#it's not glass it's TRANSPARISTEEL

[im-no-jedi]

one of the nice things about uploading MLWTBB to AO3 is I can fix some of the mistakes I missed the first time. like actually properly naming things with SW terminology that I didn’t know when I initially wrote it LOL

[lightasthesun]

Comprehensive Lexicon Guide for First-Time SW Fic Readers:

Flimsi/Flimsiplast = Paper

Flimsiwork/Datawork = Paperwork

Stylus = Pen

Datapad = Tablet

Comlink/Comm = Communication Device/Phone

Binders = Handcuffs

Chronometer = Clock

Spectacles = Eyeglasses

Chrono = Watch

Conservator = Refrigerator

Caf = Coffee

Nerfburger = Hamburger

Blue milk = Milk (literally blue)

Hubba chips = French Fries

Sweet roll = Doughnut

Flatcakes = Pancakes

Tabac = Tobacco

HoloNet = World Wide Web

Holovision/HoloTV = Television

Holodrama/Holovids = Movie/Videos

Holocamera/Holocam = Camera

Holomap = three-dimensional map

Holojournal = Newspaper

Holocube = Picture frame

Holotable = Projector

Holoscanner = X-ray machine

Holojournalist = Reporter

Flatholo/Holograph = Photograph

Sonic Damper = Active Noise Cancellation

Refresher/Fresher= Bathroom

Sonic Bath = Bath

Sanisteam/Sonic shower = Waterless Shower

Hydrospanner = Wrench

Hydro Flask = Water Bottle

Power Cell/Energy Cell = Batteries

Authorization Chip = Decryption key

Datatape = Disk

Datastick = Flash drive

(Personal) Com Code = Phone number

Datachip = SD Card

Synthflesh = Synthetic skin

Glowrod = Flashlight

Sparkstick = Match

Slugthrower = Gun

Slug = Bullet

Vibroblade = a blade that can vibrate at high frequencies, increasing its cutting power and penetrating ability (tactical knife)

Rangefinder = Rifle scope

Turbolaser = Cannon

Ion pike/Vibropike = Spear

Electro Staff = Stun baton

Blaster = Pistol/Rifle

Stun Blaster = similar to a Taser

Landspeeder/Airspeeder/Speeder = Car

Turbolift = Elevator

Slideramp = Escalator

Starfighter = Fighter jet

Rotorcraft = Helicopter

Hoverpack/Jetpack= Jet pack

Speeder Bike = Motorcycle

Skylane = Traffic lane

Railspeeder/Hovertrain = Train

Power Chair/Hoverchair= Wheelchair

Windscreen = Windshield

Podracing = Car racing

Dejarik = Chess

Sabacc = Poker and Blackjack combined

Galactic Rebels = Combat simulator

B'shingh = Dungeons and dragons

Jizz = Jazz music

Wailer = Singer (ie. Jizz Wailer)

Cantina = Bar or Pup

Para Sailing = Paragliding

Aurebesh = Alphabet

Credits = Money

Sleeping Pallet = Bedroll

Naming Day = Birthday

Youngling = Child

Galactic Basic Standard/ Basic = English

Medkit/Medpac = First aid kit

Hypo = Syringe

Medic/Healer = Doctor

Medcenter = Hospital

Bactapatch = Bandaid

Nanoweave = Fabric

Transparisteel = Glass

Plastifoam = Packing material

Durasteel = Steel

Plasteel = Plastic

Duracrete = Concrete

Slicer = Hacker (slicing = hacking)

Identikit = Passport

Minder = Therapist

Synthleather = Vinyl

Viewport = Window

Cooling Unit = Air-conditioning

Honeydarter = Bee

Slythmonger = Drugdealer

Spice = Drugs

Stimpill = Caffeine pill

Power Socket = Plug

Cutters = Scissors

Cycle = Day

Standard Cycle = 24h

Standard Week = 5 days

Standard Month = 35 standard days

Standard Year = approx. ten months

Tenday = literally ten days

Cigarras/Smokes = Cigarettes

Click = Kilometer or 'a moment'

Parsec = a unit of distance

Tweezers/Clanker/tin head/tinnie = Droid

Separatist = Seppie

Promise Ring = Wedding Ring

Body Glove = Jumpsuit

Slicksuit = Wet suit

Civvies = Civilian clothing

Carbonite = a metal alloy used to freeze a person in a state of hibernation

Hyperdrive = device that allows a starship to travel faster than lightspeed

Moisture vaporator = device that can extract water from the air, commonly used on tatooine

Glareshades = Sunglasses

Gasser = Gas Oven

Repulsorlift = technology that can create an anti-gravity field and is used for levitating heavy objects

Heating unit = Heater

Utility Droid = Roomba

Sunbonnet = a Clone trooper helmet

Bad Batcher = a defective Clone Trooper

Banthabrain = birdbrain/ a stupid person

Bantha fodder = waste of space/nonsense

Blast! = word of exclamation

Blasted! = s.o in anger or annoyance

Blaster-brained = dimwitted

Blaster fodder = cannon fodder

Blast off = Piss off

Brainless = Stupid

Bug/Bugger = used to refer to Geonosians

Forceforsaken = godforsaken

Full of Poodoo = full of shit

Poodoo = Shit

Kriff = Fuck

Jedi scum = derogatory term for jedi

Kark = derogatory expletive

Larty = LAAT/i gunship

Laserbrain = insult

Meat droid = derogatory term for Clone Troopers

Redrobes = Palpatines guard

Rookie/Shinie = newly recruited Trooper

Scum = insult to refer to bounty hunters/rebels

Sharpie = Sharp-witted

Sithspawn/Sithspit/Hellspawn! = expletive

Sleemo = Slimeball

Son of a bantha = insult

Wizard! = Cool

Spaced = dead

Hutt-spawn = Bastard

Karabast = exclamation of dismay

Stang = Crap

Buckethead/Bucketbrain = derogatory term for Stormtroopers

Bucket = Helmet

Nat-born = Natural Born

Roger Roger = affirmative/copy that

Droid poppers = EMP grenade

Sitrep = short for situation report

Backwater Planet = any planet that isn't part of the core system

Holocron = device that can project a three-dimensional image of a person/object and is used for communication or entertainment.

Kessel Run = a risky Operation. Commonly used as a metaphor in impossible situations.

Thermal Detonator= device that can create a powerful explosion like a grenade or bomb

Ray Shield/Energy Shield = creates a (protective) barrier

Rebreather = device that allows a person to breathe underwater or in toxic environments

Phrases:

Wild goose chase = wild bantha chase

That's bantha shit = that's bullshit

As slippery as a greased Dug = untrustworthy

Credit for your thoughts = penny for your thoughts

Cut the poodoo = cut the crap

to get your gills in a twist = get upset about something

Holy mother of meteors = holy mother of god

Oh my skies/ Oh my stars = exclamation of surprise

Stars' end! = exclamation of disbelief

What in the blue blazes = exclamation

When Geonosis freezes over/When it snows on tatooine = extremely unlikely

Who pissed in your power supply = who pissed you off

Blast it = damn it

By the maker = exclamation of surprise

Great karking Dragon = expression of disbelief

Lothcat got your tongue = equivalent of 'cat got your tongue?'

Sod it = expression of frustration

[frostbitebakery]

You See Such Mad Things Happening

an The Unlucky Ones snippet

The Curse rises out of him, ghostly bones tapping along his arm in question.

Bly doesn’t know how to answer. His chest feels funny still. Scientist Se has patiently explained to him - “you died” - what had happened before he woke up. But he must’ve done it wrong?

There’s transparisteel cubes around the capsules now.

“I want my batch,” he whispers into his arm, carefully muffled, daringly out loud. He shouldn’t. He must already be in trouble for dying wrong.

He can’t even hear the thuds of Wolffe punching against his own cube. His knuckles are bloody and used to write mean things.

Cody is trying to get Wolffe’s attention.

Wolffe will get in trouble, too. He surely will be disciplined if he doesn’t wipe away the mean words.

The Curse puts a hand against the glass, skull turning to look at Bly.

“I don’t know,” he replies softly. “Maybe it’s because you acted funny yesterday?”

The Curse had grown so large, had called its other halves to itself until they melted into each other. It had looked beautiful and it had felt— scary. But that’s dumb. They’re clones, there’s no need to feel scared if the fear response isn’t to release adrenaline in order to accomplish the mission in an efficient and timely manner.

The lights had clattered and exploded all around them, white halls plunged into darkness, the transparisteel glittering down to the floor. It had been so pretty.

Commander Fordo had snagged him up while Commander Alpha-Seventeen had carried Cody away in the other direction. Gree had been taken away by another Alpha class, too fast for Bly to see who it was.

Cody had looked as mesmerized as Bly had felt. Everyone else had panicked.

And now there are transparisteel cubes around their capsules.

“What if I have a bad dream again?” He can’t go to Cody. Or Wolffe. Or Fox. Or—

He rubs the sniffle into his sleeve. He can’t go to anyone.

The Curse curls around him and he imagines, with everything he’s got, that he can feel it, that it has flesh and skin and warmth.

He comes out of a light doze when a bony hand waves in front of his face, flowing to the bottom edge of the mattress and pointing.

“Stop it, silly,” he chides and looks around. No one is watching him. Fox is playing hand signals with his Curse. Cody ignores his like always. Wolffe— Wolffe isn’t there. Where—

His brother is guided back into their capsule room by an angry looking Alpha-Seventeen, cleaning droid under one arm.

The Curse taps the mattress again and Bly minutely shakes his head. Not while Alpha-Seventeen is here. Bly trusts him with his life but this isn’t about his life.

“Start of night cycle,” the voice in the ceiling announces and the capsules automatically close.

He hurriedly ducks his head and lies down.

The Curse is still outside his body, illuminating the inside enough to crawl to the end of the mattress and fumble a hand under it until he finds the slit in the cover, the pens and flimsi.

He makes himself comfortable on his stomach, knowing the Curse will hover around and through him.

The Curse snaps its jaw a few times, that weird metal rattle only felt, not heard.

“What do you want me to draw?”

The pen follows the glowing finger bones, tracing curves and circles. No straight lines, no hard edges.

Bly looks at the thing when they’re done, angles the flimsi to get a better idea. “What is it? Looks like something from survival sims.” He squints, holds the drawing closer to his face. “Is that a—“ He falters. Stupid survival sims. He knows this. His memory was literally engineered to be eidetic. “A… an angiosperms type plant?”

The Curse hovers next to him, mute.

“A flower, silly.”

It tilts its skull and one of its hands comes out of his chest where his heart is.

“Uh, thank you?” Bly has no idea what the Curse means.

It snaps its jaws at him before sinking into his skin again.

“Goodnight to you, too,” he grins, carefully tucking the drawing under his nightshirt.

[sky-kenobye]

I'm obsessed with this bit from the rots novelization:

[Obi-Wan] looked up through the cockpit canopy to find his one-time Padawan flying inverted, mirroring him so closely that but for the transparisteel between them, they might have shaken hands. Obi-Wan smiled up at him.

This is completely unnecessary and yet in a middle of space battle Anakin chose to fly so close to Obi-Wan that they could have touched each other, just so he could see him, and see him smile (and also a bit to show off probably). The only thing that could have made it more romantic would be for the both of them to put their hand on the canopy to "touch" through the glass (I'm pretty sure I read that in at least one fic tho)

[happy-beeeps]

Stay.

Summary: When the weight of loss is too heavy for Wolffe to hold, you do your best to shoulder it for him.

WC: 1.1k

Pairing: Wolffe x gn!reader

CW: mentions of death, angst, loss, grieving, alcohol, brief descriptions of canon typical violence

It’s raining when he first shows up. The kind of rain that batters against your transparisteel windows and flashes lightning bright across your room in shattered, drawn out chunks. The concept of having such violent storms with an artificial weather system never really made sense to you, but you supposed whoever’s job it was to run it needed something to spice it up.

