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omgreally · 4 years ago

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The Apprentice Read on AO3 Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader Rating: E for Explicit, Soon Wordcount: 9k+ Summary: Peli Motto took you off the streets of Tatooine to become one of the best apprentices she’s ever had - but honestly, the DUM droids are setting the bar pretty low. Still, you work out well for the first few months until an armored Mandalorian stranger lands with a busted-up ship and a strange magic baby and, well, you’re intrigued. Even though you know you shouldn’t be. Peli’s always teling you to keep away from anything hot but sometimes, to fix something, you have to stick your hand straight into the fire.

Chapter Three - Second Thoughts

You sit on the ground across from the blazing fire as the Treadwell droids fries the gorgs on the flame generated by the old podracing engine. The suns have long since slipped below the horizon, and the night sky is filled with stars like a dark blanket poked with holes and thrown over a lamp.

“You ever been offworld, Peli?” You wonder as you gaze upwards. You don’t think about it much, what’s up there - you’ve only ever been concerned with what’s down here and the more immediate need for survival. But the more time you spend on ships that soar back and forth between the stars, the more you wonder what it’s like.

“Space travel?” Peli snorts, ripping off a hunk of jerky for herself and handing a smaller piece to Grogu in her lap. “It’s a waste of time, kiddo. Keeps me in business, though, so I don’t complain. But the hotshots out there, zoomin’ around between planets, never feelin’ the dirt beneath their feet - they complain plenty. Makes me wonder why they do it.”

“What about him?” You nod towards the dark, silent Razor Crest. Mando hasn’t joined you yet. You’re beginning to doubt that he will.

“Who knows? Only thing he seems to care about is this little guy.” She jiggles Grogu on her knee.

“It’s...his child?” you ask slowly, almost afraid of the answer.

“Nah. Don’t think so, anyway. But he’s a part of his clan, so he’ll protect him, see? That’s how Mandalorians are.” She cocks her head. “I think. All I know is I’ve seen him kill without hesitation to protect this little one, and he’ll do anythin’ for him. Anythin’.” Peli emphasizes this with a pointed forefinger, one that Grogu grabs and starts to chew on. “Ow! Hungry little womprat, aren’tcha? Here, have some more o’ this.”

“That almost sounds...noble,” you muse aloud. Peli, only half-listening, chuckles.

“You try tellin’ him that. Hey, where are you goin’?”

“I told him I’d bring him some dinner,” you say as you get to your feet and fill a plate with meat, fruit and jerky.

“You like him, don’t you?”

You stop, half-turning to her in the flickering firelight. You expect to see a smirk, or a grimace, but Peli’s expression is just...curious. Grogu is looking at you too, and you wonder how much the little creature understands.

“He’s...interesting,” you say. “And attractive.” Why lie? Peli’s always been able to see straight through you.

The woman sighs, leaning back. “Just...be careful, Girl, won’t you? Believe it or not, I’ve gotten used to havin’ you around. And you’re a damn sight more useful than the droids.”

You shift from foot to foot. “What are you trying to say, ma’am?”

“I’m just sayin’...It’s like he’s got his own gravitational pull. Try not to fall into his orbit.” She strokes the ears of the child in her lap and presses her lips together into an expression of resignation when she meets your eyes.

She already knows. And she can see it in you.

Her smile is wry, and a little sad when she adds, "You’ll end up burnin’ up.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, so you say nothing. You walk away, deep in thought, your steps taking you slowly, inexorably towards the ship. Maybe there’s something to what Peli’s saying. It’s like you just can’t help yourself.

It’s like you don’t even want to.

The side ramp is still down, and you wonder briefly if the actuator has broken again - you’ll have to check tomorrow. The sound of your boots on the gangway seem unnaturally loud, but you knock on the frame of the hatch anyway to announce your presence, peering into the dim interior.

“Mando?”

No answer. You make your way further into the hold, but catch no sight of him. “Mando?” you call again.

This was a stupid idea, you decide. You’ll just leave the plate somewhere and go. You're in the middle of looking for an appropriate flat surface where he’ll find it when his voice drifts down from the cockpit - “Up here.”

There’s still time to just leave the food and go, you think. But of course, you don’t. You move further into the belly of the beast. Balancing the plate in one hand, you haul yourself up the ladder with the other. Somehow, you manage to get up to the cockpit without flinging food everywhere.

The bridge of the ship is even darker than before, the standby lights filling the space with an eerie, blinking glow. It makes the Mandalorian blend into the durasteel background, so that when he gets up from the pilot’s seat, you jump, nearly tripping backwards - but he’s on his feet and has caught the plate in one hand and your elbow in the other before you even register the movement.

“Sorry,” you mutter, staring into the visor. “I didn’t see you.”

“It’s okay,” he says, letting you go - you feel the absence of his touch more keenly than you might have if you'd gotten more time in the sanisteam earlier. You watch him as he perches on the edge of a control panel to examine the contents of his plate, gloved fingers picking through the jerky and crisped pieces of meat.

“It’s not much, but we were a little strapped for credits when I went to the market this morning,” you explain. “I’ll go out and get more tomorrow-”

“It’s fine. Thank you.” Still, he sets the plate aside, and you frown. If it’s fine, why isn’t he eating- Oh.

You turn, your face burning. “Sorry, I forgot. I’ll leave you to eat.” You step towards the hatch, and the ladder that leads to safety.

“Wait.”

