#jedi master reader

[curlygirlybitchachos]

Jedi Master Reader

Y/n: you know what? I want a padawan. I think I'm ready.

Obi-wan: no you aren't.

Y/n: that's rude.. .

Obi-wan: I'm just honest. And you know.. . There's a chance you got someone like Anakin or Ahsoka.

Y/n: you got a point.

[t1track]

where anakin chokes padawan!fem!reader with the force (he calls it flirting) after she teases him in a training session

— 🩰🎀

Hi there again 🩰 How do you even come up with this stuff? JDSAJKJADSKJ I'M DYING OVER HEREEE. I loved it and got wayyyy too carried away writing it. I hope you like it 😋 Keep these requests coming

WARNINGS/INFO: NSFW, +18 MDNI, Fem!Reader, smut, PWP, consensual, consensual kink, D/s & Force Kink.

Word count: 1.6k

The air in the training room crackled with something stronger than lightsaber energy. It was Anakin's steaming frustration. You'd just slipped past his guard, your training saber tapping his side before he could even react. "Still letting your emotions lead the fight, Master Skywalker?" you joked, a smirk playing on your lips. Lately, you have been faster than even Anakin could comprehend. And Anakin loved understanding how your body worked, inside and outside of the training sessions. 

His lightsaber hummed a low warning, almost vibrating in his grip. His jaw tightened, and his eyes, usually playful around you, narrowed just enough that your own smirk faltered. The easy banter suddenly felt very, very thin. 

The air around your throat tightened. Not painfully, but pleasantly weird enough. Your feet lifted an inch off the mat, and your breath hitched. Anakin's eyes held a familiar glint of challenge, and his lips curved into a slow, almost dangerous smile. Anakin was a powerful Jedi and a dangerous lover. When he realized that his force would turn you on whenever he used it slightly, he started doing it more frequently. When he first used it, you didn't move for a hot minute. He became too worried and asked if you were okay. He hesitated and almost promised he would keep things light in the training sessions. "Please don't, Master Skywalker. I enjoy it." And just like that, he understood your consent.

Now, he was doing it again. And this time, the pressure around your throat wasn't just his frustration or anger. It pulsed with dangerous heat, laced with a heavy, insistent craving that threatened to steal your breath for entirely different reasons. You gathered the strength you had left to challenge him with your face. Your whole body now calling for him. Right here, right now.

His steps grew closer, his grip not loosening for a second, and your cunt getting wetter every second. "You think you're smarter than me, faster than me. You couldn't be more wrong." He was inches from your face. Your feet now back to the ground, and you could move your body easily now. 

His gaze, dark and all-consuming, dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. You barely managed a shallow breath, your body arching almost imperceptibly towards him, lost in the overwhelming wave of sensation. And then, his mouth devoured yours. Not a gentle kiss but a desperate, consuming plunge that stole the air from your lungs and sent an electric current through every inch of your being. It was raw and demanding.

You met his ferocity with your own, hands twisting in his tunic, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, pushing you to the very brink of conscious thought. His hands moved, gripping your hips, pulling you against the solid heat of his body. Anakin's hands didn't know where they wanted to go first. They were traveling under your top, his thumb caressing your breasts. Your nipples now visibly erected against your shirt. 

He loved pushing you to your breaking point. When training, he would be harsher on you than with others. Between closed doors, he would pound you so hard and so deep you could barely contain your loud moans. Your cunt was his. You want just the tip? Too bad! He would always be balls deep in you. Creaming you till your legs were sore. The other Jedi always thought you had crazy nightmares. If they only knew.

Anakin's hands were now in your pants. You made a note after one session to always come with pants that are easy to take off. IYKYK. His mouth now on your neck, his hands playing with the fabric of your panties. "Already so wet for me. You just love it when I hold you tight, don't you?" You could only hum at this point. If you tried to mouth any words, they would turn into whining. Making out sessions in your training arena were risky, and this was a delicious thrill for you two.

Anakin pushed your panties to the side and found your clit. His finger was now in circular motion while his other hand rose to your throat, and you felt the force tighten it up again. Your legs now trembling. "Be good, and I will let you cum when you want to so we can finish this lesson, okay?" You nodded, eager to comply. His fingers went from your clit to the lips. He closed his eyes when he felt how your entrance was so creamy. A mischievous smile forming on both of your faces. 

Without any warning, he put his two fingers in. You grabbed the tunic fabric around his neck, and you moaned with tears almost pricking your eyes. His movements were precise. He knew what he was doing and how to be in control. Each stroke of his fingers had you seeing stars.

"More," you cried. "More what?" He asked, the grip around your throat tightening more as things escalated. "Fu- fuck me faster with your fingers, Anakin" he obeyed your request. A request, never an order, because you were never in command. He started to kneel down in front of you. He took his fingers out of your dripping pussy, and you whined in protest. "Always so desperate to be fucked, you never learn."

He pulled your pants and panties down in one move, and his fingers were back inside of you. Now, his tongue was in your clit, sucking it like both of your lives depended on it. "Ohhhhh fuck Anakin, y-yes" You grabbed his hair, almost as if you were guiding his head, but he didn't need it. He knew exactly what to do.

"Ohhh I wanna cum so bad, please make me cum” You cried out loud. "Not yet!" His husky voice echoed from down there. "I'm almost…" and he stopped. You looked at him while he was back, standing up. "You are only," he turned you around, "coming,” he bent you over the edge of a nearby table, "when I let you," and his fingers were back inside of you for the third time.

His tongue playing in between your front and back. Your pussy dripped so much that you were sure someone could slip and fall. Your legs felt weak again, your head so light, as you soared on the edge of exquisite oblivion. "You taste so good. Why the fuck do you taste so good?"

Each stroke of his fingers was a deliberate, burning whisper against your skin, igniting a trail of fire you hadn't known could exist before meeting him. The pressure of his force, a silken cord around your throat, pulsed in time with your own frantic heartbeat, demanding every breath, every ounce of surrender. Your muscles clenched, an involuntary tremor starting deep in your core, threatening to spread through your entire body.

Your head fell back, a soft, helpless moan tearing from your throat – a sound you barely recognized as your own. The air in the room seemed to thicken, heavy with the scent of his skin and the raw power emanating from him. "Anakin, please, I…" "You can hold it for me, baby, just a bit more." You tried to think, to find some anchor, but your mind was dissolving into pure feeling. 

All your senses sharpened then blurred until there was only the overwhelming sensation of his touch, his presence, the relentless pressure that pushed you further and further into a dizzying abyss.

When he curled his fingers inside of you for whatever time it was, your hands gripped the sides of the table he bent you over. "Oh, you're so close." "Anak-Anakin, pl-please" He took his fingers out and put them back in, and the movement repeated for a minute. He felt your legs getting weaker and laughed "Now be good and cum for me," his fingers were now replaced entirely by his tongue. He was eating your pussy as if it was his private banquet.

Your body arched uncontrollably in response to the beautiful ache building inside, screaming for release. You were on the very precipice, legs now trembling so violently they threatened to give out completely, on the verge of snapping into a million pieces of pure sensation. Every sound was a choked cry of desperate pleasure. 

In one last movement, the force became extremely tight around your throat. It was a delicious pain, enough to make you come apart. You screamed, moaning his name without a care in the world, even when you shouldn't even be doing this in the first place. You felt your cunt pulsating, your whole body now practically collapsing on the table. 

The moment your weight settled, the pressure around your throat vanished, and the intense force presence receded, leaving the air lighter yet still buzzing with residual energy. You drooped against the cool surface, every muscle in your body quivering, your lungs desperate for air. Anakin's arms were there instantly, pulling you securely against his chest, holding you upright as your knees genuinely threatened to buckle.

He buried his face in your hair, a low, shaky breath escaping him. His own heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ear. The silence stretched, filled only by your irregular breathing and the soft, comforting brush of his uniform against your cheek.

Slowly, his grip gentled, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eye now softened with a deep affection, a vulnerability that stole your breath for an entirely different reason. A faint, knowing smile played on his lips.

"You almost broke me, padawan," he whispered, his voice rough with spent passion and barely leashed hunger. "Almost." But the words were laced with such soft affection, such possessive pride, that you knew he was just as undone as you were.

You leaned into his touch, a contented sigh escaping your lips. The training room, once a place of frustration and challenge, now felt like the most intimate, safest space in the galaxy, wrapped in the comforting warmth of his presence. This was your secret. Your dangerous, beautiful secret.

[oceansssblue]

SW REQUESTS:

"Would love to see a Wolffe x reader fic where the AFAB reader is injured in battle, Comms him and then their Comms get jammed and he's just freaking the hell out. Love some angst of him carrying her back to a ship and losing his mind over it"

Some minor alterations but I'm SO HAPPY with how this one came out! I love wolffe and there aren't that many fics about him. Do recommend your favourites! Xx, sky.

"RADIO SILENT" –WOLFFE/F READER

WARNINGS: BATTLE, WOUNDS&BLOOD, ANGST AND FLUFF. 📩💔💖

Halsakaa is a nightmare. The Republic hasn't been able to redirect more forces to the Outer Rim planet to help you; and your troops are struggling to keep the droids battalions at bay. It honestly feels as though the Republic –and the Jedi– have abandoned you to your wrath; no-one coming to this remote location in the galaxy to save you. The destine of your own life, and the lifes of your soldiers, are solely in your hands. And you'd give everything for them, even sacrifice yourself if you have to. After so many experiences together, for almost three years straight now, they have becomed such an important part of you it feels as if you have ingrained every single one of them in your soul. You know you should'nt be so attached to them; Master Ploo quietly reminds you from time to time –though you know he's not exactly indifferent either–. The wolfpack is his own just as they are yours. Yours. Growing up as Jedi you haven't had this kind of... ownership over anything but your saber. Obviously, you don't see the clones as something you can posses, use; but they do belong to you in some sense, and in that way, it's your responsability to command them, to take care of them. And you... love them. It's a dangerous word for a Jedi. But it's the truth. It is the reason why, right now, your soul aches. Each death is a strike right to your heart. But how can you see them any different, when they are such loyal friends? Such fierce soldiers, who fight and die selflessly for the freedom of other citizens in the galaxy, a freedom that hadn't been given to themselves?

Your dark emerald green lightsaber flies in your hands, deflecting one bolt after the other one. Sweat makes your usually comfortable jedi robes stick to your body; minor scratches and wounds tingling painfully at the friction of the fabric. It doesn't make you move any slower, though; you feel unstopable jumping from a cluster of droids to another, the hum of your saber following you around while you slash through your enemies with persistent focus and skill. General Ploo is doing his own thing on the other side of the battlefield; your clone troops split in half to defend both sides of Halsakaa's capital.

You don't know how much longer you can hold this off. All of you have been trained for this, and you're used to drawing strength from the Force, increasing your usual endurance; but even you are feeling exhausted, muscles straining like painful cords, and the thing about the droids is that they never tire out. You know this has to end eventually. Right now, Master Ploo's orders are to hold on til some other battalion can come to your rescue –the other option abandoning Halsakaa to the separatists, which would cause a disastrous impact on the Republic–; though you don't know when that will be. It may be days, or weeks. A month, maybe two. Even with the system of rest-and-takeover you've got established with the clones you're afraid you're going to lose.

The night falls, and some troopers fall back into the delicate safety of the makeshift camp, a decent distant away from the battlefield; they'll try to shut the eye for some hours before replacing other brothers positions again. You keep fighting, completely exhausted but knowing perfectly well that your presence in the battlefield equals the force of ten clones; pushing through your energy limits and fiercely holding your own.

Hours pass, and the two suns of Halsaaka rises again; your tired eyes getting used to the new light while you keep slashing droids with your saber.

"We're pushing them further away from the South Door" Master Ploo's calm voice picks up through your coms. "I have been informed that the 442th have been dispatched in our way. They will join us in two sunrises".

You can't help but give a relieved sigh. The 104th have worked with the 442th more than once in the past. They are heavy infantry; and you wouldn't say no to some of that now. Any fresh soldier would be a welcomed addition. You can see the strain on your troopers; though none of them would dare say a word out loud.

"Copy that" you answer through your channel with your Master and the 104th's commander and sergeant. "I'll feel as happy as a kid with a popsicle when I see that green stripped armour along our light gray one".

You dodge a shot and use the Force to push a wave of droids to the side; your troopers quickly using the oportunity to blast them down.