The 104th isn’t due to come to Coruscant until the morning, if they were lucky they’d be in late in the evening, and by the time Wolffe had finished briefings and set his gear down, it would be beyond reasonable hours to sneak his way to you. Instead, you did your very best to keep yourself busy, pouring yourself a glass of wine and tidying up your apartment. You’d taken his whole shore leave off of work, and you planned to spend it however he wanted. Wolffe wasn’t overly fond of crowds, but you’d spent dates at 79’s, Dex’s, or just in bed, wrapped up in each other and an overly fluffy comforter.

You allowed the fond memories to swim past your eyes–anything to not think about the fact that you hadn’t heard from him in nearly three rotations.

It wasn’t unusual, his squad was elite, stealthy. It didn’t make it any easier.

There’s another thundercrack, another spray of rain–then raps on your door. The unmistakable sound of hands on the smooth durasteel of your apartment door.

He’s not supposed to be here yet, you check your chrono to confirm. You haven’t even gotten a sip of your wine, and it’s only a few hours away from the dead of night, and there’s still no message from him. Still, it’s a knock at the door, and you’ve been to know to forget you’ve been shopping on the holo until a parcel arrives days later.

When you do finally make your way to the door–the knocks are incessant and quickening, and you hit your solicitor with a bitter “hold on a second!”--you throw it open, hair out of place and mouth pouting at the intrusion.

Wolffe… Wolffe is here. In front of you. In one piece, though accompanied by scratches and cuts, only a few with bacta patches or stitches. His shoulders are slunk low down his back, and he looks like he’s gripping your door jam for dear life.

He doesn’t say anything, not even when you murmur his name in surprise, eyes shooting up and almost welling with tears at the sight of him. He says nothing, but collapses into your arms in one fell motion, gripping your frame tight in his arms, tight enough that it nearly hurts, and sobs.

You’dve sooner bet on a rookie podracer from Mon Cala to win the Boonta Eve Classic than you’d expect to hear Wolffe sob. Now, you’d do anything to make it end. The sound makes you let out tears that threatened to spill from your eyes, and you understand the gravity of this past mission, and you hold him closer. Someone didn’t make it back.

You guide him backwards into your apartment and the door slides shut behind you, and in the stillness of the room he breaks even more, moving to sink down to his knees. You meet him, gripping him even closer, whispering quiet coos and “I’m here’s.” After what feels like eons of suffering, you’re in pain even thinking about how much pain he must be experiencing, he pulls back to look at you. His hands grip each of your cheeks, and you mirror his actions.

You attempt to lighten the mood. “I see two hands, two legs, two feet, one eye. I’ve got you back in one piece.”

He smiles but then shuts his eyes and shudders. “It should’ve been me. I’m the Commander. I’ve let them down.”

“Wolffe, stop, what do you mean? You came home, there’s no way you let anyone down.”

“No, you don’t get it,” he’s shaking his head now, gripping your face gently but with more pressure, as if he’s assuring himself he’s actually here. “They didn’t make it back.”

“Who, Wolffe who?”

His eyes are wide, tears escaping from even his mechanical eye–something you didn’t even know was possible–when he starts. “Mesh’la… Everyone.”

You don’t know how to respond. It feels like the wind has been sucked out of your chest with a vacuum. The tears are slowing now, you know no one hates to cry like Wolffe does, but he just looks numb. Lost. For nearly the first time in your relationship, you really don’t know what to do.

So you do your best.

It’s late, still raining, but you don’t care. You grab two ponchos from the closet by your door and drag Wolffe to the garage connected to your apartment. Your speeder, a sleek white with no roof, has often been your confidant when Wolffe was away. Maybe it will work with him.

The rain is pelting both of you when you peel out of the garage, blurring into the ever constant traffic of Coruscant. You like to fly, not recklessly, not fast, but just the monotony of flying keeps you focused. It’s easy to focus on nothing else but the lanes of traffic and the people around you. You’d contemplated letting Wolffe fly but decided against it—a decision you’re grateful for when you glance out the corner of your eye and see the way his knuckles whiten around their grip on your thigh, or how he stares so intensely out at the busy city.

You say nothing to him, and he says nothing to you. What is there to say to someone who just lost not only his brothers, but his squad. You know it isn’t his fault, there’s genuinely no way he could’ve avoided this, but you know he doesn’t feel that way. He’s going to bare those deaths of his brothers on his shoulders for the rest of his life, and you’ve taken your job to help carry the burden.

You finally ease into a slow, rounding descent towards your garage, and just before the neon bleeds out into the darkness of the space he murmurs out, quietly, “Thank you.”

The walk back to your apartment is still, but there’s less of the uneasiness of before. The weight is there, and it will be forever, but you think he’ll learn to carry it.

He’s quiet, shifting on his feet in front of your door. “I should go.”

“Or you could stay a little longer?”

And he does. Following your invitation he follows your hand back into your apartment, to your bed, and into your arms. You spend the rest of the evening tracing small circles onto his back and finally, when you’re certain he’s drifted asleep, you let yourself weep, thanking the maker that Wolffe came home.

[tennessoui]

lol my duolingo was like 'translate the word glass please' and i was like easy. transparisteel. next question

[kalevalakryze]

talyc mir’am

“Yield.” The smooth monotone rumbled against her back, warm and steady like the rhythm of the golden woman’s heart, thundering beneath the confines of its cage. “Never” Bo-Katan spat, spittle sprinkling against the insides of her helmet. AO3: Here!

For Nitearmor Week Day 1!!!

There was no long list of things that Bo-Katan Kryze wouldn’t do for her people. She’d given Mandalorians and Mandalore everything she had on more than one occasion. With her sacrifices, an unshakable way of thinking was born in the embers of her home as it burned to the ground. 

They can hurt you, they can break you, and they can kill you, but they will never rule Mandalore.

When Din Djarin had returned to the planet and found that the only poison in its atmosphere was the sickness in the minds of the survivors, she would have assumed it out of a nightmare, rather than a dream. But they’d returned to the planet, and she was granted the ability to set foot on its ruined surface, to feel the freezing depths of the living waters on her skin once again, and, right from the legends, to see a Mythosaur in all its glory, and to find solace in… Well… They weren’t her people… but they were Mandalorian. And they made her into their  people. 

She moved through the Children of the Watch with unease, still felt an unknown anxiety clawing at the depths of her innards with each conversation she had with their people, could feel the way sweat perspirated on her brow and dampened the seal around her throat. The planet’s  heat didn’t make it much better, and the whispering around each corner only ignited the scorching inferno into a blaze she could not control. 

“Cautionary Tale.” Murmured one green and blue painted warrior. “...foredoomed.” She heard another whisper with conviction, as if the woman herself was a walking omen of failure upon failure. 

The weight only grew stronger on her shoulders with each meal eaten alone, with each night that found her soaking the aches of warfare in whatever ales she could find hidden aboard her ship. For a rainy day Koska would joke, as if they hadn’t been camping on Trask when she’d created each stash. 

The burning of her clan and planet would fade all the same, each night she found solace aboard her Kom’rk and drew shades over the transparisteel, allowing her solace in the comfort of solitude, a perfect attendance for her pity party. 

She settled her weight heavily into her pilots chair, allowing her helmet to clatter as she set it at her feet, seat creaking as her head dropped back and the springs adjusted to her weight once again. The neck of the bottle was cool enough to sink into the thick material of her gloves, condensation swating off the glass and pooling in the creases of goraslug leather. “This ones for you, Satine,” She grumbled, low and hoarse as she took a pull from the bottle.

Even the burning of Corellian whiskey couldn’t sate the holes in her bones, was unsuccessful in quenching the fires of a thousand tears from pricking at her heels urging her to run. You’ll burn them too.

There was a rapping of knuckles at the metal ramp to her ship. Desperate to chase away the ghosts she’d made along the way, Bo-Katan had only just remembered to grab up her helmet, allowing the glass bottle to take its place on the floor. Consoles beeped as she smacked the hydraulic release, allowing the ramp to lower as she straightened her demeanor. 

Artificial lights caught on the almost bronze gold of a helmet, highlighting the different colors of sunkissed fur along the Armorer’s fur cape as she strode up the ramp. Even in a place where she did not seem as if she belonged, the woman took up space, her presence was one that demanded to be known, even if the deity herself was one accustomed to shadows. 

Like a band snapping back into place, Bo-Katan found that her muscles tensed, her knees locked against her better judegment, and her chin rose. A way to say I belong here, even when the evidence proved otherwise. “Can I help you?” The Nite Owl queried, fighting to keep her hands stagnated at her side as her chin bowed, watching as the Armorer came just within a step of herself. 

The shorter womans head did not move, she couldn’t make anything out with the damned helmet concealing every reaction she was trained to read. All she could do was wait with bated breath until she could watch the other woman’s hands move just a fraction away from the tools at her belt. “I would like to see you in action…” Her smooth timber seemed to echo across the durasteel walls all around them.

Bo-Katan paused then, brows furrowing beneath the protection of her helmet. “The pirates…” She allowed herself to trail off then. Saving Ragnar, bringing the covert younglings… It was yet another example of how she could just never give enough of herself to satisfy anyone…

“In a controlled setting. I would like to see you in action where a life is not at stake.” The Armorer clarified, there was nothing mocking in her tone, but a playfulness, something almost like a familiarity that resided in the discordant notes of her vocoder. Bo-Katan bristled in unease when she realized she could not tell if she hated being seen, or if the first pair of eyes to see her through that dark tint was enough to crack through her own metaphysical beskar. 

Swallowing thickly, Bo-Katan nodded her agreement; she’d never been one to turn down a fight, perhaps a one-day fatal flaw of hers, though one she had no intention of giving up anytime soon. 

When the Armorer turned to sweep from the depths of self immulation and despair, Bo-Katan followed close on her heels as she could get without earning herself a second look. The ghosts did not need to see the light of day, these people did not deserve to be burdened by her failures any moreso than they already were. “Where are we going?” She rasped as they passed by quiet tents, the sounds of dead night creeping into her bones. 

“The shore.” The warrior spoke as if it were the only logical place, as if Bo-Katan had done more than follow in Din’s footsteps, careful not to step a toe out of line in fear that she would lose this too. 

The sand was uneven under her boots, pebbles and shells crunching under her weight as they moved from dry sand into the muck of what had been left from the tide, sodden greenery picking into the tracks of their boots and refusing to let go. The Armorer moved across this ground as if it were a minefield, and she laid all the charges, while Bo seemed to blunder into every treat waiting to wrap itself around her ankles and make a home in her greaves. 

“Do you have any limits?” The Armorer questioned as a circle was slowly dragged through the sand, leaving Bo-Katan clueless in the center. 

“What? Oh-” A pause, a blink, and a deep breath. No Mandalorian had ever been willing to set ground rules for a sparring match before, no one bothered to learn each other’s limits. The vode at your side would be dead if they made a limit, she’s testing you. “I’m alright.”

The dark visor turned to stare at her, contemplating for a moment. “Alright…” A gloved hand rose towards her own throat, thick leather padded fingers pulling ar the seal of cloth around her throat. “This is my limit. Nothing above the shoulders, please.” 

The admission of a weakness, of a preferred place to stray from an attack, was staggering; How could she believe they were born from the Watch, when she herself had killed recruits for as much as the Armorer was doing now, when Pre had so willingly tossed away Mandalorian lives, because they admitted weakness… Was that strength? Or was it a trait she could only see as a strength in the Armorer?

Her throat felt too dry to speak, so she nodded her head in understanding, marking the memory in the stone of her brain. The dying torchlight caught off the Armorer’s visor, setting the various golden tones of her helmet ablaze. The two stood in silence, waiting for the other to make the first move with bated breath. 

The dirt crunched under her boots as she sprung forward, the rermaining alcohol  in her system burnning through her muscles as they remembered the thrill of sparring over fighting for her life. She moved slower than normal, ensuring she would not pass the Armorer’s boundary while still being able to test the woman’s speed against a flurry of punches and jabs of the knee, all redirected to a point where the Niteowl could redirect the energy into another hit. 

