#manda’yaim

[constantlymisspelled]

The Mandalorian Peace Lilly, which only grows flower buds and new growth when a drought breaks. If the good waters last too long, the lilies go to dormant, having gathered enough water to keep leaves growing, but don’t flower past the first year. If the waters disappear, they go to seed, and spread themselves in the cracks and crevices of the old deserts of Mandalore. Peace Lillie’s have not been seen on Manda’yaim since the Dral Haran, and cannot be propagated by any sentient. They only survive in the woods of Zanbar, Concord Dawn’s southern desert regions, and the Ordo Minor Plateaus.

They require a minimum of a full week of rain fall to germinate, and require full sun on their leaves, and full shade on their stalk, resulting in these lilies growing in puddles, cliff faces, water falls, fallen trees, and the cracks in buildings. They are considered the symbol of Mandalorian Harmony, or the closest many Traditionalists will come to peace. None of the plant is edible, although it is not poisonous. The known uses of this plant are for special events as decoration, offerings to Mandalorian Deities such as Death, Hard Won Victory, and Catastrophe.

Known colouration of this plant’s flowers are white, yellow white and orange, and white, red and purple. The stems are often a vivid green, made of soft celled forming plant matter with high water content and a waxy coating, and the leaves a dark, striped green that often spiral out of water by up to a meter, with a waxy top, and a lightly furred underside to preserve moisture from the once hot but still liveable sun of Manda’yaim. The stamen is usually a rich, vibrant yellow gold, and it is no longer known what animal once pollenated the species.

It shares similar features with the common herbs used on Mandallia for sanitation and wound care, although knowledge of its preparation was lost with the Temples of Mandalore. Although considered a weed on Concordia, most citizens of other planets view it as sacred, and a sign that Mandalore is still full of soul.

Due to its inability to grow on Manda’yaim, that planet of its origination, the planet is often considered cursed, even during times of relative peace.

[All Fanon. I wanted symbolism for my growing pantheon, and I took inspiration from Satine’s many jewels and decorations and decided that some of them once meant something specific to the Faithful of Mandalore. I’m pushing Mandalorian Culture and Religion as less western, and more towards something of a mix between some forms of Hinduism in practice, and what we know of Viking and ancient Nomad Warrior Culture. I want it to feel like Mandalore (as a place and a people) is old, but still ever changing - like the white sands that now cover their home, there is so much more left to become. If the galaxy only lets them be.

Let me know what you think! And if you have any ideas or head canons as to what biomes and vegetation Ancient Mandalore supported.]

[darmandaobiwan]

genuinely believe mandalore had to have the best medical treatments and advancements in the galaxy due to all the combat

[psyzook]

bro don’t mind me, even though i’m sobbing, i’m just.. thinking about Mandalore…

[ranahan]

SE Asia but also, hear me out, Australia. What if everything on Manda’yaim either has teeth, claws or is poisonous? Like, you know that strong flavours are what plants do to deter animals from eating them? What if, since the Taung (and later other species) that colonised Manda’yaim weren’t native to the planet. And the various poisons the native species were using to keep from being eaten just didn’t hit the same way. And the Taung were like, okay, everything on this planet is weirdly spicy but the local fauna makes good hunting? Let’s settle here.

And so they hunted the mythosaur to extinction and happily munched on the various native poisons, forever enshrining spicy food in their culture. The end.

now that I said that, I’m really curious if they have mandalorian grocery stores, and if they exist in diasporas across the galaxy (kind of like asian supermarkets), and what kind of things do they sell

[ranahan]

Concordian Mando’a

Quick idea for the phonology of Concordian Mando’a:

This is basically based on one sentence in The Clone Wars, the fact that one sentence has verbal morphology that resembles Harlin’s Mando’a more than Traviss’s, a couple of things Traviss said about sound changes in Mando’a, and my headcanon about Concordia being the earliest settled Mandalorian world right after Manda’yaim itself.

Changes compared to (my reconstruction of) Traviss’s Mando’a:

The sound represented by the digraph ch is /x ~ χ/ instead of /tʃ/

The sound represented by the letter j is the soft /ʝ/ instead of hard /dʒ/. This is the “original” sound that has changed in Traviss’s Mando’a. And it also results in a nice fricative series (I know languages aren’t necessarily symmetrical but symmetry pleases me anyway).

R is trilled.

I thought about making the v sound /β/, but not sure yet.

Went back to Harlin’s five-vowel system + contrastive length.

Diphthongs will probably be a slightly different set, allowing both /aɪ̯/ and /ɪ̯a/ for example.

Phonotactics will probably be basically identical to Traviss’s Mando’a.

Might change everything later, but here’s a late night brainwave…

[phoenixyfriend]

Shmi Acquires Some Teenagers... Sort Of

Read on AO3

Two weeks pass before something changes, and someone new is introduced to Satine and Obi-Wan's routine. Unfortunately, the someone new is not Qui-Gon Jinn, here to rescue them. Fortunately, the someone new is not a torture specialist or some other horror Death Watch is keeping up their sleeves for when Tor arrives. The woman has near a decade on them, and seems meek as a mouse. She is not shoved into the cell like they were, and isn’t even made to wear cuffs. Her clothing is threadbare and stained, but she is… clean and fed, and not carrying any particularly visible bruises. When she turns to the closing door, her profile is visible for long enough that Obi-Wan can see the bulge of her stomach. Ah.

Anyway, yeah, have a thing where Shmi, for Reasons, ends up in a Kyr'tsad jail cell with Obitine.

Shmi is twenty-eight years of age when she is purchased from Gardulla.

She is also seven months pregnant.

Her new owner is young. Fifteen, perhaps as young as twelve, though the tattoos make it hard to tell. He is gruff and rough and angry, stiff with the Hutts and their enforcers in a way that tries and fails to mask that he’s not yet fully grown. He is not particularly careful with Shmi. He ensures that she is not too damaged, at least, because his master—and he insists that he is an apprentice, not a slave, but she has her doubts how he radiates his fear—is interested in the child she carries, not her.

She is a little bruised, by the time they are in hyperspace, but she is not ill or bleeding, not even from a blister. There is a medical droid to ensure it.

Days pass. They are jolted from hyperspace. They are boarded by Mandalorians in grey-blue armors, and her new owner—or fellow slave—is subdued. He had a sword, red and flaming, and is missing a limb by the time he makes it to the escape pods.

Without her.

(She pities him, a little, to be so young and so desperate to please a master who does not care.)

The Mandalorians find her, and she does not fight. She does not imagine they will be any more careful with her than the boy was. She does not wish to lose her child, for all that it has put her life in danger more than most slaves would expect of such a condition.

They aren’t sure what to do with her, and she does not speak enough of their language to know what it is that they are saying. She thinks—thinks—that this was an opportunistic boarding, not a deliberate attack.