Wolffe's deep husky voice pipes up in a tiny, well-humoured comment.

"Still a kid yourself, General" he teases you, voice still firm and contradictionally serious.

Your lips pull up on a tiny smirk.

"We can't all age in a blink of an eye, my dear Commander" you chirp back.

The coms pick up his raspy chuckle before the frequency goes back to silence.

The droids make way for something bigger and you groan under your breath. The first bolts make the earth beneath your feet shake slightly; orders and screams shouted all around you.

"Bad news, boys" you open the general coms this time so everyone gets updated in this very unwelcomed surprise. "We've got some spiders".

You focus yourself on them; flying through the battlefield and jumping on one droid after the other one, sinking your saber into their red sensors or cutting off their laser canions. Then, when you're in the middle of jumping off of one, a surprisingly well aimed bolt crosses the air and hits you; and you fall down with blood quickly soaking your side, staining the fabric of your Jedi clothes.

"Fuck" you mutter out loud, jaw clenching til your teeth hurt while you stand up quickly and deflect another bold with your saber, trying to cope with the pain. You open your private frequency with Sinker and quickly inform of your state.

"Sinker, I've been hit" you grit between your teeth while you kill the droid responsible for your wound and step back between your troopers to cover yourself momentarily.

You pull your clothes up and quickly glance down at the wound. Usually the bolts inmediately cauterizes the wounds; but this hadn't been a normal droid, but a combat-J1, with it's weapon specifically designed to make the most damage to human's skin without it's predecessors side-efects. The apparently less dangerous bolts are quite the opposite; dividing into smalller ones that diverts into different directions when hitting a surface with enough resistance. Right now, there's only one entrance wound on your right side; but you know they may have carved more than one path inside of you, making it a life or death situation depending on how lucky you are.

"How bad is it?" He asks, slowly but effectively advancing through the droid lines towards you, an easy person to locate with the shine of your emerald saber.

You grunt in pain, hand soaked in dark scarlet blood, and take a deep breath in, knowing what you need to do for now.

"Bad" you just answer, carefully lowering your own saber towards the wound "It's a shot from a J1. I'm going to cauterise the wound for now, but I might go into shock in the next hour. Just a heads up."

You chuckle weakly, and then carefully graze your lightsaber against the wound. The skin quickly hardens and clots; the smell of the burn quickly reaching your nose. Your knees buckle while you swallow your scream of pain; legs shaking weakly and tears springing to your eyes while you finish putting a momentarily solution to your wound. At least you won't die from blood loss for now.

"Maker, General" Sinker is suddenly there, taking a strong hold of your opposite hip to stabilize you. "That really doesn't look good. You should go back to camp, Sir".

You find solace in his strength for a minute before rightening yourself again and getting ready to move. You close your eyes and center yourself with the Force. You're hurt, but you're still in the middle of open fire; you need to swallow the pain and dizziness down and hold on.

You give Sinker a firm nod.

"I'm letting this side of the battlefield on your hands, then" you tell him, his own back inmediately straightening too under such responsability. "Just one more night and we'll have reinforcements with us tomorrow".

Sinker nods in understanding, appreciating your words of encouragement. He quickly orders Comet to help you get safely back to camp; while he inmediately takes the role of leader and commands your part of the 104th clone troops. You need to protect the North Door of Halsaaka while Master Ploo and Wolffe take care of the South.

One arm around Comet's shoulders and finding strength in the Force, you quickly start your dangerous way back to safety. Even though Comet's alert with his own blaster and you're still deflecting bolts with your saber, you're vulnerable now. You just hope you're both able to make it.

You open your coms to inform of the new situation.

"I've been hit with a J1" you warn Master Ploo and Wolffe. You don't like how weak your voice sounds. "Wolffe, I..."

There's a small explosion right beside you; and the force of it pushes both you and Comet to the ground. You whimper in pain, but quickly grab him and push the two of you back up, resume walking –more like stumbling forward–. You try the coms again, wanting to tell Wolffe you've left Sinker with command before retiring for the night; you grumble in irritation when you see your com device has detached from your forearm and has been left abandoned behind.

"Do you have your com?" You ask Comet.

His voice is barely audible under the protection of his helmet.

"My audio appears to be broken after that last fall, General."

You sigh, tired. There's nothing you can do about it now. Sinker will communicate with them sooner or later.

"Let's just make it back to safety then" you say, and Comet nods diligently.

You'll just focus on not collapsing to the ground before reaching camp.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Wolffe's heart stutters inside his chest when he hears your voice in the coms. You're always strong, always fierce; something he had admired from the very first time he had had the chance to work under your command. He had been cold towards you back then; not purposedly harsh against you, but not friendly either. You hadn't cared. When one of his men had pointed out to you it wasn't personal, but just Wolffe's reserved, unpolished personality, you had answered unbothered and completely understanding. He could still hear those words in his head; "I get it. I'm a stranger that holds the lifes of his brothers in her hands. None of you know me yet; trust is earned. I hope I will with time. I'd like us all to be comfortable with each othef. But if not, it doesn't matter. I'm not here to make friends. I'm here to fight. I'm here to protect people; and I'm here to direct my assigned troops as best as I can in order to achieve the best results with the minor number of casualties. If Commander Wolffe opens up to me I'd be honored. If not, I'm sure we could still be good comrades in this war". He still remembers the way you had tilted your chin upwards; staring defiantly at the clones in front of her, completely unaware of him standing not so far away at her back. "Now, I believe there's still some preparations needed for Jaal; and we're taking off in an hour". With that not-so-subtle signal that the conversation had ended, the troopers around you had quickly fell back to place; and Wolffe had silently followed Master Ploo Koo towards you. "Look at you, little warrior" the older Jedi had told you, a pleasant smile wrinkling the corner of his covered eyes. "Already displaying such good lidership traits". You had turned around in surprise; so many life presences around you, and experiencing a rush of your own emotions, you hadn't been aware of both of their presence. Your cheeks had flushed slightly; though that same defiant glint hadn't left your eyes. "Master" you had slightly bowed towards him. "You see me with good eyes" you had smiled softly at him, in a clearly opened affectionate way Wolffe wasn't used to seing in other Jedi. "Just having a chat with the troops". Master Ploo had chuckled quietly and pointed at him with a hand gesture; Wolffe quickly taking a step forwards towards them. "I have just had a quick meeting with the Council. Commander Wolffe will update you on my behalf, as I need to go have a word with the pilots" Master Ploo had glanced back at him pointedly. "If he'd be kind enough...". Wolffe had inmediately nodded, firmly. He had high respect towards that specifical Jedi; and he didn't usually hold others in such high regards. "Of course, sir" he had then turned towards you. "General, if you can follow me to the strategy room...". You had firmly hold his stare for a few seconds; and the quiet inquisitive gaze had felt as if the young Jedi Warrior had scanned his own very soul. Wolffe had had his first tingle of that uncomfortable but curious feeling back then; a feeling that had only increased with the following years. Nowadays, he...

Wolffe cleared his thoughts and focused on battle. Your voice had sound weak and tired, but you were perfectly capable of holding yourself, and this wasn't the first time you had been hurt before. He had actually patched you more than once in the past and... And then you mentioned a J1, and whispered his name, and there was a loud ringing sound through the coms that sounded too close to an explosion for his comfort and... And the sounds died, leaving nothing more than radio silence. And Wolffe, going against everything he had learnt and was trained for, pannicked.

"General?" His frantic, afraid voice was enough for Master Ploo to focus his attention on him, a graze at his Force life enough to make him understand his commander's feelings. "General. Come on. Com in, kid..."

There was only static.

Wolffe's heart pumped faster, adrenaline shooting through his veins. His hands trembled. A knot formed in his throat, slowly chocking his voice. He never broke down. He never broke down, but...

"Cyar'ika" he begged in a whisper. "Please, please answer and tell me you're okay".

He still got no answer back from you, and he felt his soul hurt.

Master Plo's hand suddenly renched him back into reality; a comforting wave of what could only be his Force washing over him. Wolffe turned his face towards him. The Jedi watched him in understanding.

"I can feel your turmoil. It is such it's difficult for me to focus on anything else. You are in no state to stay in the battlefield" he told him, cautiously gentle. "If my padawan has been gravely injured someone has probably helped her return to camp. You must go and make sure she's okay".

Even if Wolffe wanted nothing more than to start of a run and find her, he still hesitated in front of his General. He was a soldier. A commander. He couldn't leave his place just because he had stupidly, oh so fucking stupidly, fallen in love with her...

Master Plo squeezed his shoulders once. He knew him so well.

"Go" he insisted. "That's an order".

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Wolffe quickly wrenched the flimsi excuse of a door of the tent open. He had gone to the makeshift infirmary first; his doctor quickly informing him of the state of his Jedi, and where he could find her resting at the moment. "A dangerous wound, but surprisingly stable" he had told him while he took care of the wound of a fellow brother. "She's a tough one, our General. It was a good idea to use her own lightsaber as a cauterizer. She wouldn't have probably made it all the way back here otherwise". That probability had made Wolffe tremble.

His own eyes quickly scanned the Jedi's state now. She was laying down on a rucksack, unusually clad in just a sport top and his Jedi pant's; outer robes discarded and clean bandages effectively wrapping around her lower torso, with just a small amout of blood transpairing on her side. Her lightsaber had been carefully placed at her side. Her hair was untied and a mess; some sticking to her dirtied face and some falling around freely behind her. Despite her evident exhaustion, Wolffe hand't ever been so happy to see her.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Commander?" You asked in a surprised voice, slowly and carefully propelling some of your weight in your elbows in order to see him better. "Shouldn't you be back on the battlefield?"

Your face quickly changes into a deep, worried frown as you scan him up and down quickly.

"Are you hurt too, Wolffe?"

His heart clenches again. He steps inside the tent, slowly falling down on his knees besides you, and closes the door.

"No" he simply answers, observing you quietly.

You're completely lost. He's looking at you in a different way. He... Feels different, in the Force. Usually he feels much more reserved, almost as if he had learnt how to shield his emotions from a Jedi; however this... This felt raw.

"I'm afraid I don't understand" you chuckle and then wince at the way the movement tugs at your wound, a bit nervously now. You pointedly look at him. "You wouldn't be here just because you got worried, right?"

Wolffe's expression doesn't change.

"You went radio silent" he answers, quietly.

You arch an eyebrow.

"Our coms died" you explain, still confused about his attitude.

Wolffe can't help himself. He reaches forward and carefully grasps your chin in his right hand; eyes boring into yours. You gasp in surprise and can't do anything else but stare at his breathetaking mismatched eyes in response; emotions inside of you swirling dangerously with his move.

"You were hurt" he enfasises, almost as if he's trying to tell you something else, something you're not quite understanding. "You were hurt, and you went radio silent".

Oh. Oh. He thought you might be... You might have...

"Oh, Wolffe" his name is an understanding, affectionate sigh on your tempting lips. "I'm okay".

He doesn't want empathy. Doesn't want that almost condescending type of comfort. He needs to make sure you're still here; with him. He needs to exteriorize all this raw, painful emotions he has been keeping hidden for so fucking long, and he wants you so fucking bad it makes his mind and soul burn...

He bends down over you, holding himself against one hand proped against the floor while the other one tugs your neck forward, and then he's kissing you –fiercely, dominantly, real–; he kisses the same way he fights and a surprised but delighted whimper of a moan can't help but escape from your lips, hands quickly clinging onto his shoulders desperately.

You... You hadn't thought you'd end up having this. With you being a Jedi and him being such a perfect, respected clone Commander, you had always brushed your wants aside and...

"Wolffe" you whisper, trembling inevitably when his plush warm mouth moves from your lips to the side of your neck, biting gently. "Wolffe, I...".

He breathes and looks up at your face again; cupping your cheek with his right hand and observing your reaction with his eyes shimmering in needs and desire.

His Force signature blasts. He loves you. He loves you, and you...

"Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum" you whisper, risking it all and giving your heart to him.

Tears blur your sight. They're not sad tears; they're not happy either. They're a mix of emotions that make you feel like a mess and...

Wolffe sighs. You love him. You love him, and the fact that you've told him in Mando'a...

He closes his eyes and gently presses his forehead against yours; finding solace and peace in your embrace, in this Keldabe. His eyes then flutter open, and he holds your face in both of his hands, slowly joining your lips in a kiss much more sweet and unhurried than those from before. You hum, surrendering in complete bliss.