Bo-Katan’s breath was ragged, fogging up the material of her visor as she worked to land a hit, the metal of her hand plates making an awful scraping sound each time her fist managed to drag across the crimson beskar of the shorter woman’s armor. 

A leather gloved hand curled tight around her gauntlet, fingers curled just enough to avoid triggering the canisters that would ignite to bathe them all in flame. Squaring her shoulders and pushing back against the restraining force, Bo-Katan Kryze bared her teeth beneath her helmet, offering only a primordial growl as she struggled through the sheer power descending upon her. 

She’s fought stronger, after all. The Armorer wouldn’t prove too much of a challenge, once she inevitably went to make an attempt on Bo’s life. She knew it was coming, anyways…

The armorer managed to wind Bo-Katan’s arm behind her back, wrenching the limb and pulling overworked muscles further than the beskar constructing her body would typically allow her to go. “Yield.” The smooth monotone rumbled against her back, warm and steady like the rhythm of the golden woman’s heart, thundering beneath the confines of its cage. 

“Never” Bo-Katan spat, spittle sprinkling against the insides of her helmet. The Nite Owl bent at the waist and jerked her hips backwards, upending the Armorer’s steady footing and sending her backwards. The weight against her back was gone in the clinging of armor against the dirt, moonlight reflecting up at Bo-Katan from the dark void of the shorter woman’s visor. 

Her breathing was distorted, coming in harsh gasps and leaving through the painful exhales that concaved her body and threatened to crush her ribs, audible through her vocoder, a complete contrast to the Armorer’ who’s chest appeared to still rise and lower as if she’d no more than laid herself down of her own volition. The silence between them was thick with tension as Bo-Katan gathered herself for what was next. Would she try to sweep her legs from beneath her? Would she produce a blaster and put plasma in the space between her chestplace and abdomen plate? Or would she simply order her to leave? Anxieties prickled into dangerous territory the longer time slugged forward, until at last, Bo-Katan’s head dropped along with her shoulders, content to leave the woman in the dust if it meant she could save herself the shame of being verbally sent away. 

“Raise your head,”  Brows furrowing, the redhead watched uselessly as the other woman rose from the ground, tracked the way a gloved hand raised, then lowered back to her side, before finally crossing the distance to meet the underside of her helmet. 

Her touch was gentle, fingers gently curling around the rim of her helmet, if only to raise her chin herself, until the Armorer was forced to tilt her own chin to keep looking at her. 

Bo-Katan swallowed thickly, chewing on the inside of her cheek as her eyes flickered towards the night sky, always finding the twinkling lights of the Mandalore system in the depths of the sky. The silence didn’t seem so thick here, as the Armorer’s fingers stayed curled around her helmet, and the nightlife around them seemed to release its own breath, critters and the like resuming with their nightly symphony all around them. 

It seemed an eternity that they stayed in such a state, Bo-Katan, mesmerized by the stars that reflected from the top of the Armorer’s helmet, and the goran’alor herself, mesmerized in an entirely different view of the woman from the legends. 

She didn’t want to leave, and while that was a fact Bo-Katan knew since Din had brought her to his people, it was stranger to realize that it was the Armorer’s presence that she didn’t want to leave the most. “I must retire…” She spoke at last, always the one to hold the blade that would sever her own connections to any form of tranquility. 

“Of course…” The Armorer seemed shaken from her own stupor as her arm dropped back to her side. As she went to turn back into the direction of her tent, her head turned back, watching as Bo-Katan fidgeted in the moonlight. “And Bo,” The Mandalorian went rigid at the name, head cocking to the side as she focused her sole attention back on the shorter woman. “Mandalorians are stronger together.”

Leaving Bo-Katan with her final statement, something she could only hope to understand through their coming trials and tribulations, the Armorer did not offer a second glance, leaving Bo-Katan to watch her disappear into the darkness of the camp before slogging her way back to her ship, hopeful to catch enough sleep to function for the attack on Nevarro. 

[sinisterexaggerator]

Stars Above! | Cad Bane

Chapter 16

Explicit: Semi-slow burn, gratuitous smut /pwp, canon-typical violence, rough sexual elements, angst, Tatooine Slave Culture.

This chapter: Contains smut involving two tentacle-like Duros dicks. Blowjobs. PiV sex.

Word count: 4.9+

Notes: Hope you like weird, alien genitalia! Also, I headcanon it is Hondo Ohnaka who helped Bane regain his health and had a physician fit him for his metal plate. I am "borrowing" an OC made by @allsystemsblue, though she remains unnamed in this story and is mentioned only in passing. Mizu will be included in Annals of an Outlaw when the time comes!

[ Ao3 ] - [ Masterpost ]

《 Previous chapter ||

The bottle would suffice him, no need for a glass, he’d drink straight from the container held within his hand. Top shelf, dark, and biting on his tongue, the liquor went down, down in deep swallows, urged by smooth suprahyoid muscles. His mattress had been just as good a hiding spot as any, the pungent whiskey housed beneath its firm, yet springy shape—it had been stashed there for ease of access, as it often helped him to achieve a good night’s sleep.

Bane was no stranger to vivid dreams and nightmares. His past was colorful enough that he was prone to restless fits, accompanied by cognitive distortions—all those things he bore throughout the day would plague him when he drifted into REM. His mind only allowed for short, spasmodic bursts; he was on guard by default. In this day and age, there was hardly anyone left to trust except himself.

He had left his bed unmade, messy, and unkempt, though it was luxurious and soft, like that girl he had partaken of. He didn’t like it when the droid came in here, unless absolutely necessary. He feared he might misplace something important, or simply try to reorganize his things in a way that did not please him.

After a double shot, it all came flooding back: a deluge of unwelcomed memories. First Jango, and then Boba, never once able to rid himself of his past transgressions, as if they would haunt him until his dying day—whenever that might be.

But Zulara—she had been there, sometime after his ordeal at Jabba’s Palace, yet that was impossible—he had left her back at Slave Quarter’s Row before answering his summons. She was safe and sound, and far from him. It was as it should be, as he would not have her involved.

And Boba, this was all his fault. He could not remember what had happened after he had followed him out into the dunes. He only knew one thing—Todo had somehow rescued him, just like when young Fett had put a bolt into his head.

The Duros sighed; he understood it hurt to breathe, stepping to the single viewport that overlooked his ship’s right wing. He pressed his forehead to it, the transparisteel cool against his scales. He growled as he realized he would need to clean this too, as he had left a gluey imprint on the glass.

It was sundown. Bane lingered to get a good look at what lay beyond his window, no bigger than twice the size of his own face. He had lost more time than he had thought, people roaming to and fro as they prepared to close up shop, bought dinner, or talked amongst themselves.

He had picked this dock for the fact it was open and quite spacious; there was plenty of room to park his ship, and he had a bird’s eye view of the happenings down below. He had rented it from some other Duros, one he had come to trust, as whenever he visited this dry ball of dust, him and Ohwun De Maal did business.

A sharp ache flared just behind his brow ridge, extending up and beyond to where his scar resided; it was reminiscent of a bolt of lightning splintering, though it was pain instead of light that spiked. He grit his fangs until he thought he might crack them into pieces, for some reason the smiling mug of that damned Weequay overtaking his mind’s eye, as if he had a choice.

It had been Hondo who the droid had commed, anxious to help his master, who appeared to be on the verge of death after that ordeal involving Fett. Bane had more enemies than friends, but Ohnaka had been his droid’s first thought—a poor one, but it had saved his life.

Cad reminisced as he took a swig, the infernal pirate playing more than gracious host. He had answered to his every need, and beckoned his own doctor to patch him up. The tiny woman had been professional, her hands steady and her disposition sour—it was no matter, as she had done her job, and then some; it was unfortunate that Hondo had seen him vulnerable.

And yet the rapscallion had never mentioned this to anyone. For that he was quite thankful. Bane hated to think he owed him one, though Ohnaka did not seem to think so. At least that’s what could be concluded from the scoundrel’s lack of boasting, Cad often irked by Hondo’s potential to be a decent man—and for no good reason—what had he ever done for him? Why had he stepped up? The hunter refused to ask, harried every time that they crossed paths, though he was awfully good at hiding things.

Bane might threaten him, but he would never turn Ohnaka in, nor would he kill him, despite the thought having crossed his mind numerous times before.

Bane would set the bottle down; he had been out cold for a full rotation. Still, that was not time enough for him to forget just who the cause of all of this was—that lamebrained governess who had laid her claim to Tatooine, despite the slug-like Hutt’s overwhelming chokehold on its denizens. There was no doubt Cad Bane would call her; he had a mind to change the terms of their arrangement, but first he needed to wash and clothe himself.

Ignoring Todo’s bleating in the hall outside, the Duros was used to his mouthy droid complaining about every little thing. Why he put up with it was for him to know, but he knew better than to disturb Bane once he was in his room.

The aching hunter trailed the wall, finding the door to his refresher. His legs were wobbly; what a pathetic sight he must have been, Cad grateful that no one was around to see it.

---

Water, in abundance, could be heard, like rain falling to splatter on some planet that was unlike hers. It echoed, reaching her ears just beyond the door, Zulara’s mismatched eyes gleaming at the absorbing sight before them.

Bane’s room was homey, yet in a state of disarray. It was cozy, but disheveled. She had not known what to expect, though what she saw was somehow fitting, yet she could not help but think this was perhaps too intimate a place for her to be. Her nerves tingled; Zulara forced herself to move. She hadn’t made it this far just to stand there, though her heart thundered feverishly inside her chest.

There was a closet, holding a sparse amount of clothes. He had a hat collection, lined along the wall on metal hooks. His bed looked soft and comfortable, though the sheets, the blankets, were all tangled. He had a plethora of pillows, but there were things scattered amongst them—credits, coins, and gold medallions. They were on the floor, stuffed inside of drawers, some still stored in cases that were open, jutting out from varied crevices and corners.

Zulara had never seen so many pretty things, shiny jewels encrusted with more gold or silver—rare objects that looked like they belonged in a museum. There were little statuettes, baubles, trinkets—ticket stubs, bounty fobs, and books; they were old and made with flimsi; they had gilded spines and were in a language she had never seen. She desired to touch these things, but there was one thing she wanted more—the man himself.

She spied a mirror, and next to it a table with some personal effects; these items were all in order and arranged just so. She stopped to inspect herself, noting that she looked exhausted. How she was feeling was wrought indelibly into her expression, though she was easily distracted, as a single thing of his had caught her eye.

Before her was a small leather pouch; it had once been of a darker coloration, but now it was tawny and rough from years of use. Her thumb traced where it was worn and faded; etched on it were a few scant words. She could not read them, yet held inside were toothpicks.

The girl was tempted—she heard a noise, like the Duros had coughed or groaned—her heart fluttered. Zulara turned, making her way toward the refresher after setting the pouch back down.

She had softened her footsteps, unsure of when to announce her presence. It was clear that Cad Bane had temporarily lowered his defenses, as he had not yet detected her. She could not decide if this was good, or bad. She did not want to cause him any undue stress, yet her heart and brain were not communicating, as it was in her best interest to follow his droid’s advice.

Zulara’s index finger grazed the button to the sliding door; it was silent when she pressed it. The room was warm and steamy, the transparisteel before her partitioning him off from her. It was opaque, leaning toward obscure. The glass was frosted, the Duros nothing but a vague blue outline to her as she steeled her courage. Her hand lifted to knock, but then everything went wrong.

The bypass door had vanished—slipping backward—and so had her resolve. There was a flurry of sudden movements, Zulara discovering herself pinned flat against the refresher wall. Her throat had closed; there was a large hand obstructing her, Bane’s hulking fingers tightening as he cut off her air supply—he was choking her, she realized.

Zulara whimpered, as she could not speak. She kicked her feet, the hunter having lifted her some few centimeters off the floor. She gasped for air, then Bane loosed his hold; his bold red eyes were full of something. It wasn’t anger so much as remorse, but alongside that was an inkling of horror.

