it came to Tal’ika’s nettling. Elbows and knees Fox had unfortunately taught them were being thrown in, and Tenacity was blocking them with aplomb. Anakin had started an initiative for bringing in clones to help with training, and it showed. The initiates were not above cheap shots, and trained heavily to learn how to match and block them. It used to bother Mace, but he could see the importance of it, after the war. And the Initiates loved being encouraged to be sneaky and tricky. They got creative with it, and it showed when Tenacity caught a lunge by Tal’ika and flung them over his hip. Tal’ika went down, but their legs tangled up with his and the two twelve year olds ended up in a lump on the ground, laughing loudly when Tenacity’s face smacked into their nose.

The laughing abruptly stopped when Tal’ika realized that hurt, and then Tenacity just laughed at them again as he detangled himself and sprang back, blatantly baiting them. Mace sighed and rubbed at his eyes, and Tal’ika sprang into motion with a showy move, knocking his legs out from under him and pressing him to spring back, a wide swath of his blade putting some distance. Tal’ika pressed forward again, their sabers clashing, and their free hand grabbed his arm when he overextended himself in a lunge. They pulled him in, and a neat twist of their saber sent his hilt clattering away as they pulled him chest to chest, their saber teasingly placed in a way under his throat in a way that would have given Mace a heart attack if he didn’t know that at the most, it would maybe sting a little and irritate the skin.

“I win,” they said smugly, and Tenacity huffed.

“I want to go again,” he said, almost petulantly, and Mace idly wondered who had taught them that disarming move. It stank of Agen’s influence.

“... If we do joint missions, we’re going to have a problem,” Obi-Wan muttered, and Mace considered the merits.

“First mission we should unleash them on the Senate. Do you think Tenacity’s tooka eyes will be a devastating combo with their glares?”

“Absolutely. Rizz will love it. They might steal them.”

“I might let them.”

Anakin let them run a few more spars, where Tal’ika and Tenacity took turns disarming each other and winning, and Mace got a sinking suspicion that they had absolutely planned to take turns making the other look good. Like they somehow had anything to prove, but he’d let them show off. Both of them were advanced for their age, and it was definitely time for them to start receive targeted training.

The exhibition lasted a good hour, and at the end of it, Tal’ika made a beeline for Mace and Obi-Wan, dragging Tenacity in their wake, and Mace tilted his head at the beaming Initiate.

“That was a good show,” he said approvingly, and Tal’ika grinned up at him.

“Didn’t Tenacity do well?” They demanded, and color rose in Tenacity’s cheeks.

“Tal,” he muttered, aggrieved, but they shoved him at Obi-Wan without a shred of shame.

“Dad, you should give him pointers,” they said, and then promptly grabbed Mace by the hand to drag him off. “I’ll see you at dinner!”

The dinner they weren’t supposed to know about, but Mace had learned three years ago hiding anything from Tal’ika Fox was not unlike trying to hide things from Yoda. They found out, and nothing was ever a surprise, but he supposed he could be content with that.

“You’re in a rush,” he commented, and they hummed.

“Tenacity is nervous, so I gotta put on a good show,” they said, and Mace sighed. So they were nervous, and all of this confidence was for Tenacity.

“Obi-Wan already has his braid, so there’s nothing to worry about,” he assured them, and they smiled.

“I know. I put it in his pocket,” they said. “He almost left it in his quarters.”

“So that was you.”

“He was going to ask him next week! I can’t be a Padawan for a week without him! He’d feel left out!” They protested, and Mace thought about a lecture about attachments, but it wasn’t really an attachment. Just meddling to make sure Tenacity’s self esteem was at appropriate levels.

As soon as they were out of range of the milling Masters and Knights speaking quietly with prospective Initiates, Tal’ika sobered, and Mace patiently waited for them to stride through the halls.

“Have you been having dreams again?” He asked, and Tal’ika hesitated.

“Yes,” they answered honestly, and their brows drew together. “It’s... confusing.”

“Do you want to talk about them?” He asked. The dreams of the life they had narrowly avoided had plagued them since they first landed in the middle of a warzone, talking about how Obi-Wan was cooked in twin suns, and it had always confused them. Plo was meant to be their master in that time, and then maybe Obi-Wan was their master, and then they were dying in an alley under Krell’s blade, and then they were kidnapped by a man in black and raised a Sith, or they died at his mercy for crimes someone else committed. It was a rough subject for them, and led to a lot of confusion as to what they were supposed to do with their life and who they were meant to be.