He caresses your smuged cheek with his thumb, taking some of the dirt and exhaustion of the battlefield away.

His voice is a secret whisper as well.

"Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum, cyare".

Your fingers tug at the hair at the back of his neck, and you crash your lips onto his.

You imprint those five mandalorian words in your soul.

THE END.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

This one was a blast to write! Felt the emotions so raw myself tooo bfbfbsfb this two are so cute. I hope I get to write more of Wolffe in the future, I really like the guy.

Did some minor alterations –like him not been the one to actually carry you back to safety– but it kinda wrote itself and I'm happy with how it came out. Hope you liked it as well!

Also, dear friends, if you ever want to request something longer than a one-shot, you're able to do so as well (if the plot goes accordingly or I find it expandable). I'm not writing whole stories, but a short one of maybe 2-5 chapters max would be okay.

Stay tunned for the next one yall. It will be a little angsty one with Echo, and then we'll have a flirty fun one with Crosshair.

Xx,

Sky.

Back to main masterlist here!

[blxkstar]

𝙅𝙚𝙙𝙞 𝙋𝙖𝙙𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙣 𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘾𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙒𝙖𝙧

During the Clone Wars, Jedi Padawans who used to focus only on training were elevated to Commanders in the Grand Army of the Republic. I made this playlist inspired by the young padawans thrust into this role. Feeling the responsibility and pressure in a war zone. Please check it out!

A Jedi Commander's role was mostly to assist their master and general, yet they were often expected to take on missions or actions without the help of their master.

Mace Windu: "While you depart for Cato Neimoidia, we have a new matter to discuss: the chancellor's request to prepare Padawans for the field."

Obi-Wan Kenobi: "Padawans for the military?"

"Jedi Military Integration Act, which officially made fully-trained Jedi into generals. Jedi who were still training as Padawans, meanwhile, were granted the official but lesser rank of commander. Many in the Republic found the footage of the teenage Jedi Commanders leading full grown clones strange"

"Jedi Commander outranked all clones except Clone Commanders. Jedi Commanders were also still subordinate to the higher-ranked Jedi General and were given authority over clone forces as large as a regiment"

Info from WOOKIEEPEDIA

[rex-meshla]

Rex-Meshla's Masterlist ✨

Shadows of the Force

Captain Rex x F!OC

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

Steel Meets Silk

ARC Commander Colt x F!OC

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Clone Drabbles

Commander Wolffe

Brat Summer

Testing Limits

Testing Limits —Part 2 (NSFW)

ARC Commander Colt

Take What You Need (NSFW)

Commander Fox

An Unusual Assignment

Captain Howzer

Stolen Nights and Shared Dreams

[threepandas]

Counting Down: 3 [<-Prev][]

My eyes were getting worse. There was nothing the healers could really do. Because, ultimately? There was nothing actually wrong, with my eyes. They were working exactly as nature intended. Exactly as my genetics designed. It was just... badly designed. Poorly suited, unfortunate perhaps, ill optimized in every way, for my environment.

If I had been living alone? Or in a sparsely populated, low growth environment? Subterraneanly? Well, THEN my eyes would have been perfect. Perhaps a bit on the over sensitive side, but otherwise perfect. I would have been a Sage. Elevated to Pathfinder, for my ability to safely lead my tribe through the dark.

But here? On Coruscant? Amongst the constant flow of billions? It is AGONY. A disability of the worst sort. Like two ice picks, slamming light and information into my brain. At the rate I am developing...

At... At the rate I am developing?

I may eventually be as good as BLIND. Be forced to wear a glorifed blindfold. And... and when THAT, inevitably fails? As it WILL fail? There have been... been somber, serious, terrifying talks? On if I wish to first try removing myself to a remote Temple for seclusion (and risk the lack of medical care that comes with it.) or if? O-or if?

Medically, it would be better to just... replace my eyes.

T-They can't even guarantee? That it would work. There are species that see through the Force. My problem may BE that I am somehow one of them and simply not physically built for it. That I developed the needed mutation. I... I could lose my eyes for NOTHING.

Yet...?

The headaches. The LIGHT. I can not take missions anymore. Can not even help in the Crèches. Their unfiltered, unshielded Force presences? Are like staring into search lights. I can not even help with Initiate classes, having grown too fucking sensitive! How will I EVER find a Padawan?!

I... I wanted one. Someone to guide and teach. Someone to watch grow.

Maybe that grief, (that I might never have one, that I KNOW he can do better,) is what makes me so short with Qui-gon. Obi-Wan is a youngling, damn it! Not a crutch for you mental health! Something which? Of course leads me to chasing Yan's Padawan down. REPEATEDLY. (Stop running! Boy! I KNOW YOU CAN SEE ME, QUI-GON! You better STOP RUNNING!! Listen to your Aunty while she SCOLDS YOU!) Because SOMEONE needs to beat that into the stubborn, heart sick, fool's head!

Why not me? I'm stuck on medical leave! Possibly FOREVER.

(Have a treat, Obi-Wan. You're too skinny.)

It's not productive. I KNOW it's not productive. The harder I push, the more Qui-gon digs his heels in. Yan's old Padawan was many things, but weak willed? Even in the depth of his grief? Hardly one of them. The whole LINEAGE was stubbornness made manifest. Literal STONES we more agreeable and subject to change.

I just wished Padawan Kenobi wasn't the one paying for it.

So, I helped. Without judgment. No harrasing him about his weight or his injuries, no demands he explain this or that. Just... there, if he's ready. If he trusts me. Bacta and pain relief, a safe place to sleep, someone to guide a peaceful meditation. And of course, Food. Ration bars by the basket. Take and hoard as many as you need. Here, both rich and mild foods to choose from.

Hugs and safety, I could do that. Be that. Put my emotions aside, for the sake of a child. Did his mere presence hurt? Yes. A LOT. But I would sooner die then let him know that. Bright and beautiful as his soul was, young and growing as he is? There is no pain, that is merely the confusion of crude matter. I am FINE. This... is FINE.

(Dispite the drugs, the meditation, it still HURTS.)

Neither Yan or Sifo like it. In fact, Yan is? Both in turns, heart sick and furious. His old Padawan entirely too good at dodging him. Dispite Yan being on the HIGH COUNCIL. Dispite BOTH Yan and Sifo, being on the High Council. It's genuinely impressive. Alarming, yes, that he uses such skill to avoid any attempts at therapy... but, well....

I've SEEN what the Mind Healers here consider a job "well done", with Sifo. Their definition of "help". So... granted, I understand completely. But he could just as easily take his Padawan on a "healing retreat"! Sneak away to get ACTUAL help from one of the other Sects! Illum perhaps? The Whills?

He KNOWS I'm right. It's why he's avoiding me.

(The little SHIT.)

Breathing in filtered, earth rich air, I tried to breathe out my stress. The Thousand Gardens do not just extend upwards. They went down as well. And they will continue to go upwards if ever another Temple is built upon the current one. Just like the last gardens, in which I sit, the light requiring plants that can be moved will be brought upwards. Those that can't? Get solar lamp systems.

Tiny biodomes, here in the dark. We do not kill our ancient trees, after all. Our plant and gardens. They are precious heirlooms. Living, breathing, friends. And besides? In the places they abandon, for the light up above? NEW gardens can be made! Subterranean ones. Glowing lichen and mushrooms, cave shrubs and parasitic low light trees.

It is peaceful, down here. Glowing plant life and distant lamps, like so many stars in the dark. The sound of running water and quite murmurs of the few who prefer such low light meditations. There are more then a few knights napping, having found gardens that speak to them. Their various light sensitive visual organs, finally having found relief.

Somewhere above me, Sifo is pacing. Erratic. Another vision of death and despair, of clones marching upon us all. It is getting to him. Like the slow eroding of a cliff face. Death by a thousand cuts. Over and over and OVER. Despair. Won't you do something? DESPAIR. Don't you CARE? DESPAIR. I can offer the power to FIX things. Don't you want it? Don't you WANT it~??

The Dark Side is a cruel and insidious thing. A riptide. An undertow, which drags you out to sea, then drowns you. It offers sweetness, safety, freedom. Only to deliver oblivion and pain. Power without control, it corrodes you. Destroys all that you were. Giving voice to your worst impulses, silencing your better nature.

You become a mockery of yourself.

I... I am scared for him. For Yan. I can see the outline of their ends, beginning to line up before them. They are pulling away. Growing frustrated. Their discussions with me are growing less philosophical difference with the Order, and more... dangerously immoral. Heretical. Nothing actionable, of course, but... I wouldn't expect their to be.

Both are High Councilors. They, of all people, know how to toe the line.

What do I DO? I ask the Force. Meditation after meditation, seeking guidance. How can I help them? And yet... I get no reply. No insight. Only nudges towards Obi-Wan. Towards teaching and compassion. Slipping him lessons on how to help slaves cope with the trauma. Philosophical debates on the doctrine of attachments. And, of course? Showing him my completely personal project, that HE will in no way someday need, of creating lesson plans for my hypothetical future Padawn.

How VERY thoughtful of him! To help me get some of those data pads! To help me research and revise my plans. He'll make a great mentor one day~ Amused? Me? No, no, dear. I was just thinking of a funny joke. Have ever given thought to Form Three?

Also! Never trust the Senate intelligence, dear. They are full of shit and couldn't spot a slaver if the sale was happening right in front of them. Do your own research whenever possible and NEVER rush in. NEVER.

(Yan refused to rush the assignment. Was in the Process of contacting the Armorer of Little Keldab for information. A Team was sent behind his back. On the word of the Senate alone. They almost completely DIED and the rightful Ruler of the Mandalorian people? Enslaved. Force knows where. Are you HAPPY now? Was rushing WORTH it? Your "regrets" mean NOTHING to the dead.)

It's building. I can feel it. The darkness is growing, my friends drifting farther and farther from the light. All, while? I am stuck. Disabled by my eyes. By the pain my so call "blessing" gives me.

Giving up on another useless meditation, I rise. Head for the lifts. The hallways down here are... quite. The old temple towers a peace place. Filled with the ancient echos of long dead Masters. There are room down here. Apartments. They are unassigned, yes, but no one truely cares if they are used. Granted, I would have to dust them myself.

I consider it. The light, (or really, the lack there off) is much more comfortable down here. The quite, less stressful. If Sifo didn't have such traumatic associations with darkness? I would honestly suggest moving down here with me. It might do us both some good.

As the lift rises, I tap the side of my lenses. Momentarily blinding myself in preparation for the increasing light. Soon enough, vision returns. The cacophonous press of noise. Oh dear, it's mid-meal. I should have waited. No wonder it's so loud and bright. Gritting my teeth, I keep my expression calm and pleasant. My shoulders relaxed.

It is not the younglings fault, that it hurts to be near them. They should NOT have to carry that guilt nor knowledge. I walk calmly but swiftly. This is fine. This Is Fine. Ow, ow, ow, OW, OW! This Is Fine!

Relief. I get passed them. The healers are right. Damn it. It really IS not just my eyes that are growing more sensitive. I... I so badly wanted them to be wrong. But as days go by? As weeks pass? Everything has slowly gotten... gotten so LOUD. Sharp and shrill, grating and rumbling, barks and squeals. Just? Just ALL of it. Too much.

Loud.

At the rate i'm going? I'm going to end up in a Force damned helmet like some sort of Mandalorian! And... and yes, I know there is no shame in that. That each race has their own specific needs. That it is humanist to think certain traits are somehow BETTER then others. I just... just feel like I am slowly losing myself. My freedom.

I am scared.

My body feels like it's betraying me.

Somewhere, near the High Council's chambers, I can feel Yan seething. How long has it been? Since the three of us coexisted in simple peace? Before Sifo's accident? Their appointments to the Council? Or was it as recent as Xanatos and the disaster of his Fall? How... How long have I been a pillar? For the mental and spiritual strength of others?

It's grinding me to dust. I'm so tired. Just... just want to rest. For just a moment. Without the fear, that my moments weakness? Will condemn a good man. Will irreversibly harm, a growing child. I.. Force, I am so tired.

Sifo is waiting for me, in my apartments. My plan for a moments rest? A fleeting, impossible, dream. He is pacing, pacing, pacing. Lines of tension and darting eyes. Hands clenching and unclenching. Running through his already ruined hairdo, again and again. It was easy to see what someone might think him mad. He certainly looked it.