Bane did not speak to her as she inhaled deeply; she stared at him as her chest heaved and she tried to adjust her breathing—she would stiffen once again—the Duros’ fingers traced her windpipe, Zulara’s eyes agog as she dare not move. 

For that single moment, he had looked terrified—afraid he’d hurt her—but now his gaze had hardened. His lip pulled back to reveal pink gums; he bared his fangs. “Must nahtta heard when Ah told ye te go home.”

So, she hadn’t been a dream after all, he thought.

Zulara reflected on his words, that thing he’d whispered. Bane retreated back into the shower, the half-Twi rubbing her neck where it was sore, acknowledging that even in his weakened state he had tried to get rid of her.

For most, that would have been enough, but not Zulara, not like before. She knew he liked her. Though closed off to her and the rest of the galaxy at large, Bane was multifaceted, like an Ojomian onion with a myriad of layers, though just how many was unknown.

She appraised his body before he could shut her out; he had bruises over every inch of his lapis-colored scales. They were green like nephrite, just like his blood; it was still present on her top, though long since dried. Her eyes watered, though she would not cry for him—she had already done that. He was alive; he would be all right.

Then, an idea came to her, a bad one, but one she would entertain, her judgment poor and heart full of something akin to affection for him. Zulara tugged off her boots, followed by her simple garments; her shirt, her skin-tight, light-weight pants, leaving her just as naked as the Duros who kept his silence. His place was once more behind the single sliding door that barred him from having to look at her.

Did he expect her to leave? To exit his ship and not return? The girl was getting gutsier, taking a deep breath before she once more pressed the switch to give her access to where Bane quietly resided; his eyes ballooned into two elliptic ovals—he studied her—drinking in her buxom breasts and her admirable shape.

Zulara would do the same; her gaze traversed the lean muscles of his legs and thighs, taut and thin, with an abdomen that was refined though flat. His hips were streamlined, sleek, and well-nigh graceful; his ribs mildly protruded, Bane’s pectorals well-defined though they lacked mamilla as they were not present—Duros physiology was different in that regard, the girl inferred, not having seen him fully nude before.

The contours of his clavicles might as well have been hewn from marble, Bane all scales and sinews, his cheeks chiseled, and his jawline sculpted like some rugged work of art—she had seen his face already, yet she found him so oddly beautiful.

She knew to stare would be disrespectful—Zulara tried her best not to ogle him as he was injured, though she was highly inquisitive. Her eyes dropped to below his waistline—Bane’s genitals were covertly covered and nestled inside himself, unlike prior—he was bare but for a three-inch slit. She longed to hold him.

“It ain’t just yer eyes dhat don’t werk, it’s yer ears,” the Duros jeered.

Zulara would cursorily recover; she blatantly ignored him, feeling that what came out as bitterness was a mechanism used to defend himself, Bane’s acerbic tone not bothering her one bit—to others it might as well be acid.

Zulara’s face betrayed her, her worry for him, his dark contusions setting her brow to furrow inward in a show of pity with a total absence of tranquility. She felt disquieted to see him entirely disrobed—he had so many scars, so many scrapes and scratches—the claw marks of the rancor had raked him across one shoulder; it extended to the middle of his sternum. Would it scar too, she wondered? The thought displeased her to no end.

He seemed surprised to see her be so brave, not predicting this course of action, but the one thing he did not do was outright protest. Bane’s lack of a rebuke, to her, was an open invitation, Zulara taking one step up to join him. The halfling would tilt her head, letting the water flow down over her in rivulets, raven strands being tossed just over her shoulder’s edge; she had given him a look that thawed his heart, yet he refused to be enamored by her.

Zulara did the unthinkable once again; she touched him without his permission—yet hadn’t he done the same to her many times before?

Mauve digits freely roamed the length of Bane’s cool neck, tracing its long column to find the thrum beneath his pulse point.  It was for her own peace of mind, detecting that it was strong and hardy, perhaps the hunter’s heartbeat having minutely accelerated.

Zulara nuzzled him the best she could, just below the atrium of his right hearing organ; he had no auricles, only a small pinna-like protrusion, her warm breath licking cobalt flesh with her increasing closeness. “Let me stay,” she begged, the girl’s earnest marked by the imploring lilt of her sweet voice.

Cad Bane might as well be speechless, the girl’s breasts pressed flush up against him; she had whispered beguilingly, her plea alluring, if only for the way it had been administered. He was trying and failing to be upset; he would not reprimand her, yet she would also not receive his full encouragement.

Zulara did not need it, lithe fingers of the opposing hand rising to cup the back of his bare head. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on his battered lips, the girl unable to help herself; she was inextricably drawn to him.

The man enjoyed this, though he would not return her kiss, instead surveying her with the intensity of a punctilious avian. An Edgehawk would come to mind, native to her home on Lothal, and just as deadly a predator as he could be, preying on small things.

Zulara began to shy away, variable hues of gold and blue skirting past his face down toward his throat and chest. Her hands found their own path, the tips of mammalian fingers warm and tender; he barely felt it as she traced one of his many fresh abrasions—the girl was as gentle as could be.

“I hate it,” she whispered to him—her touch—the stripe she feathered down past his stomach—it caused him to seize her wrist. Zulara gasped as he had startled her, the girl’s meager confidence shattering like Chandrilan glass that had been mishandled. She had no words, fearing what might befall her next.

Cad Bane kept his grip cinched around her arm, rough and weathered fingers tucking a few strands of her hair away behind her ear. Zulara would peer upward, the Duros guiding her to fully look at him by a tilt of her trembling chin.

He kissed her on his terms, soft, slow, and with a method that caused the girl to moan. He had barely touched her, but she was already beginning to come undone, as if he could put the blame on her.

Bane’s tongue joined in, wet and rosy pink; Zulara readily accepted it, hers hot and lush inside his mouth. He was careful of his cuspids—he did not wish to hurt her—the fangs that filled his maw were not entirely for show, as they could rend flesh from bone should he choose to do so. Zulara had learned of that firsthand during the time they had spent together, yet she had only suffered bite marks, the evidence clearly present by welts that blossomed. It was possible the hunter felt a mote compunctious, only due to one or two being a mite too deep.

The girl’s desperation was palpable, Bane feeding into it as it fed his ego. At the same time, his core enlivened; Bane’s body was self-lubricating, yet he did not feel that feeling that demanded he act on it. It was strange; sex was meant for one thing in his book: a way to get his rocks off, a way to clear his head before the next hunt began. And yet, this was different. This girl was different; she did not try to woo him, she simply did. He found this fact disturbing, knowing one day it might ruin him.

Bane could feel the rise and fall of her full bosom against his ribs. The ache was there, but it did not matter; he found himself absorbed by her enticing narrative.

The one where he was not all bad, but worthy of attention; the one where she was concerned for him. He allowed himself to be engrossed by the notion he was not such an awful man; it was too self-indulgent combined with the cocoon of her warm flesh; Zulara was hugging him again even as they kissed—he seized her throat once more, albeit gently.

Zulara would not flinch; Bane retreated from her lips to flash his teeth. The girl’s eyes would lock on his, bewildered, though transfixed.  Then, she felt it: the Duros’ cocks had slipped outside himself. He was toying with her, the spongy tip of one tentacular-like appendage having grazed her clit. It had inched its way between her folds; the girl would gasp, pleasure radiating from the place where he had touched her.

Bane’s depthless eyes narrowed; his fingers slightly tightened. Zulara would reach for his mouth again with hers; Bane held her steady, finding she now appeared alarmed.

“Dhis is what ye came fer, innit,” Cad Bane seethed, his cocks not hard but soft and cool, slick, and resembling the limbs of a cephalopod. It was the result of his subdued arousal; He packed prehensile tendrils instead of pricks as hard as bone. They only solidified when he was notably stimulated, and for now he wasn’t.

He would take care to thank her should she give him the right answer.

“I came for you,” the girl breathed out, tears welling in her two-toned eyes. She was distraught; Zulara could not fathom why he would presume to think that, though her mind began to overanalyze and search her feelings. She knew the truth; it was her worst fear coming to fruition: the idea she was just some cheap lay, another slave who would do anything for freedom. A girl who wanted to seduce him. A whore, for lack of a better word—perhaps he did not trust her or her words.

Zulara covered his hand with hers, grasping at his fingers. She plucked them free, like ripping off a necklace in a throe of passion, this set of actions a paroxysm on her part. Bane stared at her, though he relinquished his mindful hold, until he realized she meant to take her leave of him.

One arm scooped her back, extending to curl around her tapered waist. Zulara would set about to struggle, but even so, she was heedful of his wounds, his cuts and bruises—the rancor’s claw marks. Her tepid hands only pushed at his sore arms, but that was nothing compared to everything else that hurt, or the many other near fatal injuries he had endured throughout his lifetime.

“I’m not what you think I am,” Zulara pleaded, her words having a double meaning, though it was lost on him. “I only wished to help,” she would argue quietly, though her body settled, the girl’s head tipping forward so she could rest her nose against the Duros; he felt her balmy flesh make contact with his rostrum.

“Dhen what are ye,” came Cad’s raspy-voiced reply; he let her stay right where she was, though compelled to know her answer. He knew nothing of her, just that they had shared her bed; that she was Kayson’s slave; that Hondo vied for her affections, yet here she was in the refresher with him, naked.

“Just a girl—I’m no one special,” she lamented, “but one who hurts seeing you like this,” she added, one of her kindly hands moving to cradle his strong jaw where it met his chin. “I can’t force you to believe me,” she said, defeated.

Cad Bane was moved, though he would never easily admit it. He soaked her up, her honest sentiments and her unmatched beauty. He returned the gesture, the pad of his long thumb rubbing a small circle into the round of her soft cheek.

“Dhat’ll do,” he stated gruffly, his tone bordering nonchalance, yet it was a front; he would not make her aware of the effect she had on him.

The silence was filled with the sudden onset of Zulara’s disjointed moans, Bane had introduced one of his cock’s inside her. The motion had been smooth and fluid, his member pliant and able to inter itself snugly. It did not need an easy introduction, as Zulara’s plush insides would expand to accept his supple girth, Bane slick with his own secretions; he knew just where to target her.

His length would pulse inside her, like the writhing of a worm, languid, and patient with her. To Zulara it felt like the lapping of a tongue, impossibly large, and buried deep within her. She was a liquid, her legs desiring to fail her. Though Bane was not at his full strength, he kept her standing, taking the brunt of her slack weight.

“Easy,” he muttered low; the girl would search out his mouth again. In doing so, he was fed her gasps, Bane absorbing them like sustenance to fuel himself.

Zulara could not speak as Bane’s second cock licked her clit, its swirling tip fondling her with peculiar purpose. The girl’s brain filled with sporadic images—nothing clicked—she heard Bane rattle out a fricative hiss. She was coaxed by an open palm; Bane drew her toward his throat, reedy fingers entangling themselves in her black locks.

The Duros held her there, his oil sacs emitting an aroma that would only entice her more; they were fine slits beneath his ribs, and she had not noticed them before. They were camouflaged, blending in with the rest of his blue scales; he had nearly inked himself because of that damned rancor, their main function not one of pleasure but of defense.

“Breathe, hm?” he emphasized, his voice taking on a harsher shade. The girl obeyed, though it was difficult. She regained her footing, yet still needed his support.  

“Bane,” she uttered his name, but he would not go any faster; he would not let that persuade him. Cad was dutiful in his undulations, having already found that special place that made females forget themselves. He would prod it gently, coiling against the underside of her anterior.

It was too much, the syncopated rhythm of both his cocks. While one felt like it was eating her, the other viciously teased her, Zulara’s piteous moans and whimpers like music to his ears; he pressed her head against himself.

The girl relaxed into an orgasm, her warm heat clenching, Bane letting Zulara ride him until its completion, though he had not been in it for himself; he would withdraw as soon as she came down.

Bane would unhand her, freeing her of a rare embrace, the Twi falling gradually down onto both her shaky knees. Bane watched as she descended, not of her own volition; her legs simply would not allow her to keep standing anymore. Her hands trailed his stomach, his thighs and calves, until they dropped and rested in her lap as she breathed deeply, appearing to be starved of oxygen.