The single word stops you in your tracks, and you stand there, frozen. You can’t hear him move, but you know that he’s behind you - you can feel the heat from his body and the coolness of the Beskar both warring for space at your back. You don’t turn around.

“Are you afraid of me?”

That’s definitely not what you expected him to ask. If you expected anything. You do turn now, slowly, coming face-to-face with his breastplate mere inches from your nose, and you have to tilt your chin up to look up at his visor. At the edge of the helmet, you can see the fabric of his cowl disappearing upward, and you wonder what color his hair is under there - if he has hair. It’s so hard to think of him as human, looking at the silver outer shell, and that more than anything else is terrifying. And exciting.

“Yes,” you say, your voice little more than a whisper.

He reaches out and touches a tendril of your hair, still damp from the sanisteam. He brushes it gently, ever-so-gently, over your cheek and tucks it back behind your ear. His knuckles linger by your temple. You’ve long since stopped breathing.

“Good,” he says then. “Fear keeps you smart. Keeps you from doing something stupid.”

It’s like he knows exactly what you’ve been thinking, every moment you’ve been alone together. You swallow heavily around the sudden lump in your throat, resisting the urge to grab onto something - maybe him - to keep yourself upright, centered.

“Like what?” you rasp instead, trying to moisten your lips with the tip of your tongue, but your mouth is too dry for that. The helmet tracks the movement.

“I don’t want to give you any ideas.”

“I already have a few,” you say, breathing in a chuckle. You feel detached, as if this conversation isn’t really happening. Not in your reality.

“How old are you?”

That question stops you for a moment, and you have to think. “Oh...Galactic calendar? Twenty, at least...twenty-something, maybe. I lost track for a few years.”

“Twenty.” You hear him breathe in through the modulator, and he reaches out, a gloved finger tracking the visible indent of your collarbone from the open V of your coveralls. “You’re smart, for someone so young.”

You’re pretty sure wanting to fuck a Mandalorian isn’t that smart, but you don’t voice that thought. Not yet, anyway.

“I’ve had to be,” you tell him, voice low, like you’re confessing a secret. “Out here, you don’t survive if you’re not smart.”

Mando nods slowly, seeming almost - understanding? Sympathetic? Maybe you’re imagining it. It’s too easy to ascribe emotions to the blankness of the Beskar. He could be making faces at you from behind that mask for all you know. He could just be toying with you to pass the time.

But something tells you that he’s not. And that scares you the most of all.

“I should go,” you say softly, and there’s a small moment of hesitation - just a second or two, but enough that you notice it - before he nods again.

You step back from him, towards the hatch, your eyes on the visor until the very last moment you turn around to swing yourself onto the ladder. You’re halfway down before his voice drifts to you.

“Goodnight, Girl.”

“Night, Mando,” you murmur, smiling to yourself as you climb down the rest of the way.

There’s a spring in your step as you leave the Razor Crest behind, one that Peli doesn’t miss as you pass her on the way to your room.

“Remember what I told you, Girl!” she calls after you. You wave a dismissive, slightly rude offworlder gesture in her direction, but not too obviously.

“Goodnight, Peli!”

“See you’re up with the suns tomorrow! We got a lot of work to do!” she yells, but you’re already gone, shutting the door behind you as you head inside.

You debate going for another shower, but Peli will tell you off for using all the water, so you go to bed instead. You say ‘bed’ - really it’s just a cot shoved into a corner in one of the storage rooms, housed between crates of spare parts. You don’t mind it. The smell of metal and lubricant has long since ceased being an unpleasant one, and it’s of particular comfort tonight

You try to sleep imagining it’s Beskar surrounding you, smooth and cool beneath your fingers. You picture a pair of gloved hands on your shoulders, your arms, your belly, and your skin warms to your own touch. Your hands aren’t as wide, your fingers not as long, but in the absence of any others, they do the job.

You come gasping into the gloom, picturing the inscrutable darkness of a T-shaped visor boring into you. And then you sleep, only half-sated, somehow more restless than ever.

You get the feeling things are only going to get worse before they get better.

Taglist: @annon123456789987654321, @babe-im-bi, @casssiopeia, @herefortheart, @shannaniganss, @sofithewitch

Let me know if you’d like to be added/removed from the taglist!

#the mandalorian fanfic #din djarin/reader #din djarin x female reader #mando x you #the apprentice

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badger-writes · 4 years ago

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@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt Filled: Jealousy/Envy

Fandom: Star Wars

Ao3 Link

The children of Mos Espa seek out each others’ company, as children do. They are slaves, orphans, scrum-rats – peasants, all. They don’t all like Greedo, exactly, but they do tolerate him. He can accept that – stars know he’s not fond of every one of them, either.

They seem to congregate around one boy in particular, like planets around a blazing star. His name is Anakin. He still lives with his mother. They are both slaves, owned by the junk dealer Watto. Though a slave, he lives well, and is growing up hale and healthy. He’s building a podracer in the back lot behind Watto’s yard, and to hear him tell it, he’s working on a protocol droid in his home that’s almost finished. He’s cheerful and kind and seemingly all of Mos Espa likes him. The children all think he’s wizard.

Some people get all the luck, Greedo fumes to himself.

===

There’s only one other Rodian in their little clique – he’s three years younger and about a head shorter than Anakin, and goes by the name of Wald. A nice kid, Greedo supposes, though his attitude could use adjusting. No one with so little to be happy about should be that happy, even if it’s still more than Greedo has.

Eventually - because Wald is a perceptive sort of child, the kind that doesn’t keep his mouth shut - he asks, “Hey Greedo, how come you’re so jealous of Ani?”