"I saw them again. Bastards! I don't-! What am I doing wrong?!" He gasped the second he laid eyes on me. Already ranting before the door even closed. "I vow not to step foot on Kamino? They still appear. Avoid Mandalorians? Still! They exsist! But, oh! What if I plan Temple defenses? Surely THEN, right?! No! They somehow get passed them! Is it me? Am I the problem!?"

"TELL ME!"

He spun, eyes wide and manic, arms spread. As though inviting a blow. Inviting his own destruction. Hair falling from his careful hairdo in mad whisps, clothes disheveled, hands faintly trembling... he did not look well. Looked near tears. Teetering on the edge of something ugly.

How long could he hold out? I wondered.

I didn't have a comforting answer for him. No sweet and gentle words. But I could offer a hug. A hand to hold, as he faced down the dark. Sometimes... sometimes there WAS no right answer, Sifo. Sometimes the pieces were all on the board yet. Or the very act of try to stop Fate, made it so. I don't know. Can't know. Neither of us can.

But I can be there WITH you, until the end. And we can do our best.

Have you eaten yet? Had any tea? When was the last time you slept? Terrible things do not become easier to bear, if you burn yourself up, trying to face them. You have to take care of yourself too. I stepped forward, into that desperate stance, and pulled him into my arms.

"You believe me. You BELIEVE me. It's just inevitabe, too you, isnt it? That's what your trying not to say, isn't it? That you've run out of options. " Sifo's arms wrapped around me in a desperate grip. Like a drowning man holding onto the only life raft at sea.

"You're just afraid. Don't want me to break myself, destroy myself, chasing something that can't happen. Because we're Jedi, and you know we have to try. Try and try and TRY! Until it destroys us. Destroys everything. Hoping against all hope that they'll just... just LISTEN! But they WON'T, will they? They won't listen. It's inevitable. A cleansing. Purging of the old, to give rise to something new. The will of the Force itself."

Cleansing? Purging?! Alarm bells started to ring in my head. Nothing good came of talks of "cleansings" or "purgings" of ANYTHING.. NOTHING. I opened my mouth to refute him. Never got the chance. Yan's Force presence slammed into ours. The equivalent of crashing open doors and stomping feet.

Startled and alarmed, I turned just in time to see him sweep into my apartment like a raging, high society, storm cloud. The expression on his face could peel paint.

"Apparently," he snarled, barely holding together. "my Grand-Padawan has SUPPOSEDLY left the Order! Despite showing no prior interest in doing so, sending no missives to friends or fellow Creche-mates, and? Of course? Let us not forget? SUPPOSEDLY doing so? For some TART in the midst of an ACTIVE WARZONE!"

Horrified, I felt the blood drain from my face. No. NO! I thought I had more TIME! Please! Dear FORCE! Tell me, Qui-gon did not LEAVE his Padawan on-!

"Oh yes! CLEARLY, this is but a childish desire to wet his-!" Yan visibly struggled to beat back the surge of incoherent WRATH and fear. The disappointment. They HORROR at a child, in such unimaginable danger. "The Council won't even HEAR that there could be anything amiss! Won't even CHECK. A supposed WASTE of RESOURCES, when already we are stretched too thin! A CHILD, potentially ABANDONED in a WARZONE! And they-!? THEY-!?"

My mind races as I pull away from Sifo's grip to face Yan. The Order won't authorize use of their ships to go check. But... But? Are we not Jedi? We serve the Force. Our mission is to PROTECT. Minimize suffering, bring Light to the universe. Take a sabbatical! NOW! In fact? We ALL will. It will be GOOD for me, to be away from Coruscant's crowded population.

Call your Family, Yan. We need a Serranian Ship. Ask if we can borrow the Senator's, since it's on planet. We aren't slaves. They can't stop us, if we simple decide to GO. Punish us? Perhaps. But not STOP us.

An almost roguish grin settles poorly, under the near manic glint in Yan's eyes. Too expressive. Too unhinged. He has never been anything but composed, he values it too highly. Sifo's answering grin is just as manic. Just as... slightly wrong. Too much. Fitting both too practiced and ill fitting on their faces.

Like they are feeding off each others madness... some part of me hisses in concern. A feedback loop, we aren't strong enough to stop.

I try to ignore it. Focus on the now. There is a child in danger. It's... it's fine. Probably. All I have to do, is keep them away from the Sith! They... they won't Fall. They WON'T.

R-Right?

Yet... watching them plan our trip? Calling in favors and gleefully plotting. Casually threatening. Feeding of each others energy, as they do. I... I am not so certain. Once again, that moment of dissonance strikes true. Like looking around and realizing I am an actor on the stage of a Tragedy, ready line after line, as we march onward to the inevitable End.

Attachments are going to condemn you. Seems to whisper the Force. Like chains that choke and squeeze.

I know, I whisper back. But I am foolish and still want to save them.

Please let me try.

Please.

Let me TRY.

[beauiestars]

OBI-WAN KENOBI - Scars of Age

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Fem!Reader - {PART ONE}

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.2K

Warnings: Slow burn, pining, source material inaccuracies, medical inaccuracies, semi-graphic violence, minor character death, semi-graphic blood/injury, vomiting (not explicit or recurring), moral dilemmas, betrayal…

Beau's Note: The timeline in this story stresses me out. This story takes place over a period of 25 years (I think) and the earlier parts contain a lot of time skips. This story also contains a lot of inaccuracies because I wrote it for fun after finding a severe lack of Obi-Wan fics (what???!!!). Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Thankyou x

Summary: They say time heals all wounds. But with the forces of the universe tearing them apart, can two childhood best friends rediscover their connection and find solace in each other once more?

Obi-Wan clasped your soft hands firmly, tugging you upright with surprising strength for someone so young—recently turned thirteen, one whole year younger than you. "Come on, Y/n. Get up," he urged, his cheery voice breaking the stillness of the training room. His grin stretched wide and infectious, leaving no room for argument.

You groaned dramatically, letting him pull you to your feet. "But I'm tired," you complained, though you didn't resist as he steadied you.

"Too bad. I'm not," he shot back with a teasing laugh, the sound ringing through the space like music. It was so genuine, so carefree, you couldn't help but smile. Shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, he dropped into a defensive stance. "Ready?"

You rolled your eyes but mirrored his movement, your grin betraying your pretend irritation. "Do I have a choice?"

Before you could brace yourself, Obi-Wan lunged, his makeshift training stick sweeping low. You yelped and stumbled to the side, barely dodging the strike.

"Hey! I wasn't ready!" you exclaimed.

"You let your guard down," he countered, his smirk widening. "Maybe you should see if any of the younglings need a new sparring partner." His laughter bubbled over as you swung clumsily at his legs, your stick whistling harmlessly through the air a second too late.

"I'm older than you, Obi-Wan!" you snapped, though your laughter undermined any real sting. You jabbed your elbow into his side, forcing him to retreat as your sticks clacked and sparked in your improvised battle. "And taller!"

"Barely!" he retorted, hopping nimbly to dodge another swing. His free hand darted out, jabbing you sharply in the ribs. You squealed, stumbling back as he pursued you with relentless enthusiasm. "Besides, I haven't hit my growth spurt yet. Master Qui-Gon says it's coming any day now."

You snorted. "He's just trying to make you feel better, shorty." With a triumphant whoop, you swung hard, landing a satisfying blow to the small of Obi-Wan's back. He toppled forward onto the mat with a groan.

"Hah! That's a point for me," you declared smugly, standing over him with satisfaction. But your victory was short-lived. Obi-Wan's pout morphed into a wicked grin, and in a flash, he kicked your legs out from under you.

You landed beside him in a heap, laughter spilling uncontrollably from your lips. "I already won! You were down first," you protested weakly, barely managing the words through your giggles.

"Call it a tie," he said smugly, his grin as irrepressible as ever.

"What if I tell Master Yoda you cheated?" You asked, putting a finger to your chin in mock contemplation.

"Then I'll tell him you said he looks kickable," Obi-Wan countered, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Don't you dare," you gasped, lunging at him. Your fingers found his ribs, and you tickled him mercilessly. Obi-Wan shrieked—an uncharacteristically high-pitched sound—and thrashed beneath your attack.

He tried to negotiate through peals of laughter, his legs flailing wildly, but you refused to relent. Not until the soft hiss of the training room door snapped you both to attention.

The two of you froze as Masters Windu, Qui-Gon, and Yoda entered. Their expressions shifted from concern to exasperation, and finally to reluctant amusement as they took in the scene.

"What is going on in here?" Mace Windu's stern tone cut through the lingering laughter.

Scrambling to your feet, you brushed yourself off while Obi-Wan remained sprawled on the mat, gasping for air. "Master Yoda! I beat Obi-Wan again," you declared proudly, hurrying to the diminutive Jedi with an eager smile.

From the floor, Obi-Wan groaned loudly. "Barely," he muttered, though he made no effort to stand.

Yoda's ears twitched, his eyes glinting with warmth as he inclined his head. "Very impressed, I am," he said, nodding thoughtfully. "But quieter, you two must be. Too loud, you are."

Beside you, Obi-Wan finally dragged himself upright. He nudged you gently in the ribs, grinning. "Yeah, Y/n. Too loud," he teased.

Yoda's expression sharpened as he folded his arms. "Trouble, do not cause," he warned, his tone pointed.

"Sorry, Master," you and Obi-Wan said in unison, bowing your heads. But as you straightened, you caught Obi-Wan's mischievous glance, and it took all your willpower to stifle another round of laughter.

Qui-Gon stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Time for bed, both of you. Tomorrow is a big day." Although he was Obi-Wan's master, you spent a lot of time being taught by Master Qui-Gon. Mostly because Master Yoda was often too busy, but also due to the fact you and Obi-Wan were considered a package deal.

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan replied obediently.

"Of course, Master Qui-Gon, sir," you added, flashing a sheepish smile.

Together, the two of you exited the training room, your footsteps echoing softly in the corridor. The quiet didn't last long; Obi-Wan nudged you playfully, and you took off running, the hallway soon filled with laughter once again.

Back in the training room, the three Masters stood in silence for a long moment before exchanging knowing looks.

"Great futures ahead of them, those two have," Yoda said at last, his voice tinged with pride.

"Indeed," Qui-Gon agreed, a faint smile touching his lips.

Though none of them would admit it aloud, the bond between you and Obi-Wan was a bright spot in the Temple, a reminder of the importance of camaraderie and the light it brought to the Order.

"Best friends, they are," Yoda mused, his small, fond smile returning. "Powerful teammates, they will be."

***

"I can't believe you threatened to tell Master Yoda I said he looks kickable!" you exclaimed, laughter spilling into the quiet hallway as you punched Obi-Wan lightly in the arm.

Obi-Wan's laugh followed, pure and melodic, the kind he reserved for moments he couldn't fake.

"Well, I can't believe you accused me of cheating," he shot back, mock offense lacing his tone. But the glint in his eyes gave him away, amusement flickering just beneath the surface. "Just because I'm better than you."

You rolled your eyes, brushing the folds of your oversized Padawan robes as you stood. Extending both hands toward him, you wiggled your fingers impatiently. Obi-Wan didn't hesitate. His smaller hands slid comfortably into yours, and you hoisted him up. He straightened, his brow furrowing slightly as he glanced around the alcove where you'd been sitting together.

The Jedi Temple had settled into its nightly rhythm. The energy of the day—hushed conversations and faint footsteps—had given way to silence. Most Jedi had retired to their quarters or the gardens for evening reflection, but you and Obi-Wan had claimed the quiet sanctuary of an alcove beneath a tall, arching window.

Moonlight streamed through the glass, bathing the space in pale silver and casting long, lazy shadows across the stone walls. Beneath the window, etched into the smooth bricks, were your initials separated by an elegant "&." Obi-Wan had carved them a year ago.

The memory came back easily: the way he'd found a discarded screw and painstakingly etched the letters into the stone, his mischievous grin belying the care he took with every curve. When he was finished, you'd been stunned by how deliberate and graceful the carving was, as though he'd practiced it countless times.

"Show-off," you muttered, brushing your fingers lightly over the inscription.

Obi-Wan caught your expression and smirked knowingly. "You're still jealous," he teased, though his words carried no edge.

You sighed softly, dropping one of his hands but keeping hold of the other. Tugging him gently, you started walking. You didn't know where you were going, but that was half the fun. You'd figure it out when you got there.

