#she's also acting kriffing weird

[imtryingmybeskar]

So....this is from an ask from @galacticgraffiti that has taken me SO LONG to do. I apologise. Have some unbeta'd filth.

Din Djarin X unnamed OFC.

CW for Dom! Din, restraining with cuffs, fingering, light choking, unprotected p in v sex (wrap it up please!), spanking, messy blow job, playing with cum.

Based on the prompt "How does it feel not to get your way?" Word count: 5560

Restraint

"So...bounty hunter."

The tone was dismissive, mocking, even hostile to Din's ears and if this had been any other situation he would have walked away, but not before issuing the most deadly and serious of threats masked in the most polite of tones.

Instead he answered in a smooth voice, in what he hoped was a voice that exuded confidence and competence. "That is one of my roles, yes."

"I don't like bounty hunters," came the immediate answer. "I don't trust bounty hunters."

All a once, Din's patience was at an end. This interview had already taken up far too much of his time. He had other places to be, and he certainly had no intention of sitting here to be insulted further.

"Then I suppose I'm not the kind of person you're looking for to take this job," he replied as he stood. "Good luck in your search."

He had just about made it to the door when he was recalled. Of course, they hired him. Who was going to pass up the chance of a Mandalorian bodyguard for the week?

*** *** ***

"But I don't NEED a bodyguard! I'm twenty kriffing five! Not a little kid!"

His helmet successfully masked Din's unimpressed look. Twenty five but she acted like a teen with toddler tantrums. Din himself wasn't much older, but the helmet disguised that too. Rich people were weird. This woman was paying for her daughter and her friends to party on Zeltros for a week, going so far as to hire out the top two levels of an extremely exclusive hotel for them, including the penthouse suite. She was a successful businesswoman and indulged her daughter in everything and anything. But from what he could glean from their (shouted) conversation, she had caused an inordinate amount of property damage at the club where her twenty fourth birthday party was held, so Din had been hired as a glorified babysitter this year. Something which the birthday girl was apparently extremely displeased with. Her mother had brought him along at the very last minute, presumably so there would be fewer arguments, though the screaming match they were starting to engage in was drawing more than a few looks from the hotel staff that had gathered to greet them.

"He's staying. Deal with it. If you manage to keep the damage under fifty thousand credits this time, I'll reconsider this arrangement next year." The girl huffed and rolled her eyes, her face a picture of sulkiness. The woman dragged her into a hug, the girl's folded arms knocking against her chest roughly. "Be good," she pleaded. After she released her daughter, she gave him a sour, meaningful look before she departed, the message that she was Din's problem now written clearly across her face. Before she had even gotten into her personal shuttle, the girl had turned back to her friends and began loudly mocking her mother. They traipsed across the private hangar floor toward the elevator to the penthouse, treating Din as if he wasn't even there. That was fine by him. He was there to make sure they didn't kill themselves or each other. That was about as far as his responsibility went. He had been thoroughly briefed on the security arrangements and knew that the hotel had drafted in additional bodies to cater to the woman's orders. There were guards stationed at every stairwell and lift and more at each entrance and exit to street level. The party wasn't going anywhere.

Not that they needed to, mused Din. There was enough booze, food and drugs there to keep anyone happy. Two private chefs, chambermaids, DJs, a very famous Core Drive band, someone to operate the holo-projector for the private cinema and even a sommelier were also on hand to cater to any whim that might arise. Well...almost any whim. He had it on good authority that some of the drugs available focused and enhanced the libido as a secondary effect, and unless the girls were exclusively into each other, he was a little concerned about what would happen if that need arose.

He needn't have worried. The DJs had been specially chosen for their...additional attributes. And the five band members were also more than willing to provide those sorts of services. He himself had been flirted with by one of the birthday girl's friends once, but he had merely stared impassively at her until she stopped touching him and instead began hurling insults about his sexual prowess (or lack thereof). For five days Din really had very little to do, except to break up the occasional brawls between the inebriated women, who would inevitably declare their love for their opponent within five minutes of trying to punch their lights out anyway. It was one of the easier ways he had made money - he was almost surplus to requirements.