Zulara would cant her head, gazing up from the few square inches of space her body now occupied. Met face to face with Bane’s foreign genitalia, she would extend her tongue to taste the tip of one.

She could smell herself, and discern the flavor, yet not overpowering the Duros’ own brand. The sheen of sticky that coated both his cocks was both sweet and sour, and not by any means unpleasant.

Bane shuddered, finding his place along the wall; the girl did not stop there, his reaction the catalyst for what she would do next.

Zulara guided him inside, her mouth hot and textured like choice velvet. The girl found it easy to intake nearly the whole of him as he was not rigid, yet this introduction to the tight confines of her throat would not come without its consequences, should he not be able to keep himself in check.

She moaned, the hum vibrating against him from within her gullet; his belly quivered, Zulara allowing him deep passage—for a girl who had never done anything quite like this, she was adept, or effortlessly able to adapt.

Her lips would pucker as she sucked, Bane’s cock glossy, all the while thickening though frictionless, like candy made sleek from the constant roiling of one’s tongue across its surface. His other member mobilized itself, caressing Zulara’s cheek with its ability to touch and molest, like the curving of a finger as it followed a path down toward her chin.

In reality, it might seem monstrous, a thing that was hideous or atrocious to those not of his species, but Zulara was not disconcerted, nor was she intimidated. Bane’s anatomy did not so much frighten her as it was intriguing, assuming all males throughout the galaxy had their own way of being that she wasn’t privy to—the women too—enjoying what she could of him.

Zulara picked up the pace deliberately, one hand rising for its underside to palm Bane’s second phallus. She would run her fingers along the length of it—she was unbelievably delicate with him—it might have tickled had it not felt so delicious.

Bane could feel the telltale signs, the ones where his scales bristled, and his cock was on the verge of hardening; he was nearing the point of no return, forcing the girl to stop her suction; it was regrettable, but he knew himself. Though he would recuperate, currently his energy was depleted; he was tired, he desired to do nothing but relax, yet he had a call to make to that damn governess, and the hunter wished to hold onto his anger as it would serve him.

To allow himself release, to cum inside her pretty mouth—Bane knew nothing else would matter after that.

The Duros would withdraw his hips, pushing his buttocks to the wall of the now cold shower. This whole scenario had been a waste of water, but he would quickly forgive himself as Zulara was coerced to give up on her task. His cock had slid from out her throat, retreating back through her open mouth, the other slithering across her fingers joining its companion. The girl was frowning, her eyes two sorrowful, sparkling gemstones of varied chromaticity; she gazed at him like he had hurt her feelings.

“Did I do something wrong?” the halfling asked, her voice soft and peppered with notes of worry. Bane only stared at her as he allowed his breathing to even out; he swiped her bottom lip with the pad of a harsh thumb, dragging it slowly downward, exposing her bottom row of teeth and gums.

“Gotta comm te make,” he offered by way of an explanation. With that, he opened the bypass door, stepping past Zulara to touch down upon the refresher’s floor. Bane would leave her there to take care of herself, knowing that he could find her easily when he was ready— besides, Todo would keep an eye out.

[honeydjarin]

5. COLD

DINCEMBER 2022

DIN DJARIN X READER

You don’t realize how cold it is until it’s too late. Din helps you warm up again

genre: fluff

word count: 1,100

a/n: a little late as always!

PREVIOUS || SERIES MASTERLIST

A cold front sweeps in, frost blooming across every surface it can touch, including the exterior of the Razor Crest. It paints the transparisteel in delicate fractals, but that doesn’t deter you from venturing beyond the ship. 

The cold doesn’t seem so bad at first. In the morning, just as first light creeps between the trees, pale gold broken by shadows like stained glass, you lower the gangplank and step out into the snow, sealing the other inhabitants in once more so that they can stay warm, just as you’ve done every morning since landing on this sleeping planet. 

Icicles hang like ornaments from the trees, glimmering in the light but showing no signs of melting. The snow beneath your feet, once light in its freshness, crunches with every step, the top layer giving way to something softer underneath.  

The cold seeps in slowly. It brushes its fingers along your spine, caresses your cheeks and takes your hands in its own. Before you realize that the beauty has a bite, it’s too late. Your fingers and toes are numb, muscles aching, jaw straining to prevent your teeth from clacking together. 

The walk was still worth the trouble, even if you won’t thaw for hours.

You fumble with the remote Din gave you to access the Razor Crest. He had pressed the device firmly into your hands all those months ago, stating, “just in case something happens to me.” You try not to think about the implications of his words, but always keep it with you. Now, however, your frozen fingers slip, struggling to gain the dexterity needed to work the karking thing. 

Before you can press the button, the gangplank lowers. You’re blinded momentarily by a flash of gold—the morning sun reflecting off unpainted beskar. It only takes a moment for the frost to form across Din’s armor, the shiny surface turning matte before your very eyes. Din seems unphased. 

“It’s cold,” he states. For a moment you just stare at him. lookong at him is easier now that the frost coats his armor. It really must be cold. 

He’s staring down at you, visor giving nothing away, and yet you can almost feel the waves of disappointment crashing over you. You should move, but if you do he just might scold you, not unlike a child. 

A gust of wind rolls through the trees. It lifts the edges of your cloak and hides itself away inside with you. You pull the fabric in closer, the first to yield in this standoff with the Mandalorian. 

You shuffle up the ramp, and Din steps aside to allow you to pass, like a teenager who got caught sneaking in late at night. The ramp closes behind you, and instantly you feel the difference in temperature. Still, you’re cold, and will be for a while yet. The Crest is warmer than outside, but it always runs a little cool no matter how hard the heating systems are running. 

You bring your hands up to rub along your arms, hoping the friction might speed up the warming process. Behind you, Din sighs. 

“I would suggest taking a hot shower, but the ship’s sonic isn’t going to help,” he states. His footsteps are quiet as he comes to stand in front of you, still keeping some distance. Even with the space, he is almost menacing in his beskar. Too bad for him, you know how soft the man beneath the armor can really be.

“Din,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. It feels almost wrong to use his name, like a secret you aren’t supposed to know, even if he’s the one who offered it to you. It holds so much weight. 

He just sighs again.

In only a few strides, he stands directly in front of you. You can see the frost melting on his armor, separating into droplets of near freezing water. A thought crosses your mind, fleeting, but enough for you to act. 

The droplets might leave marks. 

It will be your fault if they do, and Din will have to do more work just to clean them. 

You reach for the bottom of your cloak with a cotton hand, your other hand held close to your chest, still seeking warmth. Your hand shakes as you use the cloak to wipe the drops away from the armor. 

He grasps your wrists, not enough to hurt, just strong enough to halt your rubbing motion. Maybe you’ve gone too far. His armor isn’t just for protection, it’s a part of his religion. You shouldn’t have touched it without permission. Your mind is still just clouded from the cold. 

Din lowers your hands gently, forcing the one that is barely grasping your cloak to let go, before reaching out again. This time he pulls your hood up, all the way, until it falls over your eyes.

“What are you doing?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer. 

He simply says, “don’t look.”

There’s the sound of something light falling to the ground, and then you hear it again. Before you can ask him anything else, his hands return to you. He grasps your shoulders before rubbing them, just as you had done before getting distracted. Unlike your hands, which were robbed of both heat and mobility by the cold, his hands are warm, hot as a fire.  

They slowly work down your arms, rubbing heat back into your biceps, your forearms, and finally, your hands. You nearly gasp from the contact. His hands are bare, gloves discarded somewhere on the floor. You have never seen him without his gloves, never seen an inch of his skin. He is always fully covered around you, nothing less. 

Even if his Creed dictates that the only thing he is not allowed to take off around another is the helmet, that his face must remain unseen or be Mandalorian no more, he never risks showing any skin. 

It’s in that moment that you are struck with the realization that he trusts you. Sure, he’s shown it before, in ways both big and small—he has given you access to his ship and trusts that you can keep his son safe should something happen to him—but this is new. This is personal, just like when he gave you his name, hoping that you would keep it safe.

Your heart swells with affection, and suddenly it’s not so cold.

“What am I supposed to do if you get sick?” he asks, although it sounds more like a reprimand. You can’t help but grin.

“Take care of me?” 

Din just sighs, he has done that a lot this morning, but time, you like to imagine that he’s smiling too.

NEXT PART

Taglist: @dontletyourchildrenwatchthis @itzagothamcitysiren

[dumfanting]

Same Heart, ch 31: Premonition

AO3 Link

Rating: E, explicit padawans go home

Warnings: (nearly) drowning, CPR, blood, scars, body worship, nipple play, fingering, oral (F receiving), squirting

Notes: fem reader, force sensitive reader, second person POV, present tense

5241 words

This is the second half of what was supposed to be a single chapter, so if it starts awkwardly, that’s why.

Recommended listening: Rain- Sleep Token

F! Reader/ Echo

F! Reader/ Crosshair

Fives has something to tell you, and so does Crosshair.

You blink a few times and find yourself not in the bacta tank, but a similar kind of transparisteel pod, crammed in with… is that Crosshair? Your vision is blurred, so you can’t see his face, but his armor looks different. You can vaguely hear the voices of the others, but it’s muffled. You glance around and see that you’re in some kind of half-destroyed room underwater, and catch a glimpse of a short figure with blonde hair. 

Crosshair says your name, and when you look back at him, now able to see clearly, you find it isn’t just his armor that’s different. He looks older, exhausted, and you can see obvious regret in his eyes. You’re startled when you sense a desperate plea for help and forgiveness rush over you as he meets your gaze. You also notice that the right side of his shaved head has been severely burned, just above his ear. Confused, you reach up to gingerly touch it, but everything goes black before you get the chance. 

You hear the distinct sound of his rifle firing, then you see and hear short flashes of something else. Snow, a pained scream, someone small running away. You try to move, but you’re frozen in place, unable to do anything but fall to your knees and groan in fear as your eyes screw shut against a sudden bolt of pain in your head. 

Your eyes fly open and you’re back in the bacta tank, though this is different too. The bacta isn’t stinging your open eyes, and everything is still pitch black except for the space taken up by the tank and a small area of the floor around it. You look to your left and see Crosshair sitting as close to the tank as possible in a chair, dozing with his temple against the glass, looking like he usually does. After a few seconds, you hear a faint but familiar voice call your name. Confused, you whirl through the liquid and around to your right side, then gasp. You barely register that you aren’t wearing the air mask, but you don’t seem to need it. Your gasp made no bubbles. 

“Fives?” you say, incredulous and even more confused as he steps out of the darkness and into view. 

“Cyare, you must be careful,” he says, and the thinly veiled fear in his tone sends a chill down your spine. 

“Careful?” you repeat, your confusion deepening, unsure if he can even hear you. It seems like he can, though, and he walks to the other side of the tank. He stands behind Crosshair and rests a hand on his shoulder. You whirl around again to keep track of him. 

“Crosshair?” you say, alarmed. “What are you talking about?”

Crosshair jolts awake when you say his name, but doesn’t react at all to being touched. 

Another dream, you think. You should have realized it sooner. 

“Please, you aren’t safe with him,” Fives says. The strain and desperation in his voice is exactly the same as it was the last time you ever saw him, back in the bathroom of 79s, and it scares you. Crosshair, meanwhile, has leapt to his feet, looking panicked. 

“I- I don’t understand,” you say, ignoring this. 

“Don’t go to Kaller,” Fives says. He takes a step backward as he speaks and appears to briefly distort like a hologram in static. 

You know you’ll be waking up soon and a mixture of fear and panic overtake you. You beat against the glass with your open hand and shout, “Fives, wait! How do you keep talking to me?”

The room around you also starts to warp, and Fives says something, though you can’t hear what over the sudden sound of rushing water. Something about the Force? You try to call out to him again, but you feel like you’re suffocating, and everything goes black again.