Obi-Wan followed without question, his hand warm and steady in yours. He didn't ask where you were headed; he already knew you didn't have a plan. Still, he admired the confidence in your stride, as though each step had a purpose.

As you wandered, Obi-Wan closed his eyes, counting your paces and mentally mapping each turn. This was your game: you led impromptu adventures through the labyrinth of the Jedi Temple, and he honed his sense of direction. He relished the challenge, while you revelled in the freedom of leading him into the unknown.

Eventually, you stopped. Letting go of his hand, you turned to face him, a sly smile tugging at your lips as you watched him furrow his brow in concentration. His eyelids scrunched tight, his expression so comically serious that you nearly laughed. You could practically hear the gears turning.

"The training room," he guessed, cracking one eye open as though testing his answer.

You glanced around the familiar space, grinning so wide your cheeks ached. "Nooo," you teased, drawing the word out dramatically.

Both of Obi-Wan's eyes popped open. He tilted his head, giving you an unimpressed look. "You're lying," he said flatly. "You always bring me to the training room."

"Not always," you countered, crossing your arms in mock defiance. The oversized sleeves of your robe draped over your hands, making the gesture look more like a pout.

"Fine," he said with a smirk. "More often than not."

"Better." You reached out, patting the top of his head. Predictably, he groaned and swatted your hand away with exaggerated annoyance.

"Next time, I'll take you somewhere completely different," you promised.

"No, you won't," he retorted, his knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You're right, I won't," you admitted, breaking into laughter.

The sound filled the corridor, echoing softly. It was the kind of laughter that left your ribs aching and your cheeks sore, born purely from the joy of his company. Obi-Wan had a way of making you laugh more in a day than most people could in a lifetime, and you treasured it.

As your laughter ebbed into silence, the stillness between you felt natural, not empty. No words were needed; everything worth saying had already been said in shared smiles and playful jabs.

Obi-Wan cast you a sidelong glance, his blue-grey eyes sparkling in the dim light. "My turn?" He asked. You hesitated for a moment, you weren't nearly as good at this as Obi-Wan. Something about counting steps and calculating or just feeling your surroundings didn't sit right with you.

"Fine," you said. Obi-Wan took your hands in his, your fingers interlocking like puzzle pieces. You closed your eyes and allowed your best friend to lead the way. Ten paces straight, then a left, or was that a right? Just like that you were already lost.

Obi-Wan felt your hands squeeze his a little tighter—a tell tale sign which he recognised—and knew he had won another round. He finally stopped somewhere and let go of your hands. "Where are we?" He prompted you, and you bit your lip.

Obi-Wan wasn't predictable like you. He was smart and calculated whilst you had a tendency to dive straight into things. Two polar opposite sides of the same coin. That's why the two of you worked so well together, you balanced the other out nicely.

"Come on, try to feel your surroundings," he encouraged. He watched in amusement as you leaned out to touch the wall, his hand catching your wrist instantly. "With your mind."

You huffed. "I don't know." He hummed quietly in front of you, not uttering another word. Your mind reeled, trying to 'feel your surroundings'—whatever that meant—but you felt nothing. "Can I have a hint?" Your words echoed back to you.

Obi-Wan didn't respond and you were starting to worry he had left you behind, blind and alone. Then you felt his presence. There was a calm aura radiating from behind you and you felt immediately attracted to it. You turned, took a few steps closer and reached out for his shoulders, finding the smooth fabric of his shirt under your palms. "I found you. Does that count?"

He snickered. "If that'll help you sleep at night, sure." You opened your eyes and observed your surroundings. It was a corridor that looked identical to most other corridors in the jedi temple. Obi-Wan had to press his palm to his face to restrain his laughter at the evident confusion on your face. "You still don't know where we are, do you?"

"Not a clue," you said, grinning. "Why do I need to know where I am when I have you to do that for me?" Your tone was light-hearted and joking but there was an irony in your words that made you nervous. As you advanced in your padawan training, your masters were emphasising the importance of independence more and more. Although teamwork is necessary and encouraged, you can't depend on one another too heavily.

"Yeah, I suppose so," Obi-Wan said, despite knowing what you were thinking by the tight smile playing on your lips. He punched your shoulder lightly, "Doesn't mean you can stop trying, though. I won't be very happy if I have to save you all the time."

"I'll be the one saving you, Obi-Wan," you said. Confidence poured into your words. "You can count on that." He shook his head, but didn't make any retort. You fell into easy silence and wandered the corridors until curfew.

･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆

TAGS:

[caprisun89bakerstreet]

Guilty as sin p.2 ~ snapshots

“What if the way you hold me is actually what’s holy?”

But things go increasingly downhill

“How did these bounty hunters even manage to get their hands on battle droids?” Obi-Wan questioned out loud as his saber pierced through a droid.

“I mean you could always ask them, the trade federation might just awnser—“ You reply sarcastically, slashing your saber again .

“Well i don’t think they’d be very cooperative, do you?” He retorted matching your sarcasm as he beheaded another droid.

“Stop bickering you two—“ Qui Gon Jinn said while gutting the last droid.

“Master—“ You plead your steps slowing down without you wanting to, and Qui Gon seemed to realize just how worn out you were. This was it. He had pushed you both too far. He turned around and stayed behind you as you kept blocking the blasterfire coming your way. Keeping Obi-Wan secure in his arms, head against his shoulder, and his eyes were closed already. He really should’ve been better. For the both of you.

But there was another kind of determination in you as he saw you cradle Obi-Wan. You were determined in a dangerous way. No, a selfless one.

Since ch.2 has been heavily requested. By like 2 people.

[kittysdarkcloud]

some of my fav little notes in the sw book♡

[angelseraphines]

choose my next obi-wan kenobi x reader fanfiction!!!

please note for the padawan!reader fanfiction, the reader will be kenobi’s padawan only because their master died recently in order to avoid any inappropriate implications in the dynamic. for the jealous!wife!reader, obi-wan will be secretly married to the reader and will grow a buried envy for duchess satine kryze on mandalore during the clone wars. for the married!reader, the reader will be wife or concubine of another man when obi-wan meets her. for the inquisitor!reader, the story takes place during obi-wan kenobi’s exile on tatooine and the reader is tasked with finding kenobi. let me know if you have any other ideas!!! i also have an obi-wan kenobi x tatooine!reader imagine published!! read here!! 🤍

[curlygirlybitchachos]

Jedi Master Reader

(Order 66)

*Y/n fighting against their men, while protecting their padawan*

Y/n: I do not want to hurt any of you.

*their Commander and men ready to fire*

Y/n: but you don't give me another choice...

[juststoriesintheend]

II. The Lesson

Pairing: Master Sol x gn!Reader

Chapter Content: some light Jedi philosophy, lightsaber sparring, mutual pining, first kiss

Word Count: 2.7k

《 [series masterlist] 》 《 I 》

In an attempt to remain as cool, calm, and casual as possible, you’ve left your cloak in your room. You’d only have to take it off in the training room anyway, so you’re saving yourself the extra time and effort. Not that you’re overthinking things. At all. You’ve only re-layered your tunics and tabard half a dozen times, adjusted your belt twice that, and very nearly stepped out with only one boot. Whatever spell you had been under in Sol’s presence yesterday has completely worn off.

You arrive an hour earlier than you normally do, which is about fifteen minutes before Sol comes in with Jecki. If you remember right, Sol is done teaching the younglings by now and is off doing whatever it is he does in his spare hour between duties. While you’re a little deflated not seeing him right away, it’s for the best because his absence allows you focus and control. You can concentrate better on the saber, on your hands, on the slicing of air and the humming of the Force without him distracting you.

After some quick stretches, you unclip your saber and ignite it. The floor and nearby pillars reflect the light back to you, as well as a distorted image of your silhouette. A lifetime’s worth of muscle memory kicks in and your body is alive, thrumming with energy as your wrist twists, then your elbow, then your torso tilts and the saber swings in front, in back, in front again. Your wrist flicks and the saber swirls above your head, down behind your back, and finishes with a flourish at your side.

It feels like coming home.

Switching the saber from one hand to the other, you warm up your other side, copying your previous moments as precisely as possible even though it’s definitely your weaker side. This is the freedom you’ve been missing. You’ve been so fixated on Sol that it’s kept you away from the calm that saber work has always brought you – the repetition of the familiar, the Force as it flows through you, the shadows and highlights cast upon the walls as your saber arcs. Nothing could ever compare to this.

The saber flies into the air after you toss it. This is one of the fancier tricks you’ve seen some of the younger Knights and Padawans practicing, and you can already tell you won’t be able to catch this one properly, not without hurting yourself, so you jump back and flick the blade off with the Force. You fully expect it to clatter on the stone floor, and you’re hoping the fall doesn’t damage the casing or the kyber, but instead it… hovers.

It takes a millisecond to search the room for the source, and another to turn your head. Sol stands near the doorway with his arm outstretched, both eyes open and his face lightly furrowed in concentration. His attention flickers to you before refocusing on your saber, and it unexpectedly flies across the room into his open palm in the second it takes for you to catch your breath.

There’s something remarkably intimate about him holding this piece of you, something so vital to your being as a Jedi that you feel empty without it at your side. Still, if there were anyone you trusted to hold your saber, your very life, in their hands, you think it would be Sol. It just so happens that you also like to watch him hold it, whatever that means to the secret, affectionate creature that lives inside you.

“I’ve never seen you try that before,” he finally says. He starts for the center of the room, his gaze still focused on your saber as he rubs his thumb over the hilt.

You’re strangely breathless and you can’t understand why. “I was feeling adventurous. Saw some of the Padawans trying it the other day and, very foolishly, thought I should try it too.”

The corner of Sol’s mouth dimples into a crooked smile.

Wait, did he just say he’d never seen you try that before? He’s aware of the type of saber work you usually do? Heat blazes across your face at the realization, but Sol is too occupied to take notice, thank the Force. He continues to turn your saber over in his hand, though you’re not sure why. It isn’t so remarkably different from any other saber.

“Why did you think you would disappoint me?”

Your saber is returned, and you clip it back to your belt just to have something to do. “Well, I’m not a Master, for one thing. If I’m going to be sparring with you, I’d like to at least look like I know what I’m doing.”

“It certainly appeared that you did.”

You duck your head the moment he makes eye contact with you. Now that he’s finally here, your confidence wavers, and you know that your concentration will do the same the moment he begins to fight.

“What is it that makes you so unsure of yourself?” he asks with all the gentleness of a man who senses discouragement and knows it like the back of his own hand. “You are an accomplished dueler.”

If only he knew the magnitude of his question, he might choose to ask you something else. Huffing a breath out the side of your mouth, you start with a lazy, “Well, I–”

The air around you seems to vibrate, then electrify as Sol summons his own weapon into his hand and ignites it. He bears down upon you, and you know deep in your heart that he would never hurt you, but this knowledge does not override instinct. Your saber is in your hand without conscious thought, brandished and burning as his blade lands near the hilt. The junction where they touch burns white-hot, so starkly bright that it hurts to even look.

What are you doing? you mean to ask, but the words never come. You’re too enraptured by the flame of blue-white light reflected in his pupils to speak. How long have you spent watching him from afar, marveling at his skill, and now you find yourself on the receiving end of it? It feels unreal. It feels jagged and raw in the same way a cold wind off the sea does, exhilarating in some forbidden sense.

He retreats and you stumble back a step as your lightsaber comes to hang by your leg, still ignited but out of the way. It’s not proper form, but you’re too dazed to care. Sol spots this and advances again, giving you only the slightest margin for error as your blade comes screaming back into position to block him once, twice, three times before he backs up again.

“You react with instinct.” He begins to circle you with his blade extended toward your face. “Good.”

You feel a flash of irritation in your chest at this. While you’re certain (at least, you hope) he means well, this feels more like a Master testing his Padawan than a fellow Jedi electing to spar with you. You are not Sol’s Padawan and you’ve already fought to make your mark as a Knight, you don’t like feeling like a child again and certainly not at his hands. That’s not the kind of feeling you want from him.

“I don’t need a lesson,” you say as politely as you can, which isn’t very much at all currently.

Sol’s head tilts slightly in the way it always does when he’s considering something. “Then why am I here?”

Electric blue flashes across your vision as he slashes his way forward and you parry away. He’s not even giving you time to answer, let alone think, and you know it’s on purpose. Your Master’s used this trick on you several times, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.

“Why am I here?” he repeats. He doesn’t even react when your blade swings past his shoulder and misses. “Why did you accept my offer?”