Her Basic is a little shakier than it could be. They do not speak Huttese. They put her in a brig, and mostly forget about her for the rest of the week and change that it takes to reach their destination.

She is fed, and the medical droid from the zabrak’s ship is given leave to check on her just long enough to prescribe some vitamin or other.

They reach the destination. The Mandalorians argue with each other, and the only words she catches are portmanteaus with Manda: Mand’alor, Mando’ade, Manda’yaim, and so many more that she worries for ever learning more than a fraction of this language.

And Jedi. She’s mostly sure she heard Jedi.

--

Obi-Wan is a failure of a padawan.

Satine scoffs and kicks him when he says it, telling him that he’s fifteen—though he might be sixteen, at this point, given how time slips away when on the run—and all the magic in the world isn’t a sure thing against a dozen heavily-armed Death Watch. They’ve been captured, fine, so what? He’ll get them out. Between her brains and his magic, they’ll escape.

He thinks she’s trying to be nice.

It sort of works.

Even if she technically called him stupid.

They keep track of guard rotations and scrounge for dropped scraps of metal and glass, pretending to be too caught up in kissing and crying to figure out how to escape.

Kissing is a great cover for trying to pry up the casing on Obi-Wan’s Force-nullifying cuffs.

Two weeks pass before something changes, and someone new is introduced to their routine.

Unfortunately, the someone new is not Qui-Gon Jinn, here to rescue them.

Fortunately, the someone new is not a torture specialist or some other horror Death Watch is keeping up their sleeves for when Tor arrives.

The woman has near a decade on them, and seems meek as a mouse. She is not shoved into the cell like they were, and isn’t even made to wear cuffs. Her clothing is threadbare and stained, but she is… clean and fed, and not carrying any particularly visible bruises.

When she turns to the closing door, her profile is visible for long enough that Obi-Wan can see the bulge of her stomach.

Ah.

“You stay here,” the guard says, slow and careful, more so than they bother with when speaking with Obi-Wan. “Do not run.”

“I understand, Masters,” the woman says, softly and with a heavy accent.

Hutt space.

The guard nods stiffly, and then leaves.

The woman looks around the room. Obi-Wan scrambles to his feet. “Here, sit down!”

She blinks at him, and then nods and makes her way to the bed. There is a bench, but the bed is padded, if barely.

Satine scoots over a little to give her room.

“I’m Obi-Wan,” he says. “Obi-Wan Kenobi. That’s Satine.”

“Satine Kryze,” she corrects. “Bit late to hide my identity from Kyr’tsad.”

Kyr’tsad, the woman mouths, brows pinching. She blinks, and shakes her head, and says, “I am Shmi Skywalker. I do not speak Basic much. I will need help, if you can.”

Obi-Wan thinks, and tries, “Mi man-tie Huttuk no vanlocha.�� [1]

A smile passes across her face. “Basic is better for me, ah… Not Huttese for you.”

There’s a pause in the middle of her speech, as if searching for a word she cannot remember.

“We can both try,” Obi-Wan offers, “and learn.”

Shmi nods.

(Continue on AO3)

[corazondebeskar-reads]

Kinktober Day 23 - Breeding/Fancy Dress (Din Djarin)

mhi ba'juri verde

Mand'alor!Din Djarin x f!reader

Word Count: 1k

Summary: After Din is crowned Mand'alor, you make good on your promise to fulfill the rest of your vows.

Warnings: Breeding, p in v unprotected, gratuitous sappiness, throne sex, mando'a, this is basically what it says on the tin. I mostly wanted an excuse to think about what a Mandalorian gown would look like.

inspired by the Kinktober 2023 prompt list by @absurdthirst.

also on ao3

When his guards have cleared everyone out of the throne room, Din remains seated. His elbows rest on his thigh guards, and his helmet rests in his gloved hands.

You climb the steps and kneel before your Mand’alor.

He looks up and groans. “Not you, too.”

“Can you blame me, Mand’alor?” you give him a sly smile. “I’ve been on my knees for you for far longer than anyone.”

He’s exhausted. The decorum and theatricalities... he understands. Manda’yaim is returning to strength, and putting on a formal ceremony for the first Mandalorian on the throne in far too long was a smart political play.

He hates that he has to think about smart political plays.

But he looks down at you, in a truly impressive display of craftsmanship, and thinks there are some perks.

You smooth out the skirts of the gown, which is woven in and around your armor. It’s the green of your hal’cabur and the silver of his, with embroidery like liquid beskar. Some of the layers of fabric are actually coated in near-molten beskar and hardened into plates. It’s draped in thin beskar chains. No expense spared—though the decorative pieces will be remelted and used for foundlings, as is The Way.

“You look radiant,” he says. “Let me see you, cyare.”

You lift off your helmet. No one will be able to enter the throne room, not with it sealed and the guards posted outside.

Din takes his off as well and leans back on the throne. “Come here,” he says.

You climb the stairs and go to kneel at his feet, but he tugs you into his lap. “I don’t think I’m allowed on the throne,” you say.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to defy your Mand’alor, either.”

You laugh, and he exaggerates a pout.

“Are you laughing at your king?”

“Oh, no, ner Mand’alor, I would never.”

At the affected simper in your voice, he grins. It’s contagious, and you grin back before it fades into a fond smile.

“You looked so strong and sure up there,” you say, straightening the fur-trimmed cloak on his shoulders. “Someone the people can place their trust in.”

“Don’t,” he says softly. He’s heard it all from you before, and while he’s inclined to believe you, as he would trust your opinion above all others, he’s still uncertain about his suitedness for the role.

“Din,” you murmur, placing a chaste kiss on his lips. “There’s no one I’d pledge myself to other than you. Not Bo, not Paz, not anyone. But my offer to run away with you still stands.”

He smiles. You both know neither would run away from duty, but he appreciates the sentiment.

“Should we attend this great celebration in your honor? Stop Fett from giving the kid too many sweets?”

“Mmm, just a moment. I’d like to do something else first.”

You narrow your eyes. “You know I’m fully armored under the dress, right? They did not build an easy access panel for you.”

“Well, then, they’ll be dismissed.”

You roll your eyes.

“Please, cyare?”

Your protests die as soon as he's spoken. His beautiful brown eyes look up at you with love and desire. But you make a show of groaning and getting up, tediously removing your dress, holsters, girth belt, and all the panels of your armor so you can open your flightsuit and step out, completely bare.

“No access panel, but I saved you the trouble of undergarments,” you said. “You’re going to help me put that all back on quickly when you’re done, right?”

He was leaning forward, an elbow on his knee, and chin rested on a fist. The smirk on his face told you he had enjoyed watching you perfunctorily strip down. When he finished looking you over, he leaned back again and extended an arm.

You took his hand and slid back over his thighs. “This seems unfair,” you say, originally intending to tease but then feeling it genuinely when you settled on the cold beskar.

“Just this morning, you were telling me how I get to ‘spoil myself’ now that I’m Mand’alor? I’m just taking your advice.” He reaches down and pulls his cock out.

