#no other one is as satisfying as a nautolan

[accursedkaleeshi]

Hey grievous what is your opinion on some other jedi that you have less frequent or no encounters with based off what you heard? Like Plo Koon, Aayla Secura and K’Kruhk?

“Oh? You mean Jedi that were not constantly irritating me like sand in my hinges? Well, never have I said that Jedi were not well trained, but it is obvious their offensive capabilities were hastily adapted to that of a full scale war. They are meant as single defensive combatants, traditionally. Certainly not ideal to find themselves suddenly between armies.”

         If you had expected anything other than combat analysis, that would have been on you. The last 4 miserable years of his existence were dedicated solely to the combat analysis of Jedi. He didn’t have much outside of this parameter to judge them on.

         “Most of the Jedi generals were well schooled in their preferred saber forms. Though, master Fisto was certainly an excellent duelist, far above his peers. He was also incredibly annoying. Cheeky nautolan. Vos was unusual as well in his form; very aggressive for a Jedi.” Grievous paused to cough. Afterwards he curled his fingers at the end of his faceplate.

         “It did come to pass that master Vos’ form turned out to be the least problematic thing about him, though, did it not? Also unrelentingly obnoxious, but, ah, was there any honor left in him? To lie, deceive, harm his own. The man was ready to walk over his values if it got him what it wanted, eh? A fool.”

         “The others looked very honorable in comparison. Even master Mundi, so convinced everything that came out of his mouth was the most correct thing to befall the galaxy. What a cold culture that one comes from. Unduli; quite honorable. Condescending, but her soresu held up. K'Kruhk. Dovt'iin. A kind heart does not belong on the field of battle.”

         “Their clone companies spoke highly of Plo Koon & the azure twi’lek girl…Secura? Honor in this, but unremarkable in combat. At least as far as I would be concerned.” The general spread his fingers in a shrug. He figured that should satisfy you.

[Grievous’ Top 3 Annoying Jedi: (excluding Disaster lineage) Kit Fisto, Quinlan Vos, Ki-adi Mundi. Like & subscribe for Clone Wars Jedi lightsaber rating.]

[kytra-and-tryder]

Dark Side Switch 14

Tryder still started whenever Veraku came back from his “hunting” trips.

Whether the great beast was carrying an eighty pound herbivore in his jaws or not, Kytra always welcomed him back; scarcely would the narglatch have dropped his quarry before he was getting scratches behind massive leathery ears. He’d nearly knocked the Nautolan over before, leaning into her hands, but the Sith would always laugh it off, her voice airy and light in a way it never was otherwise.

It confused the Chiss.

He respected it, sure. It was terrifying and enormous and able to kill him without a second thought. And while he had learned to grow comfortable with it after Kytra had freed him -- in battle and in desperate need of an ally -- he didn’t trust the beast to not turn around and kill him out of annoyance. Tryder had tried asking her about it once; had gotten back a simple and cryptic response of “well I know him” and that had been the end of the conversation. 

Now, he was lost and alone in this hostile jungle, and Tryder was well and truly afraid.

The Jedi had taught him many things in his time at the Order, but doing no harm in a landscape that felt actively hostile was an ideal he wasn’t sure he could achieve. The flora was all unfamiliar to him; none of the fruits he could find were ones he recognized, and the flowers were even worse, some of them stinking like death and decay and others so sweet he was sure they hid their own terrible secrets. While he’d eaten meat as a prisoner, he couldn’t stomach killing his own meals; large or small, they were a part of the living Force, and should be respected as such.

Lost in his thoughts as he was, he didn’t sense the being approaching him until it nudged his shoulder. 

Tryder leapt back and drew his lightsaber; the once vibrant blade had dulled to a pastel green, but he gripped it tightly and stared into the darkness of black Sha’Vess nights. “Who’s there?” the Chiss asked in as authoritative a tone as he could manage.

The night growled softly at him as Veraku materialized out of the trees.

The Jedi faltered momentarily, the familiarity of the scene knocking his guard down. The cat took the chance, however --

-- and deposited a rabbit ((star wars rabbit equivalent?)) at his feet.

Tryder glanced down and then back at the thousand pound animal, still expecting betrayal. Veraku simply flicked his ears and sat, watching the Chiss closely -- it seemed as if the distrust was mutual. Tryder sighed after a moment and let his lightsaber deactivate,  leaning down to inspect the “gift” he had been brought. The narglatch growled again, more softly now, as if he was… unhappy.

Red eyes in a blue face glanced back up at the unexpected ally. “What do you want still?”

Veraku shuffled a little closer before sitting back down, just in arm’s reach. He stretched his neck out and nudged Tryder again in the shoulder, the wet nose chilling his skin. Tryder blinked for a moment until it dawned on him that the expectation that Kytra set was his to bear as well.

Tentatively, the Jedi reached out until his hand rested gently on the cat’s head, and he began to scratch.

He was surprised how easily the narglatch accepted his affection, as he turned his head to get Tryder to the apparent sweet spot he liked. Tryder scratched a little harder once Veraku stopped moving, and was surprised once more when he leaned into the blue palm. After a while the cat simply up and left without a word, apparently satisfied.

Something told Tryder that wasn’t the last he’d be seeing of the narglatch.

[phoenixyfriend]

Anakin and the Jedi Babies: A Child's Ink

Context: Anakin and the Jedi Babies, chrono

WARNINGS: underage characters get tattoos/piercings

Word Count: 5680 Rating: T Ships: primarily Gen (Disaster Lineage + Shmi), offscreen JangoShmi, past Obitine, past Anidala ----

Ylliben Skywalker is known as a preternaturally calm and quiet child, serious and pensive.

He jokes. He roughhouses. He is as responsive to tickle attacks and shoulder rides and warm hugs as any other child.

But he is Jetii'Manda, not just Mando'ade, and that fact is impossible to forget.

This is a child that can read before he can speak, a child who can talk at length about 'grassroots antiestablishment propaganda and its influence on rural sociological development' before he can say the words without a lisp. This is a child who looks a man in the eye and tells him to check over his blaster one last time, or it will explode in his hand only minutes into the next engagement. This is a child who is not only willing, but capable of discussing the plausible ramifications of Duke Adonai Kryze's latest decrees with Jaster Mereel himself, while still in possession of all his baby teeth.

(His father is not worried by this. Upset, sometimes, pained and tired, but not worried.)

(His sister only laughs.)

It is, as a result, not as surprising as it could be, when a six-year-old wanders his way into Na-Tsuyon's parlor and asks her what the risks of getting a tattoo at his age are.

"I'm not having that conversation with you unless your parent is here," she says. A few of the other artists crane their heads in her direction, but she waves them off.

"I'm not trying to get it right this moment," Ben protests. "I'm just gathering information. He said that was fine."

"Still need your parent here here," she tells him.

He leaves for about ten minutes, and then comes back with a tall, gangling figure in tow.

"I hear this isn't the place for unaccompanied minors," Knight Skywalker jokes.

(She has heard him called a General. She does not know which war he fought. Nobody does.)

(They no longer ask.)

"Well, he is young," she says, brushing her tentacles back over a shoulder. "I don't let anyone under human-fourteen get tattooed without a parent on hand, and giving preliminary information to anyone under twelve is... generally not worth it, shall we say."

Skywalker smiles, oddly amused in the way he always is when someone points out his children need supervision. "Glad to hear it. Are you the Na-Tsuyon whose name is on the door?"

"I am," she says. "And you're Knight Skywalker."

He's pleased at that. She can feel it in the chemical receptors of her head tails, and wonders. "Yep. So, do we jump right into the discussion or do you need me to sign something, or..."

"No, it's enough that you're here," she assures him. "Now, the main reasons we discourage tattoos for younger sentients is the distortion factor. While the level of pain is much lower than it would have been several millennia ago, and we have the technology to remove ink from below the skin, a tattoo before your body stops growing will distort as you grow and your skin stretches. You would need to come in yearly for touch-ups, to remove the sections that have moved out of place, and fill in where the ink is no longer settled."

"That makes sense," Ylliben says. He looks up at his father, and then back to her. "You'd be able to tell me if any of my choices would be... bad for a Mandalorian, yes?"

"I would," she confirms. She glances up at Knight Skywalker. "I don't suppose you have any history of getting tattoos?"

"No," he says. "I'm from Tatooine, so..."

Different connotations to the very act of it, for him.

She ducks her head in a nod. "I understand. Generally it's easier if the parent has experience in the process, but it's far from mandatory. You're willing to work with the distortion maintenance?"

"Yes'm," Ylliben says, and his father shrugs and gestures, as if the word of a six-year-old is thus law.

"I'll walk you through the details of the process, including the care, relevant allergies, and so on. I don't suppose you have anything in mind already?" she asks.

"I do," he says. He doesn't tell her what it is, yet.

Anakin Skywalker stays there the entire time, and they make an appointment for later in the week.

----

"My buir isn't my only father," Ylliben says quietly, when it comes time to get details on what he's getting tattooed. "I had another father before him. A Jedi. He died, to protect me, and a lot of other people. So, um..."

He shoves a picture to her, the symbol of the Jedi, plain and simple. She looks at him.

"In red," he says, shifting on his feet, looking up at his father and then back down at the page. "For, um, to honor a parent."

"Your first father was a Jedi?" she asks, gentle as she can.

"Mm-hm," Ylliben says. "He died, um... he saved buir from slavery, too, a long time ago. Both my dads were Jedi, and I'm going to be one, too, and so is Sokanth. It's--it's about where I come from, and--"

"You don't have to justify it if you don't want to," Na-Tsuyon tells him, reaching out to place one hand on his. It's very warm and dry, in her opinion, but she finds that most humans are. Mandalorians are some 80% human, or near human.

Nautolan Mandalorians aren't unheard of, but she's a rare one.

Ben sucks in a breath, and says, "I want it up here, on my right shoulder, like a pauldron."

Na-Tsuyon nods, and looks up to Skywalker. "You'll have to sign some papers to approve it, Master Jedi. You approve of the design?"

Skywalker hesitates, and then goes to one knee in front of his son, and speaks so quietly she can only hear "--remind you of the generator complex?"

Whatever Ben's answer is, it's too quiet for her to catch. It satisfies Skywalker, though, and he stands. "Alright, let's see this paperwork."

----

When Ylliben comes in again, a year later to get his slightly-twisting tattoo fixed, it's with Miss Shmi in tow. Na-Tsuyon greets the middle Skywalker, for all that she's still not entirely sure how to address the girl. "I heard you've been attending the university at Sundari. Some kind of engineering?"

"Mechanical, yes," Shmi says, oddly soft. "I'm going to spend another year to specialize in vehicular engineering. I'd like to design starships, since I already know how to fix them."

"A worthy goal," Na-Tsuyon says, as she leads them over to one of the stations and starts sanitizing Ylliben's inked shoulder. She doesn't entirely see why a university education is needed for something that, in her opinion, an apprenticeship could more thoroughly cover. It certainly worked well enough Na-Tsuyon herself. "You're on vacation, then?"

"I am," Shmi confirms. "It's... unfortunate that Anakin couldn't be here a the same time, but we'll see each other in a few days."

Ylliben fidgets for a bit as his jedi symbol is fixed, and then finally asks, "Ori'vod can approve new tattoos, right?"

"Sokanth, no. Shmi..." Na-Tsuyon looks up at her. "I have no idea if you're listed as his legal guardian anywhere, and I'd need proof of that."

"Secondary to Anakin," Shmi confirms. "Ben would like this to be a surprise for Ani."

Ben pulls out a sheet, with a careful design on it, and presses it into Na-Tsuyon's lap when she lifts the tattoo gun and he's not at risk of ruining his own ink. It's simpler than the Jedi symbol, though it's two colors instead of one.

"It's the Open Circle Fleet," Ben says, shy in a way she's given to understand he usually isn't. She thinks his shyer moments may be connected to admitting to emotion, something that he's tying quite closely to his choice of Tattoos. "I thought, um, since I'm already--already honoring one buir, then, er..."

"The Open Circle Fleet was under the command of my brother's Jedi Master," Shmi explains, one hand on Ben's. "And I am given to understand that the symbol was designed as a subtle nod, of sorts, to the two of them as a team. Ben's looking to honor Anakin as he has his first father."

Ben looks down at his lap, and doesn't meet Na-Tsuyon's eyes.

"Bring me proof of guardianship," she tells them. "And I'll make sure you get it finished early enough that the bacta comes off before Knight Skywalker makes it home."

She holds true to her word, and talks her way into being there to see the reunion and reveal.

The emotions that cross Skywalker's face are complicated and unexpected in ways that she can't identify.

Then it's all too simple, because he starts crying on little Ylliben in the middle of the hangar.

----

It doesn't take a full year for Ylliben to come in for another set. It's only five months, maybe six. He has a sketch again, a geometric design of something she doesn't recognize, but still pings as familiar for some reason.

"It needs to be the right shade of blue," he tells her, serious as anything. Knight Skwyalker is right next to him, smiling all soft and indulgent, and maybe a little sad. "It's for Soka."

Oh. This is based on her facial markings, then. Or... what they will be, maybe. This doesn't look quite like what she's seen on the girl, but everyone knows little Ben is more touched by visions than his father and sister.

Na-Tsuyon thinks she knows where this is going. "The same blue as her montrals and lekku?"

Ben shakes his head. "No, 501st blue."

Or not.

"It's close, but a little darker and more saturated," Skywalker offers, and shrugs when she looks his way. "It's a long story, but the 501st was the legion I led before I arrived at Mandalore. It had a specific shade of blue assigned for armor paint, so legions could easily identify each other in the field."

That's... odd. She doesn't ask for more detail, though. It's not her business. "Where do you want this one?"

Ben shows her his left forearm and frames a section about two-thirds the length of it, along the outer side. Like a vambrace.

She has a feeling all these symbols will be on his armor, once he's old enough for it.

"Let's go through my inks and see which one will work best," she says, and does not comment on the rest.

----

When Ylliben comes in again, a few months before his next touch-up appointment, he doesn't have an image on hand. His father is trailing him again, and Na-Tsuyon has a guess.

"Time for Shmi?" she asks.

Ben ducks his head, flushing and not meeting Na-Tsuyon's eyes. "Yes'm."

"I thought as much," she says, and smiles at Skywalker. "General."

"Don't start."

"There have been oh so many rumors flying since the last Jedi run-in, you know."

"I don't care," he grouses, dropping into a seat. "Hells, a man takes emergency command for one battle, and it's all anyone can talk about."

"You ended a civil war, sir."

Ben giggles into his hands as Skywalker groans and slaps a hand over his eyes.