Greedo scowls. He’s always scowling, but this one is worse than usual. “I’m not jealous,” he insists, rubbery Rodian brows scrunching up his forehead.

“Pfft, yeah, and I’m the Tusken King!” Wald cups his hands around his snout and twirls around in place, hooting his best imitation of a Tusken Raider war cry. It is, as one might expect of a Rodian child aping a Tusken Raider, not very good.

“Stop making fun of me,” Greedo pouts, crossing his arms.

“I’m not making fun! I’m just trying to figure out why you’re so jealous.”

“I’m not!”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not!”

“Yes you are!”

“Well, why shouldn’t I be?!” He spits, and feels something wound tight deep inside him come unpinned, like steam breaching a gasket and hissing into open air. “He’s already so much better off than the rest of us!”

“I dunno about that,” Wald says. He’s halfhearted, wishy-washy. “He’s still a slave, after all.”

“What other slave gets to build his own podracer? Or his own droid? Or race in the Boonta Eve?” Greedo shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks at the dirt as he walks. “I never get to do anything like that. It’s not fair.”

“What can I say? Ani’s a lucky kid,” Wald says, shrugging. “Then again, he’s still living in Slave Quarters Row with his mom, so what can you do?”

“At least he has a mom.”

The corners of Wald’s mouth pucker inwards. He plays with his fingers behind his back and tries to look very interested in the rivulets of sand shifting around on the ground.

Greedo grunts. “Whatever. It’s not like he’ll ever leave Tatooine.” he mutters. The slave tracker inside him would see to that. Wander too far away and … poof. “No matter what, he’s still gonna waste away on this dustball like the rest of us.”

“Is… that supposed to be a good thing?”

“It sounds good to me.”

Wald gives him a funny look. “You’re a weird kid, Greedo,” he says, chortling. Then he tugs on the sleeve of his roughspun tunic. “C’mon, let’s go toss rotten tip-yip eggs at Nobot. That always makes me feel better.”

===

Anakin wins the Boonta Eve podrace, along with his freedom. He’s going to leave Tatooine forever and fly with his offworld stranger friends to live in the Core, in the Republic capitol. He’s going to become a ‘Jedi’, whatever that is. All of this happens in the space of maybe a standard hour.

Greedo doesn’t buy it.

“You cheated,” he hisses at the boy after the race.

The radiance of victory hasn’t left Anakin’s face. He’s clearly taken by surprise at being accosted so while basking in the moment of triumph. It gives Greedo a sickly sort of pride that he’s able to strip the sheen off his hull plating so easily.

“No, I didn’t!” Anakin insists. “I won that race fair and square. Everyone saw it!”

Greedo had seen it, too. No one could have pulled an upset like that off. “Yeah, right. Against Sebulba? With a busted engine? No way.”

The fix had to be in, somewhere. Maybe Ani’s ‘Jedi’ friend paid Sebulba to take a dive, since apparently he likes him so much.

“I did win,” Anakin whines again. “You’re just jealous.”

Greedo snorts rudely through his snout – but the other street-rats are already listening, picking sides, tittering quietly amongst themselves. He can’t very well back down now.

“You did cheat, you little sneak. They’re gonna find out how, and once they do, they’re gonna drag you back to Mos Espa by your hair and give you back to Watto.”

Something in Anakin’s expression cracks. Greedo can see the fear in his eyes. “No, they’re not.”

“Oh yes they are,” the Rodian sneers. “They’re gonna put your tracker back in and make you polish scrap and work you til you’re old and gra—”

He would have said ‘gray’, if not for the tiny fist connecting with his jaw; the impact throws him down onto the sand. Anakin is on him just as quickly, pounding his face and shoulders with wild jabs, blinded by anger. The crowd of children around them settle into the familiar chanting which accompanies any street fight.

And then –

The moment is parted, like wind cutting smoothly over the dunes. There’s a man here now that wasn’t here before – tall, long haired, middle-aged, human. His clothes are simple, but he bears himself almost regally, as if detached or above the squabble unfolding before him. The crowd is hushed; the beating stops. In the lull, Greedo is finally able to push the little cheater off of him and sit up.

When he speaks, it’s with the voice of a father. Or at least, what they imagine a father must sound like. “What’s this all about?”

“He says I cheated,” Anakin says from the ground, fuming.

“Did you?”

“No!”, the boy replies, incredulously.

The man looks to Greedo expectantly. “Do you still think he cheated?”

His tongue probes a sore spot inside his mouth, tasting copper. “Yes.”

“Well, Ani, you know the truth,” the man says as the two climb to their feet. “You will have to tolerate his opinion. Fighting will not change it.”

Anakin is visibly not satisfied. Neither is Greedo. Both of them have lived long enough to know that this is how adults settle most disputes between children.

The man spares Greedo one last look before turning and striding away; Anakin, pointedly, does not. Neither of them offer so much as a token apology.

#bad things happen bingo #star wars #the phantom menace #greedo #anakin skywalker #qui gon jinn #fanfic

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capricornus-rex · 4 years ago

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A Shadow of What You Used to Be (1)

Chapter 1: A Child Can Dream | Cal Kestis x Irele Skywalker

Requested by Anon

Summary: There is another! Years after young Anakin Skywalker departed Tatooine, his mother Shmi delivers a second child—this time, a daughter. Whilst the circumstance of the girl’s birth remains unexplained, Irele Skywalker has yet to choose the true path between those laid out for her.