The night before they were due to depart - the night of her actual birthday - it began to fall apart pretty early on. A game of truth or dare devolved into someone accusing someone else of stealing a past boyfriend, and that degenerated into an ugly, drawn out argument - a week of drugs and alcohol having honed the atmosphere into something bitter and volatile. Din dutifully separated the squalling women, then the band members distracted some of them, one staggered off to a bedroom with both DJs, and a few of them took various bottles of alcohol and departed for the darkened room that was being used as the cinema. Din heaved a sigh of relief and threw himself into one of the comfortable chairs. He was so wrapped up in thoughts of his reward for completing this frankly irritating assignment that he didn't hear it at first. But the sound of quiet sobbing slowly seeped into his sphere of attention and he stood again, looking for the source.

The birthday girl was sitting behind one of the large corner couches, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, her back heaving with her crying. Din stared at her impassively. He shouldn't get involved. Whatever was going on with her really wasn't his problem. All he had to do was to last for another nine hours and then he would get his credits. Then he could go and make money the old fashioned way, the way he felt most comfortable. Hunting, stalking, taking quarry down in a storm of fists and blaster fire. Who cared about some rich brat anyway? He settled back into his seat and began to mentally take apart and polish his armour and weapons. He had been unable to indulge the ritual properly the whole time he had been here. Even though he had been provided with his own room, the partying was near-constant. Someone was always up and causing some sort of ruckus, so he hadn't had much downtime. Besides, he hadn't wanted to take his armour off for too long whilst here. He needed to maintain his image as an imposing, unmovable force in order to maintain some sort of order. It had been easier just to keep everything on.

Thigh guards first. Left and then right. Unbuckle them at the back, bottom and top. Check the fastenings for any weaknesses. Clean the-

The sobbing grew louder behind him. He studiously ignored it and tried again.

Bandolier. Check all ammo and ensure any depleted is replaced. Make sure the padding at the shoulder is intact-

A muffled scream of frustration, clearly buried into her knees and Din sighed in resignation. He stood again and made his way over to where she was huddled.

"What's wrong?" he demanded abruptly, his voice made raspy by the encoder within his helmet. She startled and looked up at him and he suddenly saw how young she looked under her attitude and the once flawless but now streaked make up.

"Nothing," she pouted, the word automatically falling from her lips.

Din hesitated for the briefest of moments before heaving himself down next to her on the floor and resting his back against the couch. "Clearly that's not true. Its your birthday, you should be with them, having fun." He gestured aimlessly toward where some of her friends had exited. Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say because her face scrunched up again and fat tears poured from her eyes as she howled into her arms which were crossed over her knees.

He knew he shouldn't have gotten involved. His patience was already paper thin with this whole situation.

"Look, I'm trying to help you," he said loudly over her crying.

She looked up at him again, a mixture of disgust and disbelief on her tear-streaked face. "How could you help me?" she enquired, her voice so laced with venom he debated walking out of the hotel there and then.

"How can I know that," he retorted, an edge of sarcasm to his words, "if you won't tell me what's wrong in the first place?"

She gaped for a moment, her tears seeming to dry up in the face of the logic of his statement. Then she shook her head, her lips pursing in an exaggerated expression of displeasure. "They are the problem," she confessed, waving in the same vague direction he just had. "Kriffing mudscuffing Huttspawn the lot of them! It's my birthday, and they've done nothing but whine and moan and complain and then Jista had the nerve to steal the drummer of the band. She knew I wanted him and she still went after him and its my birthday and they've abandoned me and they're all so stupid...and...and...I hate them all!" She began to sob into her arms again, but to Din's ears it sounded far more performative this time around.

"Sounds like you got the friends you deserve," Din said, shrugging.

She whirled to face him, immediately furious. "Excuse me?" she hissed.