"No respect," the man complains. "Ben, be nice to me, I'm your dad."

"Nuh-uh," Ben says. "I know all the most embarrassing secrets."

"A cruel child," Skywalker accuses. "Ruthless."

"You're the one raising me," Ben says, swinging his legs back and forth. He's got plastoid training vambraces, now, and greaves that clink against the legs of the chair.

"Somehow, yes." Skywalker sighs, with great drama and all such things. He drags himself up to sitting. "Anyway. Moving on."

"Do you have something in mind already?" Na-Tsuyon asks.

"Binary suns," Ben says. "Just two overlapping circles, coin-sized, one bigger than the other, in sunset colors. In a gradient, with a sort of... flare to it? Halo? The... oh! The stellar corona. Buir knows the colors better."

"I want to see what you have to work with before I sketch out the design," Skywalker says. "But yeah, sort of pink and yellow and peachy."

"I can do almost any color," Na-Tsuyon promises. "Especially on fair human skin like Ylliben's. I won't have a problem getting those to show up the way I would on myself."

Na-Tsuyon is a color most would call 'aquamarine.' She's a light shade between blue and green, and much as she likes her skin, it's an absolute pain to make red and orange show up.

She can do it.

It's just annoying.

Ben asks for this one to be on the inside of the left forearm, high and opposite to the widest point of the mark for Sokanth.

----

"Can I see your fonts?"

Ben's alone, for the moment, but Na-Tsuyon knows that when he makes his decision, his father or Shmi will approve it without question. It's no harm to let him browse.

"Basic, Mando'a, or Huttese alphabet?" she asks. "Or something more esoteric?"

"Mando'a, please."

He's eight years old, now. He's still far younger than most of her clients, but she's long gotten used to him. Even when he's acting like a child, there's something to it that doesn't quite sit right. 'Born middle-aged,' a few of the other civilians on base had joked.

She wasn't sure if she thought it was just a joke, these days.

Na-Tsuyon passes her fonts book to the boy, and settles back in her chair for a long afternoon of running numbers. He, meanwhile, goes to sit in the lobby, legs still not long enough to reach the floor, paging through with unwavering, unsettling gravitas.

Half an hour, and then Ben returns.

He points to a font. "This one."

"What's it going to say?"

"Vode An," he tells her, as serious as can be. "In black, over my heart. It's important."

"It's a fairly common phrase," she notes idly. "Should be quick."

She doesn't expect much of a response, and certainly not the one she gets.

"It was different for them," Ben mutters, not looking at her. She sees him twisting the toes of one shoe into the floor. "It was... it was different. I can't talk about it. They were brothers, actually brothers, and they had--they had nothing, they were basically slaves, but--"

"You don't have to talk about it," Na-Tsuyon assures him, a hand on his. "You don't have to explain it to me. If it means something to you, that's all that matters. I just need you to be sure."

"And buir to sign the paperwork," Ben quips, smiling at her. She notices that several teeth are missing. It's cute. "You need that too."

"That too," she agrees.

When Skywalker shows up, he hears what it is that Ben would like, and makes a few suggestions for a border--a gear that sounded too much like the Republic's symbol for a Mando'a phrase, a building on stilts from a city she's never heard of on a planet that rings no bells, a human genetic strand for reasons she can't imagine--most of which are soundly ignored, until Skywalker sketched out a stylized ship of... some sort.

"Venator," Skywalker says, and taps the image. "Nobody will know it except us, but it'll mean something to you, for them."

Ben looks at it for a long moment, and then takes the scrap of flimsi with Mando'a on it and lays it overtop the center of the sketch.

He stares at it for a few long moments, and then nods sharply and pushes it to Na-Tsuyon. "This, please."

He's such a polite child.

It makes it easier to ignore the more confusing parts of his presence in her parlor.

----

"Hi!"

Sokanth Skywalker is in her shop.

That's new.

"Hello," Na-Tsuyon says. "I didn't know you were thinking of getting ink."

"I'm not," she says, hopping up on a stool across the counter. She holds out a hand, and Na-Tsuyon clasps it with bemusement. "But you guys do piercings too, right?"

"We do," she confirms. "You're... ten?"

"Yep!" Sokanth chirps, kicking her legs back and forth. "Is that old enough to get these without permission, or should I ask my dad to come by?"

"At least twelve for piercings without in-person, signed approval from a parent or guardian," Na-Tsuyon says. "Though if you're anything like your brother, I don't imagine that'll be a problem for you."

Sokanth grins at her, bright and a little wild. "Nose, bottom lip, eyebrow. I don't know the actual terms, but I know what I want. Which do you suggest getting first?"

"I'd say nostril," Na-Tsuyon tells her. Most species even vaguely humanoid kick off with the ears, but that's not exactly an option for a togruta. "Let me get a chart and you can figure out what type of piercing you want, and what kind of hoop or stud. I don't actually do the piercings myself, though. Comm the General if you want this done today, though."

"Thank you~!"

----

Nostril, labret, and a horizontal brow, the piercer notes down at the end of the latest Skywalker visit. Na-Tsuyon wonders if the brow piercing will look strange with Soka's markings, and then doesn't think on it further.

----

Ylliben, almost nine, is silent as he gets the touch-up.

His father isn't here. Neither is Shmi. It's pre-approved, signed permission and all, but it's still odd that neither of Ben's adults is here.

Sokanth is, but she's almost as quiet as Ben is.

Na-Tsuyon has heard the rumors, but she's not going to say anything. She's not. It's not her business.

"Ben," Soka speaks up, towards the end of the appointment. "Ask her the thing."

Ben shakes his head. "No way."

"She knows more about tattoos and how important they are than anyone!" Soka urges. "Ask her!"

"Do you want to wait for your father?" Na-Tsuyon suggests.

"No!" both immediately yelp.

She pauses, glad the needle hadn't been to skin, and levels a look at Ben. He flushes and settles down, mumbling an apology for jerking as he had. She goes back to fixing the stretch of the binary suns tattoo.

Soka shifts in her seat, watching them intently.

"Shmi's upset with buir," Ben suddenly says. He doesn't meet Na-Tsuyon's eyes. "I'm... I don't know if you heard what's going on."

"I do my best to avoid rumors," she says, keeping her voice as neutral as she can. "I did hear that the Mand'alor is about to have a grandchild, and something about an upcoming wedding. That much has been announced officially."

"Dad freaked out," Soka says, legs kicking back and forth. "He's happy for her, and he's fine with Jango being the other parent, but it kicked off a... philosophical crisis? Ben, what do you think?"

"Metaphysical, maybe," Ben mumbles. "Definitely existential."

"And he told Shmi some stuff and now she's hurt that he didn't tell her before and it's all a mess," Soka finishes. "So, uh, we don't... want either of them involved. Until. Um. Until that's settled."

Na-Tsuyon bites back any deeper questions she might have. "Alright. I won't pry. What did you want to know from me?"

"I had a plan for what I was going to get next," Ben says, staring at the fold of fabric over his sister's knees in lieu of something more pertinent. "A peace lily, on the inside of my wrist, for..."

"You don't have to tell me," she reminds him.

Ben bites his lip, and closes his eyes, and breathes in deep. Neither of the girls comment.

"She was important," Ben finally says. "In the big memories. But she doesn't... she's not... she isn't here. And Jango is. And he's marrying Shmi, and they're having a baby, so I should put a mark down for him first, right?"

"He's gonna be Mand'alor, too," Soka adds.

"He is," Na-Tsuyon says, as neutral as she can.

"He's joining the family," Ben says, his gaze fixed on the floor in front of him. "And there's going to be a baby, and that's. That's important."

"There's no order that you have to get things in," Na-Tsuyon assures him, squeezing his shoulder in a light gesture of support. "You've prioritized family so far, so I think it would make sense to get a mark for the coming cousin, at least. Unless... is the lily for your birth mother?"

Ben's face twists, uncomfortable for some reason she can't begin to guess at.

"No," Ben says.

"Skyguy's Jedi Master did almost marry her when they were younger," Soka explains. She glances at Na-Tsuyon and then away and at the wall. "They had a whole dramatic 'forbidden romance' thing going on, 'cause Jedi aren't supposed to get married. She died before Ben came into the picture, though."

It's a neat enough explanation.

It feels fake, but much of what the Skywalkers say about their pasts does.

She's sure it's true in some way. In some perspective. From... from a certain point of view, maybe.

"Alright, then," Na-Tsuyon dismisses. "All things aside, I would suggest adjusting your order of tattoo acquisition, but there's no particular requirement by Mandalorian standards. Your choices are rarely anything that intersects with set traditions, nor do you have a historic clan or house that comes with mandates of the sort. It seems that you're leaning towards prioritizing something for the new additions to your family, though; you've made it clear that these things are important to you, and I think you should pursue it if you're comfortable with it."

Ben nods, eyes somewhere far off.

"It'll make him flustered," Soka pushes, kicking lightly at her brother's ankle. "Jan-Jan's still worried you don't like him anymore."

"He is not," Ben huffs. "He's just scared of buir."

"Nah, your opinion matters too," Soka argues. "And you've been avoiding everyone 'cuz Skyguy freaked out and Shmi's upset, so Jango's worried you're mad at him about the baby happening. If you get a tattoo about him, he might actually cry."

"Is that why you want me to take that route?"

"Not the only one," Soka says, utterly guileless. She blinks at him, bright and innocent. "But I definitely do want to see the future Mand'alor crying because you made it obvious he's family now. It'll be funny."

Ben sighs, very clearly being dramatic about it. "Soka, I'm not going to pick a tattoo based on what you think will be funny."

"Imagine his face, though."

Na-Tsuyon doesn't comment at the expressions Ben makes as he very clearly does exactly that.

"Well, kriff," Ben sighs, and Soka giggles at the swear. "I'll have to get a tattoo for Jango, then."

----

Ben is already nine by the time he comes in with his father to actually get the tattoo for Jango's addition to the family. The choice he makes isn't particularly imaginative, but it'll suit well enough. A mythosaur skull, the symbol of the Haat Mando'ade, in a grey the same shade as beskar.

There actually are traditions to this one, specific adjustments to the framing and stylization meant to indicate how one fits into the faction, but also how one is associated with the Mand'alor. Ben is family, and close family, but not related by blood, nor adopted directly by the Mand'alor, rather a relative through the riduur be alor.

Na-Tsuyon explains each element and adjustment in detail, lets them process and agree, until she's taking a needle to Ben's skin once more.

"Will you be getting one for the coming child as well?" Na-Tsuyon asks while shading in a curve of bone.

"Not yet," Ben tells her, quiet and oddly contemplating. "I need to meet them, first. Figure out who they are."

"Sensible," she agrees. There's the usual oddity in his phrasing, and she ignores it as ever. "Did you tell Fett that you were getting this?"

"No, it's intended as a surprise," Ben says, watching her work.

She can almost feel the coming question.

It does not come from the human she expects.

"Do you know any Mando tattoo artists in Little Keldabe?" the General asks, voice low.

She finishes the line she's on, lifts the needle away from skin, and turns to him. "You're leaving for Coruscant?"

"Not yet," Skywalker says. He meets her eyes evenly. "But... soon. The time's coming. A year, maybe two. The Force will let us know when the time is right."

"Uh-huh," Na-Tsuyon acknowledges this. She does not comment further. The Force is not her wheelhouse. If they think it wants them back on Coruscant, with the Temple, then that's what they believe.

"These are Mando work," Skywalker continues, almost painfully earnest, "and I'd like to ensure whoever maintains them until Ben stops growing knows the right way to handle Mando art."

It's really not that different from a standard tattoo artist, but she's a little charmed anyway. Enchanted, almost. The man really does care.

"I can get you some names and addresses next time you stop by," she promises him. "It's been a few years since I checked in on their work, and I'll need to look them over before I make any recommendations."

He smiles at her, relieved in a manner she finds appallingly open for a Jedi like himself.

Ben mimics his father.

----

She gets to attend the wedding, months later.

The food is very, very good.

(Ben waits until the reception to show off his new tattoo, and the future Mand'alor does, in fact, cry.)

(So does Shmi.)

(So does their eight-week-old daughter, but that's probably unrelated to the tattoo.)

----

"Do you think getting a belly button ring would be good?"

Na-Tsuyon doesn't lift her head from her paperwork when Sokanth poses the question to the piercer. She's in for the horizontal brow bar, this time, and the labret is going to be somewhere a few months down the line.

"That's really up to you," the piercer says. His name is Hujnak, and he's a Devaronian that's been working here since Na-Tsuyon opened up the place. She loves him dearly, but he stole the last piece of cake and for that he will have no help with difficult customers for the next fortnight.

Or until she gets bored.

"I'm leaning towards 'no,' but I'm not sure," Soka muses. "I like the idea of it, but I feel like it might get snagged on things more easily. Plus, it's going to be a point of higher damage and pressure if I get a gut punch. It's one of the parts of my body I'm never really going to armor up, you know?"

They do know. There have been screaming matches about all the Jedi's refusal to wear enough armor on many occasions. The Jedi prioritize their agility to such a degree that armorweave is more reasonable than actual armor, in their opinion. This is an opinion that Fett and Mereel both take issue with.

At great volume.

(Shmi has vambraces, a gorget, and greaves, Na-Tsuyon knows. Some of it was exchanged at the wedding. Shmi doesn't wear much armor, certainly less than even the children. Shmi, crucially, isn't a warrior or otherwise planning to see battle.)

"Then I would say it may be best to hold off."

"Phooey," Soka says, though she doesn't seem particularly upset. "Ben's gonna be cooler than me forever, then."

"You think tattoos are cooler than piercings?" Hujnak challenges. "I'm offended."

"He can just get more," Soka protests. "Without it looking weird or getting dangerous, I mean."

Hujnak hums, noncommittal. "And you're worried about being cooler than the younger brother you have told me is, and I quote, the biggest nerd ever?"

"Well, yeah," Sokanth scoffs. "He's gonna start acting older than me as soon as he thinks he can get away with it. I gotta have something to hold over his head, you know?"

"Seeing as you are the older sibling..."

"Ehhhh..."

Nope.

Not paying attention.

----

"These are House Kryze colors."

Ylliben's breath hitches.

He is ten. He doesn't seem ready to provide answers. She turns to the father instead.

"Will that be a problem?" the general asks, calm and even.

"Yes," she says, and Ben slumps. She continues, because this is her job, and for a reason. "Unless you have a ready justification for when House Kryze asks, yes, it will be a problem. If it were a landscape or an animal, it wouldn't matter, but the pairing of the colors and the peace lily is an explicit statement of loyalty to Adonai and his heir, Satine. Unless you've suddenly decided to adjust your political stance to total pacifism instead of your Jedi approach, or have another reason to take on House Kryze colors, I'd warn against it at all, and would refuse to perform the work myself."