Tags: Fem! OC, Irele Skywalker, Force-sensitive! OC, Anakin’s Younger Sister, Skywalker! OC, Darth Vader’s Secret Apprentice, Long-lost Sibling

A/N: I AM SO HAPPY TO BE BACK! Our house is clean, power and wifi is back on, and we’re slowly getting back on our feet now! ❤ It was a tough 2 weeks, but we survived. My neighborhood is getting back on its own feet as well. We just need more time in flushing out whatever trace of the flood remains. Thank you so much to @glxy-otter and @someoneovertherainboww for sending me lots of love & support! It really made me smile 💜🥺

Also in AO3

Previous: Prelude | Next: Part 2 | Masterlist

2 of ?

The garage was filled with the same perpetual noise. For a seven-year-old, this is no suitable place for a child—but this is the normal she grew up in.

“Hurry up with that chassis!” barked a male Twi’lek with orange skin in Huttese.

The girl answered, in the same dialect, “Can’t you see that this thing is twice my size, Pelug!?”

“You’re lucky you’re faster than those pit droids, otherwise, I would’ve put you in concessionaire duty!”

A pair of hazel eyes shot a piercing look at the humanoid, a scowl forming in her eyebrows.

The orange Twi’lek’s pair of lekku wagged along with his finger pointed at the girl, his threat didn’t scare her as much as he wanted to—though it’s common knowledge that concessionaire duty was the worst, one is essentially demoted if put there. But she thinks she’s proved herself highly unlikely of being in that position.

Not receiving help—not expecting to either—she hauled up the chassis on a crate while shooing the doddering pit droids. When the path was clear, the hatch had already been opened—thanks to those little ones—to screw in the part before the big race. The speakers crackled and echoed across the entire garage, reminding us that the participants have less than thirty minutes before the racers are required to bring their rides on the starting block.

“Irele,” Pelug called in Basic, but immediately went back to speaking Huttese. “You got tiny hands, hold this open for me while I close off the hydraulic seals.”

Irele obeyed. She had a few seconds of relaxing her fingers one seal after the other.

After the tech work, their contender—a male Togruta named Gelesh with uneven lekku��hopped onto his podracer. A few switches and clicks, the Brazen Bullet roared to life—lights flickered across the entire dashboard, the engines belched, and the turbines thrummed.

“Hey, if Sebulba fights dirty—”

“I’ll fight filthier!” he cuts Irele off laughing, but she let it pass. The exchange was somewhat tradition for both of them.

The speakers in the garage crackled again, startling many who are inside, and the croaky announcer prompted the racers to prepare at the starting block; in less than a second, a second translates everything to Huttese. The announcer was the two-headed sentient of species she still doesn’t know the name of.

Gelesh’s entourage—including Irele—strolled out of the garage and made for the exit. The Tatooine sunlight abruptly blazed its rays over their heads, luckily, they were wearing headgear. Gelesh was confident although the nervousness was somehow getting to him, the girl can sort of sense it—along with a few more emotions that she didn’t want to point out to make it worse for him.

“Hey, Gel?”

“Yeah, Irele?”

“Relax.”

That took a load off of his chest, his lips stretched to a friendly grin, he pulled himself together first and then his goggles next. To each racer, they followed the instructions as the two-headed sentient said so. All the technicians began scrambling back to their pit stop when the mufflers have fired up. Little Irele went further into their pit stop, crawling through spaces that only she can enter; she then scaled a spire with makeshift handholds she herself installed until she could reach a ledge on the spire that apparently supported one of the spectator boxes.

The seven-year-old was small enough to seat herself on such a narrow edge; from there, she has as good as a view of the spectators in the towers and stands. If the crowd was already rowdy before the racers lined up on the block, the noise got wilder and louder that perhaps one can hear it all the way to Mos Pelgo. Each podracer had their characteristic noise for each action: ignition, acceleration, compressor activation, and what have you—Irele can identify the Brazen Bullet and its every sound with her eyes closed.

“Alright, racers, rev up those engines because we start in five…”

A collective of podracers engine noises rung and rumbled the circuit. Three seconds in, their ignition sent dust clouds flying over the heads of the poor people in the bottom row of the stands. The people in the bleachers joined the countdown, and so did Irele as she kept her eye on the single podracer whose body plates are forged with bronzium.

“ONE!!”

One by one, the vehicles zipped past—their noises abrupt like the firing of a blaster, the mufflers thunderous as they pulled the accelerators—some of the audience members had the hems of their clothes flying to the direction of the podracers, nonetheless arousing their secondhand adrenaline.

Irele’s little heart went with Brazen Bullet speeding right in the lead, the bronzium finish of the vehicle were fleeting specks of light over her glossy, hazel eyes. She scaled the spire some more until she could sneak a peek on one of the watchers’ tablets to see who’s in the lead and dead last. For everytime Gelesh completed the lap, Irele could almost feel her heels floating, as if she was the one driving the pod and feeling the exact velocity, the thrill, the sheer focus—driving one was a dream, though her mother forbade her, begged her even not to try it, but said so with a softness that compels Irele to obey, despite her desires.

Everyone had their eyes on the rising star, Gelesh, who was also leaving Sebulba in the dust. Hot on his heels, the Dug desperately cranked every possible lever his hind legs could grab on—in the hopes of catching up to the Togruta. The Dug, unwilling to accept defeat after the destruction of his streak by the victory of that one human boy years ago.