You lean back a little, sulking that he didn't have to strip naked in a frigid room also. “Okay, but really, how is that fair?”

He rubs the head of his cock over your clit until you whine, and then pulls you down onto it. You gasp, unprepared for the stretch of him.

“Still worried about if it’s fair?”

You shake your head and moan as he helps you bounce with his hands on your hips.

“Hey,” you say breathlessly between kissing and nipping at his neck, soaking up all the noises he made. “You remember when I said I wanted to wait until all this was settled?”

His hips stutter, and he freezes. “Don’t tease, cyare.”

“I’m not, ner riduur. It's as settled as it will ever be. We have a lot to do for Manda’yaim, but it feels like the right time.”

His stare is intense, pupils blown dark, and he tightens his grip on your hips. “You’re sure?”

You lean in to kiss him. “Positive.”

He pulls you in, arms tight around your back, licking into your mouth with ferocity. He sets a rough pace, leaving you to cling on with your arms around his neck while he fucks up into your wet cunt. The sound echoes in the chamber, but it won’t occur to either of you that the guards could probably hear until much later.

“Last chance, cyare. You’re going to let me put a baby in you? You want more ad?”

“Please,” you cry, grinding down to hunt down your own release.

He’s never spilled inside you before, the two of you too careful, too aware of the danger around you. But Manda’yaim is stabilizing, her people returning. And though you both love Grogu, you’ve always known there was room in your heart for more children.

You cum when he fills you, the warmth and pulse of his cock intoxicating. You’re not sure how you’ll ever go back to a different way.

He whines when you stand up. “It’s not going to take if you let it drip down your thigh.”

“Guess you’ll have to try again later.”

He does, in fact, help you redress (though his wandering hands take much longer than if you had done it yourself).

Mando'a Translations (in order of appearance):

mhi ba'juri verde - we raise warriors Mand'alor - the ruler of the Mandalorians Manda'yaim - the planet Mandalore Hal'cabur - chest plate of Mandalorian armor Cyare - beloved ner - my (ex., ner Mand'alor is my Mand'alor/my King) riduur - spouse ad - children

[twigcollins]

“You with us, ad?” Jaster says gently.

Silas watches those gold eyes quietly observe them, barely focused at best. One bedridden, half-starved child with no blade or armor regarding three grown Mandalorians, and he still feels uneasy without a weapon in his hand. The dar’jetii - the real ones, they’re never truly defenseless, or predictable, or sane. A way of life with only two options, from all that the legends say - flagrant deception and total war.

“Mand’alor the Wise.” Kenobi rasps, with no particular emotion. “Restorer of Manda’yaim.”

With no further ceremony, he turns over and falls back to sleep.

“Well,” Mij says. “I like that more than the one where we’re all dead.”

“Mand’alor the Wise.” Silas says. “I wonder who he meant.”

Jaster punches him without looking.

[tiredofsatansbullshit]

This drawing strip has inspired me to write a little thing that is barely a drabble so here you go

Warning: (slight) spoilers for The Mandalorian Chapter 23

“Kryze wants to talk to you, says it’s an emergency,” Fennec tosses the comm in her hand at Boba as she enters the room, dropping down onto the chair next to his.

Sighing, Boba picks up the comm and is met with the sight of an annoyed Bo-Katan Kryze. “What,” Boba is not in the mood to deal with her. “I have been leading the Mando’ade in retaking Manda’yaim-” Bo-Katan began to speak but Boba cut her off. “I literally couldn’t care less about what you and your group of zealots are attempting, Kryze.”

Boba could practically see the steam coming out of Bo-Katan’s ears but her next sentence wiped the smirk that was forming on his face right off. “Moff Gideon has Djarin.” Grabbing his buyce from the table, Boba began preparations to leave, “I will be there as soon as possible. The land of Manda’yaim will once again be blessed with the blood of our enemies. The brutal ways of Mando’ade will be shown, there will be no mercy. The last thing those imp scum will see is the barrel of my blaster before they know nothing else.”

Mando'a translations (I hope I'm right, please let me know if any of it is wrong"

Mando'ade: Mandalorians

Manda'yaim: Mandalore (literally translates to Mandalorian home)

Buyce: Helmet

[padawansuggest]

Okay so in the fic where Jango and Obi-Wan are sold to the same slave owners and eventually brought back to Manda’yaim?

Yeah so kk this one.

Kk so in this fic, not only did I make Arla force sensitive (not in a Big Special Person sort of way so much as I like writing force sensitivity more common) but I also made her a painter.

What I am saying. Is that. I want Obi-Wan to find a painting of hers in her bedroom hidden in a stack. One that looks like Montrose’s armor designs. And go ‘hey, this feels like that poem I wrote about that spider that made Master Windu hiss like an angry lothcat and refuse to get near it. Cursed! He called it cursed!’ And then Jaster and Arla are just staring at him like 😰 while Jango is like ‘yeah I’m shockingly used to this shit by now I’m gonna go kill Montrose’ and wanders off to sleuth things out.

[kurlyfrasier]

Silent Cargo (part 3)

Pairing: Mand’alor Din Djarin x Reader

Synopsis: What’s a Mand’alor to do when you’ll talk to everybody but him? OR: Din is bored in a meeting when it gets interrupted.

Word Count: 1200ish

A/N: ENJOY!

Warnings: short contemplation of murder. There are some Mando’a words...I was too lazy to give translations at this time, so if you have questions, or would like me to add them sooner rather than later, let me know!

Masterlist

Din was bored. He could handle being a mediator between houses and clans. He could handle challengers for the darksaber. He could handle the attention his title brought - well, that part took a while, along with having Protectors. He could even handle making plans for battle. In fact, he quite enjoyed that. What he couldn’t handle were long, drawn-out meetings. Whether they be about Mandalore’s economy, morale, handling injustice’s properly (whatever that meant), or appointing new dignitaries; alors; gorans (what with the populace building and many clans still coming back to Manda’yaim out of hiding).

What he wanted to do, he thought, fist clenched underneath the table, was hunt down the hut’uun who left you to die on that moon he found you on. And really, what was to stop him? He was Mand’alor. He could make these meetings about anything he wanted. Would it be strange for him to participate before the last possible moment? Yes, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was you. What mattered was that you refused to give him any details. Not that he can blame you. Best case scenario, you were scared of him. Worst case, you didn’t trust him and thought he would take you back to them. A pain so sharp stabbed through his chest it took every effort not to keel over, roaring to purge it out.

“I need a list of all the current slave trades,” he suddenly stated, sharp and to the point, interrupting an alor. Silence reigned for only a moment before he continued, “From the Deep Core to the Outer Rim.”