Ylliben's eyes are fixed somewhere behind her, and shining wetly.

"Okay," the general says. "Ben, do you have any other pallettes in mind?

"These were her colors," Ben whispers, and then he swallows thickly. "I just..."

"Simplify," Skywalker suggests. He fiddles with a necklace half-hidden in his Jedi layers; the japor one is visible, but a dull gold glint is all Na-Tsuyon can see of the other before it's tucked away again. "She'd understand, yeah? There's political ramifications. Dangerous ones, especially to you."

Interesting thing to say about a woman who, by Soka's earlier statements, died well before Ben was born.

They could at least try to stop dropping hints about their oddities. She doesn't want to know more.

"Lilac," Ben finally decides. "And... pale silver. With a filigree pattern in the shading?"

"I can do that," Na-Tsuyon promises.

She does not ask further.

----

"We're moving to Coruscant in a month."

Na-Tsuyon's head snaps up, head tails jolting almost painfully with the movement.

Sokanth is getting her labret, finally. She's gossiping as Hujnak prepares the tools, as usual, and Na-Tsuyon tries to ignore it when they Skywalkers do that, she does, but...

"You're leaving," she repeats, feeling oddly blank.

"Um... yeah?" Soka answers. She scratches at one stubby montral. "We've talked about it before. I thought you knew."

"I didn't realize it was so soon," Na-Tsuyon defends. She's more upset than she should be. "I thought you'd be waiting until the little princess was older."

Sokanth blinks at her, slow and... not judging, no. Evaluating, maybe.

"I'm almost thirteen," she says, slow and deliberate and heavy. "And Ben's eleven. There's no hard age limit for becoming a padawan, but I'm getting into the peak years for getting chosen, and I've been living here instead of in the Temple. I haven't had years to impress a potential Master like the others. That might not matter; sometimes a Master sees their future student and just knows, but... I need to have other Jedi to spar with, not just Skyguy and Ben. And Ben's visions are getting stronger, and Dad was never that good with his own in the first place, so he's worried about being able to help at all. We could stay longer, but..."

She trails off, and shrugs, and the weighted air disappears. "It's not the same thing as a verd'goten, at all, but it's about the same age, you know? I should be in the Temple for it."

"What would a verd'goten equivalent be?" Hujnak prompts, when Na-Tsuyon fails to find her words. "Being an adult and equal member and all such things?"

"Knighthood," Soka answers immediately. "Dad got knighted when he was twenty, but that's really young, usually. His master was knighted at twenty-five, which was a bit late, but apparently there was a whole dramatic thing going on there that Dad never got all the details about."

"Becoming a Padawan is a sign that your teachers see you as someone that is ready to take on the responsibilities of a Jedi, yes?" Hujnak asks. "That you may not be ready to go out on your own, but that you're old enough to understand your oaths and choose how to follow them, and to protect others?"

Sokanth considers this, and then nods. "Yeah, I guess it's similar to using the verd'goten to gauge if someone's ready to swear the Resol'nare, that way. Still not moving out, and just about entering an apprenticeship, but enough of an adult to make the choice of how to change the world."

"I think most cultures have something like that around the same age," Hujnak comments. "Some do it a bit later in the teens, but it's usually around your age that most... well, most cultures who age at the 'human standard' rate--"

Na-Tsuyon can't help the reflexive snort of derision. Neither can Soka. Hujnak, the closest to human in the room and yet still very much not, smiles like this is exactly what he intended.

"--most who age at that rate do have it somewhere in that eleven-to-seventeen range, I'd think."

Soka shrugs. "Yeah, well. Still gotta go to the Temple for it, you know?"

"Are you going to take the verd'goten at all?" Na-Tsuyon asks, suddenly a little desperate to keep the Skywalkers here, with Mandalore and all its people, just a fraction of a moment longer.

"I don't think so," Soka muses. "I've been thinking about it, but I should probably talk about it with Jango, yeah?"

"Yeah," Na-Tsuyon says, and feels like she's swallowing down around rocks.

----

As it turns out, the timing is very deliberate. Three weeks later, Jaster transfers the title of Mand'alor to his son.

(Though Na-Tsuyon does not know this, twenty-six is older than Jango was when he lost the title, once upon another life.)

There is a week of festivity. There is food, and drink, and dancing. Some people get married. Some people make announcements of impending births. Some people reveal songs they composed in preparation for this very day.

For a week, Mandalore celebrates a new king.

Then, the Jedi and his children leave.

(Ben gives Na-Tsuyon a hug before he goes.)

(She tries to understand why she feels like she's losing something when he does.)

[spacerocksarethebestrocks]

Kitra and 4-7 (one putting their arm around the other's shoulders) maybe?

Sorry it took so long nonnie! Tungle tungled and I didnt get the notif for like a whole week, and then it took me another week to come up with an idea but here it is finally!!!

Nothing Less Than A Crime

(Title from Too Much Wine by The Fratellis)

Cherise (known better as Cyar'ika or Sweetheart) belongs to @cyarbika

Nocte belongs to @purgetrooperfox

Ashe belongs to @penguinkiwi

The word 'ahwey' as a word for nautolan's head tresses comes from @shadowmaat

Read below the cut or on AO3!!!

He leaves it a few hours before going to find her, because despite what Plo says he does have some self-preservation instinct still remaining. He follows her signature across Coruscant, down the levels, stopping only when he sees the bar she's chosen to drown her sorrows in.

She must be really angry with him, if she's here. She must really not want to see him.

He briefly considers respecting her wishes, but he can feel how she's aching, how deeply she's hurting. He can feel how it's curdling in her stomach and boiling her blood, even so many hours after the event. She might be angry with him, with the whole council right now, but she never does well on her own when she's upset.

He would have left her to it, but both Nocte and Ashe are working this evening, and he hates to think of her suffering alone. She might curse his name, she might even punch him, but she won't stagger home alone tonight and that's what matters.

Kit steels himself and walks into 79s.

The clones recognise him first, though it takes the civilians a few moments longer. Without the cloak and formal robes, it's much easier to pass as just a normal citizen. Unfortunately, his face is currently plastered all over the most recent Senate propaganda, all because he lost a coin toss with Obi-Wan. Currently, barring Master Yoda, Kit is just about the most recognisable Jedi out there.

It doesn't help any that there is an extremely large billboard with his face on right outside the entrance.

His own battalion nod and smile as he passes them, and he acknowledges them all as he winds his way towards the back of the bar where he can feel Dara's angry pulsating presence residing. The others are not nearly so at ease with him. Monnk is sitting at a large table with his fellow Commanders, and he waves at Kit as he passes. The other Commanders, barring Fox, all stare at him with frozen faces. Kit pretends not to notice as Bly stamps on Monnk’s foot beneath their table for drawing attention to them.

Kit waves back, smiling. Monnk knows he’s hardly one to mind a bit of carousing after a hard campaign. Fox too, unfortunately for the both of them. Still, he thinks he’s forgiven as Fox tips his drink in Kit’s direction. He grins and keeps moving.

One of the servers, a young togruta with dusty pink skin, almost drops her tray when she sees him. She scurries away, presumably to find the owner. He sighs internally.

He spots Dara quickly enough, sitting in a booth with her back to him. There is a woman sitting opposite her.

She has deep red skin; not quite as dark as wine and not quite as pink as ruby. Garnet, Kit muses. A suitably geological description, he thinks. Her hair is silver, tied back in a bun. A few loose curls hang forwards over her forehead like threads of moonlight. Her cheeks are dusted with pale white freckles.

She looks upset, frowning concernedly as she holds one of Dara’s hands over the table.

Kit is about to turn around and walk away, satisfied that Dara is not in fact alone, when the woman across from her looks up and sees him. Her eyes widen in alarm, and she snatches her hand away from Dara’s, standing so quickly she bangs her legs against the table.

“Master Jedi,” she stammers, wiping her palms nervously over what Kit quickly realises to be an apron. She must work here. “How- uh- how can I help you?”

“Don't worry Cherise,” Dara mutters, her voice soft and a little slurred. “He’s here for me.”

If anything the woman, Cherise, just looks more alarmed at Dara’s words.

She still doesn’t turn to look at him.

“Um, okay…” Cherise says, her eyes flicking rapidly between Kit and Dara, “can I, um, get you a drink?”

“Yes please,” Kit says, sliding into the booth beside Dara. She shifts up grumpily to let him, staring down morosely into her drink. He throws an arm over the back of the booth behind her, pulling his ahwey forwards with the other hand so he doesn’t end up leaning on them. It’s never a good idea to let your ahwey rest on something in a public space, especially not something in a somewhat seedy bar.

“A full bottle of whatever she is currently drinking, plus a second for that table over there,” he says, pointing towards Monnk and the other Commanders. “Please, keep the change.”

Dara blinks as he hands over a fistful of credits he doesn’t bother to count. It’s the most she’s reacted to anything he’s said or done since he arrived.

“That’s a lot of money,” she murmurs, watching as Cherise accepts the credits with both hands cupped together. “Where did you get it?”

“I stole it,” Kit says blithely.

Cherise’s eyes widen almost comically.

“Who from?” Dara asks curiously.

“Quinlan,” Kit says as he leans back in the booth, “He was irritating me.”

Dara snorts softly as Cherise stares at him in confusion. Eventually, she shakes her head and clears her throat.

“Two full bottles,” she says frowning, “I’m not sure...”

“I can assure you,” Kit interrupts, “the men on that table are perfectly well behaved.”

Cherise’s face twists as if she's tasted something sour. Dara laughs.

“It’s not them she’s concerned about, asshole,” she says. “It’s me.”

Cherise and Dara make eye contact, and Dara smiles somewhat sadly.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice you’ve been watering down my drinks for the past hour?” she murmurs.

Cherise snorts.

“Two, actually,” she says, and Dara laughs again.

“Clearly you needed it,” Kit says dryly, before turning back to Cherise. “And I can’t comment on my friend's future behaviour, but I can offer to look after her. And pay for any damages, of course.”

Cherise stares at him.

“He’s joking,” Dara says, finishing her drink and putting her empty glass on the table. “He can't afford that.”

Cherise looks between the two of them, then sighs.

“Fine,” she acquiesces, dropping the pile of credits into the front pocket of her apron before looking up at Dara once more.

“You sure you’re okay here?” she asks, her eyes flicking to Kit distrustfully.

“I’m fine, Cherry,” Dara says. “Don’t worry about it.”

Cherise frowns at her for a moment, then nods.

“Alright,” she says, lifting her chin. “You know where to find me if that changes.”

She glares at Kit, the threat clear in her eyes, before she sweeps back towards the bar. Kit watches her go, consideringly.

“I like her,” he says, turning back towards Dara. She’s scowling at him.

“I thought I made it clear that I don’t want to speak to you right now,” she says.

“I know,” he sighs, pulling his arm away from her and into his lap, “but I didn't want you to be alone.”

“I wasn't alone.”

“Well, I didn't know that.”

“Well why don't you leave?”

“Do you want me to?” he asks softly, looking at her carefully.

She turns away, fiddling with her empty glass and glaring at the table top. She swallows, blinking rapidly, the ends of her ahwey twitching slightly. He can't get any prevailing scent from her, the air in here is too dense with the hundred or so people enjoying their evening, and she’s likely been regulating herself as soon as he arrived.

He knows her though. He's known her almost as long as he can remember. He doesn’t know how to make this better though.

“Look, Dara,” he says, “I can't imagine what you must be feeling, but-”

Her bitter laugh stops him talking.

“No, no you really can’t,” she says, “so shut up, or go back to your quarters, take your saber, lube it up real nice, shove it up your ass, and press the fucking switch. You know what?” Her lip curls, exposing her canines. “Use mine. Even better.”

“Yours?”

Kit turns to see Cherise standing a few feet away. She’s holding a bottle of brandy and another glass and looking incredibly shocked. She swallows as she takes the final few steps up to the table, placing the bottle and glass in front of Kit.

She and Dara stare at each other, one face shocked, the other stricken.

"So… you're a Jedi?" Cherise says.

"Unfortunately," Dara says. She clasps her hands anxiously in front of her. "I'm sorry Cherry, I should've told you years ago I just- I don't know. Fuck. I'm sorry."

Cherise nods slowly, still staring at Dara. She doesn't say anything, just nods slightly dazedly before she walks away.

"Fuck," Dara says. She sounds gutted.

"Sorry," Kit murmurs, "I should've been more careful."

"No," she sighs, pulling the bottle towards her, "much as I'd like to blame you, that was definitely my fault. I should've told her years ago."

He understands the urge; the desire to have just one conversation where you are normal, just like everyone else. Especially from Dara, who has always had one foot out of the Temple doors. Dara, who has a constantly evolving list of pros and cons in her head about staying in the Jedi Order.

Dara, who has just stood and betrayed everything she stands for in the name of the so-called greater good.

He watches as she uncorks the bottle and lifts it straight to her lips. After she's taken a long swig, throat bobbing as she swallows, she pours them both a glass.

Her eyes are dull as she slides his glass towards him.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Kit asks quietly.

She's quiet for a long time before she responds, staring down at the amber coloured liquid in her glass.

"Do I want to talk about it?" she muses softly, still staring at her drink. Kit watches her.

"Do I want to talk about how I just stood and betrayed everything I stood for," she continues, voice barely audible above the throbbing base.

"About how I just watched everything I've worked for, my life's fucking work, get turned inside out and used against itself?"

She stares at her drink, blank faced and voice so, so empty.

"I genuinely don't know," she says slowly, her voice cracking in the middle.

"Dara-" he starts, but she isn't finished.

"I'm not even angry with you," she adds thoughtfully, "you're just the only council member I can scream at without repercussions. I really don't want to get sent on a meditative retreat right now."

"Oh, I don't know," Kit murmurs, "you had a good scream at all of us yesterday."

"That wasn't screaming, that was calmly outlining my points of concern."

"Yes," Kit agrees, "very loudly."

Dara snorts, almost a giggle, and her eyes flick to his face briefly.

"Thank you for doing it," he says. He doesn't know if anyone has thanked her yet. "I know how you feel but…"

"I swear to all that I hold dear, Kit, if you say anything about the greater good right now-" she chokes on her words, her head ducking forwards and a tear rolling down her cheek.

She blinks rapidly, and he waits for her to compose herself before he keeps talking.

"I was just going to say," he said softly, "it will keep my troops alive a little bit longer, and for that I can only thank you."

She nods slowly.

"Can we-" her voice cracks, and more tears spill down her cheeks. "Can we just not talk for a little bit?"