That boy was Anakin Skywalker.

Irele had heard stories of him: how he defeated the Dug despite all odds, and snagged the top place in the race, and how he was an underdog in everyone’s eyes. She wondered if they might have been friends somehow, given their mutual penchant for podracing albeit preferring different aspects.

“This is it, people! This is the last lap of the circuit—Gelesh Odibra and Sebulba are practically neck-and-neck! Who will cross the finish line first!? They’re all so close now!! It’s Gelesh!! No, it’s Sebulba!!”

The sentient argues with its Huttese-speaking head, looping what the Basic-speaking head kept saying in a continuous effort in riling up the crowd. Irele was literally on the edge of the tier when the Brazen Bullet and Sebulba’s podracer were within view. A twin-trail of sand, clouding the tail-ends of the podracers approach the starting line—with the third light blinking green, eager for the victor to zoom through it.

It was all such a blur. The crowd cheered, nonetheless, believing that their eyes didn’t deceive them and that they saw their contender stay ahead of the other by a hair. Not long after, a scuffle was developing when two differing spectators argued on whose champion went through the finish line first. Irele spotted it across from where she sat, but she didn’t watch the scuffle for long; she turned her attention to the announcer’s tower.

“Wow, did you see how close that was! Everything was such a blur I’m not even sure if I saw it right!”

The second head agreed, speaking in Huttese, in the same enthusiasm as the Basic-speaking one.

To finally calm the crowd, and settle it once and for all, the sentient clicks a pattern of buttons on their control panel to project a snapshot of the two racers at the finish line—determining who was closest to the line. Showing images from all angles, it’s clear that the Brazen Bullet’s nose was basically under the sensors of the light—thus triggering all three lights to indicate that a racer has completed the circuit.

“I don’t believe it! This is Gelesh’s third win in the streak—cementing his record just right above Sebulba’s!”

By the hum of a gong echoing across the circuit, a large portion of the crowd jumped and roared in a united cheer—ribbons and petals of sorts flew in congratulation, showering the youthful Togruta in his victory. He hopped out of his podracer, his entourage comes sprinting out of their pit stop with Irele at the tail just getting down from her perch.

“GELESH, YOU DID IT!” squealed the girl, sprinting and shouldering her way to his view.

A host hands over a trophy to Gelesh who then let Irele—perched on his broad shoulder—hold the other side of the trophy. People have gotten out of their seats to surround the defending champion. They chanted his name, the rest of the spectators showered him with flowers, petals, and ribbons.

Every victory was wonderful for Irele. Perhaps, it equaled to the exact same thrill as driving her own podrace. This went on for two more years, and in those next years, they enjoyed the sport—win or lose.

–

24 BBY

It seemed that the garage manager was feeling gracious today. The Rodian boss let Irele go home earlier than her normal shift, in which the girl celebrated with a grin whose ends pierced her plump cheeks, a squeaking cheer as she scrambles to put away her things, and a sprint that sent the dust floating behind her heels.

Irele didn’t head home right away, she went the other direction—towards the junkshop where her mother worked, employed by the blue, pungent Toydarian, Watto. The chimes rang as she burst through the door, startling the creature—who hoped it was a customer, but much to his chagrin, it was only the girl, and so he returns to his chair with a groan.

“Where’s Mom?”

“Over there,” Watto lazily pointed and croaked with his native accent running thick in his voice.

“Mommy?”

Shmi paused at the workbench to meet her daughter, “Irele? You’re out early.”

Irele threw herself into Shmi’s arms, embracing her as tight as her scrawny arms can, “Yeah, Selek let me out early today. Good thing he did!”

Her mother simply smiled, perhaps too overwhelmed by her daughter’s energy.

“You didn’t forget, did you?”

That somehow jolted Shmi enough for her realize that she had caught herself spacing out. She shook her head and mouthed the word “no,” she saw the concerned expression in Irele’s face and took her daughter by the shoulders.

“No, darling, I didn’t forget,” she pursed a sweet smile and tapped the tip of Irele’s nose with her forefinger. “How could I forget my promise to you?”

Irele’s eyes lit up, the sihght of it delighted her mother. Shmi then finished up whatever work she’s been busying herself with before getting off of work. Mother and child strolled out of the junkshop, Irele trottd off happily while keeping her hand clasped in Shmi’s—who was walking in her normal pace, with a few occasional tugs from the child because of her prancing.

By the time they got home, Irele impatiently put her things away in her room, got washed, and eagerly waited for Shmi to join her in the kitchen. The promise was that they were going to cook something together—a house favorite of Irele: Shmi’s own, delicious recipe. They had saved enough from their wages separately, and in total, they had enough to buy ingredient for a hearty, full supper consisting of meat, a medley of mushrooms and vegetables, and fruits and pallies for dessert.

They could only do this once for their individual pay was rather low.

All of this is a celebration of Irele turning eight.

A simple celebration with fulfilling food on the table, with no one else but her mother and herself, in the coziness of their cottage—to Irele, it was wonderful. And perfect.

It was everything she could ever ask for.

–

Months after their promised celebration, Irele had been seeing a man with sandy brown hair and a scraggly stubble. Maybe once or twice, she saw him clean-shaven. She always saw him frequenting Watto’s shop, either to buy or play Sabacc—but oftentimes, the latter in which Watto had a questionable win record. One should not be surprised if the blue Toydarian won through his swindler’s methods.

This man was Cliegg Lars.