A door opening brought in Dah’la, the Al’Verde of the Protectors. She was supposed to be with you, keeping you safe and making you feel welcome. Her steady stride toward him spoke of a non-emergency situation. His heart raced anyway, knowing something had to be wrong for her to be here at all. He wondered why she hadn’t commed him. A glimpse in the corner of his visuals proved he had turned his comms off out of habit. He had learned long ago his friends - specifically Fett and Dune - liked to call and speak throughout the entire meeting, making fun during the whole thing.

“Then I want to know how they treat slaves who rebel or overstay their welcome,” Din stood. “Excuse me,” he turned on his comms and met Dah’la in the middle as the others murmured among themselves. She led him out of the room and walked a few feet before speaking. 

“Our guest thinks she’s here to be a servant,” her voice was accusatory over their private line, making him flinch. 

“She what-”

“You are the worst communicator sometimes,” she sighed. “Also, she talks.”

That piece of information made him pause. You had been on a ship with him for weeks. He had tried so hard to converse with you - and nothing - absolutely nothing came of it. A few nods or shakes of the head when he had asked your opinion on things like food allergies, your comfort, or if you were thirsty. All basic needs you seemed to think he was hesitant to give you. You even refused to tell him anything about your injuries; from your pain, to who caused them. One would think you would like the hut’uun wiped out of the galaxy. Granted, he doesn’t ever recall specifying his plans for the shabuir to you. Inwardly groaning at his mistake, he wondered if you would tell him now.

“I told her she was a guest and can stay as long as she likes, but she didn’t seem to believe me,” Dah’la continued ahead of him, knowing he would catch up eventually.

“Did she-”

“No. And I didn’t ask. She’ll speak about it when she’s ready, Mand’alor, and not a moment before,” he knew the warning for what it was. You, technically an aruetii, must have made an impression on Dah’la for her to care this deeply. For all her vivacity, shereshoy, and pension for luck, she was serious when it came to her duties and heart.

“Wait,” she stopped in her tracks at his command. “This isn’t the right direction to her room.”

“She’s in the mess hall,” she stepped forward, leaving him behind once again.

“You left her in the mess hall-”

“She’s fine,” Dah’la waved his growling away. “Drinking tea. Anyway, I think she needs to hear it from you.”

“Hear what-”

“Why she is here and what you expect of her,” she chuckled, head shaking in disbelief. “You really can be a di’kut at times.”

Din could only ignore her teasing as she opened the door to the mess hall. Upon entry, the few Mando’ade in the room left him alone, barely acknowledging his entry. Which is exactly how he wished it. It had helped that the people he was most often around recognized his discomfort with the attention his title gave. If one was in the mess hall, they saw him often and understood to leave him to his own devices. He was grateful, especially since he was there for you. The fewer interruptions and distractions, the better, he thought as he made his way toward you.

“Mesh’la,” you spun around so fast he thought you might get dizzy. After a moment, you gave him a small wave with a wary smile. Like a magnet, his legs moved of their own accord. He sat by your side, back facing the table - the opposite of you - never letting his gaze leave your person.

“Dah’la mentioned you think you’re here as a servant,” he stated as gently as he knew how, knowing she would never lie.

Your short nod and wandering gaze sunk his heart. He had hoped to hear you speak. Putting that particular frustration, because he could wait - he would always wait - for you.

“Mandalore does not tolerate servitude,” he spoke harsher than intended, decidedly softening his voice as he continued. “You are my guest here. Welcome for as long as you like. If you ever want to go anywhere off-planet, all you have to do is say so, and we’ll go. Whether that be for a short trip or-”

“Man-” A barely-there hand gesture silenced Dah’la before she could say more about his pension for sudden disappearances as your unsettled gaze finally found its way to his visor, searching for eyes unseen.

“If you decide you want to stay here, on Mandalore, you are welcome to make it your home,” he started out hopeful, silently willing his voice to stay at a calm neutrality, but ripped his gaze away, unable to bear the thought of you leaving with his next words. “But if you decide you would rather leave to make your home elsewhere, I’ll take you wherever you would like to go.”

A tight nod in his peripheral proved you understood what he was saying, but beyond that he was unable to ascertain your feelings on the matter.