Kit nods, finally taking a sip of his drink as she hides her tears in hers.

Later, when the bar is almost empty, he will hold her upright while she slurs apologies to Cherise. He will carry her back to the Temple and carry her up the steps. He will wait, while the anger and alcohol fades and all she is left with is her grief. He will hold her while she falls apart, screaming and crying in his arms.

Later still, he will think of her in his final moments. He will think of her as he follows Mace, Saesee and Agen into the Chancellor's office, and how she was right all along. He will think of her on her meditative retreat, because it turns out you can't lose control in front of the Council and escape without consequences. He will think of her scrambling up a mountain and at peace, and be desperately glad that she is far, far away from Coruscant.

But for now, in this busy bar, all he can do is sling an arm around her shoulders and squeeze.

[starculler]

Lead Me Down Another Road (preview)

Word Count: 2975

I fell into a minor rabbit hole and stand before you now with a scrap from the Crèchemaster Anakin AU I'm working on. The full fic is a few thousand words longer than this (and will go up on ao3 within the week), but this is technically the original bit I'd planned on writing (and is thus self-contained enough that I'm comfortable posting it alone here. As a treat). Hope y'all enjoy it and the glimpse of at least one of several Jedi OCs I've been having to come up with for this lol Note: I'm using crèche-minder in place of crèchemaster because it fits a little better with how I've set up the role in the au -- the particulars of which will be explored in the full fic.

Anakin stood from where he’d sat among the younglings in Targon Clan when he caught sight of his master standing just inside the room, all ten pairs of eyes straying from their painting to watch him stretch. He grimaced briefly at the splotches of bright paint he could already see on his tunic and pants, but made it a point to smile at a scowling nautolan making a grab at his ankle. He shuffled back, just out of reach, and had to dodge another two pairs of eager, sticky fingers with a put-upon sigh that failed to fully mask his amusement. It was the same song and dance every time he was sent to Knight D’nali for crèche-duty, and he’d long gotten wise to the initiates’ tricks.

What made today’s game of Catch-the-Padawan novel was Obi-Wan’s presence hovering at the edges of Anakin’s focus. His master hadn’t come to collect him like this since his first few weeks, confident that Anakin would neither get lost on his way to and from the crèche, nor try to dodge his punishment after that awful first and final attempt. He shuddered at the memory even as he leaped nimbly over a pair of near-humans who’d thought to tackle him from behind. He laughed when they turned, eyes wide and betrayed for a moment before trying for a frontal attack.

He dodged, weaving between ten tiny, determined younglings — baiting them with the promise of his capture before stepping just out of reach once more — until he hit something solid from behind. He blinked, stunned for a second and sure that he’d had enough space still to maneuver around, only to yelp when an arm snaked around his waist and pulled him off his feet with an ease that spoke of more than a little help from the Force.

“Master!” He groaned, his protest drowned out by mixed cheering and jeering from Targon Clan and their minder’s own loud laughter. Anakin shot Knight D’nali as much of a betrayed look as he could while caught, but the traitor only laughed harder. He huffed.

“Well,” Obi-Wan said, grinning and smug and just as much of a traitor as the kiffar knight, “it seems I’ve won a prize to take back with me. A whole padawan all for myself.” A chorus of “No’s” and groaning followed the statement, and Anakin, face warmer than it had been a minute ago, suddenly found the floor much more interesting than a gaggle of disappointed initiates. Obi-Wan, still being a traitor, only laughed.

“Alright, alright. Settle down now,” Knight D’nali interrupted, wading into the chaos so she stood between them and the younglings. “Knight Kenobi and Padawan Skywalker have other duties to attend to, and you little Jedi have a latemeal to prepare for.”

With only a mild amount of protest, the little ones acquiesced. In true, and still vaguely eerie to Anakin, Jedi fashion, they bowed in sync, calling out a discordant mix of goodbyes and thank yous. Anakin nodded in return, starting to wriggle in his master’s grip in a futile attempt to free himself. Obi-Wan held fast even after two of the younglings, a zabrak and the same nautolan who’d first tried to grab onto him, crept around Knight D’nali to hand him four sheets of flimsi splattered with a variety of bright, clashing paint.

He sighed, resigned to the embarrassment of being gifted their paintings under the too-amused gazes of both knights, and murmured a quiet “Thanks” that made the pair smile so wide he thought their faces might split. Their obvious happiness made something warm bubble up in his chest and his hand tingle where flimsi met skin. It was hardly the first time one of the younglings in any of the clans he frequented had given him something small like this to take back with him — he had a wall in his room dedicated to doodles and paintings and a corner set aside, free of his usual clutter, for knickknacks and crafts — but the shock and awe and tingling warmth it left in him never wore off.

Anakin’s gifts had never lied with children. His temper ran too hot and he never quite knew what to say to anyone his age, much less younger than him. It had, in fact, taken months of constant supervision, patience, and teaching from the crèche-minders who’d agreed to take on his crèche-duty punishments for him to build up any sort of rapport with the little ones under their care. It had been hard and frustrating, but ultimately rewarding, work even if it had been borne out of his master’s own frustrated desperation.

The arm around his waist squeezed briefly, and Anakin had to fight down yet another burning flush when he realized Obi-Wan had most likely noticed where his thoughts had wandered. He floundered for something to say or do, but settled for a heavy sigh that drew a brief chuckle from his master.

“I apologize again for stealing Anakin back so early, Knight D’nali,” Obi-Wan said and Anakin could picture the apologetic smile on his face as he spoke.

“No need,” said Knight D’nali, smiling just enough that the wrinkles in her eyes and the upward pull of her cheeks distorted the two, bright red tattoos — one line the width of her thumb and the other no more than half a centimeter — cutting vertically down from hairline to jaw over her right eye. “I may be getting older, but I remember well enough how busy a padawan’s life can be.”

“You’re not that old,” Anakin groused and earned himself a huff from his master and a bark of laughter from Knight D’nali.

“That’s sweet of you padawan, but the gray in my hair tells another story. And not another word about it,” she said the second Anakin opened his mouth. “There’ll be no buttering up this old knight. I told you, if you’re back here in less than a week I will sit this clan down for a four-hour meditation at least. Force knows your master certainly won’t object.”

“Yes Knight D’nali,” he said in the dull tone every chastised padawan seemed to affect, much to Targon Clan’s delight if their stifled giggling was any indication. Knight D’nali simply nodded, satisfied. Obi-Wan, again, laughed.

“And on that note, we’ll be taking our leave now. Knight D’nali.” Obi-Wan bowed as well as he could with an armful of padawan still pinned against him. “Targon Clan.” He offered the still-giggling younglings a much shallower bow. “May the Force be with you,” he said, echoed only a moment after by Anakin, before turning on his heel and striding out into the hall.

Anakin wriggled again and said: “Master, you can put me down now.” Obi-Wan hummed but didn’t so much as slow down until Anakin huffed, rolled his eyes, and added an only somewhat petulant “Please.”

It took him a moment to find his balance when Obi-Wan suddenly let go, but soon enough he was keeping pace with his master, just shy of being at the knight’s side. They walked in silence, past the doors to other clans of exuberant younglings and down the almost confusing pattern of turns that made up the Temple’s Crèche. It was, he knew, meant to be confusing so that intruders would have a harder time reaching the Jedi’s most vulnerable members on the off chance they made it through the Temple, guards, and every Jedi in between. He also knew that Obi-Wan was purposefully leading him through the longest route rather than the faster shortcuts one of the other crèche-minders, a young pantoran knight he’d only met with a few times so far, had taught him.

They nodded at the pair of guards stationed at the Crèche’s primary entrance once they’d finally made it through, and again to any Jedi they passed along the main corridor. Anakin glanced curiously at his master when he led them not towards the dormitory or refectory, but instead toward the salles and meditation rooms. He pursed his lips, unsure if it was a good or bad sign.

The salles meant lightsaber practice — Anakin’s favorite — but he doubted they’d stop there. He had, after all, been in the crèche because he’d let his temper get the best of him again, and Obi-Wan had made a point of steering Anakin away from as many potentially aggressive outlets as he could until he was sure Anakin was cool-headed. That didn’t stop him, however, from reaching for the lightsaber on his belt, shiny and still new considering he’d only just built it less than half a year ago. The trip to Ilum had been terrifying and exciting in equal measure, just the two of them instead of waiting for the next crèche clan’s planned gathering. It still awed him sometimes, to brush the warm, steel cylinder and find it there or to sit and listen to his crystal’s song virtually anytime he wanted.

It was a scrap of undeniable proof that he was a Jedi. That, late-comer or not, he belonged here just as much as any other padawan or knight.

Obi-Wan slowed, looking back at Anakin with the kind of unbearably soft, caring smile that told him his master had probably felt where his thoughts had gone. He held an arm out and Anakin hesitated a moment at the familiar invitation, torn between embarrassed frustration and elation at being invited close in a fairly public space, before stepping up so he was beside rather than behind Obi-Wan. He stiffened when Obi-Wan put an arm around his shoulder, but relaxed before his master could even think about pulling away. Anakin pressed into his side, deciding that, right now, eleven-nearly-twelve wasn’t too old for the show of affection, and just about melted when Obi-Wan’s arm shifted to briefly squeeze his shoulder.

His vain hope for the salles was, of course, dashed as they walked passed to duck into one of the smaller, unoccupied meditation rooms. Despite not wanting to complain, Anakin couldn’t completely stifle a sigh as he took in the room: bland, small, and box-shaped, with a few colorful cushions laid out and more stacked against the walls with a few other types of seating for those who might need it. Obi-Wan flashed him a quick smile, squeezing his shoulder once more before letting go and settling on an older-looking, dark blue cushion. Anakin breathed in, held it for a count of four, and breathed out in an effort to brace himself for the ensuing lecture or meditation he was sure to suffer. He picked up a red cushion from the far wall, calling it to his hands with the Force, and sat himself down in front of his master, close enough that their knees almost touched. Then, he waited.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan started after they’d sat in silence for a few tranquil-bordering-on-nerve-wracking minutes, their slow, even breathing the only sound in the room. Anakin met his master’s gaze, shifting slightly as a small kernel of icy unease sprang to life in the pit of his stomach. “You’re not in trouble, Padawan.” Obi-Wan smiled, still soft. Still caring. Anakin frowned.

“You don’t usually bring me here unless I am.”

“I suppose I do, don’t I?” He seemed to speak mostly to himself, brow furrowed and a wry twist to his lips, like he’d found something funny. Anakin cocked his head to one side, watching as Obi-Wan breathed deeply a few times like he was trying to center himself. Or, a traitorous part of his mind whispered, bracing himself. Anakin squirmed in place, hardly daring to breathe himself as the unease in his stomach grew a fraction larger. “I’ve been talking to a few of the crèche-minders you’ve been working with.” Anakin swallowed, thoughts flitting towards the many mistakes he’d made the last few months and especially at first. “They’ve given you rather glowing reviews if I do say so myself,” he said, a small but pleased curl in his lips. And Anakin—

Anakin blinked.

“Really?” he asked, and wished the question hadn’t come out quite so bewildered. His master grinned and Anakin swore there was pride gleaming somewhere in his eyes.

“Really. They’ve enjoyed having you there. Knight D’nali says you have an uncanny ability for distraction,” Obi-Wan teased. Anakin stuck his tongue out and earned himself a bark of laughter. “Master Benni,” he continued, sobering once more, “made an interesting suggestion when I spoke to him last week. I—” Obi-Wan stopped. Inhaled.

“Master?”

A fine tremor had started in Anakin’s hands at some point. Excitement at first, quickly drowned out by a fresh wave of nerves. He’d once thought, at first, that Tatooine would drown in rain the day Obi-Wan Kenobi didn’t have a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue. A nearly three-year partnership with the knight had broken the facade a bit by now, but the sight of Obi-Wan struggling to put his thoughts together unnerved Anakin even after his master smiled reassuringly, reaching forward to clasp one of Anakin’s hands between both of his.

“There are many paths to becoming a Jedi, as I’m sure you’ve learned by now. Guardians, Council members, diplomats, teachers … crèche-minders,” he said, emphasizing the last. Anakin’s breath caught, eyes wide as the implication sunk slowly in.

“Did— Did Master Benni,” Anakin started, strangled and halting. Obi-Wan nodded. “But—But I’m horrible with younglings! I’ve made so many mistakes. I—”

“You are learning, Anakin. No one expects you to be perfect at anything. Much less in dealing with younglings.” Anakin opened his mouth. Closed it. Floundered in his incomprehension until—

“Are you … Are you getting rid of me?” he asked, voice suddenly small and hurt. He turned his hand in Obi-Wan’s grip, wrapping his smaller fingers around his master’s wrist as if he would disappear from Anakin’s sight at any moment.

“No,” Obi-Wan said firmly, one of his thumbs stroking the back of Anakin’s hand. “You are my padawan, Anakin, and I will never abandon you.” Obi-Wan paused there, earnest and scorching in his focus until Anakin nodded, more numb than anything else at the moment. Satisfied, his master continued: “But I do think that this is a good opportunity for you.” Obi-Wan’s eyes flicked down to their hands and then back up, meeting Anakin’s once more, steady and confident and calm. “You’ve changed a little since you’ve been around the crèches. I can see a confidence in you that wasn’t there before, and better control. Not just with the Force, though I’ve no doubt entertaining younglings for hours has done wonders.” Anakin flushed, fuzzy warmth buzzing in his chest at the praise.

“You feel things — everything — so strongly, Anakin, and I fear I’ve not been able to help you much in that regard.”

Anakin opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it shut when Obi-Wan held a hand up for silence and settled for a quiet pout instead, much to his master’s amusement.

“I appreciate your faith in me,” he said with a nod, “and I do not doubt that you would learn a lot at my side alone. But I’m coming to realize where you might need more than I am able to give, not because I don’t want to. Force knows I’d do whatever I could to help you, Anakin, but there are simply things I won’t be able to understand. Haven’t been able to understand,” he added and Anakin frowned at the brief, bitter note he could pick out in his master’s tone. “Master Benni’s offer has as much to do with your potential as it does with your connection to both the initiates and their minders. I— We think it’s something you should consider, despite how it’s likely not the path you first envisioned for yourself.

“You will still be my padawan, always,” he said and squeezed Anakin’s hand to reinforce the sentiment, “but you would split your time between myself and a rotating number of the crèche’s minders under Master Benni’s supervision. You’ll be busy, and kept in the Temple more often than not even if I’m sent out on missions. It may cut into your classes or lightsaber training, in which case you’ll have to work harder to keep up, but there’s not a doubt in my mind that you could do it.”