Apparently, Shmi had caught the eye of Cliegg, as he frequented the junkshop in search of parts mostly for speeders and other machines he uses. Despite being a child, Lars’s feelings did not escape the insightful Irele; in her opinion, he’d been coming over to the shop a little too often for someone who kept fixing speeders. Although, she cannot be certain if his motives are true; it’s still a lead nonetheless. Even she had drawn attention to herself from the man, shying away from his gruff yet friendly hello’s, and then curiously watching him deal with Watto whilst hiding behind walls.

It wasn’t long until Cliegg began to fall for Shmi, rooting from their day-to-day interactions with one another whenever he would stop by. He pretended that he doesn’t feel Irele tailing them, but he didn’t let that bother him—she’s a child after all, he thought.

Shmi presently being a mother with a daughter in tow didn’t trouble Cliegg. A man of ethics—a rare trait in this lawless ball of sand—he could not imagine buying off Shmi from Watto, but then leaving the child to the Toydarian. Fortunately for Lars, it was evident that Watto’s gambling—with a not-so-impressive track record to boot—had gradually collapsed his business. Little by little, Watto’s wares had either been disposed of or been sold to the lowest possible price in the hopes of keeping the business up. When there was nothing else to profit from, Watto would be forced to sell his remaining property—the mother and child slaves. Cliegg took it from there.

From a certain point of view, his proposition of buying Shmi and Irele intrigued the Toydarian.

“How much you gunna pay fo meh two slaves, eh?” rasped Watto, irreparably pronouncing “slaves” as slehvz in his thick, native Toydarian accent.

“I can pay you twenty thousand each,” Cliegg bobbed his head for the dramatics, pretending to be pensive. “I’ll pawn off my X-class landspeeder to pay them.”

A single holodisk produced a projection of the item in question. The speeder—brand new and in its prime, only seven months old—was an interesting wager in and of itself. The rusty-reddish paint job would stand out in the desert, whether up close or in the horizon, sunlight would bounce off on the sheen of the thrusters’ metallic sections. Truly a shiny new toy.

Cliegg could have sworn he heard the clinking of credits when Watto’s eyes lit up with greedy intrigue.

Good, that’s gotten his attention. Thought the man.

Watto hovered himself closer to the projection, his flimsy wings struggled to carry his weight as they flapped erratically, and rubbed his fleshy chin at the same time. To the flying sentient, it wasn’t a bad deal, at least for Lars’s expense in his mind—the ratio of the trade somewhat balances out: Lars wants two things from him, thus he wagers something in the same worth.

“You must think me a fool, Watto,” Cliegg noted the perhaps long silence of Watto examining the images. “To pay you the price of a single landspeeder for two slaves.”

The Toydarian chuckled, then gestured defensively, “No, no. I don’t that, Lars, meh friend. In fact, this is quite an int’resting investment.” His emphasis on the word “investment” made him enunciate the S into a harsh, buzzing Z.

Perhaps, it is in the nature of every Toydarian to call anything an investment—even a gamble on a card game. There aren’t many of Watto’s kind here in Tatooine, but that is the only impression Cliegg can pick up from Watto for his opinion on the species. Not having any of the suspense, the man tried to broke the deal until they can shake on it. Watto came so far as making an event out of it, but Lars insisted to refrain from the grandeur, to which his beneficiary gave in.

They finally shook on it. The two males were clueless that Irele had been eavesdropping on their exchange. It was a bad habit that Shmi had gently reprimanded her of, but just this once, she had never been invested in someone else’s conversation—only because the subject was their freedom at stake, and it was this stranger who dared to go through this length of settling an agreement with their current slaver. Irele’s mind was in a whirl—would he be a kinder slaver than Watto? More generous or more cruel? With their conversation going on what felt like hours, she had resorted to sitting on the floor, her back against the wall as she listened in on their voices.

The girl heard the door chimes followed by the silence, then she scrambled to her feet when she heard the flapping of Watto’s wings grow louder and disappeared as quietly as she could.

Two days later after that agreement had been set in stone, today’s the fateful day: Shmi finds out only now that she and Irele had been sold to Cliegg Lars. When Watto announced that he’s sold them together to this man, understandably, the woman was taken aback from her lack of prior knowledge, and she had every right to be surprised. Her daughter, on the other hand, feigned it—her false silence fit in with the mood of the room.

Shmi and Irele Skywalker watched the pouch of credits transfer from Cliegg’s hand to Watto’s, signifying that they now belong to Cliegg Lars.

“Take them,” Watto says, although somberly. He hovers in place as he watches Shmi and Irele join Cliegg out of the shop.

“I wish you good luck on your business, Watto,” Lars bade, however, it felt backhanded.

At the entrance of the junkshop awaited a pair of eopies—tall, quadrupedal animals that served as mounts for people and carriers of cargo—handled by a Jawa that Cliegg hired for a few hours.

“I’m sorry if I couldn’t give you two a more comfortable ride to your new home,” there was a sincerity in Lars’s voice, warm and genuine, something that Shmi nor Irele had not heard for a long time.

“It’s fine,” Shmi stuttered while trying to be polite. “I’m more used with the mount than speeders.”

“Ah, well, where you’re living—you’ll get used to it, but I’ll let you do it in your own pace.”

With a simple waving gesture from Cliegg, the Jawa hauled the animal pair then coaxed both to go down on their knees—level enough so the humans can hop on their backs. Each eopie grunted when they felt more weight on themselves; Shmi and Irele shared one saddle, Lars took the lead from town to their new home.