Din stood abruptly, uncomfortable and frustrated with this entire situation more than he’d like to admit. “If I’m not around and you need me,” he said, if only to keep you from standing and following him while he felt like a coward, running away. “Or anything at all, just ask Dah’la,” and he fled.

~~~~~~~~~~

THANKS FOR READING! Hope you enjoyed this part a little!

Also, I have a confession: I have absolutely no idea where this is going.

TAGLIST: @readingfan (hopefully that worked cuz your name didn’t pop up for me to select)

[constantlymisspelled]

8 - The Position of Manda'lor

[Text in image is as below]

i) Requirements needed to be a candidate for Manda’lor;

a) Must have a clear bill of Physical and Mental fitness. b) Must be a member of Mandalorian society. c) It is not required to have been born or raised a Mandalorian, only that you have sworn the Resol’nare. d) Must have a majority ruling in the Court of Houses and among the Major and Minor Houses and Clans – separate allocations can be made for Manda’lors that have a majority vote amongst the electoral but not amongst the Houses.

ii) Responsibilities;

a) Rule and governing over Mandalore and its cultural aspects in times of War and Peace b) Governance of the Mandalorian Military and Reserves in times of Peace. c) Control of Military Campaigns in times of War. d) Disaster Management in Emergencies, including the management of the Special Emergency Services, the Manda’yaim Reserve and Home Guard.

iii) Oversight;

a) The House Alors, Sector Governors, System Governors and Ministers of Subject can challenge the Manda’lor on individual and broad decisions when relevant to their field, and when the outcomes of decisions affect them – personally or otherwise. b) The Manda’lor can be made to take a decision to a vote if the Clan and House Alors petition to the High Command.

[Text un image is as below]

iv) Commanding body;

a) High Command, the military governance of the Star Navy, the Mandalorian Mercenaries, the Hunting Guilds, the Armourer Guilds, the Emergency Services, the Home Guard, the Journeyman Protectors, the Reserve, and the Infantry. They rely on donations and stipends from the Houses, taxation, and the good will of the general populace. b) The House Alors (Major) have forty seats within a court called the Court of Houses, that can be petitioned to overturn legislation decided upon in lower levels of government. c) The House Alors (Minor) have over a few thousand seats, non-structured, and can be called upon for civil disputes that extend past the purview of one Clan Alor, or if a dispute is between more than one Clan.

[Text in image is as below]

v) Restrictions, Compliance and Declarations of Misconduct

a) Areas that the Manda’lor cannot act as ultimate authority is upon the fields of medicine, the outcome of a financial or court decision (although the Manda’lor can convey displeasure if they believe the outcome is unfair as long as they justify said displeasure) b) A Manda’lor cannot interfere or demand a recount of an election. The only times a recount of an election can be expected is if a large portion – more than five percent of an individual electorate – goes missing.

[I was not inspired by American politics in the least! WHat, how could you suggest-

Anyways, feel free to provide any criticism. I have read two conflicting opinions on this site and on most forums, that the Manda'lor was an absolute ruler, or only a cultural, or campaign symbol, and I can see points for both sides. My point is that Jaster, as a reformer, would try to marry those ideals together to create something more than the sum of its parts. A better Mandalore, if you will.]

[Back to main Codex]

[cienie-isengardu]

Sidenotes to my larger project Cienie's take on Mandalorian culture. Gathering evidence on the cult of Kad Ha'rangir and the correlation between the Mandalorian warriors (their biological species) and the melee weapons. Source: Star Wars Mandalorian Miniatures by Wizards of the Coast (2004 - 2010)

ANCIENT TIMES

Set 1 (Taungs): Taung warrior, Mandalore the Indomitable, Mandalore the Ultimate

-> Taung warrior is most likely to represent pre-Mandalorian culture as the character lacks an armor, Indomitable has a mythosaur ax (Sith War era), Ultimate carries blaster (Mandalorian Wars era)

Set 2: Mandalorians from Bounty Hunter set (2006).

-> No named characters but additional quotes from their cards and being included with Mandalore the Indomitable & basilisk war droid without Neo-Crusader rider strongly imply the Sith War era.

-> Mandalorian warrior and Blademaster carry a melee weapons. Are they Taung!Mandalorians or humans, there is no way to deduce for sure. KotOR Campaign Guide says human warriors already were part of Mandalorian army during Sith War era.

Set 3: Neo-Crusaders and Ordo Canderous  + plus Mandalorian Commander I forgot to add (Mandalorian Wars and post-Mandalorian Wars / Knights of the Old Republic era)

-> Canderous Ordo carry no traditional mythosaur ax nor sword, just blaster

-> there is no way to tell for sure who is under the helmet, but during the Mandalorian Wars humans became a common sight between Mandalorians warriors as Taung species were dying out already. However the armor strongly implies Neo-Crusaders movement thus there is a great chance those figures are in fact humans.

-> Mandalorian Jedi Hunter (from Dark Times set) has an additional description: “Some of the scattered survivors of the Mandalorian Wars seek out Jedi to punish for their humiliation.” There weren’t that many Taung!Mandalorians after the war, so the chance of human/non-Taung character increases.

MODERN TIMES

Set 4: Modern Mandalorians

-> Republic Commando Training Sergeant - based on Kal Skirata, Republic Comics series.

-> Mandalorian Gunslinger - based on Rav Bralor, Republic Commando (according to RebelScum.com)

-> Death Watch Raider’s description “ The Death Watch was a violent splinter group of mercenaries who disagreed with Mandalore Jaster Mereel's insistence on honorable behavior. “[EU set] confirms the modern times (pre-Clone Wars era). During that conflict, as far as sources showed, Mandalorians were presented solely as humans. Thus Mandalorian Quartermaster is most likely a human warrior. From modern times, this one character is presented with a traditional melee weapon (sword).

Set 5: Jango Fett and young Boba

-> No traditional weapon.

Set 6: Boba Fett from various miniatures sets.

-> No traditional weapon.

My observations so far: 

-> Between the presented miniatures, the mythosaur ax was used only by Taung!Mandalorian, no human carried such a weapon regardless of era. There is a possibility that mythosaur axes were also a position/ability indicator, similar to Jaing eyes, maybe? Just a thought for further consideration. 

-> Mandalorian Warrior, Blademaster and Marauder may be Taungs or may be human/aliens, impossible to confirm. However, Jedi Hunter’s card suggests a post-Mandalorian Wars timeline, and so chances for a Taung character are smaller. Due to Death Watch armor typical for Tor Vizsla & Jaster Mereel’s times, Quartermaster also seems to represent the era in which Taungs are extinct.

-> Miniatures presents Death Watch as a more traditional type of Mandalorians, as Jango and his side of modern Mandalorians (Boba, Republic Commando training sergeant [Kal Skirata] and Gunslinger [Rav Bralor]) uses solely advanced technology & firearms.

Sources of pictures/knowledge: Rebelscum.com, [Polish site] Manda’yaim.

[ranahan]

Mando’a masterpost

Most of my Mando’a linguistic nerdery you should be able to find under the hashtags #mando’a linguistics and #ranah talks mando’a. Specific topics like phonology and etymology are tagged on newer posts but not necessarily on older. I also reblog lots of other people’s fantastic #mando’a stuff, which many of these posts are replies to.

I also post about #mandalorian culture, other #meta: mandalorians and #star wars meta topics, #star wars languages, #conlangs, and #linguistics. I like to reblog well-reasoned and/or interesting takes on Star Wars and Mandalorian politics, but I am not pro or contra fictional characters or organisations, only pro good storytelling. You can use the featured tags to navigate most of these topics. Not Star Wars content tag is #not star wars, although if it’s on this blog, likely it’s tangentially related or at least Mandalorian-coded.