You swing again, agitated, and miss a second time, only to be pushed aside by an invisible hand so strong that it nearly knocks your breath from you.

“Because!”

Now that there’s some distance between you, you have a moment to think, to assess yourself, the questions he’s asking, and the answers you want to give. Sol, however, chooses not to give you that time. His arm extends, fingers splayed and palm open as that same invisible hand grasps you by the tabard and pulls. His wrist twists and you come flying into his hand like your saber had mere minutes ago. Instinct and fear kicks in again, and you find yourself forced to choose between freedom with no saber and close quarters defense in the amount of time it takes to decide to breathe.

Your saber drops to the floor, the blade disappearing into itself as you summon the Force to instead push yourself away from Sol and out of his grasp. The resulting blow is strong enough to knock you both off your feet, though you have just enough forewarning to brace yourself for impact. Cold, hard stone meets shins and knees, but you’re already up and recovering your saber. Sol isn’t far behind, but he’s clearly startled. Startled enough to have dropped his saber.

You are no Jar’Kai prodigy, and indeed, it’s been years since you’ve attempted to dual wield with any amount of seriousness, but you try now. It makes sense. It feels right. Sol’s saber is heavy in your hand, heavier and wider than yours, but it doesn’t fight you when you brandish it. His kyber sings a peculiar harmony with your own, as if they were exchanging greetings, embracing each other through the Force. It tickles in the back of your brain like a shot of spotchka.

Sol’s hand meets your wrist when you bring his blade down. The leather glove creaks under the weight of your blow, but his arm remains firm. Your other arm remains frozen mid-air as it quivers with the effort of resisting his Force. He’s got you pinned and while he can’t release you without putting himself back in danger, you can no longer land a blow on him without losing any ground. It’s a stalemate in its truest form.

You’re closer to him now than you ever have been before. His breath fans out across your face as it comes and goes in quick exhalations, and you find yourself wondering if you should’ve brushed your teeth again after lunch. If you’d known he’d be so close to you now, you would have.

“Why?” he grits through his bared teeth. “Why did you accept my offer?”

Something hotter than ice burns from your shoulder down to your wrist with the effort of fighting him. “Because I can’t focus,” you gasp. You won’t be able to hold on much longer. “Keep. Making mistakes.”

He presses his advantage until your arm shudders with enough strength to completely collapse. The saber is snagged from your hand as it drops and quickly redirected to spark somewhere near the column of your neck. There’s no real threat behind it. Sol is moments away from winning this round and your body is already tired.

“Let your instinct guide you,” he instructs, and though it burns to admit it, you know he’s right. “Don’t think. Feel.”

But that’s exactly what you don’t want to do, what you can’t do. Because to feel would mean to let the sin of your affection for him seep deeper and deeper into your bones until you can no longer draw it out like poison from a wound. To feel would be the most beautiful agony imaginable. To feel would be to dream of possibilities that can never be. You would rather not feel it at all, than to feel it and lose it in the end.

You shake your head. “I can’t.”

Sol frowns. He looks so beautiful bathed in the light of his kyber. “What are you afraid of?”

The blue saber deactivates, then your own, and the training room returns to normal, but your wrist remains trapped in the palm of Sol’s glove. He’s close enough now that the voluminous lower half of his robes fall around your knees, brushing your ankles as he adjusts his stance and leans further into you. Is this not everything you ever wanted?

“Tell me.”

And it’s the gentleness of this prompt that finally cleaves through your heart. You are, quite honestly, tired. Your heart and mind are exhausted from the burden of your guilt, from the knowledge that you are already so attached to a man you hardly know. You want to fight his inquisition, but more than that, you want to give in if only to find relief from the torment of not knowing.

With closed eyes and a trembling voice, you finally relinquish your secret. “Rejection. Abandonment.” Half-concocted visions of a future without the Jedi, without the Order or your Master or the life you’ve worked so hard to build, materialize behind your lids. All this because you tend to fall in love a little too fast? How is that fair? “Myself. I’m afraid of myself and what I could do to destroy my own life.”

Something knocks at the door to your mind. It is a familiar sensation, like the sound of boots on stone or a guiding command given between the sparking of saber blades, it burns golden-brown like the sun and the tunic on his chest, and it smells like incense from a far away planet, the incense you sometimes smell on his cloak when he passes you by. You let him in.

You think, at first, that sharing your mind with someone is a bit like a kiss. A gentle nudging of one mind against the other until both become one, pressing thoughts and feelings and vague ideas together like a mouth or tongue might go against your own. You think that it feels like the kind of intimacy you’ve always yearned for but feared you would never know. Then you realize that Sol is actually kissing you.

Shock ripples through you fast and hard enough to make your stomach simultaneously drop to the floor and catch in your throat. You can’t breathe, you can’t move, there’s only Sol and his lips and the blazing freedom of peace cutting through the noise that usually clouds your thoughts.

He withdraws far too soon, and it leaves your mouth tingling and bruised. Your eyes flutter open and are unsurprisingly met with the umber-blackened hue of his pupils. So close. So real. His chest heaves with the effort of… what, exactly? Does he suffer from the same strange side effect as you, the unimaginable urge to kiss him again and delve even deeper? Is he fighting to restrain himself as much as you are?

“I feel it, too,” he whispers, and his eyes drop to your tongue as it darts across the seam of your mouth.

“What?” You don’t even dare to dream, but what if…?

Sol swallows heavily. “The pull. You feel it like I do?”

The hand not grasping his lightsaber drops lazily against his sternum as you both shuffle awkwardly into more normal, non-battle stances. “I do,” you reply. “I have. For a long time.”

There is a soft rustling of fabric and breath as Sol takes a moment to clip your saber back to your belt – the feel of his fingers, even through his gloves, lingering on your belt will stick with you forever – and to gently pry his from your hand. Then he reaches for your shoulder and lays his hand there, his thumb rubbing a semi-circle into your collarbone.

“Is this what you were afraid of? That I would not return your feelings?”

The ease with which he sees through your carefully constructed walls before completely blowing them to pieces is startling. Not even your Master is quite this forward with you. It’s different, to be sure, yet oddly refreshing.

“Among other things,” is your bashful response, half murmured to the space above his shoulder.

“We must have the courage to say what we want, even if we are afraid.” His hand resettles upon your cheek and your breath rushes out of you in an instant. All you can think is Sol Sol Sol Sol Sol, the only prayer you’ll ever need. “Are you afraid now?”

“No.”

“Then… I would like to kiss you again.”

When he smiles, you feel it curling up around your heart, a string that ties you to him, first knotted when he summoned your saber into his hand and now finished with a kiss.

taglist: @wolffegirlsunite

[vodika-vibes]

You mentioned posdibly doing a Kit x Reader x Monnk, where Kit is a Sith Lord trying to corrupt Young Jedi Knight Reader, and decides to do that by seducing the reader with the help of Monnk.

If it's no trouble, can I request that you write that, please?

Beauty's Wicked Wiles

Summary: Being a Jedi with the Galaxy the way that it is, is hard. It’s so hard. But you like to think it’s worth it. At least, that’s what you think right up until you realize that you’re being courted by a Sith Lord and his right hand.

Pairing: Sith! Kit Fisto x Jedi F!Reader x Purge Commander!Monnk

Word Count: 2840

Warnings: Reader gets injured

A/N: So this is kind of a flip to canon Star Wars. So everyone who was a Jedi is now a sith, and all of the Sith are now Jedi. This story has been done for several days now, and I'm pretty sure that it's not 100% what you wanted, but I'm so bad at writing seduction. Anyway, I hope you like it.

Click HERE to be added to my Taglist

“Why are you so damned cheerful?” You ask, grouchily, at the much taller man standing across from you. The much taller man who’s wielding a red lightsaber that, you’re pretty sure, is taller than you are.

“What’s there to not be cheerful about?” Sith Lord Kit Fisto asks as he twirls his blade with an expert precision that makes you want to shove said lightsaber up his ass. Sideways.

“You’re the embodiment of pure evil! You’re not allowed to be cheerful!” Okay, yes. That’s a child’s way of looking at things, but damn it, you’ve been trapped on this hell hole of a planet for weeks, you’re soaked, and freezing and you just want to go home, but you can’t because the Jedi don’t have a home and it’s all his fault.

…well, maybe not his fault, personally, but right now you’re in such a foul mood you’re inclined to blame him for everything, including inflation.

“I think our Dove is feeling a bit grumpy, General.” You twitch when you hear Commander Monnk’s voice from the left. You’re not going to look at him, because he’ll have that stupid smile on his face, and you’ll stop being angry when you see it.

Stupid charming Monnk and his stupid charming face.

“Are you cold, Dove?” Kit asks, sounding genuinely concerned, “I have a nice warm jacket you can use.”

“I’m fine!” Though you might as well be talking to a brick wall for all the good it does when a massive jacket gets flung over your head. “I think I hate you.” You mumble to the jacket.

“There you go! Go ahead and put it on, Dove!”

For a moment, you consider throwing the jacket into the river next to you. There’s nothing wrong with being a little petty, right? Only just as you think that, you shiver violently.

Dying from pettiness would be so in character for you, but also so embarrassing. 

So, grudgingly, you pull the jacket on over your robes. 

It swallows you whole.

“...it’s too big.” Of course it is, the jacket was made for a Nautolan man, not a human female. You won’t be able to fight while wearing this thing.

Plus, and worst of all, you can feel Kit and Monnk smothering their desire to call you cute. As if the humiliating nickname of Dove wasn’t bad enough.

“I’m leaving,” You announce, before you point your unlit, lightsaber at Kit, “Don’t follow me.” And then you turn to point at Monnk, “You either.”

“But what if you fall and get hurt?” Monnk asks.

“Then let me die in a ditch.”

“Nonsense! We’ll come with you!” Kit says cheerfully, “Just to your ship.”

“Absolutely not!” You’re going to lose this argument. Just like the last one. And the one before that. And every single verbal altercation you’ve ever gotten into with Kit and Monnk.

Kit and Monnk have been enamored with you since the day they first met you. That same day is the day you were christened with the nickname Dove, and they’ve been haunting you ever since.

And, although they both have completely different morals than you, you’ve never felt like you were in danger from them. You once got overwhelmed while on a mission, and Kit and Monnk came to your rescue.

They’re…horrifically confusing. And you wish that Master Dooku would do something about it. But he won’t, claiming that Kit and Monnk are not a real threat to you, so his hands are tied.

You take a step back, being careful to not step on the hem of the jacket. Tripping would just be too humiliating.

Later, you wouldn’t be able to explain what happens next. Maybe it’s the cold. Or the exhaustion. Or maybe you’re just not paying attention. Because the next thing you know the ground crumbles beneath your feet. 

What you do remember is the way your stomach drops as the sinkhole appears beneath your feet and you start to fall. You remember the realization that you’re too tired to catch yourself. And you remember hearing two voices calling your name as you fall.

Funnily enough, the last real thought you have is being surprised that they remember your real name.

Luckily enough, you don’t remember the fall…or hitting the bottom.

“She’s going to be pissed that we brought her here,” Monnk says from where he’s sitting next to a bacta tank, his eyes not once leaving the young woman floating in the bacta.

The blue of the bacta makes her look sickly, but he can’t seem to bring himself to tear his gaze away from her.

What had started as a, slightly ridiculous, plan to coax a young Jedi knight into falling to the dark side and joining them, has grown into something real. Something important.

The memory of her falling into that sinkhole is going to haunt his nightmares for years. 

“It’s not as if the people of the planet we were on were going to help her,” Kit says from where he’s sitting on a bed across the room. Monnk doesn’t even have to look at him to know that his General hasn’t taken his eyes off their Dove. “She’ll get over it.”

Monnk hums in agreement. Their Dove is a bit stubborn, she might not forgive them. But so long as she’s alive to be angry, then he doesn’t care. “Her robes made her look bigger than she is.” He notes, his gaze dropping to her stomach, where he can see her ribs.

He hears Kit move on the bed, “The Jedi are starving.” His General doesn’t sound happy about that, and Monnk thinks he understands. This…whatever it is, that exists between the Jedi and the Sith is no longer open hostility, so much as a slightly hostile rivalry. 

The Sith don’t actually want the Jedi to die out. As Kit once explained it, they’re two halves of the same coin. If the Jedi die out, then so will the Sith. One can’t exist without the other.