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awakenedrp · 5 years ago

Photo

IVAIH VARGIL HAS JOINED THE STARS

THEY ARE A 27 YEAR OLD CREW MEMBER THEY ARE A HUMANOID FROM THE PLANET CONTONICA

KNOWN TRAITS:

- dramatic, short tempered, calculating, fatalistic + pragmatic, sincere, flexible, self sufficient

BIO: THE UNIVERSE DEMANDS BALANCE; ARE YOU OF THE DARK, OR THE LIGHT?

his mother names him ________________.

RONADARN HOLIRON, eighteen, registered to eldrood: scrapped because he just can’t get his holographic ID to look right.

he’s a long way from home.

naturally, the way to ensure his survival is keeping his head down and his hands busy. his father didn’t. he’s unsure of the exact details but there was no body to bury.

it’s a give and take, is what death teaches him. it takes and he gives, and it’s not a fair exchange.

his mother brings him up 60 feet under the pearly halls of canto casino, in a dingy, claustrophobic room. barely 150 square feet to accommodate them both. they share a bed until he outgrows the busted bunk and moves to the floor.

she’s ritually apologetic. but her choices had kept them fed and alive. and the need for stability is rooted so deeply in her, that the good outweighs the bad.

he knows a whole lot about machines.

granted, most have to. it’s a requirement to not end up in a ditch somewhere. when he’s old enough to be put to work, his mother gets him a job at the main electrical substation at the casino. his workplace is sleek and spacious, spanning multiple stories of rows of 8 feet high switchboards.

he’s raised on circuit frames micro-etched onto wafer thin crystalline silicon; ceiling mounted pipes and wires and eggshell plating, and kilometer long underground corridors stretching a finite number of cables conducting enough electricity to cause substantial damage.

no one cares for childhood anecdotes and it’s embarrassing, but sometimes he gets teary eyed thinking of what he’s left behind.

sometimes he has difficulty pronouncing the name he was given at birth.

(when he’d left canto bight, his mother had held his hands in hers, her greyed hair short against her temples. she’d done her best. love, she had nurtured in her, for him. there’d been many things she’d been unable to influence. but she’d tried, and conformed in favor of the greater picture.

she said, “ this is as good as it’ll get.” not out of spite, he’s sure of that now. but because that’d been the end. “you take care of yourself. no one else will.”)

JACKZAC BETHOD, twenty-two, origin unknown: scrapped after just two days when his hotel room is raided by socketguards.

it’s a mostly aimless pursuit.

he wanders from place to place and is welcomed nowhere. he hitches a couple of rides in exchange for his services.

he doesn’t get comfortable. that’s the trick.

spaceports don’t employ outsiders, so he camps out at racing tracks and settles for podracer pilots who can’t afford mechanics worth their trade. he sells scrambler keys and security systems and purges gateways and slices datapads and it’s mostly tedious work with obnoxious, seedy clientele. but they pay.

ARMARIGO WILERHY, thirty, origin unknown: scrapped after his code is blacklisted because he forgets to clean after himself.

virtually, he’s a dead end. no children, no living relatives. no interest in a life that isn’t his own. he’s considered it, his perspectives. he’d had time and practice. stubborn and infinitely ambitious, as a teenager freedom had meant experiencing. the filtered air cycling through the staff quarters underground wasn’t the biting salty tang of the ocean lapping at the forefront of canto bight. it also wasn’t the microelectricity tingling along his fingertips firm around a holoprojector flicking an image so foreign, only a child could’ve found it motivational.

he works on gimmicky tourist traps skidding along coasts of alien shores, gunmetal waves against the neon backdrop of black sand. glowing seabeds make for a romantic view out of a space station practically constructed out of enforced glass and aluminium, he guesses.

he is outsourced to prison ships, works for bounty guilds, the occasional odd job that requires a detached approach to his own moral compass. bad things happen, occasionally. he can sometimes distance himself from his own involvement, but it takes a conscious effort to repress.

it’s not the kind of life his mother would have wanted for him.

he tends to podracers and laser rifles and sublight engines and newsnet articles indiscriminately, and reminds himself of his professional duties and survives. that’s all that matters, really.

SAMANTO BRAWILB, thirty-two, registered to cato neimoidia: active.

WARNICO EDWAARY, twenty-five, origin unknown: active.

he never notices how far away from home he is until he gets on the derelict. a friend of a friend of an acquaintance’s cousin refers him as a slicer.

he can deal with smugglers. it’s tourists he can’t stand.

IVAIH VARGIL, twenty-seven, from cantonical: inactive.

#awakened ::: acceptance #oh sehun

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neostriatum · 4 years ago

Text

Firebase

[AO3] [Dreamwidth]

Tatooine no longer beheld the safety they desired against the Empire.

Beru accepted the plate held out to her, ladling out the thick, aromatic stew. It warmed her hands, defrosting the perpetual chill inhabiting her fingers.

Spacetravel was never kind to a desert-dweller, nor for the arthritic joints that age and belated adventure had gifted her with. The next plate was delivered with a hand around her waist, tucking her for a moment into layers of dusty robes that still smelled of Tatooine’s perpetual sunshine.

It was a bittersweet reminder of home. Beru barely had the time to stuff her cheese cultures in a travel chest, so quickly had the Stormtroopers arrived. Ben was their rescue, piling everyone into their speeder and making way to Mos Eisley just shy of discovery.

A kiss was pressed to her head, distracting her from the melancholy thoughts of only hours ago.