“No,” they decided, and he let them continue to lead them through the twists and turns of the Temple, knowing full well where they were going. The gardens were at the center of their new home, and work was constantly being done on them. The two of them passed Knight Beleren and Padawan Qin, who gave them serious nods, and Mace gave them a suspicious glance, because Tibalt definitely looked too innocent. Hopefully, they weren’t about to go drag racing again.

Problems for later.

“Are you having doubts?” He asked, and Tal’ika was quiet as they stepped through the doors to the Garden.

“I don’t think...” They trailed off, and Mace waited them out as they followed the turns to their favored spot, a still pond with fish brought in from Mon Cala.

“It’s just that...” They trailed off as they came a halt at the tree that rose up next to the pond, and serious amber eyes locked onto the pond. “I want to be your padawan, but...”

Mace was silent. Sometimes, it was best to let them talk out loud, because they needed a sounding board more than they needed advice.

“I can see whole lives that never happened, and I almost want to mourn them, even though... I think this is the first time I had a choice. It feels like... before I had to fight to choose, had to dip into some kind of war just to be somebody, and most of my choices were ones I had to battle to have. Now, it’s easy, and it almost feels like a cheat. Because nothing was supposed to be easy, and now it is,” they admitted. “I don’t... I know everything is pre-destined, but how can it be pre-destined, when all of these things happened, I know they happened, and then they didn’t? It feels like mistakes kept being made, and the Force used me to mop them up, and now I don’t feel like...”

They fell silent, frustrated and a little lost, and Mace thought about their first meeting in a room he would likely never see again, sitting in the grass as they picked at his cuticles. Just a child, lost in a void, looking for guidance while firmly rejecting it at every turn. They had had a lot of meltdowns in those early days, had needed a lot of help to guide them through the confusion of their existence that had been ripped away from them, and he had always mourned a little when he looked at them. They had turned the tide of the war, and done it at seven, and Jedi had not known a single thing about helping them. It took the vode to settle them, those worn and battered soldiers that had been born and molded in trauma and knew exactly how to help a child that was terrified.

“There’s a lot of ideas about what destiny is,” Mace said finally, and they looked up at him with all of the vulnerability of a child. “All of us are a part of it, but what destiny is... you can’t quantify it. You can’t consider it. I imagine the confusion will never stop, but... all you can do in the face of it is make choices in spite of it. I think you made a lot of choices in spite of it, in all of the lives you lived and didn’t live, and I think you should just continue to do it. Anakin... he was meant to be the Chosen One, and he was, to a degree.” After all, it was Anakin that compiled the evidence, and it was Anakin that had delivered the killing blow, but none of that would have been possible in this time without Tal’ika. There was a lot of confusion in the aftermath as to who the Chosen One was, and what it meant, but Mace... “But his choices didn’t exist in a vacuum. Everyone made choices to put him in the place where he needed to be. I think he was just the point where those choices converged, but Chosen One is simply a chosen time, with someone existing in the middle of it. Destiny is nothing but the choices we make, and what we choose to do with them. So ignore who you are and what you want to be and who you could have been, and just... make the choice that will make you happy. There’s a lot of stock in choosing to be happy. People don’t give it enough credit.”

Tal’ika looked down at the ground, and Mace took a seat in the grass, just like he did five years ago, and they paused before slowly sinking down next to him.

“You won’t betray the masters that could have been if you choose me, and you won’t betray me if you choose them,” he promised, even though it hurt to say. “All I ask is that you don’t betray yourself, as you are now, and as you want to be. Can you do that?”

Tal’ika sniffled, and tears rose up in their eyes, and Mace took a deep breath.

“If you want me, you have me. So will you do me the honor of trusting me to guide you into being who you want to be?”

Tal’ika paused, and the silence stretched out, broken by the chirps of birds and the gentle hum of the Force. And then, all around them, the Force broke.

“Yes,” they whispered, and he smiled.

“Then, Tal’ika Fox, I honor your name as my padawan.”

A sniffle, and then they dabbed at their eyes and let out a halfhearted sob.

“Mace Windu, I know your name as my teacher.”

Mace smiled, and with a touch to their red hair, three strands gathered in his fingers, he accepted the next step into a better future.

#realityhoudini #prompts #shrooms is writing #red fox comes running #tiny!tal'ika #yes I DID change Jedi vows to Mandalorian adoption vows #fight me #this took WAY too long to write #but I was vibing #i was vibing HARD #mace windu #tal'ika fox #jedi oc

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