Anakin nodded, mind whirling and thoughts spinning. There was more Obi-Wan wanted to say, he could tell, but Anakin was grateful for the lull granted to him to gather his thoughts.

“I—” Anakin swallowed, his throat and mouth suddenly dry. He held his master’s wrist a fraction tighter. “Can I think about it?” He winced at how his voice cracked, but Obi-Wan only nodded, smile still firmly in place.

“Of course. You don’t have to decide on anything until you’re ready. Master Benni made it quite clear to me that the offer is open to you whenever you wish to take it, whether that time is now or after you’ve been knighted.”

Anakin blinked, balking at the magnitude of not only the offer, but the old Master’s apparent faith in him, even as the buzzing warmth from earlier threatened to consume him fully now. He felt a fresh flush rise on his cheeks and a sheen of stinging tears prick at his eyes, held back by sheer force of will because he refused to waste the water just yet. Slowly, carefully, Obi-Wan squeezed his hand before leaning forward, reaching out and grabbing a fistful of Anakin’s outer tunic. When he pulled, Anakin went as easily as he used to into his mother’s arms, overwhelmingly grateful for the contact just then.

“I’ll think about it, Master,” he mumbled into Obi-Wan’s robes, his face pressed into his master’s chest. “Thanks.”

Obi-Wan only hummed in response, tucking Anakin close and rubbing soothing circles into his back while Anakin clutched at him in return.

[calboniferous]

In Theory

Work 1 in The Pen and the Sword aka. my jedi and academics AU

A stressed post-graduate anthropology researcher from Coruscant University enters the Jedi Archives for the first time and is promptly taken under the wing of one Master Archivist Jocasta Nu.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32355310

—

Master Jocasta Nu felt the visitor before she saw them. Stress and a frenetic energy radiated through the force tangled with the unique threads of emotion and colour that made up their signature.

Closing the book in front of her with a soft thud, mindful of its frayed edges, she appraised the blue nautolan hurrying towards her. Their worn brown coat was unbuttoned and struggling to stay onto their shoulders, saved by the strap of the bag hanging off one side which the nautolan had one arm wrapped around. Apparently, the bag’s tie had lost the battle against the tide of flimsy and datapads making the simple bag bulge obscenely.

Ah.

A scholar.

Like the many before them, they had come to Master Nu’s beloved archives in hope of finding salvation in its hallowed stacks. With her guidance, they always did and more often than not, they would return again. And again.

However, this scholar was not one that Master Nu had seen before and as they glanced wide-eyed at the towering shelves, shying away from passing Jedi, she surmised that the Jedi archives were unfamiliar to them also.

They reached her desk out of breath.

“I need books on Kante martial arts and history. Do you have books on Kante? If it has historical martial arts then that would be incredible but I’m setting the bar low. Really, the bar is non-existent. Should I even be setting a bar I don’t know- do you know what the Kante are? Were? They’re extinct”

“Young one, breathe.” Master Nu said, lifting her hand to interrupt the rush of words. Her brow softened in sympathy, “How about you start from the beginning and tell me what your thesis is and then we’ll go about finding resources.”

She signalled to one of the Padawans stacking holopads nearby for them to take over monitoring the main desk and led Tema to one of the many sunlit alcoves tucked between the buttresses.

Settling on a cushion across the low table from the sleep deprived nautolan, Master Nu pulled out her well-worn datapad, ready to formulate a list of texts to recommend for this student’s project. She had gathered quite the collection of such lists over the years and took great pride in curating them. Often, she would continue to add to them in her spare time so that when the person they had been made for returned, it was waiting and ready. And, if Master Nu happened to enjoy the thrill of a hunt for obscure references through her own archives every now and again, that was her own business.

Stylus in hand, she was ready to begin.

“You mentioned martial arts?”

“Right. Yes. I’m studying the fighting style of the Kante people which they used to reclaim their lands 7000 years ago after it was conquered in the Chandrillan Divide. The politics of the reclamation itself have been documented to death but there’s kriff all discussing how they actually fought,”

Master Nu hummed sympathetically, listening as a classic university post-graduate research tragedy poured out in all its glory. The purple shadows smeared under Tema’s dark eyes suggested that more than one night had been lost to this.

It was a credit to her Jedi training and skill as an archivist that Master Nu could write notes, elegant script flitting smoothly across the datapad without misspelling a single title or name, while offering comforting hums and interjecting words of encouragement where Tema faltered.

“So now I need to piece it together myself in order to build a theory on how the Kante people approached battlefield strategy,” Tema finished, fidgeting with their bag strap.

Setting her stylus down, Master Nu surveyed the drafted list with a critical eye. It was a daunting selection. She weighed the situation in her mind and carefully turned the datapad off, placing it down with a muted click of metal on the polished stone table.

“That’s quite the task you’ve got” Master Nu said, “more than an Honours project scope covers.”

She loathed to discourage any scholar but there were limits to the workload that could be shouldered and she had a strict honesty policy. With all her Jedi compassion and experience ad Head Archivist, Master Nu knew how to recognise when a student needed guidance in whittling down their research focus to a reasonable magnitude.

“I know,” Tema sighed, shoulders sagging, “I know but my project topic has already been approved by my supervisor.”

“Dear, your project as it stands is enough to satisfy a PhD and beyond. I can tell you are passionate about it but it’d be a tragedy for you to fail because you tried to complete years’ worth of work in the 10 months you have.”

The blue nautolan wilted a little, head tails curling.

“I don’t see what choice I have. I can’t form a thesis on the merits of Kante strategy without knowing how it worked at the individual level,” they said, resignation colouring their force signature grey with worry.

Master Nu paused, and after a moment spoke.

“Have you considered centring your project on the martial arts itself? At the individual level, as you say. Leaving the rest aside to focus on that should technically be within your project topic.”

Tema blinked, “That’s…that would work. Yes.”

Master Nu watched as they turned the idea over, considering how to approach it.

“Yes. That would make it more of a research-and-reconstruction project. A literature review with practical application.”

They gave a wry smile, “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

Some of the frazzled emotion of their presence eased and a few threads of humour sparked in its wake.

“I could have saved myself from being sick from worry in the University ‘freshers yesterday.”

They flushed a little darker at that admission and Master Nu suppressed what would have been a rather unprofessional snort of amusement as she clicked the datapad back on. Ah, younglings. They never changed.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, dear. That amount of stress isn’t conducive to clarity of mind, I’d wager,” Master Nu soothed, deleting a few items from the list with a satisfied air, “You’re hardly the first person’s I’ve known to have an adverse reaction to academic stress. Now, I do believe this list is ready.”

Rising with more grace than her age suggested she was capable of, she smoothed the creases in her cream and straw-gold robes and led the way into the maze of columns and shelves. Tema followed a step behind in a manner that to any observers bore remarkable resemblance to a duckling following its mother – if ducklings were six-and-a-half feet tall, that is.

“Somehow I find it hard to imagine a Jedi getting sick from assignments,” they mused absentmindedly, tipping their head to catch some of the book titles they passed, “all this information – it’d be hard to fail.”

Master Nu chuckled at that, passing through an archway into a side corridor.

“I’m afraid it can happen to anyone. One of my agemates routinely emptied his stomach at the prospect of examinations – that one, in fact,” she said, gesturing to one of the bronze busts lining the hall. The metallic features gave the human man depicted a severe expression. In Master Nu’s opinion, it was rather true to life even if the beard was far to neatly sculpted.

“The poor man. Perfection was as much his vice as his virtue.”

She smiled fondly, crows’ feet crinkling with nostalgia at sharing this particular story – at sharing the humanity of someone so proud and distant both in life and artistic rendition.

Tema faltered and the markings on their head tails blanched light blue.

“Oh, uh, my condolences.”

“Hmm?” Master Nu turned to them, “Oh no, he’s not dead. He’s retired.”

“Oh,”

They blinked, nonplussed.

“This way, dear”

The pair continued on their winding path. Master Nu, frequently gesturing to some architectural feature or other with her datapad, began to explain how the Jedi Archival system worked, pausing every now and then to pull a tome from the shelves.

“It is what many have described as ‘archaic’,” she said, stepping deftly onto the fourth rung of a sliding ladder attached to one of the shelves to reach her next target, “but no one—and I mean no one—has said it is an ineffective system.

“At least not in my earshot,” she said with a laugh, pulling the volume from its place and passing it down to Tema. The rumours the initiates (and fully-grown Knights) liked to spread about Master Nu’s draconian defence of the archives may not be entirely accurate but were taken by most as a warning to avoid slandering the archive in her presence. She knew Tholme liked to stir the pot and recount tales of her lightsabre prowess to the initiates, no matter that the stories were thirty years out-of-date.

“That being said, it can take some getting used to. The Padawans and Knight Archivists are always around and willing to retrieve sources for our visitors.”

Master Nu dismounted from the ladder, blew dust from her sleeve, and turned a critical eye on to the stack of books and datapads in Tema’s arms that had been steadily growing in size. The scholar looked strong enough to take a couple more, taking into account that their bulging bag would not fit anything more inside.

“That’s the last one from this aisle.”

She clicked her tongue and marked a check on her list next to the sources they were borrowing. They were all copies, of course, or volumes easily enough to source a replacement that their loss wouldn’t be abhorrent. Nonetheless, clean records made maintaining the collection less stressful on her soul.

On that note, Master Nu was pleased to feel that Tema was no longer pouring stress into the force like an anxious firehose. And—

She stilled, tilting her head as a familiar presence tickled the edges of her senses.

“Master Nu?” Tema asked, noticing her change in manner.

“Nothing to worry about,”

She once again took the lead. Down the aisle, then one aisle to the left and as they rounded the corner Master Nu smiled at the sight before her.

A little blue and beige figure was hunched over a book resting on the floor, absentmindedly gnawing on her Padawan silka beads and completely oblivious to the world around her.

“Padawan Secura! Why am I not surprised?” Master Nu called lightly and the twi’lek girl jerked, breaking from her literature-induced reverie to scramble to her feet.

“I’m not skipping sabre class again. I swear!”

Had it been any other Padawan of Aayla’s age group, Master Nu would think that emphatic declaration of innocence meant the Padawan in question was skipping class. Skywalker came to mind as a repeat offender of that variety.

Only question was that Junior Padawan sabre classes were always on Taungsday afternoons—this afternoon—and had been since before Master Nu was a crecheling. She hummed, unconvinced.

“Knight Kenobi is doing catch-up lessons this week and he said my forms were good enough to skip.”

That explained it. It seemed only yesterday that he’d been roaming the archives as a padawan himself, tearing through histories of the planets he’d visited at Qui-Gon’s side with single-minded focus. Shame that his lineage had picked him up before her own could. He would have made a fantastic archivist despite his record of being convinced to scale the bookshelves whenever Vos got temple fever.

Well, at least Aayla’s fencing education was in good hands.

Master Nu beamed at Aayla, “Then good work padawan and, as you are free, would you like to join us in gathering sources for Scholar Induri here?”

Aayla brightened, “Absolutely!”

And then, remembering her diplomacy training, bowed to Tema, setting her Padawan beads swinging. “Nice you meet you, Scholar.”

She scooped up the book she had been reading and as she put it back in its slot, Master Nu glimpsed the title.

“Reading Bastilla Shan again are we Padawan?”

The padawan blushed, fiddled with her tunic and handily dodged the teasing with a question of her own, “What are we looking for, Master?”

“See for yourself, young one,” Master Nu passed over the datapad, pointing to the highlighted entries.

Aayla squinted at the handwriting for a second before passing the pad back and running away down the aisle, one hand skimming the shelf labels. Padawans were lovely to have around and, watching Aayla slide 4 meters down a ladder and return to them with a grin plastered across her face, Master Nu wondered if she should take another student. Or, better yet, invite her former Padawans around for tea to see if more Grandpadawans would be joining the lineage soon.

“Thank you, dear,” she gave Aayla a pat on the head, “I’ll leave you to your reading. Just don’t forget to remind your Master that he needs to renew the materials he borrowed last month.”

Then, she turned to Tema who hadn’t made so much as a peep the past five minutes, seemingly satisfied to observe the interaction.

“Let’s get these checked out so you can get to reading them.”

Back to the main desk, the archivist and scholar wandered, and a minute later there was a new name entered into the borrowing database.

“Again, thank you for everything, Master Nu” Tema said, gathering the stack back into their arms. They were a little overwhelmed but they were smiling.

“Dear, it’s no trouble. One last thing, are you planning on enlisting someone practised in martial forms in your project? Or were you aiming for a more theoretical illustration of your findings?”

Tema cast their eyes to one side and shifted their weight.

“Ideally, yes, but I have no idea where to find someone like that so…theoretical?”

They trailed off.

“Good. I’m free to ask around here, then,” Master Nu said, tugging Tema’s bag strap so it was in less immediate danger of falling of their shoulder.

“If you need any help at all, don’t hesitate to send me a message or drop by. My archive is always open,”

At that, she tucked a slip of flimsy with her com code underneath the top datapad in the stack and gave Tema a parting pat on the cheek. With hope in their step, the scholar passed back out the archive doors, into the sunlight of the hall beyond.

Content, Master Nu smiled and watched them go.

“Now,” she mused to herself, opening the roster of temple-bound jedi and beginning to peruse the list, “who to ask…”

Her thoughts turned to the bronze bust of a man whose devotion to esoteric research was only outmatched by his skill with a blade.

His legacy…

Her eyes caught on a name. Yes, that would do very nicely indeed.

In the interest of vetting the source she intended to recommend, Master Nu made a mental note to attend next week’s exhibition tournament.

[tanyawritesstories]

Touch | Kit Fisto x Reader

My first Kit Fisto piece! Kit asked the reader how humans enjoy and use water and they were more than willing to show him.

Tagging: @a-dorin and @savagesbonergarage because I know they are both Kit simps like me 😊

Warnings: fluff, kissing, mentions of nudity, Kit is a sassy and silly boi

•••

You stirred the bath water with your hand until you were sure all of the bath bomb had dissolved. It tingled on your skin a little bit and smelled like fresh rain and mint; it had changed the water to a beautiful blue-green hue. You remembered to light the candles you had sitting on the edge of the large spa bathtub, also checking the assortment of lotions you had lined up on the opposite counter. You stepped back and made sure everything looked perfect. It was picturesque, you hoped he liked it.

You opened the bathroom door and poked your head out. Your lover was sitting in a chair on the far side of the bedroom, deep into the book he was reading. He had one ankle resting on the knee of his other leg and one hand being used to support his head. Your heart melted. He looked so serene and beautiful, his onyx colored eyes scanning over every page, concentration etched onto his face. You wanted nothing more than to keep this image forever. He sensed your presence and looked up at you, a smile forming on his lips. "Hello, my love." 