“We’re safe, that’s what matters,” Ben murmured, coaxing her to sit as he took over the stew. She nodded, the synthleather of the ship’s seating wicking away the warmth of his touch, “Luke and Owen are fine, Alderaan is lovely this time of year, and a full belly will solve the rest.”

Beru laughed, “You charmer!”

It earned her a grin, Ben’s eyes twinkling as he set the plate and a loaf of bread down with a flourish, “Only for you, my dear.”

“And Owen,” She tsked at him with a knowing eye, to which he harrumphed in put-upon disbelief.

The bread was stale and hard, but it was as filling as their dinner. He was sure that the others would settle at the too-small table soon, ventilation carrying the scent of freshly-made food.

“I’m not sure he’ll forgive me for this one,” Ben admitted, breaking the bread in half, sharing it with Beru, “We just fixed those vaporators.”

The strips of meat lurking in the stew were good – not quite as good as the miracles Owen could wring out of womp rat, but filling and rich, the reconstituted vegetables pleasant in their variety. He sighed, dipping a corner of the bread into his bowl, softening up the glorified hardtack. It made him miss Beru’s cheese, creamy and pungent.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be fine, soon as he sleeps it off,” Beru replied, “Luke is still talking with Han, isn’t he?”

Ben chuckled at her dry tone. Luke had instantly hit it off with their hired pilot, following him around the entire ship and peppering the man with enthusiastic questions. It seems he was well-received, Han more than willing to talk shop about the Falcon.

“I believe we’ll see him again sometime,” He mused, arching a brow at her. Han was new and exciting for their son, a novelty that would either peter off as he finally experienced the wide world, or develop into something deeper. A spoonful of the stew went down smoothly, a burn that made him hum, “His stomach is a fine reminder.”

They shared a mirthful look, reminiscing over Luke’s timely appearances for dinner, no matter how far away he was during the day. A few minutes of solitude was all they likely had, before the rest of the ship gathered to the table.

Owen eventually trundled into the room, nodding to Beru in greeting. The hand he passed over Ben’s shoulder carried the tone of forgiveness, and he relaxed at the touch in relief.

He sat himself at Ben’s other side, scooting the man over until they were comfortably bundled into each other. The corner of bread he accepted from Ben, hand briefly enveloping the other’s. Beru looked on with a pleased look at her husbands’ tacit reconciliation.

“So.” Owen said, stirring his stew, “Alderaan.”

“Alderaan,” Ben agreed with a sigh, mirroring the way Owen carefully heaped a spoonful onto his bread. It was his traditional first bite, whenever there was bread to be had, and Ben licked the drop that escaped into his beard, “Our first stop, most likely.”

The corner of his eye caught the keen gaze of Beru, as a thick hand squeezed his knee from the other side. “What’s Alderaan like?” Their wife asked, idly setting her spoon into her bowl, “They’re so far into the Core, are they the welcoming sort?”

Owen made a curious noise, “You’ve told us some. We’re to meet- what’s his name, Bail?”

Ben nodded at his question, eyes turning wistful as he paged through his memories, “Alderaan is a beautiful place. Green, and with kind people.”

“Sounds like the place to be,” Beru mused, lips tipping into a wry smile, “Shame we won’t be there long.”

He shrugged, “I have a feeling Bail has some plans for me. There may just be the opportunity.”

The revelation was met with unsurprised thoughtfulness. Concern coloured it, too. Now that Tatooine was struck off as a home, it exposed them to the Empire’s reach, and the fate that Ben had alluded to with grief-sharp determination. Time had dulled it only a little, bringing the suggestion to the fore that where there is now three would soon revert back to two.

Owen frowned into his bowl. It was a situation they had long discussed, but none liked the potential outcomes. Eventually he huffed, “Beru’s got her rifle, you should be fine.”

Ben coloured, frowning back at him, “I am perfectly capable of defending myself.”

His spouses shared a sardonic look between each other. His affronted look grew when sent him simultaneous arched brows. Beru set her spoon down, going for the diplomatic response, “We love you, dear, but we’re still not quite sure how you made it to our door in one piece.”

“And you managed to find trouble collecting black melons from the Jundland Wastes!” Owen interjected, his tone that of longstanding disbelief.

“That was one time,” Ben protested.

His husband gave him a sour look, “Only because we didn’t let you go out alone again.”

“Go out alone where?” Luke asked, startling them.

Beru waved her hand, “To wherever Ben thinks he ought to. Go get some stew, Luke, while it’s still warm.”

The boy obliged, but not before shooting Ben a concerned look. He poked around the lone cabinet, quickly finding something to ladle his food into.

“Well, I think Aunt Beru’s right,” He said casually, “And besides, doesn’t Alderaan have those podracing tournaments?” “Absolutely not!” In that, Beru and Owen were in complete agreement. Ben smoothed the front of his robes, “After that last crash, you’ll be lucky to even see the keys of one.”

“Aw, it wasn’t that bad,” Luke smiled gamely, “You even helped me fix the repulsors when Aunt and Uncle were busy.”

Luke grinned at the amused looks sent to Uncle Ben, and snuck a kiss to the top of his uncle’s head, waving to Owen and Beru, “You don’t mind if I take this to the engine room, right? Han’s showing me all the warp drive modifications he’s made!"

Ben ran a hand down his face with a deep sigh. This is going to be a long trip.

#star wars #Obi-Wan Kenobi/Owen Lars/Beru Whitesun #obi-wan kenobi #owen lars #beru whitesun #my story

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