Currently working on an expanded dictionary and an analysis of canon Mando’a. Updates under #mando’a project. Here are my thoughts on using my stuff (tldr: please do). My askbox is open & I’d love to hear which words, roots or other features you want to see dissected next.

#Phonology

Mando’a vowels

Murmured sounds in Mando’a

Ven’, ’ne and ’shya—phonology of Mando’a affixes

#Morphology

Mando’a demonyms: -ad or -ii?

Agent nouns in Mando’a

Reduplication in Mando’a

Verbal conjugation in Ancient Mando’a & derivations in Modern Mando’a

-nn

Adjectival suffixes (this one is skierunner’s theory, but dang it’s good and it’s on my post, so I’m including it)

e-, i- (prefix) “-ness”

#Syntax

Middle Mando’a creole hypothesis — Relative tenses — Tense, aspect and mood & creole languages — Copula and zero copula in creole languages — More thoughts about Mando’a TAM particles

Mando’a tense/aspect/mood (headcanons)

Mando’a has no passive

Adjectives as passive voice & other strategies

Colloquial Mando’a

Alienable/inalienable possession — more thoughts

Translating wh-words into Mando’a

#Roots, words & etymology

ad ‘child’—but also many other things

adenn, ‘wrath’

akaan & naak: war & peace

an ‘all’ + a collective suffix & plural collectives

ba’ & bah

*bir-, birikad, birgaan & again

cetar ‘kneel’

cinyc & shiny

gai’ka, ka’gaht, la’mun

jagyc, ori’jagyc & misandry

janad

*ka-, kakovidir & cardinal directions

ke’gyce ‘order, command’

*maan-, manda, gai bal manda, kir’manir, ramaan & kar’am & runi: ‘soul’ & ‘spirit’

*nor- & *she- ‘back’ (+ bonus *resh-)

projor ‘next’

riduurok, riduur, kom’rk, shuk’orok

*sak-, sakagal ‘cross’

*sen- ‘fly’

tapul

urmankalar ‘believe’

*ver- ‘earn’

*ya-, yai, yaim (& flyby mentions of eyayah, eyaytir, gayiyla, gayiylir, aliit)

Dialectal English & slang in Mando’a

#Non-canon words

Mining vocabulary

Non-canon reduplications

Many words for many Mandalorians

What’s the word for “greater mandalorian space”?

Names of Mandalorian planets

Dral’Han & derived words

besal ‘silver, steel grey’

derivhaan

hukad & hukal, ’sheath, scabbard’

*maan-, manda, kar’am & runi: ‘soul’ & ‘spirit’ & derivations

mara/maru, ‘amber-root’

*sen- ‘fly’ derivations

tarisen ‘swoop bike’

*ver- ‘earn’ derivations

#mando’a proverbs

#mando’a idioms

Pragmatics & ethnolinguistics

Middle Mando’a creole hypothesis

History of Mando’a — Loanwords in Mando’a

Mando’a timeline

Mandalorian languages

#mandalorian sign language

Kinship terms

Politeness in Mando’a: gedet’ye & ba’gedet’ye ��� vor entye, vor’e, n’entye — vor’e etc. again — n’eparavu takisit, ni ceta

Mandalorians and medicine, baar’ur, triage

#Mandalorian colour theory (#mandalorians and color): cin & purity, colour associations & orange, cin, ge’tal, saviin & besal, gemstone symbolism

#Mandalorian nature, Flora and fauna of Manda’yaim

starry road

Concordian dialogue retcon

A short history of the Mandalorian Empire

Mandalorian clans & government headcanons

Mando’a handwriting guide: part 1, part 2, part 3

What I would have done differently if I had constructed Mando’a

FAQ

Can you answer a question about combat medicine? May I direct you to my post about Free tactical medicine learning resources.

Can I use your words/headcanons in my own projects? Short answer: yes please.

Do you do translations? If I happen to be in the mood or your translation question is interesting. Feel free to bomb my inbox, but don’t expect quick answers.

What’s your stance on Satine Kryze and the New Mandalorians? They’re fictional and I don’t have one beyond their narrative being interesting & wishing that fandom would have civil conversations about them without calling each other names.

Why do you portray Mandalorians as multi-racial and gender-agnostic when they’re not that diverse in canon? Because that’s the power of transformative works: to create the kind of representation we want to see in a world where it’s lacking.

LGBTQIA? I don’t stand for any shade of discrimination. If I say something insensitive, rest assured it’s because I temporarily misplaced my other brain cell, not because of malice.

NSFW? No. This is a linguistics blog, so cursing and some explicit vocabulary should be expected—slang is one of my interests, and vulgar language comes with the territory—but no porn here. I don’t believe in nudity or sex in themselves being taboo topics and I was a medic for a good chunk of my life, so frank discussions about sex education/medical/anatomical/trauma topics might also happen. I’ll try to tag if these topics come up, but frankly my own explicitness- and gore-meter is kinda broken after a career in emergency medicine, so things might slip by.

Asks under #ranah answers

P.s. Let me know if the links don’t work or something else is wrong (some items don’t have links, they are articles in my draft folder/queue which I’ve listed here so they don’t get lost—sorry for the tease!). Also please tell me if you need me to tag something I haven’t so you can filter it: this blog is for readers—if I was writing just for myself, I wouldn’t bother to edit and publish—so let me know what I can do to make it work better for you. Thanks!

[phoenixyfriend]

Soka Takes a Terrorist: Chapter One

The latest fic in Anakin and the Jedi Babies. Three chapters total.

Sokanth Skywalker makes a friend, all on her own! He is in Death Watch. She's going to save him, just you wait!

Read on AO3

About two thirds of this fic were written by hand on the train while in Japan.

----------

Most planets have their own, smaller ‘nets. Sometimes, they extend to the whole sector, if it makes sense to do so. Sure, there’s the ‘galactic’ holonet, but it really just makes more sense to have a faster, local holonet, too.

Mandalore has been trying to consolidate fragmented ‘nets for ages. Some of that has gone better than… well…

Skyguy’s been helping, at least?

Soka knows some of the issues. Krownest has environmental restrictions regarding the weather, something about constructing infrastructure to withstand low temperatures, which can impact servers and wiring. Concord Dawn is prone to geologic instability, so burying transmission cables isn’t an option given the earthquake risk. Kalevala is getting on okay, making good progress, and so is the moon Concordia; that’s why they’ve been offered up as hosting for the hyper-relays. Manda’yaim itself is stuck trying to decide on the best way to protect transmission lines from sandstorms, which could uncover lines buried at a standard depth, and burying them deeper would make them harder to access for maintenance. It is where a lot of the ‘host’ servers and stuff are going, mostly in their own separate domes a few kilometers out in the desert.

And that’s all before the politics and coding and other non-infrastructure, non-environmental-y bits.

“I don’t understand why you’re even involved,” Ben complains, “you’re a droidhead, not a slicer. Aren’t there other things more in line with your specialties?”

Skyguy gets that look on his face, the one where he’s not sure how to think or feel about one of them referencing, or forgetting, something from the Before.

“Well,” he says, “a lot of the maintenance and repairs are going to be done by droids, and I’ve got a decent experience in weather-proofing to boot, especially in deserts. Besides, I need something to fill the time.”

Because Mereel’s been weird about Skyguy since the Jedi visit.

“Can I help?” Soka pipes up.

“Probably a bit out of your skill range,” he says, a touch apologetic.

“But I want to be involved,” she whines.

(And she is not embarrassed to admit that.)

He laughs, and rubs at her head between the montrals, just like when he ruffles Ben’s hair. “Fine, how about I get you some specs on what we’ve already got hooked in, and you can do some beta-testing?”

“Works for me!” she half-cheers. “Ben, what about you?”

“I’ll pass, thank you very much,” he says, “but let me know if you find you need some help with the diplomacy.”

“Not my department,” Skyguy says, “but sure.”

Continue on AO3

[corazondebeskar-reads]

Kinktober Day 26 - Tentacles/Dacryphilia (Din Djarin)

ori'skraan

Kinktober Day 26 - Tentacles/Dacryphilia

dark/haunted!Din Djarin x f!reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Summary: The Mand'alor needs to feed to regain his strength, so you are called upon to fulfill the most sacred of your duties.