You smiled at him and could feel your cheeks turning pink; he still found a way to make your heart flutter. "Your surprise is ready," you said. You stepped into the bedroom, and walked to him. "I just need you to do one thing, lose your shirt and pants and close your eyes." Kit closed his book and set it on a small table, he stood up and started removing his clothes. You helped him take off the three different shirts he wore and let him do the pants.

"Ok, you can leave your underwear on, just close your eyes," you instructed. He obeyed and you waved your hand in front of his eyes to make sure. "Why are you waving your hand in front of me?"

"How-" You were confused for a moment, before figuring he was able to sense it somehow, or maybe he just knew you too well. You smirked and bonked him in the arm with your hand, causing him to chuckle.

"C'mon troublemaker," you took his hands and slowly began leading him to the bathroom. "You're not going to run me into anything, are you?" He teased. "No," you giggled. You stopped to open the bathroom door before leading him inside and closing it. "It smells nice in here," he commented. "Don't open your eyes, just stay right there," you said, letting go of his hands. You quickly went over to the vanity and hurried to take off your normal clothes.

"Darling, what are you doing?"

"Nothing, don't worry about it," you responded.

You threw your clothes in the hamper before opening one of the vanity drawers. You pulled out an emerald green silk nightgown and hastily put it on. You smoothed it out and looked in the mirror to make sure you looked good. The nightgown had thin straps and lace around every hem, it came down to your knees and was flowy, light, and comfy. It wasn't meant to be sexy or anything like that, you bought it because you thought Kit would like the way you looked in it.

You returned to stand in front of him and took a few steps back, double checking everything. “Ok, open your eyes.”

Kit's eyes opened and he took in the sight before him. The entire bathroom was bathed in candlelight, you had drawn a bath that was an interesting shade of blue, or green. To top it off you stood before him wearing a new garment he’d never seen you in, and maker did it look gorgeous on you.

“It’s perfect,” he praised. You flung your arms around him and pressed your head to his chest, able to hear his hearts beating one after another. He ushered you to the edge of the bathtub, “What have you prepared for me?”

“You said you wanted to experience the ways humans use water, this is one of my favorite ways,” you smiled.

“Do enlighten me.”

“I put a bath bomb into the water,” you explained, “They are condensed balls of fragrance oils, soap, and color. They make your skin feel nice.” Kit nodded in partial understanding, “And the purpose behind this is..”

“To relax,” you finished, “Something you sorely need, get in.” 

You turned and walked to the vanity, “Now it might tingle at first but that’s normal.” You looked through a drawer trying to find the other identical bath bomb to show him what it looked like in its package. “Should I remove my undergarments, or not?” He asked. “Up to you,” you answered, closing that drawer and looking in another. Something light hit your legs and you looked down to see Kit’s shorts laying at your feet. You turned around in time to get a glimpse of Kit’s cute, perky butt as he sank into the turquoise water. You tsked and returned to the drawer, finally finding the bath bomb at the back.

You kneeled next to the bathtub so you were eye level with him. "This one is called Mon Cala Crush. It's made for aquatic species, so it won't hurt your sensitive skin or.." you blushed slightly, "or other special areas." You glanced at Kit to see the smug little grin on his face. He lifted one arm out of the water and held your chin in his palm. "You look beautiful," he complimented. 

"Thank you, Kit."

"Did you buy this dress just for me?" He asked, stroking his thumb along your cheek. "No," you said playfully, "I bought it for myself, to wear for you. And it's a nightgown, not a dress." He smiled at your sass and booped you on the nose, "Troublemaker." You giggled and crossed your arms on the edge of the tub, you both staring into each other's eyes. "Do you like it?" His arms slipped into the water and he moved them around. "I love it," you smiled brightly, "though it would be perfect if you joined me." 

"Darling this is for you to enjoy and I have to go make dinner soon," you informed. Kit made a noise of annoyance and sunk farther into the water. "Can't we just skip dinner? I like you right here, beside me."

"Only if you want to go hungry. I'm making your favorite," you whispered the last part into his ear. He looked at you, taking your chin between his thumb and index finger again. "Why must you give me such difficult decisions?" 

You took his hand in yours and kissed his knuckles, then the back of his hand and his wrist. He watched as you planted kisses on his skin, making your way up his arm. He felt peaceful as he watched you with adoration in his eyes, his hearts so full of love for you. His lover, his little human, a person the Force had chosen for him to have and hold and cherish. All his, and he couldn't be happier.

You continued peppering little kisses all the way up to his neck, onto his jaw, and over till you found his lips, connecting them with yours. You both always kissed with such passion, like it was the last kiss you'd ever share. During the war there was no guarantee he'd come home every time he left. You both eventually had to disconnect your lips. Kit couldn't use his gills out of water, but if he could he'd kiss you forever.

You nuzzle his nose and massage his shoulders. "Five more minutes and then I have to make dinner," you said softly into his ear. Kit hummed and closed his eyes as you massaged his shoulders and back. He was chest deep in the soothing water and you gently splashed it over his shoulders. You kissed his temple and told him not to go anywhere before making your way out of the bathroom. It only took you about 15 minutes to prepare dinner considering it had to sit in the oven for 45 minutes. That should be enough time for you to finish your surprise for Kit. You headed back upstairs and quietly entered the bathroom. Your heart melted upon seeing your Nautolan lover asleep in the bath, the turquoise water gently lapping at his collarbone with every breath he took. His tentacle-tresses draped over the edge of the tub and you found yourself, again, wanting to immortalize the moment forever. You kneeled behind the tub and leaned over it, your lips only centimeters from his ear. 

“Where are you?” You whispered. He hummed and didn’t move. “Home, on Glee Anselm,” he said fondly. “What’s it like?” You asked, voice smooth and low. “Blue, warm, peaceful. Paradise.” You smiled to yourself, a twinge of sadness going through you at the fact that Kit couldn’t afford the luxury of visiting his home that he loved so much. “You’re there,” he added, “But no one else. We have a home, a family, the war is far from us.”

Your heart sank at the reality but lifted at the hope, maintaining a perfect buoyancy in your chest. “You always have such beautiful dreams,” you remarked. Kit opened his eyes and turned just enough so he could see you. You managed a smile and kissed his cheek, “Are you finished soaking, my dear? I do have more of my surprise for you.” Kit agreed and you got up to get him a towel, you tossed one to him and took the other one, wrapping it around his shoulders. You helped him dry off and got a new pair of shorts for him.

“What else did you have planned for me?” He asked, sitting down on the end of the bed. “If you’ll allow me I’d love to slather you in lotion and give you a massage but that’s up to you,” you said nonchalantly. Kit laughed, “Did you even have to ask?” You shrugged, “I figured I should.”

You retrieved the lotion from the vanity in the bathroom and returned to find Kit laying on his stomach in the middle of the bed, his broad muscular back on display. You kneeled next to him on the bed, squeezing some of the lotion into your hands and moving his head-tails out of the way. His muscles seemed to relax as soon as your hands touched him. You smoothed the lotion over the back of his neck, shoulder blades, and down to his lower back. He hummed happily as you kneaded his skin and muscles into a state of calm. Satisfied with your work, you told him to turn over and you started on his front. Running your hands over his collarbone and pectoral muscles, down over his abs and stomach. All the while Kit watched you, taking in the little details in your face. He suddenly sat up, face inches from yours. “Kit, I’m not finished-”

“I want a kiss.”

You melted again, he sounded almost sad, a small plea for love. You cupped his face in your hands and pressed a gentle, loving kiss to his lips. He kissed back with slightly more force, snaking his arms around you and holding you tight to him. You knew deep down Kit was afraid of losing you and this was a rare instance that he showed it. After several seconds he broke away but didn’t let go of you. “You’re so good to me,” he said, love dripping off the words he spoke, “Let me do something for you.”

You smiled, “Your love is enough, Kit.” He took your cheek into his palm and was about to speak when the oven sounded from downstairs. “Dinner is ready,” you stated, “Should we go eat?” He nodded, “But will you let me do something like this for you?” You moved your hands to his shoulders, “I would like that.” Kit smiled and pulled you in for another kiss.

With you, he might make it through the war.

[val-aquenta]

It’s on time today!! I’m not super happy with this, but here. Take this offering for Jedi June’s prompt: Duty

Here on ao3

It was interesting that changing into Rako Hardeen’s skin hurt less than it did to return to his own. Like the previous… conversion was the best term, Masters Windu and Yoda stood by him. Obi-Wan writhed as his skin became his own, and his bones returned to normal. When the transformation finally finished, Obi-Wan lay gasping painfully, curled slightly over his stomach. He groaned, head falling backwards in the medical bed. 

“There, Master Kenobi. You’re done.” Master Che finished, looking down at her datapad until she seemed satisfied. She smiled grimly and, to some kind of surprise, laid a comforting hand against his shoulder. “The pain should go away soon. However, the experimental nature of this treatment means we’re unsure how long it will last.”

Obi-Wan blinked, shivering as a jolt of pain lanced up his arm. “I… I see.” He managed to breathe out, lifting his hands to stare at them. He flinched again, feeling the disturbing lack of hair on his face. “Oh. This will take a long time to grow out.”

Master Che grinned wryly, “Indeed. You look… 25 still? Force, you haven’t aged a day under there.” Obi-Wan chuckled weakly. A notification pinged on her pager which she picked up and sighed. “Well, I’ll leave you three for now. Duty calls. May the Force be with you three.” The three echoed it back, bowing as the healer left. 

Obi-Wan breathed in deeply, trying to control the rather large mass of throbbing pain that seemed to emanate from his bones. Mace moved closer to the bed, “How are you?”

“Fine…” Mace lifted a disbelieving brow, his hand smoothing the blanket at his feet. Even though they were of equal rank, that particular stare still managed to make Obi-Wan blush in embarrassment as he was caught lying. “Tired, I suppose. It does hurt, but it’s… manageable.” Mace sighed, rubbing tiredly at the bridge of his nose. He unfolded the blanket, offering it to Obi-Wan who nodded, feeling strangely comforted as the older Master laid the blanket on him.

Yoda grumbled and leapt up, sitting by Obi-Wan’s elbow in a light meditation. As the small green troll meditated, his clawed hands brushed against Obi-Wan’s arm. Obi-Wan himself found it strangely comforting. “How feel, do you? In the Force, hurt you are.” Yoda turned and blinked at him, ears tilting up and down. 

Obi-wan sighed, gaze turning up to the ceiling to avoid the deep stares from the other Jedi. “I suppose I wonder if it was the right choice, the one we made.” He began tentatively. He’d harboured doubts in the beginning, but there had seemed to be little alternative. “I feel… well it feels like what I did had no result. Nothing came of it.”

Mace sat at the chair by his bed, smoothing the blanket idly between fingers. There was quite a pause while the man thought, “I had doubts, but I saw no other alternative.” his eyes lifted from his fingers to focus on Obi-Wan, “Perhaps it was not the right path, but it was the only one.” Yoda hummed in agreement, closing his eyes.

Obi-Wan didn’t seem appeased, looking up at the ceiling with a dull gaze, “It did nothing though. I hurt those around me and nothing came from it.” His mind thought back to Naboo and Anakin and the accusation that the younger man had hurled at him. He knew that they would be upset, hurt of course, but the anger he had felt was so vast. Paired with the knowledge that it was him the anger was aimed at was painful. “I just wished there was another choice, a different path we could have taken.” 

Mace’s lips twisted into a grim smile, “Don’t we all?” The older man sighed and leaned back, bruises evident around his eyes, a result of sleepless nights, stress, and difficult visions. “Sometimes we must make the hardest choices to do our duty, no?” Obi-Wan knew, and yet he still wished. 

“Forces sacrifice, our duty to the Republic does. Demands much, it does,” Yoda said. “A life not suited for everyone, it is. No shame there is in that. Know this well, you do.” Obi-Wan did. He had walked away once, almost twice. Life outside of the Order had felt purposeless to him, lacklustre and empty. The Jedi were an order, yes, but they were more than that. They were a family and to abandon them was unthinkable. 

“Yes. I suppose I do.” Obi-Wan’s gaze drifted from the ceiling to settle on Yoda, his thoughts turning to his more recent issue. “I think he hates me,” He admitted softly. “If not hate, he at least despises me for my choice.” Obi-Wan closed his eyes, pulling an arm over them. “I thought that he might understand at least, or… never mind.” He trailed off with a sigh, feeling the familiar fatigue of both his muscles and his heart. 

Mace smiled sympathetically, invisible to Obi-Wan’s closed eyes. He settled a hand against Obi-Wan’s other arm. “You are very important to him. He feels very strongly about… anything really, but you especially.” There was no reproach in his tone, just observation. Anakin was one of their most powerful Jedi, but he struggled much in the other aspects of Jedi life. “He might not understand your choice, but I do not doubt your bond. I’m sure you will reconcile at some point.”

Obi-Wan jolted a bit as his arm twinged painfully. “Force…” He frowned, gently clenching and unclenching his arm. “I knew, to a degree, what would happen when we decided on this path. I still hoped… ah well, what’s done is done.”

****

Master Che had released him from her tender care a day after his transformation into himself with strict instruction to have a break for at least five days and to ‘please spend at least two weeks healthy, Obi-Wan, for my sake as well.’ Taking her advice, Obi-Wan had spent a day in his quarters before it felt too small and he had wandered to the gardens to read some datapads from the Council. It was there where he found Ahsoka watching over some younglings as they played in the fountains. He was glad she was getting some time away from the front while also feeling the familiar anger at the Separatists and the Republic for prolonging the war with stupid laws and regulations. 

“Master Obi-Wan!” She waved him over before turning back to the fountain, “Hey! No diving into the fountain, even you Ret.” The nautolan in question blushed a deeper purple before sliding into the fountain slowly. “Hey, Master!” Even with her happy face, there was that undercurrent of hurt awkwardness underneath. “Ugh… your face. Don’t ever shave again,” she remarked after a while.

That was the third time this day alone and he shrugged it off with a heatless glare. “Hello, Ahsoka.” He settled down beside her, arranging his robes to be more comfortable. “Ah… how have you been?” He opened after the pause went on just too long. 

She looked to her hands before leaning back, her arms spread behind her, “Alright. I mean, it was a shock of course, with you dying and… coming back, but… I’m happy you’re back.” Her honesty had always been refreshing after years of Anakin’s careful suspicion when the boy had grown older. “Anakin is… ah I’m sure he’s happy, but…” She trailed off, unable to truly explain her Master’s hurt anger.