Balance in all things, Kit once said with a solemn nod. The Jedi run the various Corps, after all. AgriCorps, MediCorps, EduCorps, ExploraCorps. Without the Jedi, all four organizations will collapse, and then the Galaxy will tumble back to the dark ages. 

Monnk’s gaze drifts across his Dove’s body for a moment, even in bacta she’s still covered in bruises. “She’s going to be alright, right?”

“Yes. She is.” Kit sounds so sure, that Monnk is almost positive that he’s trying to convince himself of that fact. “Our Dove is a fighter,” He hears Kit get off the hospital bed, and so doesn’t even twitch when heavy hands land on his shoulders, “Will you stand watch?”

“That’s a stupid question, Kit.”

The Sith laughs and Monnk feels lips against the top of his head, “I know, but I had to make sure that someone I trust will be watching over her.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to send a message to Dooku to inform him of what happened.” Kit shrugs, “And ask if they need more food or medical supplies.”

“He won’t accept the help.”

“He might if I phrase it as helping their little ones.” Kit shrugs and then releases Monnk to leave the room, “Comm when she gets pulled from the bacta tank.”

“Yeah, will do,” Monnk replies, and then he’s alone with his Dove. His gaze drags across her pretty face, pretty even with the bruises and gashes marring her features, “You have no idea how much you mean to us, do you?”

All in all, their Dove remains in a Bacta tank for almost two whole weeks, and even after she’s pulled out, she’s still confined to a private medical room due to the severity of her injuries.

Bacta does a lot, but it’s not a miracle worker.

When she finally opens her eyes, Monnk has to fight the urge to fling his arms around her. And even then, he only doesn’t because of the way that Vacc, his younger brother, is glowering at him. 

He’s glad he listens to the silent threat when he sees just how much pain she’s still in.

“Hey, Dove,” Monnk’s never seen her with her hair loose. She almost always wears it in a strict braid or knot on the back of her head. Her hair hanging loose makes her look younger, and he can’t help himself from brushing a curl (her hair is curly!) off her cheek.

She doesn’t even seem to have to energy to glare at him for the nickname that he knows she hates.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Her voice is raspy, likely from the ventilator she needed after they pulled her from the sinkhole.

“I’m not surprised, you fell almost 250 feet,” Monnk replies.

“How am I not dead?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. It’s the closest damn thing to a miracle as I’ve ever seen.” Monnk replies. This is…nice. Just talking with her without her throwing insults at him. “Kit will be here soon. He’s been worried.”

“That his favorite punching bag will die?” She sounds bitter about it.

Monnk winces, “Is that how you think we see you?”

She just glares at him, and yeah. Okay. That’s fair. They do tend to go out of their way to bother her.

“That’s not it at all. You’re important to us.”

“Sure.”

The door opens before Monnk can answer. Kit looks around the room, and then beams at her, “Dove! You’re awake!”

She winces away from him, and Kit pauses at the door. The larger man does something to make himself seem smaller, even to Monnk, and their Dove seems to relax slightly on the bed. A force thing, maybe?

“How are you feeling?” Kit continues.

“Bad.”

“Ah. Well, I’m sure that Vacc will get you all patched up.”

“When can I go home?” She asks, and Monnk can almost see when her guard rises. She doesn’t trust him, but she views Kit as an actual threat to her person.

“This is a perfectly acceptable medical facility—”

“I refuse to be indebted to you.” She interrupts, and the room falls silent.

Kit releases a slow breath, “You don’t trust us.”

“No. I don’t.”

Kit watches her for a moment, “We love you.” Monnk knows, immediately, that it’s the wrong thing to say.

Her face twitches, “So what? That’s your problem, not mine.” And then her eyes narrow at him, “Or did you think that saying that would encourage me to join you? That I’m just some vapid girl who’ll fall at the first sign of affection?”

“We never thought that,” Monnk interjects smoothly, “Your independence is one of the things we’re both attracted to.” She turns her glare onto him, and his winces.

This conversation is a damned minefield and he’d like an evac, now, please.

Kit closes his eyes for a moment, “Dooku will be here in a couple of days to pick you up. But we’re not done trying to win you over.”

She scoffs, “I’d like to be alone now.” Neither man moves for a moment, and then Monnk sighs and stands.

“Come on, Kit. I’m sure we have work to do.”

You think it’s kind of scummy that Kit and Monnk are trying to seduce you when you’re still trapped in a hospital bed.

It starts with flowers. Paper flowers, but flowers all the same. Delivered by Monnk with a sheepish smile. He admits that he learned to make them while he was watching over you when you were in the bacta tank.

That night, Kit and Monnk have their dinner in your infirmary room. They bring your favorite food, though you know you haven’t told them what you prefer meal-wise. Kit admits that they were told about your preferences on another planet months ago.

The following morning, Monnk washes and braids your hair for you, even though you tell him he doesn’t have to. Even though you swear you can do it on your own. His touch is so gentle that you find yourself relaxing without meaning to.

Kit eats lunch with you, and much to your surprise, the pair of you spend two hours debating the pros and cons of each other's fighting styles. Kit admits that he finds it impressive that you’ve managed to weave Makashi and Soresu together so smoothly. And you can’t help but ask why he’s chosen to specialize in Form I when there are better combat forms available. 

Once again, both Monnk and Kit join you for dinner. Monnk brings a movie that you’ve never seen before. And, though you’d never admit it, it’s a nice night. Kit leaves before Monnk does when a disaster needs his management, and Monnk stays just long enough to tuck a curl behind your ear and offer you a fond smile.

The next day, you sleep through breakfast and lunch, intentionally. You don’t want to give them any more chances to worm their way into your heart. And when Master Dooku appears later than evening, you’ve never been so happy to see the severe man.

Kit and Monnk are much less happy to see you go, but honestly, you’re pretty sure that healing will go so much better when you aren’t anxious about what they’re going to do next.

For some reason, you think that being brought back to the Jedi temple (it’s not a temple, not really) will stop Kit and Monnk from trying to woo you. You’re wrong.

Because the first morning you wake up in your apartment, you get a delivery from them that has a new robe as well as your favorite tea in it, as well as a pair of love letters.

You want to be annoyed, but…as you find yourself reading the letters a third and then a fourth time, you realize that you’re fucked.

But, even that realization isn’t planet-shattering. It’s not like they can make you fall. You have too much self-control for that.

And so, life goes on. You continue getting letters and trinkets, even though you never write back, and your affection for Kit and Monnk keeps growing. But you’re still not concerned, it’s not like you’re going to act on it.

Then, late one evening, while you’re on a mission to the outer rim, you stumble over a scene that changes everything.

It was a relief mission. There was a natural disaster, and you were sent to help look for survivors, as well as help collect the deceased. It was a simple mission, there was no reason for the Sith or their army to be there.

But, as you follow a map that’s supposed to lead you to a compound that was hit especially hard by a mudslide, you come across Kit’s battalion. Kit’s battalion is being attacked by, what looks like, battle droids and soldiers wearing strange armor.

It’s not your business. You’re here to save people.

But you can’t help but move closer to the fight. And you watch, your heart sinking, as Monnk gets knocked to the ground by an assassin droid. By the time the man moves so he’s standing over Monnk, you’re already moving to intervene.

You’re too far away. 

You won’t be able to save Monnk.

He’s going to die.

Time seems to slow around you, and you push the force to help you move faster, to help you get to Monnk in time to save him. There’s a flash of orange, as your lightsaber swings wide, cutting the force user in two.

You’re standing over Monnk defensively, your heart racing, and your arms tingling. You don’t know how you got there so fast, it shouldn’t have been possible, and yet you did.

You feel Monnk get to his feet, more than you hear or see it, and you turn your head to look at him. For a moment, he doesn’t move, and then he reaches up and pulls his helmet off, letting it fall to the ground with a thunk.

“Monnk? What—”

His hands are on your cheeks, and he tilts your head back slightly, “Dove, your eyes are yellow.”

You feel a spark of annoyance, he couldn’t even thank you for saving his life? And then his words hit home. You attacked out of fear. Not for yourself, but for another person.

You touched the dark.

You fell.

It wasn’t supposed to be so easy.

“I—” You don’t know what to say, and then it doesn’t matter because Monnk is kissing you, and his lips are warm and surprisingly soft, and you can’t help but respond to the kiss.

“Really, Monnk? In the middle of a battle?” Kit’s voice is light and teasing, and Monnk pulls away from you, a wide grin on his face. 

“She saved me, Kit.”

“I saw.” His hand settles on the back of your head, and somehow you’re surprised when his lips settle over yours. Though, at the same time, you’re not surprised at all. 

It’s not like Kit, or Monnk, have been subtle about their intentions towards you.

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[blxkstar]

I am a Jedi, like my father before me

I made a playlist for Luke Skywalker! Please check it out!

The Force runs strong in my family

I want to come with you to Alderaan. There's nothing for me here now. I want to learn the ways of the Force and become a Jedi like my father.

[erikoswinoswald]

🪐🌟 Star Wars oficial posters 🌟⛩️

[threepandas]

Counting Down: 1 [Next ->]

The worst part about knowing the end? Is the beginning and middle. The waiting to change. The hoping it can. Days, spent with the low fear, ever churning, that it will all make no difference. Your actions. Your plans. The hopes you have placed in Fate's fickle hands.

Entering the Creche at an awkward age, too soon to be Legend, too late to be Peer. I was destined to be an adult by the time Anikin arrived. Getting up there, by the time the Order fell. Not yet old enough to be an Elder... yet destined to never live long enough to see such an age.

Obviously, I refused.

Looked around, locked eyes on the closest most manageable Character Of Relevance and took a chance. After all, was it not? The Jedi WAY? To inconvenience the Sith at every turn? So... first Crecheling, then Initiate, then baby Padawan Me, tracked the poor man down. Hunted him for SPORT.

Meditate with me, Knight Dooku! Can you teach me about this or that, Knight Dooku? What is the correct use of seashell tongs in formal dining, when attending a formal feast with the aristocracy, during this specific religious holiday, Knight Dooku? (No, no, on the moon not the planet.)

Congratulations on you Mastery! Master Dooku!

Pushing and shoving my way into his life. Persistent, much to everyone's amusement, and his baffled chagrin. It was like befriending a fussy, regal looking, semi-feral cat. Force knows, for all his training, he's terrible at casual interactions. He was older them me, yes. And Mentor of sorts, certainly. For a time. But? We became... friendly? I like to think? I certainly chased him down enough.

He's a dramatic and awkward man, Yan, and he'd be lost without us; Sifo, Nu, and I. Occasionally Yoda, but that does come and go. Not to metion... well... his Padawans. (Damn it, Yan. They can't read the subtext from your pointed silences! Use your WORDS.) The sort of man who is... sturdy, but brittle. Like an old, unbending tree.

Which makes it all the worse, when the pressure becomes too much. Because it does not merely crack. No. No, such men? They shatter in terrible and unpredictable ways. Unbreakable right up until they are not. Unending right up until the crash.

It is...? Both tragic and hilarious, in a that way, that Yan should live surrounded by so many prophets. Yet he does not, can not, and never will see the end coming. Surrounded by legends, both old and new. Born with every marker for greatness. Yet he...? He will be considered little more then a footnote, in someone else's history. At best.

And the worst part of his Fall? The absolutely worst part? Is the Light I still feel, each time I look at him, the GOOD I know is there. Resolute and noble, dignified and full of grace. A diplomat. Expert swordsman. Makes magnificent tea. The driest wit imaginable. He... he is YAN. Not Count Dooku. Not some Sith Apprentice. Just... just Yan.

My friend.

I meditate on it a lot. The Force gives no clear answers. Still, I do try, sitting in the gardens. Tucked away several stories up, past the considerate veil of several sweeping branches. I never did succeed in figuring out which planet the tree hails from, I suspect it might be either a long dead one or some small moon. It's a truely lovely, sturdy, thing nonetheless.

Far below, younglings shriek and play growl. Running carefree, to work off energy before evening meditation. Each a tiny blaze of starlight dancing at the edge of my vision.

A bit bright, I note, but nothing concerning.

The Halls of Healing will have to increase my prescription again. My glasses are no longer blocking enough... I sigh. Considering that. My sight? Is at least partially genetic. While I may be predominantly human, just because someone looks human passing, doesnt mean they genetically are one. My ancestors were, to put it mildly, a bit... Mandalorian.