Crosshair wakes with a startled gasp, not realizing that he’d fallen asleep. He swears he had heard you saying his name, but reminds himself that’s not possible right now. He absently scratches at the right side of his head, just above his ear, and yawns as he turns to check on you. He then stands up so suddenly that he knocks the chair over and he’s fully aware again. 

You’re twisting around violently in the tank and the air valve is out of your mouth. Your arm flails, your hand banging against the glass, and it looks like you’re trying to yell. Your eyes are open, but unfocused, which is deeply unsettling. 

Panic completely consumes Crosshair as he watches you; for a few seconds all he can think to do is try to break the tank open to get you out. He also beats against the tank a few times, punching hard enough to bloody his knuckles, and vaguely notes a crack in the glass that wasn’t there earlier before coming to his senses.

“Somebody get the fuck over here, she’s going to drown!” he shouts, loud enough to reverberate around the room. Seconds later, a Torgruta man he doesn’t recognize bursts through the privacy curtains, yanks an emergency drainage lever Crosshair hadn’t noticed, and catches your limp body when the tank suddenly swings open, dumping a sizeable amount of the bacta liquid all over the floor, soaking their shoes. Crosshair, frozen as the panic returns, watches helplessly, unable to do anything as the Torgruta man lays you flat on your back and begins chest compressions. 

After what feels like an eternity, you finally take a gasping breath before coughing up bacta. Crosshair snaps out of it and rushes to your side, pushing the man out of his way, dropping onto his knees, and pulling you as tightly to his chest as he can. 

You wake with a gasp, then immediately start coughing up what feels like thick water. Your throat and lungs are burning, your entire chest aches, and you have no idea what’s happening, aside from someone holding you. You continue coughing, worsening the pain in your chest, and turn your head to spit out whatever is coming up. Your eyes fly open when you hear your name, and the first thing you see is Crosshair's face; He looks both terrified and relieved while a gust of panic blows over you from him. Confused by this, you keep coughing hard enough to gag, more fluid coming up through your throat. Despite the burn, you recognize the bitter taste of bacta, and suddenly realize that something had obviously gone horribly wrong. 

“C… Crosshair?” you say, your voice weak, before you cough again, expelling more bacta from your lungs. Whatever he says in response is almost completely incoherent, the only thing you’re able to pick up with certainty is ‘drown’. 

The next thing you know, Bortuse is there, wrestling Crosshair away from you and holding him back with surprising strength. You also hear Kix’s voice, though you can’t tell what he’s saying over the sound of your own hellish coughing. You turn onto your side and gag again, bringing up the last of the bacta from your chest. You shakily shift yourself into a slouched sitting position, facing everyone. 

Kix immediately kneels to check your vitals, and as your breathing normalizes with only the occasional weak cough, you see Crosshair relax enough for Bortuse to let him go. Kix, apparently satisfied, turns toward Crosshair and asks him what the hell happened. It takes a minute for him to recompose himself, now that you’re alright, before he speaks. 

“She… she was thrashing around, i-it had to be another nightmare, she yanked the airway out,” he says. 

Fives, you think, and realize that it must have happened during your dream. You’re so startled by this that you miss the way Kix curses under his breath and says that he thought the dose wasn’t right. 

“You what?” 

Crosshair, however, had heard him just fine. He pushes away from Bortuse and advances upon Kix, absolutely furious, but Bortuse manages to hold him back again, grabbing him by the upper arms. 

“You son of a bitch, this is your fault!” Crosshair shouts. Kix is ignoring him entirely, instead focusing on you. You try to shout back for him to stop, but your voice is too weak. 

You slowly move to stand, and Kix assists, taking your hands and carefully guiding you to your feet. Once you are standing, he holds you upright by the shoulders and asks if you’re okay. You cough, again, but nod at him. 

“Get your fucking hands off her,” Crosshair shouts. 

Kix glances between the two of you, obviously concerned. You step away from him and unsteadily, but independently, walk over to Bortuse, then motion to let him go. Bortuse hesitates, the same concerned look on his face, but complies, stepping away from Crosshair. 

Crosshair takes a step toward Kix, but you move in front of him and stop him. 

“Crosshair, stop,” you say as loudly as you’re able, wheezing. 

“No!” he growls, and it looks like he’s going to move you out of his way. You cough, again, and hold a hand against his chest, exactly like you had on Anaxes. You can feel his heart pounding against your palm. This simple touch seems to calm him down significantly. 

“Just stop and breathe,” you say, your tone soothing, if a little hoarse. 

“He- I thought-,” Crosshair says, stumbling over his words as he loses steam. You make a soft shushing sound at him. 

“Hey, it’s alright Cross, I’m okay,” you say, moving your hand from his chest to the side of his face. His anger evaporates after your hand meets his cheek, and when he speaks, his voice is shaky, which startles you.

“Don’t scare me like that,” he says, so softly only you can hear him. He sweeps you into his arms, hiding his face in your neck. 

You feel a large hand cautiously rest upon your upper back, and when you look to see who it belongs to, you find Bortuse looking shaken. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says. You cough again and grimace at the pain in your chest. “Sorry about that,” Bortuse says, pulling his hand away and looking slightly guilty. 

“Chest compressions?” you ask weakly, and he nods at you. “You probably saved me, doing that. I’ll deal with some bruised ribs,” you say. You glance around, looking for Kix, but he seems to have slipped out of the room. 

“I imagine you want to get that bacta off, right?” Bortuse says, relaxing a little. You raise a hand and touch your hair, finding it clumped together and sticky, then nod at him. 

“You remember where the showers are?” he asks, moving to lead the way. You try to follow him, but Crosshair is still holding you as tightly as he can, and you can’t really move. 

“Hey hotshot, you’re crushing my ribs,” you wheeze. Crosshair curses and quickly releases you. He keeps one hand against your back, helping you stay upright, and grips your hand tightly with the other. 

Able to move freely again, you follow Bortuse on shaky legs to the pair of enclosed shower units at the other end of the room. Part way there, you slip on a small puddle of the bacta, but Crosshair catches you before you fall. 

“Should I get you a chair?” Bortuse asks, but you cough, yet again, then shake your head at him while wincing from the ache in your chest. By this time, the three of you have reached the showers. You softly shrug Crosshairs hands off of you and step inside one of the units. Before you close the door, you see from the corner of your eye that he’s trying to follow you inside. Bortuse is having none of this, however, and stands between you two, arms crossed. 

“I’ll be okay for five minutes Crosshair,” you say, tired, before shutting the door to the shower unit. The clear walls turn opaque, so you strip down completely, then stand under the hot spray of water. You move very little and allow it to flow over your aching body. The steam also soothes your throat as you breathe it in. 

You reach for soap, then see that there isn’t any here. You’ll need a proper shower once you get back to the hotel, but this will at least get most of the gunk off. You run your fingers through your hair and manage to dislodge the clumps of drying bacta from it.

While doing this, your thoughts inevitably return to Fives and the dreams. Every other time you’ve ‘seen’ him, he wasn’t scared for you, and that in turn scares you. You aren’t safe around Crosshair? What did he mean by that? You’ve felt nothing but safe in his presence, even when you thought he hated you. And why did he look so different at the start of the dream? 

You realize something and gasp, catching the attention of the men outside. Bortuse asks if you’re okay, and you can hear Crosshair trying to open the door. 

“Yeah, sorry. I’m fine, I’ll be out in a minute. Can someone go get my clothes?” you say quickly, your hands shaking. You return to your train of thought.

You’ve had visions of concurrent events multiple times before, and you realized that what you saw, Crosshair, the room, the short blonde figure, it all could have been a premonition. In fact, as you think on it for a little longer, you’re sure that’s what it was. Fives had said something about Kaller, was that part of it? “Something else to ask Anakin or Master Nu about I guess,” you think, and try to shake off the heavy feeling of unease that’s settling over your shoulders. 

After another minute, you shut the shower off and stick your hand out through the door. Someone hands you a towel and your bag, so you quickly dry yourself before putting on your dry underwear and clothes.

Once you’re redressed, Bortuse leads you down the hall to a separate exam room where Kix is waiting before leaving the area. Crosshair, following you more closely than usual, steps on your heel as you both try to move through the doorway at once. You glance up at him and you can still faintly sense his fear. 

Once you manage to get into the room, you take a seat on the small cot against the wall, and Crosshair sits as close as possible to you on your now formerly injured left side. Kix approaches, and Crosshair stiffens, shifting in front of you.  He seems to be shielding you away from him. Kix looks at you for help and you pinch the bridge of your nose. 

“Crosshair, if he doesn’t sedate you, I will. Move and let the man do his damn job so we can get out of here, please,” you say, tired, while watching him. 

He seems like he’s going to argue, but he instead gets up and sits on your other side. He’s left enough room for you to move freely, but once you’ve taken off your tunic, he’s tightly holding your right hand in his left. You look at Kix, who shrugs a single shoulder as he pulls on a pair of gloves. He gently presses his fingers against your side, digging into the skin slightly, and unlike yesterday, this doesn’t hurt at all. 

“It looks like the internal damage has healed, but it’s left you with a hell of a scar. We could put you back in-,” Kix says, before you and Crosshair simultaneously say ‘NO’, startling him. 

“Okay, we won’t,” Kix says, holding up his hands as he steps away from you. 

“It’s just cosmetic at this point anyway, right?” you ask. Kix nods at you. 

“Yes; anything else we do to treat it would be superficial and probably not worth kicking up your anxiety, if the scar won’t bother you,” he says. You hold your free hand to your side and press your palm against the skin there, noting the change in its texture, then shake your head.

“I’m not too worried about it,” you say. 

“It should be fine from here out then,” Kix says. He then sheds his gloves before sanitizing his hands and pulling on a new pair. As you put your top back on, he grabs a bandaging kit from a nearby cabinet and turns his attention to Crosshair's battered knuckles. 

“You’re lucky you didn’t break anything,” Kix says, reaching for his hand. Crosshair yanks it away, making you huff in irritation. 

“Oh for the love of… I’m sorry about him; just let me do it,” you say, even more tired and annoyed on top of that. Kix concedes and sets the kit beside you before backing away a few steps. 

Remembering your basic procedures, you slip out of Crosshair's grip and wash your hands before pulling on your own pair of gloves. You kneel in front of him and carefully pat at the dried blood with a pre-moistened wipe, cleaning it away. Once that’s done, you have a better look at what you’ll need to do. 

“Just a few lacerations and some moderate bruising,” you say, thinking out loud more than speaking to anybody. “No stitches, thankfully, but it definitely needs to be bandaged up,” you continue. You soak a cotton wad in disinfectant and softly dab at Crosshairs wounds. He makes no sound of pain, but you can tell that he feels the sting by the way his hand tries to jerk away from you. With that done, you apply antibiotic cream to a few squares of gauze. He obediently holds them in place with his uninjured hand while you start wrapping up the other. 

“You really wanted to get me out, huh?” you say softly, talking to Crosshair but keeping your eyes on your work. 

“I cracked the fucking glass,” he says, surprising you and Kix, who shoots you a mildly alarmed glance. 

“Not enough to actually break anything, calm down,” Crosshair says, rolling his eyes. 

“God damn, don’t let me piss him off again,” Kix says. Crosshair shoots him a dirty look, but you get his attention by lightly slapping the uninjured area of the back of his hand. 

“As long as he doesn't let me get shot again,” you say in a lighter tone, then meet Crosshair’s eyes. “I am not doing any of this a second time,” you say. 

You’re expecting a snappy remark, so the severe expression on his face as he nods catches you off guard. You frown softly at him, then get to your feet. You’ve finished wrapping him up, so you toss out the packaging and wrappers of the things you used before taking off your gloves and washing your hands again. 

Once you’re done, Kix walks the pair of you out of the medical wing and into the main hall, then suggests that you both get some rest. He tells Crosshair not to overwork his hand, and he only nods at him. 

After a few minutes, you’ve made your way back outside and gotten into another taxi. This one isn’t enclosed, so as much as you want to talk to Crosshair, there’s no point until you get back to the hotel.