a haunted!Mand'alor!Din Djarin is granted strength beyond human limits by the Darksaber but at the cost of becoming a creature terrifying to behold who must feed like an incubus. Also, he has shadow tentacles. tbh; this is an elaborate setup for eldrich horror smut.

Warnings: dark, dub-con, tentacles, tentacle sex, rough sex, bondage, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), monsterfucking, author makes up stuff about Mandalorian culture in the name of monsterfucking, horror vibes, Mandalorian reader, Mando'a, satine kryze slander, Mand'alor Din Djarin, this may or may not become a series bcus I have a problem

Inspired by this prompt list from @absurdthirst.

also on ao3

In the days of the songs of old, before the civil war, before the pacifist uprising, and the slaughter of your people, being the Mand’alor meant something. It wasn’t symbolic; they weren’t a tool through which politicians passed their agendas; they were gods.

And when they died, their manda would join the others and become something stronger yet in the new Mand’alor. It was all ghost stories when you grew up. Something your brother would taunt you with, and when your buir found out, he was scolded, but the information was not denied.

An all-powerful ruler, granted extraordinary abilities by their dead predecessors. Terrifying, world-destroying power. And a beskar sword that could wield pure Force power.

They talked about the Mand’alor like a creature, this benevolent but merciless being who stalked in the shadows and called their mando’ade to arms only in times of true need. Who every Mandalorian worth their beskar would follow into death, whether by devotion or respect.

The real Mand’alor in your youth was much less impressive. Actually, she was fairly disappointing. She barely wore any beskar’gam, and you knew you could not serve her. Would not answer her call, for she was no real Mandalorian.

Never mind that you were ten.

After the Clone Wars, after the empire, after the purge, after… everything, you never thought you’d see Manda’yaim again.

But news travels fast through the galaxy, and when whispers began to turn to headlines, when every pub in town was brimming with the same news, when Mandalore was back in the hands of her people—

You waited. A twice-bitten striil burying her head in the sand. But you did reach out, and sent a ping through your connections until something echoed back.

It was true. And the call had been rung—return, it beckoned, for there is a Mand’alor on the throne at Keldabe.

So you went home.

Running Mandalore and protecting her from danger was a truly staggering feat. One supported by hundreds of other Mando’ade. Your brother pledged to serve on the royal guard, and you—well, before the Duchess, there was only one role you wanted.

You had been in training to be an attendant to the Mand’alor for years. Your time away from home had taught you that such a position was looked down upon by aruetti, the minding of a household diminished. But how could it be so when your services were dedicated to the Ka'ra? To protect and aid their vessel? To share the burden of living so that the Mand'alor can fulfill their oath to the people?

The Duchess had refused attendants, of course. And as she did not wield the saber, did not appreciate the grace of the Ka'ra, and so your job was over before it had begun. Though, as much as you disapproved of Kryze, you would have rather died to protect her than let that darjetii sit upon the throne.

The Darksaber granted him no power, and none after him. But when you arrive in the remains of Keldabe, where little stands now but stacks of cleared glass and hope, there are whispers of a man who had entered the Living Waters seeking redemption and returned as a monster to the surface with the blessing of the Stars themselves.

His advisors have explained as much as they know over and over again. It’s not much. Your regular duties are simple, something you had long mastered. Your other duties are less clear.

And so, you attend to him at all times. He fights you on it at first, gruff and stubborn. He doesn’t want you to draw his bath; he doesn’t want you to deliver his meals to his desk. But you do, and as the days tick by, he stops protesting you.

He even starts to anticipate your presence, greeting you with a soft kindness and accepting your service with quiet respect.

But the day was to come eventually. When he comes calling, you’re putting away Grogu’s clothes in the nursery.

There’s a knock at the door, but he doesn’t wait for you to answer. Fair, you suppose, since this is his son’s room.

“Mand’alor,” you say, inclining your head. You move to stand, and he sighs.

“Please, let’s not stand on decorum in these chambers.”

“It’s my job to, ah, 'stand on decorum,'” you say, smiling. But you resume folding the linens and small tunics.

“I wanted to let you know myself that you will be needed for your other duties tomorrow.”

Oh. The only indication of your reaction is a twitch of your fingers where they lay on the sleeve of a robe. “Yes, Mand’alor.”

“They explained to you what may happen?”

“Yes, Mand’alor, I understand.”

He comes and sits on the floor in front of you. Your helmet conceals your surprise, steady hands still working through the small pile of laundry.

“I’m sure they told you I did not want an attendant.”

“Something along those lines, yes.”

“Did they tell you why I changed my mind? Did they tell you what happened last month?”

You shudder a little involuntarily but hold firm enough to look at him and nod. “They also told me she’s okay.”

“Regardless,” he says, self-disgust oozing through the modulator. “I don’t wish for that to happen to you.”

“It may or may not,” you say. “We won’t know until then.”

“But you were trained for this. Do you know a way to ease it?”

“I did not complete my training, and I was too young to know the details. But…” you aren’t sure if you want to bring up your idea. It is, after all, without evidence.

“But what?”

“It’s nothing, Mand’alor. A theory and nothing more, but it isn’t worth the price.”

“What theory?”

“Just mine. Not even a fully formed hypothesis. Just a passing thought.”

“Tell me anyway.” His voice is soft. Nothing like you expect to face tomorrow.

“I just wondered if you were more familiar with me, if it might help.” You know he follows the Resol'nare in the way of the old songs. You have adapted to honor his Creed, as is The Way, and so he has never seen your face.

He's silent and you hope you haven't offended him. But he seems to genuinely considers your words.

And then he reaches up and removes his helmet.

“Kriff, warn me first,” you snap, squeezing your eyes shut and covering your visor with one hand.

“Your theory is sound. And we’ll see each other tomorrow.”

“Yes, but in the Chamber, we aren’t meant to outside it. And I only meant that perhaps I should—”

“What does it matter?”

You almost scoff before you remember your place. “I suppose it does not.” These were his rules, after all. He has a greater understanding of his own Creed than you ever will.

“I accepted an attendant because they assured me it would help you survive. That I would understand your purpose, in the moment. If this has even a chance of ensuring your safety, then it must be done.”

You reach up, but he stops you before your fingers brush the bottom of your helmet.

“May I?”

You still haven’t opened your eyes, but the rough sound of his unmodulated voice asking to remove your helmet sounds downright salacious.

“Of course, ner Mand’alor,” you murmur and tilt your head back.

You startle when he touches you, not because you're surprised but because he's removed his gloves. His thumbs skim against your neck to break the seal, and his smooth fingers burn. He lifts it off as if the beskar were as fragile as an egg and sets it beside his own.

You finally open your eyes and gasp. He’s beautiful. There’s no other word for it, or if there are, they are lost to you. His stare is intense and enthralling, his eyes the shade and softness of damp earth.

Then you remember your station and quickly avert your eyes to the ground.

“If it’s any comfort,” he says, “I’ll look much different tomorrow.”

“I’m sure your other form is just as beautiful.”

“Thank you, but you don’t need to flatter me.”