Where their was a will, there was apparently, a way; And now I pay the price for it. It's honestly a miracle they never "married", as it were, themselves into a genetic dead end. Some sort of metaphorical space mule scenario, as it were. Yet? Despite all that seeming success? Luck is not eternal. And should you keep gambling? Eventual you will roll poorly.

I was that poor hand. That unfortunate luck. Loved of course. Expected even. My parents both wanted and were delighted by me. But? I screamed. Could not bear to be near people. My inheritance? A truely unfortunate luck of the draw. When combine with Force Sensitivity? My eyes reacted to "Light" poorly. Very, VERY poorly.

They were blinding to me. A mere child with no shields to speak of, no Force training to push BACK with. Like being force to look direct at the sun, again and again. It HURT. Because I could See.

Where others saw merely flesh? I saw deeper. Not infalliblly, not perfectly, I was hardly some omniscient god, but... oh. Oh. The world was so Bright. So LUMINOUS. The Force swirling and burning and flowing. In everything, from humble to grand. People shine, and yes, it is beautiful. But it also? Hurts. Because it IS, ultimately, being forced to stare directly at bright, ever shifting, sometimes flickering LIGHT.

I have a lifelong disability. Can not FUNCTION without my filtering shade glasses.

Or, if you are one of the ignorant assholes, who even NOW still seek to use me? I have what you might call? A"gift~☆".

According to Healer Che, it was some highly recessive trait. (From a planet I honest didn't even know I had heritage on, much less could find on a navigation system.) A subterranean people, due to the truely ungodly surface conditions. VERY sensitive to energy signatures and light. Which...? When you slap on a whole NEW super special Force sensing ability? Filtered through the same brain? Wires unfortunately crossed.

It could have happened it anyone. Unfortunately, it happened to me. Now I'm effectively blind around large collections of sentients. Or Life in general, depending on the intensity. To say NOTHING of Force Nexus! Dear merciful FUCK, that was the sort of accident only you make ONCE and then NEVER again. I was lucky to keep my vision. At all. Full stop.

Sifo was not so lucky. His Visions being neither natural nor kind. The Force seizing him again and again, to plunge him into vivid scenes of carnage. Death and horrors in the home he so loved. I would would be forced to, should I fail, see the Fall of the Order once. But Sifo? Oh... oh, dear Sifo...

Sifo, had seen it fall ten thousand times.

Even Yan did listen to him. Not truely. But there is camaraderie, in the horrors. In whispering, "it's not their fault", through choking tears. Forgiving the victims that will one day kill us. There is... a certain, heavy, sort of friendship... born of pressing your foreheads together, fingers intertwined, knuckles white with terror, as you shudder in the dark.

I think it helped, helps, that he has someone, who believes him. Anyone. Not just humoring him, the mad man sprouting prophecies of doom. But truely believes him. Knows he is right. And that if nothing is done? Everyone will die.

But... BUT! It CAN NOT, be Kamino, Sifo. Not that, never that.

In the dark, I remind him of prophets, seeking to avoid their visions, and instead? Ensuring the worst, comes to pass. Defense, Sifo. Escape. We are JEDI. Do not let fear blind you, to who you ARE. Do not let it take down a path of darkness.

I wrap him in the Light. Tuck my Force presence close, like I'm hiding him again my side, a youngling tucked into the safety of my robe. Shhhh, my friend. It is okay to be afraid. I am too. We can do this together. We are not alone. I believe you.

We are the pillars of his mental health, Yan and I. It concerns the healers greatly. The council. Honestly? It concerns me. But what can I do? No one else CAN help Sifo, until the first take the step of recognizing he is not, in fact, insane. He is a perfectly SANE man, reacting in entirely reasonable ways, to unspeakable Nexus born horrors. Slowly cracking under the isolation and grief. A jedi pushed and pushed, far past the point lesser men would have broken.

And if? He need a woman young enough to be his one of his student's, to rely on? So be it. I am a Knight now, I can handle it. (I have been handling it, since the incident. Since I was a Crecheling. Where the fuck were all of YOU? Ah, that's right. Calling him insane. Making things WORSE.)

I breathe out slow and controlled. My meditation is getting me no where. Rising, I carefully hop down, using the Force to slow my fall, much to the awe of various Crechelings. I can not help but smile. Was I ever that small? So easily impressed? I bow to my tiny fellow jedi. Delighted, they scramble to bow back. Thrilled to show off how grown up and serious they are, how well down they can do it.

Reaching out with my senses, I look for Yan, politely avoiding doing more then the briefest brush as I reach past others. I am not the first, nor will I be the last. There are hundreds of such searches a day. Some clumsy and heavy handed, from Crechelings or Initiates. Some soft as brushing strands of silk. Knights or Masters, looking for friends, looking for students where the should not be.

The Temple feels alive, noisy even, when you know how to feel it.

Ah, there he is! Heading from the High Council's cha-Grief. Horror. A gutting pain that numbs and spreads.

Caught off gaurd, I am sent reeling. Stumbling, without grace, over my own feet into a nearby wall. Glad for it, as I desperately grab at my chest and wheeze, drawing the alarmed attention of nearby Knights and Guards. Because... because, the other direction? Had I stumbled in the other direction, I would have hit the railing. Fully doubt I... I would have been able t-too.... oh Force-!

It takes entirely too long to seperate my emotions from Yan's. To realize what's happening. My panic feeding into the pain. My pain feeding into the panic. Yan. S-Something happened to Yan! I manage to gasp it out. P-please! S.. Someone! Go! Go check on Master Dooku!

The world spins as I try to force air into my body. It refuses to come. Whatever horrible pain Yan is in, leeching down our connection. Into me. Hurting. Made so, SO much worse, by my having been actively looking for him. I close my eyes, teeth gritting, and trying to stop digging my nails into skin. I-It won't help. There's nothing physically there.

But it hurts! God, does it HURT!

It feels like my WORLD has been shredded. My heart, crushed, cruel and slow in my chest. H-he's having a panic attack. Has to be! Or-! Or being attacked! I d-don't... don't KNOW!

A passing Master has hurried over, now kneels next to me. Various Knights pushing whatever calm and safety the can at me. No one is quite certain what will help. But they try. Desperately, stubbornly, resolute to the last... they TRY.

Breathe with me, begs the Master. Pressing my hand to his chest. Just copy my breathing. Help is coming. Release what pain you can, into the Force. We will help you. Let us help you.

I try.

Desperately, I Try.

The Healers end up having to give us sedatives, Yan and I. Sifo ends up... worse. The entire event triggering another, nasty, round of visions. He is incoherent. Trapped. Staring up at the Death Star from the surface of Alderaan, through countless eyes, begging to be heard. His soul, small and desperate, replaying the end, over and over. Even as he tries to protect what souls he can from the inevitable.

He cries for this too. They won't believe him, I know. Even as he thrashs and begs. For the lives of the innocent to be spared, for monsters to hold their fire. I will though. I will. I always do.

But Sifo will be lost for days. Yan, however? As he sits, on the bed, just the other side me? Sits stiff and properly. Blankly. As the healers words wash over him. I doubt a single on has registered. Of the three of us, I am the only one even remotely functioning. Yet... yet I still, don't know what has happened.

Nodding one last time to the healer assigned to me. Promising that yes, I will most certainly rest. I slip my my bed and sweep over to stand next to Yan's. The Healer's concerned and frustrated. He knows Yan's not listening. But has to try. I shoot him a strained, closed lipped, smile. Quietly take charge of my unresponsive friend.

The Healers relief is palpable. Our notes and instructions are not terribly dissimilar. Rest, food, no missions or upsets. Got it.

Gently, I guide Yan from the Healing Halls. Alarmed, that he let's himself be led. He never let's himself be led like this. Insists he is no invalid, to be coddled. Yet... here he is. Mind a thousand parsecs away.

Bringing him to his rooms, I key in his code then gently guide him to his favorite chair. Lightly guide him down into it. Not... not once, during the entire walk back, has he responded to anything. I am beginning to grow afraid.

Fussing, I drag up that terribly pretentious Serranian musician, on his music system. The one I can't stand. I am worried. Sacrifices must be made. Boring and insipid music fills the room. Very fancy! Come on, Yan. This is his new piece! Don't you want to comment on it? Come, tell me why it's so much better then the racket youngling blast these days. I'll call you an old man...

Nothing.

Worry growing, I begin making his favorite tea. Digging out his special occasion snacks. Something, anything, to get a reaction. As things brew, a sound too wounded to truly be a laugh, chokes it's way out of him.

"Xana-...My..." he starts. Stops. Normally sharp mind refusing to obey him, as he tries to summon words. He looks lost.

"My Grand-Padawan is dead." His voice is brittle, alien sounding in his mouth. I nearly drop the plate of snacks I was carrying over, in response. Horrified. "He was supposed be returning a knight. Qui-gon was.. was so proud of him. Adored him. This has destroyed him. Will destroy all of us. I... I have lost everything."

No. No, you have NOT.

Striding forward and all but dumping the plate on the side table next to him, I reach for my friend with both hands. With my Force presence. I refuse. No, damn it! I Will NOT lose him. Not like this, not TOO this!

Listen. LISTEN to me, Yan Dooku. So help me Stars, Gods both big and small, you will not succumb to this!

The greatest lie the Dark has ever told, is that it will make things better. That it can help you with your pain. Would Xanatos want his death to destroy you? Would the child of your child, want his legacy to be the ruin of everyone he loved? It is okay to grieve. You NEED to grieve. But remember you Padawans. Remember their Padawans.

Your Lineage still lives, Yan Dooku.

It is hurting, mourning, but ALIVE. Don't you dare run from it in your grief. You are better then that. I am here. Sifo and Nu are here. Yoda, is here. We will carry this pain together, okay?

Closing his eyes, he let his head rest more heavily against my hands. Dampness darkened his eyelashes, but no true tears formed or fell. He didn't seem to have it in him. Not yet. His hands though... his hands? Shook as they slowly, haltingly, like a droid with seizing joints, reached out for me.

I moved from leaning over him to sitting on the arm rest of his fancy Serranian high backed chair. That he didn't even grumble over me "abusing his furniture" by putting weight on the arm rest like this? Gods.

Leaning into him, I wrapped my arms around his head and shoulders. Like a shield against the universe. Used the Force to pull the tea, finally done, and pour it into a nice cup. Properly of course. See, Yan? I remember your lectures. Here, drink.

He... did not.

Just leaned, sagged against me, as he shuddered with grief. Hands wrapped around a cup of fragrant tea. Music filling the air. Tucked safe inside my Force presence, as best I could.

In... Out... In... Out... There was a slight stutter to it, a hitch, that in a less controlled man? Might have broken into a sob. But... instead, Yan meditated. That first cup going to waste. The second following, as it slowly went cold. Needs must, though, and tea? Can be replaced. Yan can not.

Emptying wasted cups, I poured more. Rested my head atop his own. Matched his breathing as I slipped into a light meditation with him. The room was quite enough. The position not terribly comfortable. But honestly? We'd both meditated under worse conditions, and it had been... A DAY.

To put it mildly.

I didn't like the look of Yan's Force Presence. It was like a fault line had been struck. Spreading terrible spiderwebbing cracks in otherwise sturdy stone. I was no mind healer... really, not a healer at all, I was a Seeker, but? I had learned a few tricks. After all, not every child I had found? Was found in a safe and loving home. Most weren't, honestly.

You learned to soothe, as a Seeker. Learn how to help. Children, after all, don't know Light from Dark. They just know that if they reach for the magic in their head? Bad things go away and good things tend to happen. Sometimes they hurt themselves by accident. Sometimes they hurt themselves... because the alternative was worse.

"You know, my dear? Some days I think you are the only Jedi with any compassion left. The boy never should have been sent there. Not for his trials. The lives of others are not a child's test. And to be asked to face one's own family? It... it was cruel."

Yan sent his cup around me, to rest on the side table, before gently tugging me down into his lap. He hugged me close, like a child squeezing a stuffed animal for comfort, face buried in the crook between my shoulder and neck. Like he was hiding from the world. I rest my head against his shoulder, eyes closed.

We were both... so tired, weren't we. This was nice.

"When did it all become about proving ones purity? One's superiority of morals? We are supposed to help people. Not lord over them. If I wished to do THAT, I would merely need to return to Serrano. Become a Count. You and Sifo are the only one who seem to understand me."

"I think I would go mad, without you."

Yes. I worry that you would, Yan. I worry that you would.