You’re barely through the door to your room before Crosshair is on you, holding you tightly and trembling. Startled by this, you have no idea how to react, so you kind of awkwardly pat his back until he loosens his grip on you. He takes a deep, shaking breath, and when he meets your eyes you can still see and faintly sense his fear. You gently hold either side of his head before softly kissing him. 

“Crosshair, I’m okay. Nothing serious happened to me and I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” you say, your tone soothing again. He presses his forehead against yours and when he says your real name, you can barely hear him. 

“Don’t you dare do that to me again,” he says. “I thought I’d fucking lost you.” 

“Well, I’m ‘one tough bitch’, according to Hunter,” you say. “So you’re stuck with me,” you continue, taking a step back and cupping his cheek. 

Crosshair turns his head and softly kisses your palm, then holds you by the hips. Kissing you, he gently steers you backwards toward the bed. Your legs hit the edge of the mattress, so you sit while he pulls away and kneels on the floor in front of you, now holding both of your hands in his and intertwining your fingers. He looks deeply into your eyes, and a wave of emotions crashes over you. A jumble of fear, relief, and gratitude make your mind buzz, but more than anything, you intensely feel something new from him, and it makes your heart race. 

“Wrecker was completely right,” Crosshair says. He frees your hands, holds your hips again, and straightens up on his knees enough to kiss you so gently you almost don’t feel it. He presses his forehead into yours and says your real name again.

“I love you,” he says, and your heart soars. “I’m just sorry it took you nearly drowning for me to fucking tell you,” he says, then kisses you again, but this time he’s desperate, crushing his lips to yours and moving a hand from your hip up to the back of your head. 

You melt into him, his distinctly smoky essence flooding your senses as the kiss deepens and you both open up. At the same time, he’s moving upwards off of his knees and guiding you by the shoulders toward the head of the bed and onto your back, his lips never leaving yours for more than a second. Rather than having him hover over you on all fours, you both lie on your sides. You open your legs and his knee finds its home between your thighs. He carefully grinds against you, and your hands move to his shoulders, pulling him over you as you roll onto your back. 

Crosshair moves his hands to your waist, tugging at the hem of your tunic while he trails kisses from your lips along your jawline and down to your neck. You gasp quietly as he moves, then sit up enough to pull your top off and drop it to the floor, your chest now clad in just your thin bra. It has no padding, so when he cups one of your breasts and massages it, you can feel the warmth of his entire palm. His hands are rough and calloused, but his touch is so soft and sensual that you barely notice. He drags a hand upward from your waist to the band of your bra before making quick work of the hooks, undoing them singlehanded. You slip your arms out of the straps and he tosses the garment over his shoulder, leaving your upper half bare. 

His unending kisses move across your collarbone and downward along your sternum. Knowing that the area hurts, his touches are feather light and cautious. He shifts the focus of one hand from massaging your breast to lightly teasing his fingertips around your nipple while the other hand rests on your hip. His lips leave your skin briefly, and you watch as he softly presses an ear to your chest, listening to your quickening heartbeat. You need more, so you run your fingers through his coarse silver hair and not so subtly push the top of his head downward. Picking up on this, Crosshair levels his mouth to your other breast, his hot breaths against the sensitive skin making you shiver. 

He glances up at you and when you nod, he traces around the nipple with just the tip of his tongue, and once he’s satisfied by the way you moan in response, he wraps his lips around it. He softly circles it with his tongue, alternating between long, broad strokes and quick, short taps. After about a minute of this, he very carefully holds it in his teeth before starting to suck at it. You shiver again and you’re so aroused that your hips involuntarily jerk upward, making you inadvertently grind your clit against his knee. Crosshair hums against you, making your hips twitch harder while you push his head downward again. 

Obediently, he moves from your breasts to your hips, his palms laid flat against the upper crests of your pelvis. His soft kisses continue as he slips down past your waist. He pauses at your new scar before briefly resting his forehead on it, though this only lasts a few seconds until he starts moving again. His face is about even with his hands and you can feel his warm breath through your thin leggings and thinner panties. The sensation makes you shiver and gasp his name. 

Crosshair shifts his hands again, hooking his fingers into your waistband and stopping to look back up at you, silently asking permission. You grant it with a soft ‘please’. Only then does he move again, sliding your remaining clothes down your legs before you wiggle free and these are also tossed aside. Now that you’re completely nude, he gently nudges your legs apart, kissing along your inner thigh as he does. You realize that he’s practically worshiping you and you barely hold back another shiver. 

You don’t have a lot of time to think about this before you feel his deft fingers tracing around your dripping cunt, gathering your wetness before slowly slipping deeply into you. This, coupled with his hot breath breezing over your aching clit, makes you whimper. He glances up at you and meets your eyes again, and you can tell, even without being able to sense it, that he’s fighting to hold himself back. 

“Please, Cross,” you whisper, and the words have barely left your mouth before his lips are on you, wrapping around your clit as he sucks at it and starts to thrust his fingers in and out of you. You curse loudly and moan in response, and this seems to spur him on; his fingers start moving faster while he works your clit over with his skilled tongue at the same time. 

You feel a familiar tightness in your gut as this continues and you whine Crosshair's name again, unconsciously tugging at his hair. His fingers stop thrusting and he instead rubs firm circles into a specific area deep inside of you, dragging you even closer. 

“F-fuck, Cross, don’t stop,” you gasp. 

His fingers keep moving while he takes your clit between his lips again and hums, long and low against it. This combination, on top of the sincere love that nearly blows you backward when you lock eyes with him, rockets you over the edge. 

You come with a high, gasping moan and your legs quiver from the intensity of your orgasm. He keeps going, fingering you through it until you spasm and soak his face. You cry out and try to pull him back up. Crosshair slips his fingers out of you before kissing his way back up your body. He pauses to suck at your nipple again, which unexpectedly sends you into another orgasm, this one more intense than the first. This time you come with a shout of his name and a mixture of curses and praise spilling from your lips. 

Once his face is even with yours, you slip your arms under his and hook your hands onto his shoulders. You pull him into a deep, soulful kiss, and pay no mind to your own taste on his tongue. You unconsciously open your legs and Crosshair instinctively slots himself between them, neither of you aware of this. The kiss grows somehow even more passionate. You slide your hands down toward his groin, wanting to unclip his codpiece, but before you can, he stops you. He takes your hands into his, interlacing your fingers, and raises them just above your shoulders, pressing them into the mattress. 

“Later, kitten. Let me take care of you,” he whispers, and you shiver before crashing your lips against his again. 

After an unknown amount of time and orgasms, you finally tap out, unfortunately having exhausted all of your energy much faster than you wanted. Crosshair softly kisses your lips and rolls the two of you back onto your sides and facing each other before touching your foreheads together. You both close your eyes and breathe one another in, a sense of protection and even devotion filling the room. Eventually, you pull back and sit up with a soft yawn while stretching your arms. 

Crosshair also sits up, then stands and ducks into the refresher for a moment. You watch him go, feeling that familiar swooping sensation in your stomach and grinning without realizing it. When he returns, you can hear the shower running. He takes your hands and pulls you to your feet, taking a moment to kiss you one more time before leading you into the refresher. You step inside the shower and the water is already warm, so you thank him, raising your voice over the noise of the water. He half sits, half leans against the counter, keeping an eye on you as you start to shampoo the last of the bacta out of your hair. 

Ambient sounds aside, it’s quiet for several minutes, and after glancing at him, you can tell he’s deep in thought about something. Having moved on to your body wash, you’re about to ask what’s on his mind when he says your name. 

“Yeah?” you say, acknowledging him.

“I’m…,” he says, before pausing to take a breath and shake his head at himself. “I’m sorry about this morning,” he says, and he sounds sincere. 

You rinse yourself, glad to be clean again, and shut off the shower before wrapping up in a large white towel. You walk over to him and stand between his relaxed legs. He rests his hands on your hips and leans in for a kiss, but you stop him with a soft bop on the nose. 

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” you say, then peck his cheek. Crosshair nods and agrees with you. You yawn widely, exhausted from the harrowing day. 

“I’m going to sleep for a little bit,” you say, moving away from him and out into the main room. You stop and look back over your shoulder at him. 

“Well, you coming?” you ask, dropping the towel. You don’t miss the desire in his eyes as he looks you up and down, but don’t acknowledge it, aside from a soft shake of your head, before pulling on a clean pair of leggings. 

As you crawl into bed, Crosshair follows you, shucking off his armor as he goes. Once he’s down to just his lower blacks, he slides in next to you, then wraps his arms around your shoulders and rests his chin on the top of your head. You both make a soft, content sound. You rest your head against his chest and the steady sound of his heartbeat quickly lulls you to sleep. 

Crosshair lies awake for a long while, watching over you and thinking about how close he’d come to losing you. He holds you closer with trembling hands before he too eventually falls asleep. 

Tag list: @kaminocasey @madameminor @jennamelinda12 @arctrooper69 @the-cantina @jedi-hawkins @wolveria (should I keep tagging you?) @zoeykallus @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @whore4rex @echo-is-worth-more-than-2000 @vanyaluxz1007 @jane8675

[starqueensthings]

The Only Exception:

Foreword, Basics, and References

Basics: 3rd POV, primarily following the main character (OC) with occasional shifts to other perspectives (separated by chapter). 

Pairing: Captain Howzer x fem!OC; then Jesse x fem!OC; then maybe something else… maybe something of the same… TEEHEE

Characters: more clone OC’s than I can count, tons of human OC’s, Twi-lek OC’s, many of our favourite TCW characters like Fives, Echo, Jesse, Kix, and Rex playing large parts of the story. Tup, Hardcase, Dogma, Cody, Keeli, and others also make appearances. 

Rating: will shift chapter by chapter between 16+ for mature themes, and 18+ for explicit themes. 

Posting Schedule: will not be consistent. The undulation of ADHD means there are days to weeks where my brain can’t translate a single sentence from thought to written word, so I’m hesitant to commit to a structured, weekly schedule but will do my best.

Things that probably don’t need to be noted, but because I’m both anxious and uncontrollably long-winded, I feel the need to explain: 

This work was written novel style, and not necessarily the traditional 2nd POV, x reader fanfiction style that we all know and love. These characters have names, histories, appearances that are both eluded to and mildly described, as well as personality traits that may not be desirable to some. For example: the main character, June, harbors some resentment toward men because of some lingering trauma from her past, and unfortunately lets it influence many of her decisions. There are times, particularly in the beginning of the story, where she can be highly sensitive to what some would consider harmless, off-the-cuff remarks, and becomes combative and irrational as a result. Her reactions are particularly placed to emphasize aspects of her character, so that we can witness her growth and/or regressions throughout the story. 

In that same token, this story will hover around + touch on some uncomfortable  topics, particularly toward the end. Whump/angst/hurt+comfort/fluff/smut will all be present themes, and I WILL be tagging each chapter very clearly and very thoroughly. SA and parental trauma will be eluded to throughout the entirety of the story and recollected/explained toward the end. Additionally, smut scenes will be segregated into their own chapters and will be written as not to affect the flow of the story, so if you choose to skip those, you don’t miss out on anything plot wise. All of that being said, this is largely a light hearted story about growth and unexpected love as it presents itself in several forms. 

Additionally (and very importantly) June is highly intelligent and medically proficient. I am neither of those things. Not even close. I tried to research as much medical terminology as possible prior to/during writing, but probably 75% of it will make no sense to someone who’s very familiar with medical things/conditions/procedures. Lastly, I tried to keep this story as canon compliant as possible, but the Clone Wars timeline is challenging to navigate. Creative liberty was taken in some spots where canon is murky, but otherwise I tried to remain as true to the Star Wars events as we know them. Language will fluctuate mildly between in-universe and modern day. I kept it as Star Wars as possible, but absolutely refuse to use “transparisteel” in place of glass, “flimsi” makes me cringe, and will always prefer shower over “sonic” lol 

Common Star Wars words are below:

Holo Computer: Desktop Computer

Holopad: kinda like a cellphone

Datapad: kinda like an iPad/tablet

Durasteel: metal

Duraplas: plastic

Massiff: a dog-ish creature that kinda looks like an alligator lol

“Kriff”: “Fuck” or “Shit” (a swear word, not the noun of a fuck or a shit lol)

“Kriffing”: “Fucking” (adjective, not the action of fucking)

Chrono: watch/clock

Hoverbed: like a gurney or hospital bed that floats 

Air Speeder: floating car with side-by-side seats

Speeder bike: floating motorcycle

Fresher: washroom/bathroom/loo

Di’kut: Idiot

Mesh’la: beautiful (noun)

Cyare: darling (noun)

Caf: coffee

“Maker” or “Gods” or “Stars”: “God” or “Lord” (frustrated; not religious lol)

Camtono: a cooler/portable freezer

Flimsi: paper

a bajillion more listed in this fantastic post.