The silence that follows isn’t quite awkward. It’s not the pause of uncertain hands and mouths, of stilted negotiations, but the way the air hangs thick before dropping into battle. It’s the feeling of sitting side by side with your vod, knowing you are safe but still may not make it home.

He sits for a moment longer before taking his leave. “You should rest,” he says before he leaves the room.

You assure him you will. But you won’t. If you’re going to be off duty for two days, all the more reason to finish your tasks, you reason. The crawling pressure against your breastbone calls you a liar.

You know, have known, that to fulfill your duty means walking into a trap unarmed and unprepared. Whatever you find in there, you will have to face with no weapon, no beskar, no allies.

It doesn’t stop you from shaking a little as you remove your beskar’gam in the antechamber. You’re alone. No assistants, no handmaidens, no witnesses.

You take a deep breath that carries you across the threshold. The antechamber locks behind you. There will be no leaving until he is satisfied.

You expected the ritual halls of your ancestors. This is a bedroom.

Yes, it’s a bedroom in a hall carved of beskar-veined stone, but it’s soft. There are pale, thick rugs on the floor and tufted seats in shades of gray. The enormous round bed is indulgent, covered in silks and soft furs. You sit, bare, afraid to hide yourself lest it angers him when he enters.

Will he be the man or the beast when he enters? You’re not sure which you’d prefer. To watch him transform or to be forced to accept his second form upon his entrance.

You’re saved from dwelling on it when the door slides open. You breathe only enough to feel it slip away.

The Mand'alor's shadow cuts the light from the entry. Silhouetted in the frame, he towers higher, wider than he had in the baby’s room. The edges of his form are hard to look at. ike your eyes can’t focus, can’t accept what they see. When he moves and the door locks, you realize it wasn’t his shadow. He is the shadow. It ripples from him, spreading across his torso and arms.

He reaches you in far too few steps. His broad hand cups your chin, and the shadows that blur the edge between his skin and the air cup you also, spilling from his fingers up your cheeks like a wisp of fog.

The Mand’alor does not speak. But when he looks at you, more eyes peel open. Four extra on each side of his forehead, black and slit like a serpent's, though his two original eyes are still brown.

He leans down, the tendrils that swallow him threatening to swallow you, too. When his lips meet yours, your mouth opens to draw a sharp breath. It does not receive it, as he licks into your mouth. It feels like you’re choking, the darkness sliding down your throat.

His hands find your arms, and the shadows crawl down them, never breaking contact with him but stretching, growing. They curl around you, lingering just on the precipice of incorporeal.

You break the kiss to gasp for air, and a wide smirk spreads across his face. “Such a pretty girl,” he purrs. You wish it was hyperbole, but the words come in a rumble from deep within his chest.

And you flush, heat bursting across your skin and pooling in your cunt. He takes a deep breath and his eyes, all ten, dart down to your thighs.

“Offering to feed me already, alor’ika?”

You shudder, but your legs part for him. You hardly notice, enraptured as you are by the way blinks ripple across his hungry eyes.

“That’s it, what a good little pet,” he purrs.

A shudder slips through, your nipples pebbling. He takes one in his mouth immediately. His tongue is rough, but his teeth are surprisingly flat. Human.

Though, you suppose, he’s not a carnivore. Doesn’t need the sharp fangs of nightmares to rend your flesh. Especially not when your flesh seems particularly eager to give him whatever he needs.

He licks the valley between your breasts and sets his teeth against the tendon of your neck. You tip your head to the side, and he rewards you with a famished growl and the sharp pinch of his bite.

You can’t quite breathe right, still. Your skin prickles and burns where his mouth travels down an extensive trail, tasting and biting and marking you. The restraint snaps when he reaches the crest between your thighs, the hunger overtaking him.

He’ll have plenty of time to savor you, anyway.

But for now, he dives straight in. You cry out and jerk your hips at the sudden sensation. Licking deep within you—unnaturally so, you suspect—the shadowy edges of him unfurl, more corporeal than before. Just the small taste has strengthened him so much already.

It splits into thick tendrils, blurry with no discernable edges, just a place where they meet your skin and where they pulse from his body.

They encircle your wrists and hold them just above your head, another pair wrenching your legs apart and opening you for him. He snarls, gripping your thighs in his hands and flicking the sandpaper of his tongue against your clit. You cry out, and a tendril slides into your mouth.

It’s nearly real, now, smooth and dense. Your eyes roll back into your head as it makes itself at home in your throat, fucking in and out.

He looks up at you and laughs into your pussy, the hot breath of air over your clit making you twitch.

There’s nothing to tether you, the slick silk slipping when you squirm, the tendrils connecting you to him, only him, and not the world around you. They lift up your hips, letting him drink from your well with fervor, and you jerk helplessly in their grasp as one slides up and caresses your ass, slithering over the hole and wriggling in.

There isn’t an inch of you that doesn’t feel raw. His shadowy limbs creep over your breasts, roll your nipples, smooth over your stomach, brush against your cheek.

When you cum, he snarls again, slipping two fingers into your cunt and curving them against you, pressing and rubbing, and it brings you over the edge again. He doesn’t let up, not until he builds you up and breaks you on his tongue and hand. Like cracking open a fruit and letting the juices pour over your hand.

He savors every drop.

The danger sneaks in unnoticed. You’re dazed, limp, and chest heaving, coated in sweat and his saliva. But his strength is growing, the tendrils no longer shadow but rendered into flesh, and his grip on you is bruising.

Neither of you notice. You’re exhausted, barely clinging to consciousness, and he’s ravenous.

“More, alor’ika,” he hisses. He forces himself to pull away, to crawl atop you and take.

When you had seen his cock, a brief glance when he entered, it was large but humanly so. It is certainly not, now.

He pushes in slowly, but for all the pleasure he wrung from you, it’s not enough. Could never be enough. You scream, but no sound comes out, thoroughly stoppered as you are by the shadow-limb.

You look up at him, pupils blown not from lust but from pain. Tears leak, and he leans down and licks them from you.

“So pretty when you cry,” he croons, extracting the tendril from your mouth so he can press his tongue inside.

“Mand’alor, please,” you beg through sobs.

The bones in your wrist grind as the tentacles pulsate around them. As he nears his peak, the force of his hips is cruel. You think of the girl from last month. The girl whose shattered pelvis will probably never heal right, even with the bacta bath.

“Ner Mand’alor,” you try again. “It’s too much. If you break me, you can’t have me again.”

He sinks his teeth into your neck. “I can have whatever I need from you.”

“Yes,” you say, trying to nudge his head away with your own. You bump his forehead in a weak attempt at a mirshmure’cya, jostling his damp curls and drawing his real eyes to yours. “Vor entye.”

He draws back a little, regarding you with ten unblinking eyes.

“I will hold you to that, ner ori'skraan,” he says and gives you his own Keldabe kiss. He fucks into you still, rough but not ravaging. The fevered kissing resumes as a tendril creeps down to rub your clit.

When he has drained every ounce of pleasure he can wring from you; he fills your raw, split cunt. It’s so much. It floods, and leaks from you, and all you can do is whimper until he begins to soften.

He reaches down between your legs and brings some of his cum to your lips. You accept the offering, the strange sweetness lingering in your mouth until your lips tingle. The feeling is slow to stretch through you, and by the time the analgesic takes effect, you’re already asleep.