“No worries, I understand,” Obi-Wan said, watching as a tholothian youngling swam laps around the fountain against a mon calamari, seemingly unaware that the other had lapped him at least twice. “I am sorry that you had to experience my death. I didn’t want to hurt you, any of you, but there seemed to be no other path.” The datapad shuffled awkwardly in his arms. “We contemplated telling you, but it was too dangerous already. Even now it didn’t work.” Obi-Wan sighs, seeming smaller than he was. “It’s not that I don’t trust you and Anakin, or anything like that. It was just… too dangerous.” Obi-Wan turned to Ahsoka, meeting her eyes. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I just wanted to… explain, I guess.”

“I appreciate it,” Ahsoka began cautiously, thinking carefully on what to say. “I’m not mad, not really. I think I’m still just shocked and hurt.” She leaned back up, folding her arms on her knees, “And… I don’t think Anakin will be mad for long.” She seemed to want to say more, but she had no idea how to explain it.

Obi-Wan smiled wryly, “I hope not.” Obi-Wan shared a look with her before he took out his datapad and began to work once more, a quiet peacefulness enveloping their little section of the gardens.

[gospelofme]

Super Nova

Chapter 1: Prologue

The slice of toast gently lifted off the plate and drifted over a disheveled bed and into the hand of it’s summoner. 16 year old Sayriel Nova stood in the middle of her small room, the bottom of her left foot pressed tightly against the upper portion of her inner right thigh. She had one hand placed on her hip and the other brought the buttered toast to her mouth and she took a satisfying bite. It was no longer a hot breakfast, but it would do. Practicing meditation moves helped to center herself and keep a sense of calm. The only thing she struggled to do was clear her mind, there were too many thoughts that swirled around. Even now, her Master would’ve strongly disapproved of her eating breakfast during her morning meditation.

“Master Tarrek!” She exclaimed, opening her eyes to look at the chronometer on the table next to her bed. She had five minutes to make it from her dorm room, to the other side of the temple. Shoving the rest of the toast into her mouth, she searched around for a suitable pair of pants. She found a clean pair and pulled them, running out her door moments later, her lightsaber hilt finding its way to her hand just before her door slide shut. She ran down the corridor, turning sharply around corners, dodging other students and Masters (always managing to give the Masters a respectful bow). She slowed her pace to a quick walk and stopped at the end of a long hallway. She took a deep breath, silently exhaling and praying to all the Force Users of the past to slow her heart rate and calm her down. She then casually walked around the corner and spotted her Nautolan Master standing in a training gazebo. Guess training is outside today, Sayriel thought.

She walked through the lobby, the doors sliding opening with a soft swish as she neared them. There was a rush of cool air and the sound of birds happily chirping their morning songs. Yavin IV was a small moon but it felt so full of life. The rainforests held so many creatures and unique plants, some only revealing their beauty at night with the aid of bioluminescence. She could remember back when she was a young Padawan, she and her classmates being taken out into the jungles on field trips. Two Masters would teach them about the plants and animals and how to feel the Force moving through everything around them. She couldn’t have been more than 6 or 7 at the time. Her Master’s amused voice broke into her memories.

“You’re late. Again.” He spoke with his back still to her. He was standing at the other end of the gazebo, facing the thick jungle wall in front of them. At the lack of response from his Padawan, Master Tarrek opened his eyes and turned around, the young woman giving him a sheepish smirk.

“Sorry, Master. I was mediating and lost track of time.” Sayriel said apologetically.

“Oh really,” Master Tarrek slowly crossed the space toward Sayriel, “so you’re ready to fall back into it then.” Her Master stopped in the center of the gazebo and gestured for Sayriel to join him. With a sigh, the young woman walked forward and stopped a couple feet from her Nautolan Master.

Meditation was halfway true, she was calm and had focused on her breathing, but her mind had been anything but quiet. The two Force Users bowed to each other and knelt to the floor in unison, Sayriel shifting into a cross-legged sitting position. Sitting on her knees had never been comfortable for her. She took a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth, and did her best to begin to quiet her mind.

It’s so nice to have such a cool morning, the usual humidity of this place just saps my energy sometimes. I love how happy those little birds sound, chirp chirp chirping away at the morning. I wonder what they’re singing about. Do they know what their singing about? Of course they do, that’s how they talk to each other right? With chirps? Or is it just body language cues, and the songs are really just songs? Kriff, I’m supposed to be clearing my mind. Ok, focus, breathe, clear my mind. Wait, if I’m telling myself to clear my mind, isn’t that thinking? And thinking isn’t clearing, or is it?

“Sayr.” Her Master’s voice sounded loud and clear in front of her.

“Hmm?” Sayriel responded, keeping her eyes closed and her face expressionless.

“Your thoughts are so loud.” Her instructor sounded amused. Sayr opened her eyes and saw Master Tarrek smirking. He was such a patient teacher, she really didn’t deserve him.

“I’m sorry Master. It’s just, it’s hard for me to clear my mind. I’ve been practicing, but it’s not working.” Sayriel wasn’t trying to make an excuse, she had indeed been practicing on her meditation. When she was supposed to focus and listen for cues from the Force, her mind decided it was time to wander.

“It does take lots of practice young one. Despite what some teachers say, one doesn’t just intuitively know how to meditate. It’s a skill that can take years to hone.” Tarrek must’ve spotted Sayriel’s shoulders droop slightly at that comment, for he added quickly, “I do believe you can do it though.” That earned him a little smile.

“Now, show me your progress on your sparring techniques. Your exams are coming up soon and if all goes well, you will no longer be my student.” With that, student and teacher stood and ignited their lightsabers; their actions were perfectly synchronized. Sayriel was good at this part, she found sparring to be the best stress relief. Anxiety over her final exams had been gnawing away at her for the last couple weeks. Hopefully everything will go as Master Tarrek said they will.

Tag list

@jgvfhl @nelba @leias-left-hair-bun @baby-queen-zen @halzore @escapedthesarlacc

[boys-of-the-gar]

As much as I’d love to romanticize the situation, it was actually quite mortifying in reality. I felt my face go completely red in front everyone - you should have seen the look on my face when I dropped my holopad and my partner beat me to picking the damn thing up. It’s a good thing Pau’ans aren’t overly nosy, nor do they get offended easily since I basically snatched it from his hands before rushing from the lab. So yes, I’m sure they suspect something, but nothing they would ever bring up to me.

I didn’t know you had a new addition to your crew! That sounds exciting, if a little crowded aboard. We used to have a protocol droid called Omega in our department, I hope yours isn’t as annoying as ours was. I hope you find a moment of peace soon, I know that constant disturbance must really get to you.

You really think that I’m...complex? I don’t mean to be, truly. Remember you can always ask me whatever you feel is necessary to better “understand” me. Though I’m not a particularly jealous type, I am rather glad to know that I’m among the first you feel more than just a physical connection to. I always feel like an outsider when my peers talk about their sexual relationships - I simply can’t get involved until I’ve felt an emotional and intellectual compatibility first: something easier said than done. To answer your question, no, my issues were with more than just the physical aspects; sometimes it felt like my past partners were faking their feelings just to get in my bed. Obviously, I didn’t appreciate this very much. The only real relationship I ever felt mattered to me was with a Nautolan who I shared a few of my classes with. Unfortunately, he was drafted back to Glee Anselm for the war, and I haven’t heard from him since...You and Echo, I feel, have filled that hole in my heart that formed from their departure, even if I did fraternize with a few others between losing him and meeting you. You’re more than anything I could have dreamed of, and I can’r express to you how much your companionship means to me. Love, Halla💕

My Halla,

I apologise for the embarrassment. I will endeavour to refrain from sending explicit comms when there is a risk of others seeing; as much as the thought of your lovely blush staining your cheeks and chest fills me with a satisfied sort of affection, I don't like thinking of you being made to feel uncomfortable.

Our Omega is no droid, that's a certainty. I have to admit, I hadn't expected to adjust so well to the presence of a child on board, but her inquisitive nature is rather... endearing. She is endlessly fascinated with everything, enraptured with the most mundane novelties. It is rather a nice reminder to appreciate the things we would have otherwise taken for granted. In that respect, I imagine you would quite enjoy meeting her. She would have thousands of questions for you about the Core, dear Halla, so you'd need to be prepared.

I had imagined the end of the war would equip me with more liberty to travel where I wished, but it seems to be the converse. I'd hoped to visit you soon in Coruscant -- Echo too, though he wouldn't admit it aloud. But it seems we are less free now than ever before, and it's only the thought of your soft face in my hands that keeps me motivated to continue working toward a safe resolution. In those few snatched moments when the rest of the crew are asleep, I reread your comms and rewatch your little holovids, trying to hold onto the hope that one day soon we can be together and I can taste you for myself. I would spend days with you in my arms if I could. So, though I don't know whether it is quite the same in form, I imagine the value you find in my companionship cannot comprehensibly be greater than the value I find in yours.

- Tech.

[clanoffetts]

Playing coy, Cait? I don’t doubt that you are, ah - resourceful. I have come across Nautolans in my study, and I am certain they could satisfy you. But I fear they lack the finesse that someone like myself could offer. Wouldn’t you agree?

Please feel free to continue to taunt me, ch'acah. In my experience, nothing worth having comes easy. I look forward to your next transmission. You intrigue me.

-Grand Admiral Thrawn

I suppose you’re right, Grand Admiral, as there aren’t many with your skill on this side of the galaxy. You know your worth, Thrawn, I’m sure you know that’s rare.

However, the Nautolans I have entertained have a certain set of skills, with their gills and tendrils and all. And I do not know much of Chiss, other than what you have told me, but I assume you also posses a skill set unique to you? You must, if you are so intent on my understanding that no one else could give me what you have. or do you overestimate yourself?

[tenander]

2, 5, 14, 17!!!

2. What’s your favorite ttrpg system?  Which other ones have you tried? 

ATM it’s definitely FFG’s Narrative Dice system. Not because of the dice (*gasp*) but because of everything else. It’s an intricately balanced system with a lot of really clever tricks that has a to me very satisfying amount of crunch without ever becoming obnoxious.

I’ve played, oof, a lot of systems. I don’t think I remember them all, but  the major ones aaaare Call of Cthulhu & Hexer von Salem, Storyteller System (primarily Vampire the Masquerade), D&D (from AD&D to 5th), Pathfinder, Kult, Fading Suns, Deadlands, Earthdawn, Das Schwarze Auge, Battlelords, BESM, Westend Star Wars, Legend of the 5 Rings, Cyberpunk 2020, Shadowrun, FFG Star Wars and of course my own game All Things Cast. There were a few years where my partner and I would check out all kinds of different systems but never get proper groups going, and there were other systems that we played maybe one or two games in that didn’t leave enough of an impression on me.

I also LARP’d an itty bit with different systems.

5. Tell me about your most recent OC! 

If we’re talking most recent character I’m playing in a game, that would be Voi Oruka in FFG Star Wars. Voi is a Nautolan and the only son of the leader of Glee Anselm’s leading criminal empire Riptide. Raised as a good and proper Young Boss, he accidentally A Forcepower and once he realises it is that, he takes it as a sign that he’s supposed to do more with his life than become a mafia boss. So he runs away to learn about the Force and about his purpose. Also, the life of a crime boss sucks and he doesn’t wanna. Voi is headstrong and likes stabbing and punching, and his view on life and ethics is just a tad screwy due to his upbringing but he’s a good egg at heart who just wants to do something meaningful with his gift.

If we’re talking most recent character who may one day be in a game (once I finished writing it), that’s Yukiro. Yukiro is first general of a clan that once existed to fight a terrifying demon horde, won, and then didn’t know what to do with themselves, so they instead devoted their lives to a rivalry with a once allied clan. But now the demon lord is coming back, and they gotta find more allies to fight him once more, so Yukiro goes out into the world to scout himself some badasses. Yukiro is a soft boy who’s really into theatre and music, and is kind and gentle to most people, but for the sake of his clan (and the world) he puts on the air of a typical strong, reserved samurai most of the time.

14. Tell me about a piece of impressive game mastering you’ve witnessed! 

Look, most game mastering is really impressive! As a GM myself, I know very well how much work goes into it, how difficult it is to keep up with your players, how many goddamn spoons it takes to be both prepared and flexible, to think of adventures and NPCs and places and voices and plot points and the PCs’ strengths and weaknesses and desires and the players’ strengths and weaknesses and desires, to learn the system and adjust the system and game the system and improvise rules you forgot and provide the mood and the atmosphere and the materials and *BREATHES* game mastering is impressive by virtue of being game mastering, and I appreciate the absolute fuck out of all the people willing to sit in that chair again and again and give their all so that their friends can just... enjoy themselves. (Asshole GMs excluded of course.)

17. What’s something you think you could improve about the way you play tabletop RPGs? 

I need to stop trying to control everything. I’m not sure if it’s a habit that comes from somewhere inside me, a sign of trust issues or if it’s a side-effect of many years of playing with very passive players which put me into a constant instigator position that I now can’t let go of, but it’s not making for a better game or table for me to always have to have the reigns. I also would like to not laugh at my own jokes quite so much. It’s obnoxious and I never plan to, but as soon as I sit down... Things to work on.

[rekwritesnonsense]

Prompt: Mistake

Bael breathed out in heavy, thudding huffs, exhaling ambient cigarettes, spice, and blood splatter from between red lips. It was one of those pit fights where the goddamn neon kept flashing, changing against the duracrete floor and the sweat on the human in front of him, making shadows jump in half a dozen directions, giving the whole thing a nauseating strobe effect. He spat a rope of blackened phlegm to the side, roared for the crowd, and made the charge. He had the weight advantage, and while he wasn’t faster than the other man, he was fast enough, and he could take the slighter man’s hits to the ribs, the meat of the stomach. He clamped his hand into the hollow parts of his opponent’s face and slammed him spine first into the floor with enough force to feel the jaw pop out under his grip. Since the bastard couldn’t bite anymore, he pushed his hand in deeper and repeated the impact until the body stopped kicking.

There were some cheers. Money changed hands. Somebody passed Bael a gray and red splotchy towel and a beer he assumed was free. Some people dragged the human out. The lights made it hard to tell if he was breathing or not, but they didn’t leave him there, and Bael supposed that was a sign of something. His teeth tasted like silver.

“Easy fight,” Vrict hissed next to him, checking a tally. “Not great profits with those odds, but good job making it a show. Kerr says you’re welcome back any time.”