Terms I made up because canon was lacking (list is on-going):

NBA or Nociceptor Blocking Agent: the pain injection we see them jab into peoples necks

USI or Universal Serum Injector: the injection tool itself (serum vial is loaded per dose)

Defibrillator “defib” Pods: small, high tech, portable defibrillator

Cleanser Tube: essentially a washing machine recessed into the hall. Very similar to a front loading washing machine where only the door is visible. 

Sanitation Station: a weird contraption that cleans/disinfects someone’s hands before coating them in nitrile (instead of pulling on surgical gloves). 

“Maker have mercy”: “for the love of God” (frustrated; not religious lol) 

Blue wine: white wine

Purple wine: red wine

Cauterizing Pen/Electromagnetic Stapler: used in the place of stitches

MedScanner: I did not conceptualize the scanner itself, but did make up all the settings and uses lol

“Flimsi Flinger”: “Paper Pusher”

“Double-barrelled Blaster”: a double edged sword

[frostbitebakery]

Do you have a story/reason behind the scars on Cody's lips for the evil doppelganger au?

(also I absolutely adore it, from the writing to the art. It all fits together so well)

I definitely have backstory to every hurt and freckle, Nonny.

CW: body horror, panic attack

———

“Careful.”

“Of course,” Ecmo answers drily, causing Obi-Wan to take a step back with a short, apologetic bow. “Should you be up, General?” Ecmo asks with a side-glance before putting the tweezers to use again.

Obi-Wan flushes. Very lightly because of blood loss but it’s a pretty sight nonetheless.

Instead of going to the assigned med-bed, Cody watches in bemusement as Obi-Wan fishes a stool from under the corner-desk with his foot and sits down, gingerly placing his bandaged hands—

Obi-Wan’s screams trembled in the back of Cody’s throat, clanging and pounding behind Cody’s squeezed shut eyes, not wanting to see the hammer coming down again—

Ecmo drops another bit of sutures onto the tray. “Almost done. Anesthetics still holding up?”

Cody nods. He only has the most vague sensation in his lips, the immediate area around his mouth. Still, he— he needs—

He can’t feel his mouth.

A short flick of his fingers has Obi-Wab sitting up straighter and Ecmo backing up with held up hands.

He can’t feel his mouth. It’s there but not his, it’s theirs and dry and he needs water and

“It’s okay,” Ecmo reassures immediately, voice coming through water and vacuum and black holes. “Take your time.”

He’s so thirsty, his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Cody, I’m here. We’re both here. We’re not there anymore.”

Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up before they hear you and the last time Obi-Wan had tried to speak, they had held Cody down and made an example of him with needle and thread.

“We’re safe. Cody, we’re safe.”

He knows that. He knows that because he had screamed for help, ripping the stitches through his mouth, when he’d seen life-saving gold. Had cried when he’d pulled an unconscious Obi-Wan on his back and away— away—

“You’re in the medbay on the Negotiator.”

Away.

His reflection stares back at him silently from a polished transparisteel wall. He’s going to have scars.

“You’re going to be okay.”

The panic in his chest stops its maelstrom and hardens like it’s glassed.

Yes. He will be.

He’ll tell himself that often, in the upcoming years. He’ll survive because he doesn’t know what else to do.

He’s been designed to fight so he does. The CIS, the Senate, Sith, and droids and a chip in his head that Obi-Wan will shorten out, fighting off Cody with broken hands and a broken lightsaber glancing off Cody’s face and eye. Obi-Wan will crawl away from him with a smashed knee Cody had stomped on to keep him from moving.

He’ll survive that, too.

But for now he pushes his forehead against Obi-Wan’s stomach, wishing to hide beneath his ribs.

[chocmarss]

Involved With You

Summary:

“They don’t like me.”

Surprisingly, Din shifted in place. “It’s not that. They think we have enough. But I know the Empire as much as you do, and I know what they’re capable of. It’d be an advantage to have someone who could cut them down faster before they try anything else.”

“And that would be me,” Luke smiled. “I heard a squad of Mandalorians would have overtaken a whole cruiser. You’ve been capable warriors for hundreds of years. What can I even offer?”

the mandalorian. dinluke. acquaintance to lovers. rated E (18+). 11.8k+ words.

Based on 50 A Softer World Prompts.

We can finally reveal our @smut-wars-exchange fics, and here’s my gift to ancslove!

I cannot help but notice we are sitting-in-a-tree. So, you know, maybe we could think of something to do… verb-wise. (I want us to gerund, essentially.)

“Republic’s getting rid of the Donut.”

Mike didn’t stop wiping the pint in his hand as he squinted through the windows, the corner of his eyes wrinkling in a way that was too familiar. “Really?”

“Yeah,” the Sullustan said, still peering over his shoulder with his large black eyes, schadenfreude writhing in their depths. With the olive green faded and stained, the cuffed gloves he took off were starting to unravel at the seams. “It’s been, what, fifteen, twenty years since it was installed and then pebbled by ‘em kids? I lost count.”

The ‘pebbles’ were actually rocks that were the size of a Wookie’s fist, picked up from the remains of the construction site the Empire left behind with the rest of the trash after they built the thirty-floored spherical building with a hole in it. Rodents and wild animals resided in between the wreck and stank, and it had taken the quick action of their people to contain the sickness that took more than they should have gone through.

Someone had gotten hold of one of the trucks. A rock was tied to the paddle with a piece of rope, pressing onto the gas, and the people had witnessed the destruction the truck caused when it crashed through the transparisteel double doors of the main entrance.

Just less than a decade ago, that was where the elite and Imperial officers would hold their meetings; a spread of their finest local dishes with all varieties of smell and taste, spicy and sweet, their textures like honey that melted in their mouths. Toniray wine and attar of spinsilk would bubble in flute glasses, acting as barriers between senators who hated each other, lies upon lies flowing through their mouths like the bottomless drinks offered to them.

The people of Bastion turned even more remorseless.

Luke knew the Sullustan worked in the mines. He knew the older man was one of those who looked on when a crowd watched their fellow citizens wrecked justice on the eye-sore that leeched them of their basic rights to live and survive.

There was a certain satisfaction in watching a fascist regime collapse under their own hands. Whatever remaining Imperial disdain towards the working class, the poor, had fled with the rest of their friends, and Bastionans were more than happy to chase them off the planet with their roar of triumph.

“That long, huh?” Mike was already filling the pint with Corellian ale. “Feels shorter, sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” the Sullustan reminded him, taking a sip of his drink. “Most times, my blind tortoise would’ve moved faster, bless her little soul.

“Dread’s a hell of a drug, I’ll give you that,” Mike crossed the space and set the drink down in front of Luke. “Here ya go, Luke. One ale.”

READ MORE ON AO3

[notallthoseinheadspace]

Some long rambling speculation on the last couple episodes of The Bad Batch below the cut.

(If any of it doesn’t make sense please forgive me, today’s round of chemo fucking flattened me.)

Going off my other post about how I do suspect CX-2 is Tech and Omega is Force-sensitive (I don’t know how to embed it and I’m too tired to figure it out right now, I can edit this when I don’t feel like I could be slipped through a letter slot) I’m caught on how Omega said that last time she escaped she had help. That was Crosshair.

She doesn’t know he missed, but she has to know there’s a chance. Even though his hand was steady after he started meditating with her, that sort of problem doesn’t get fixed overnight. So I’m still wondering if she had a backup tracker on her that wasn’t scanned - or, in a callback to the scene in the mine, she and CX-Tech had a heart-to-heart in the ship. Maybe she knows she has help coming separate from what we the viewers know.

The previews showed Hunter in what looked like a single-person vessel (the one they were in didn’t have a fully glass cockpit? Well, transparisteel. You know what I mean.) which suggests to me that they get into the base and wind up in the base’s fighter craft somehow?

(I’m fully expecting Hunter to do a sacrifice play. I hope he doesn’t succeed. I want the whole Batch together and happy again.)

The Cavalry mentioned in the last episode title seems like it would be a callback to their first appearance in TCW - Wrecker says ‘the cavalry has arrived!’ as he’s stepping off the ship to greet Cody and Rex - which gives me hope that the cavalry in question is not only the reunited Bad Batch but also Rex and Cody coming to their aid.

Another scene I can imagine happening and would love to see: Crosshair taking a shot at CX-2, who falls, helmet dramatically rolling away to reveal a scarred Tech - who, after a long moment of shock and horror, opens his eyes to groan out ‘Crosshair, you missed.’

Presumably the station on Tantiss will be destroyed - by the Zillo beast we saw the shadow of? By Wrecker and Crosshair planting explosives and then detonating them with one of the signature ricocheting shots? (Please not by someone pulling a Hevy. I am tired and everyone has enough trauma, Echo especially.)

Ideally the Batch would be presumed dead and Hemlock and all his research would be destroyed so there’s no reason for the Empire to continue searching them out, and they can retire in peace (although I do see Omega seeking out more training and involvement with Rex’s clone rebellion once she’s older - and I really fucking hope we get a series of that. Echo is my favorite, I would genuinely like to see him onscreen more. Also, we never did have the story behind how Rex, Wolffe, and Gregor wound up in their mobile fishing home. I’m fairly sure it’s horrible and tragic and I want it anyway.)

What they’re going to do with Rampart is baffling me - he doesn’t seem to have realized that his surviving this escapade is entirely reliant on Crosshair’s goodwill. Y’know, the guy he relentlessly dehumanized and never let eat a full meal and seems way too comfortable casually pushing around. (What is the way Crosshair is holding him when he stumbles in the ‘negative’ scene? It would make sense for Cross and Wrecker to be restraining him but it’s so weirdly tender?)

So, in very rambly conclusion, my speculative theories:

- CX-2 aiding Omega and revealed to be Tech

- Callback to the mine cave scene with Omega and Tech talking

- Cavalry is Rex, Cody, Gregor (and possibly Wolffe? Unless they are giving us a Clone Rebellion series and Wolffe joining Rex is covered in that)

- Crosshair’s tremor comes back, but as a positive (doesn’t kill his brother!)

- Deaths include Hemlock and Hunter (I don’t want Hunter to die. I just have a feeling. They’re not going to kill Omega and killing Crosshair at this point in his character arc would just be bad writing. Redemption equals death is a sloppy, lazy trope and it doesn’t work when someone’s already doing the work to redeem themselves. I’m unsure about Wrecker, but I can see him pulling a Hevy to let the others escape.)

- Emerie turning on Hemlock enough to help the children escape but not escaping with them. I have no guesses on Nala Se. TBB has pushed to make her a more sympathetic character, but it also seems like her imprisonment is weakening her a great deal. If I had to guess, she will try to tell Omega what Omega’s mutation is but die before she can finish, setting up Omega to research/train etc in any possible sequels/later appearances.

If this makes no sense blame the Taxol, if I’m right about anything blame the dodgeball.

[that-gay-jedi]

Vader is a dog to Palpatine but reformed!Vader is a cat. You're floating in your bacta tank and Obi-Wan comes over and knocks on the glass transparisteel and he knows you're deaf without your earpieces so he sends "Haha get contained idiot" through the Force. You think "NOTHING CAN CONTAIN ME" as loud as you can and Force-chuck one of Luke's shoes at his head. He ducks out of the room muttering about how cranky you are today and comes back with a saucer of milk.