“Tomorrow?” Bael asked. The adrenaline was draining out and he could feel the tender spots left by those hits, but he figured he could probably win again tomorrow. His boss had been laying low the last two weeks- something political- and his landlord was making noise about it again. Ma said his sister needed new books for school. “Doesn’t the school fuckin’ give them books?” he’d asked, but apparently this was some sort of special thing, or some sort of punishment, or his Ma didn’t read whatever the school sent home and was just fucking guessing again because asking her boy was easier than slogging through whatever polite, vague, unhelpful thing some prissy pristine white furred teacher sent home in a language Ma was never that great at reading. “Let me see it,” he’d said over the holo, which was also costing money he wasn’t making. “Threw it out,” she said, waving a cigarette like she was trying to precision incinerate flies. There was no talking to the woman once she’d decided a thing was too complicated for anyone to figure out, and solving the problem only made her angry that you were calling her stupid. “Love you, Ma,” he’d said eventually. She sucked down tar and smoke. “Stay safe, Baby Boy. Don’t let the bastards put one over on you.”

“Yeah, probably tomorrow.” Vrict clicked his mandibles. “But maybe cool it a day or two, yeah? Can’t spend money dead in a ditch.”

Bael groaned and tipped up his beer. He tried to make eye contact with the Nautolan he’d been talking to before the fight, and then wished he hadn’t. Those big black eyes had gone wider, and he was more than familiar with the fear in them, with the sudden understanding of exactly what Bael could do to another sentient being if he set his mind to it. He turned back to Vrick as they quickly paid the tab and hurried out. That was another set of maybe-plans gone for the evening.

“What the fuck is wrong with the boss?” he complained. His knuckles ached and the quickly warming drink sandwiched between them was not helping as much as he’d like. “Why can’t we just go back to work? Bust some heads, shake down some shops, fucking stand in front of something with a blaster rifle, I don’t care, but I need the fucking work, man.”

“There’s freelance?” Vrict’s offer wasn’t helpful and they both knew it. Freelance meant sticking your dick blind into the hornet’s nest that was Nar Shaddaa politics. Or it meant hopping a ride somewhere else and hoping the boss didn’t call while you were out moonlighting on a different moon. You could go weeks without hearing from that slimy coward, but stars fucking forbid you didn’t call him back within five minutes and hop to wherever the fuck he told you. That just left pit fights and loan sharks, both of which were going to break a few of Bael’s ribs eventually. Bael growled into his drink.

“Hey, champ!” somebody called, and Bael scrunched up his face in physical pain. Somewhere behind him, someone was trying to get his attention. Somebody with a Corellian accent and a self-important swagger even to their voice. Without turning his head, Bael stuck up a middle finger and elaborately, pointedly drained the last of his drink. “I’m talking to you, you fucking dewback!” the voice was rising in pitch. “Do you know who I am?”

Bael looked to Vrict, who shook his head very slightly. No idea.

“Let’s launch,” Bael said, staggering up. “Get some better air.” Vrict snorted. May as well suggest a walk in the sunshine.

The hand that came down on Bael’s shoulder and tried to pull him around was too big to belong to the voice. He turned in the spastic light and saw a weequay, but nobody he knew. Behind him some little human with gold jewelry and one of those stylized slavers’ belts with a loop which could anchor several chains was shouting about respect, and how he wouldn’t be ignored.

Respect.

Bael’s fist hit the weequay’s spiked face with the full force of an impending eviction, of a speeder bike he couldn’t figure out how to fix, of an apartment full of empty beer cans and cheap holos alone, of not having enough control of his own life to see his people in anything more than occasional calls where they asked for more money, of all the frustration and humiliation possible when your only skill was what you could put your fist through. The crunch felt satisfying.

The little human pulled a gun, and the next few seconds were blind speed and pure instinct. Bael broke his hand around the grip and punched him in the throat. Then he hammered down on the crown of the man’s skull as he fell choking and gasping. Vrict was at his back, gun drawn and ready to hop in, but the fight was already over. The lights flickered and sputtered.

“Holy shit man,” said somebody in the crowd, “do you know who that was?”

And that was when Bael knew he had made a serious mistake.

[spacerocksarethebestrocks]

21 (in the water/in the bath) for kit and dara? 👉👈

Thank you very much for this. I somewhat ran with it. Noctitra 4 lyfe.

Bath Time

for the cuddle prompts

read on AO3 or below the cut!

thanks to @shadowmaat for allowing me to use their idea of 'ahwey' as a word for nautolan head tentacles

"Careful, Love," Dara murmured.

Nocte groaned as she helped him settle into the hot bath. One of her arms was curled under his elbow, the other steadying his shoulder. Fragrant steam curled around his aching head and he breathed in deeply. Nocte settled on the sunken bench and rested back against the tiles; his eyes fluttering closed as the warmth seeped into his bones. Dara ran her fingers through the sweaty curls on his forehead and pressed a soft kiss to his temple.

"I can't believe you've never had the flu before," she murmured, stroking her thumb over his forehead.

"I'm not s’posed to get sick," Nocte grumbled, leaning into her touch.

"You've been treating flu ridden troopers for two weeks now," Dara said, amused. "It's amazing you lasted this long."

She'd been called by one of Nocte's traitor brothers, probably Fox or Carrion, and marched him from his office. Annoyingly, he'd been too sick to stop her. She'd snuck him into the temple and into one of the private steam baths.

"None of us s’posed to get sick," Nocte scowled, "we’re eng- engineered to have… not get… the illness."

Dara chuckled quietly. She pulled her hands away from his head only to sink down into the water next to him.

"Shut up, I'm sick," he grumbled.

"Sorry my Love," she said. She coaxed him to lean against her shoulder, so that she could run her fingers through his hair again. "Let me know if the water is too hot."

Nocte grunted. It probably was, but it felt like heaven. He’d felt dizzy all day so that wasn’t new. The door slid open again with a quiet beep, and he blinked his eyes open lazily. Kit walked in and dropped a stack of towels on a wooden bench beside the pile of Nocte and Dara's clothes.

"Sorry I'm late," he murmured, "I was just picking up some supplies."

Nocte closed his eyes again, letting Dara's soft fingers lull him into a comfortable doze. The steam helped to loosen his chest; the razor blades dulling in his throat and his head feeling less full of tauntaun fur with every passing moment. He was dimly aware of Kit undressing in the background, murmuring something to Dara and stepping into water.

Suddenly he was being lifted. Nocte grumbled, screwing his eyes shut and protesting as his head span. Quickly though, Kit sank down in the water with Nocte settled in his lap. His back was to Kit's chest, and he rested his head back on Kit's shoulder with a satisfied sigh. Dara settled against his front as Kit pressed a kiss to Nocte's temple. She laid her head on his chest and rested one of her hands over his heart. He settled his hands over her shoulders, curled loosely in her ahwey, and she sighed happily.

"Get some rest, Darling," Kit murmured against his forehead. His wide warm palm settled in Nocte's hair, and he ran his fingers through with loving reverence. Nocte sighed contentedly.

"We'll take care of you."

[skullinacowboyhat]

Qeeo!

Thanks for the ask! And tagging @captainderyn, cause you requested Qeeo as well.

Full Name: Qeeo (last name unknown)Gender: FemalePronouns: she/herEthnicity/Species: NautolanBirthplace and Birthdate: UnknownGuilty Pleasures: Punching people tbqh (she finds it very satisfying), and when she was a youngling, swimming in the Tython lakes instead of going to class.Phobias: Losing control again, losing her friends and being the cause of it, the Emperor.What They Would Be Famous For: She would probably be famous for her involvement on Ziost, and it wouldn’t be the nice kind of fame.What They Would Get Arrested For: By the Empire: being a Jedi, or at least a rogue Jedi.OC You Ship Them With: No one at the moment, though Jaq definitely had a crush on her when they met.OC Most Likely To Murder Them: Maybe @captainderyn‘s Wren, cause they’ve fought and Qeeo got a nice scar from that one.Favorite Movie/Book Genre: Action/Adventure.Least Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: Romantic moviesTalents and/or Powers: Qeeo is very strong in the Force and utilises it a lot during combat. She uses it to bolster her speed and agility, as well as to lift up Force barriers if need be (she uses that very rarely though, because it totally zaps her energy).Why Someone Might Love Them: Qeeo is loyal, and always seeking to better herself. Around people that she trusts (which is very few), she can be thoughtful and compassionate.Why Someone Might Hate Them: Qeeo is quick to anger and slow to forgiveness. She doesn’t let go of grudges easily.How They Change: Qeeo grows more mature and aware of her effect on others, good and bad. Though she doesn’t become more trusting, she does become kinder to strangers and people she doesn’t know very well. Why You Love Them: Oh I just love all of the possibilities I have with her; her story could go many different ways and I love exploring that. Her life has lots of little eras in it, each different from the last: her childhood as a slave, her being trained as a Jedi, becoming a member of the Sixth Line, Ziost and the aftermath, then joining up with @captainderyn‘s Tacka to help refugees. I’m really excited to see where she goes from there. 

[isooto]

     It doesn’t take long for the necessary papers to be filed and credits exchanged before Shaak finds herself being led to the Nautolan’s transport in silence. He had brought a slim collar to clip around her neck, and with it, a long leather lead. 

     She hated it. 

     She hated every moment it rubbed against her skin, she hated the gentle tug of the leash when he moved quickly through a crowd, the leers of the crowd she was dragged through like a pet. A dog to be ordered around as he pleased. 

     She took a deep breath, biting her tongue and biding her time until she could get a better bearing on where exactly she was headed. It was a shipyard, of course, but after passing several massive, obviously expensive shit, she was surprised to find herself waiting in front of a mid-tier transport, not unlike those the Jedi used. There was no flair about it, other than the carefully painted moon and stars on one side in a dark blue. 

     The Nautolan leads her up the ramp, lets it close, and turns to look at her. 

     “I am truly sorry for this,” He says, deep voice soft while he raises his hands. Her violet eyes go wide, fearful for a moment he intended to strike her. Instead, he reached up and unclips the leash, and then the collar.  

     He sets them aside on a table, “They are purely for show. A ruse for the rest of the world that I am nothing more than a servant doing as he’s told.” 

     That gives her pause, her hand coming up to rub at the tender parts of her neck where the collar had rubbed a little too tightly. Her eyes narrowed, taking in the surroundings very carefully. It wasn’t a large ship, but the cargo hold had been outfitted with a few bunks in one of the walls. There was a table, some shelves, a meager little area intended to be a kitchen, and two closed doors. One she assumed led to the cockpit, the other to some kind of bathroom perhaps? Maybe a communication room? There was one nook that had benches and a table, and another table closer to the door that presumably led to the cockpit. A few hesitant steps forward, and when he didn’t acknowledge her, she sat on the edge of the benches. Watching him. 

     “Wait there,” He said, vanishing behind one door. Shaak heard the hum of an engine and nodded to herself, he was starting the ship for their voyage back to the Sith Apprentice. He returns, evidently satisfied with the autopilot’s course and leans against the door frame. 

     His dark gold eyes watch you for a moment, and you return the gaze, careful not to seem too proud. 

     “What is your name?” 

     Shaak blinks, she had prepared for this, “Shaama.” 

     It’s quick, polite, and clipped. Conveying no emotion and finishing the task asked of her. 

     He nods, dark blue lekku swaying with the motion while the white tattoos seemed to lazily swirl with life as they moved, “I am called Oxta. You will address me as Sir,” His gaze does not break yours, “Or Master.” 

     He must see the hesitation in your eyes, confusion at the title when his earlier statement contradicted such a thing because he follows up with an explanation. 

     “There are many who wish me dead. Many who believe that the Sith lineage must remain pure and untainted by someone like myself,” He gestures to his lekku, mostly, “There are things the galaxy hides, it is easier to learn about them under the guise of trusted servant than as the truth.” 

     Oh, kriff. 

     He was the apprentice. Hiding in plain sight. It makes sense, looking back. No one could have that gracefully attempted to enter your mind - that took years of discipline. He had begun to lap at the edges like it was nothing. 

     Your eyes widen, and one corner of his lip quirks upwards for just a moment. 

     He pushes forward, stepping to you and squatting so that he is eye level with you where you sit. One midnight hand reaches up, hesitating, “May I?”

    You nod. Unsure of what came next. 

     In the end, all he wished to do was unfasten the veil that covered the majority of your face. he removed it in it’s entirety, carefully watching your face as he did so. You gave no reaction other than lifting your chin. He hummed. Pensive, then stood. 

     “We’ll have to find you new clothes,” Oxta said, moving away from you, “These won’t do. You will need something slightly subtler - though I do enjoy the gold. I will have my other servants find something for you once we arrive.” 

     Shaak blinked, brows furrowing, “I don’t understand, sir. I thought I was to be your sole attendant?”

     He let out the barest hint of a laugh, so small that if the togruta hadn’t been invested in discovering what was happening she might have missed it. 

     “I have no need for another servant. There are plenty of those,” He said, moving to the other door that remained closed, “You are strong, both in mind and body. I have other needs that you will fill quite nicely, with a bit of... training.” 

     Shaak gulped. 

     That only seemed to amuse him more, “Don’t fret. It’s nothing too devious. You will know more once we arrive. In the meantime, rest. It will be a while before we reach out destination. You’ll want to have your wits about you when it comes to meeting my own Master.” 

     With that, he entered the last room, a silhouette of a blue so deep it almost blended into the darkness in the room beyond, save for the white tattoos that seemed to glow. The door closed, and Shaak was left alone. 

     She exhaled, carefully picking up the discarded veil and choosing a bunk on the wall. It was a stealth mission, and so far she had managed to preserve her identity (hopefully) and keep a lid on her temper. But those other ‘needs’ he mentioned had her nervous. What use could a Sith possibly have for someone with a strong mind? Her own imagination jumps to the worst conclusions - someone to break, to tear down and shatter mentally. Or perhaps just some flesh to warm his bed...

     Shaak snarled, crimson fingers gripping the sheer veil in her hands tight. She would sooner die than let him touch her. He was a Sith. He was the one she was meant to gather information on, relay back to the Council, and hopefully report back in one piece after setting a plan in motion to capture him. Turn him over to the Republic for his crimes and for interrogation. 

     And if he touched her, that carefully constructed cover story might be blown by her own temper. 

     That could not happen. the mission came first, Master Mundi was counting on her to make this right and to succeed where others had failed. She had to be perfect. 

     If that meant....

     It wasn’t a train of thought that was wise to entertain now. Shaak expelled it with an exhale, letting her shoulders relax and grip on the fabric loosen. her knuckles had gone pale from her grip. 

     She lied down on the small cot, closing her eyes and wishing that, for a moment, she was back in the Temple, with her lightsaber in hand. 

     Shaak dozed until she finally drifted to sleep. Plans for discovering what was in that dark room dancing behind her eyes. 

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