He shrugged his indifference at her rage. "Maybe if you were a little nicer, you would be hanging out with better people," he reiterated.

"How kriffing dare you," she screamed. Her hand raised and came down, the intention to hit him clear, but Din caught her arm, more to save her from injuring herself on his armour than because he feared her tiny act of violence. "Let go of me!" she squealed. Din held fast, not enough to hurt her, but enough that she couldn't move. She raised the other arm to try to hit him again and he caught that one too. He suddenly realised he was up on his knees and staring down at her while both of her hands were now pinned above her head. The display of dominance was unintentional but it was there, and without any further warning, the mood shifted - the air charged with something far different than it had been mere seconds ago.

"Let me go," she said again, much more softly and without any bite behind the words. Her chest was heaving under the thin silk of her dress, but she hadn't exerted herself that much, he thought. Must be from something else. He allowed himself a small satisfied smile behind the helmet and continued to hold her hands above her head.

"How does it feel not to get your way?" he rasped. The tracks of tears were still visible on her cheeks, but there was defiance and determination in her eyes, a look that grew more intense at his words, and it gave him the beginnings of warm tingles down his spine. "Have you ever been told "No" in your life?" The question was rhetorical, he knew she had not and that this situation was new to her. But apparently not displeasing according to the sensors in his helmet. Her heart rate had increased massively since he had pinned her. He slowly leaned closer to her and her eyes widened as she took in the bulk of his form. "Brat," he whispered next to her ear.

Her exhalation of breath was tinged with excitement. "How dare you?" she demanded again, no force behind that repetition either.

Din settled back on his heels and looked down at her again. "Do you really want me to let you go?" he asked, a lazy smile tinging his words. Her eyes grew even wider, and her mouth fell open a little as she considered the implication of what he was saying.

"What's the alternative?" she queried, and he admired how her voice was unwavering.

"That I teach you how to behave," he replied, not missing the way she shifted and rubbed her thighs together at his words.

She leant toward him, as far as her pinned arms would allow. "And what would that mean?" she asked, her voice now low with a throbbing want.

He made a growling noise through his helmet and quick as a flash had dragged her to a standing position, his height and bulk dwarfing her below him. He continued to hold her wrists above her head, easily trapped her with one gloved hand, while the other trailed softly down her face, her neck, the side of her breast, making her draw in a hitching breath. "It would mean that you are going to be sore," he vowed.

She raked her gaze over him approvingly. "Promises," she breathed, a smile now catching the side of her lips.

"Armour stays on," he murmured.

"Oh, I hope so," she rejoined, and Din smirked as her eyes caught on his semi hard cock now starting to bulge his flight suit.

"Strip," he commanded as he released her wrists, and his arousal grew as she did as she was told immediately, unashamed of her bared breasts, courting his gaze as she stood there. Her own arousal was evident on her underwear, a darkened stain across the silky material. He placed his hands on her hips, spun her roughly and pressed on her back so she was bent over the couch. He curved over her body, mimicking the pose she was in, allowing her to feel the iron girth of him against her backside. "The first lesson," he husked beside her ear, "is about restraint. You have none." One hand trailed down her spine, making her shiver under his touch.

"Y-yes I do," she whispered defiantly.

Din huffed a laugh. "No," he insisted. "You don't. But that's okay. You'll learn." He straightened behind her, his finger now trailing down to hook her underwear to one side. He could see how wet she was from here, the lips of her cunt glistening invitingly with her arousal. He stroked softly down over her, making her whimper a little as he passed over her clit. "I'll make you come," he promised, his voice barely more than a whisper now. "I'll make you come on my fingers and on my cock. But first, you have to be quiet." He ripped the glove from his hand before pushing the tip of one finger inside of her and she gasped out at the intrusion. "I said," Din repeated softly, as he pushed further inside, "Be. Quiet."

She obeyed, only a tiny whine escaping her as he sheathed to the knuckle. "Good," he smiled. "That's good." Without further warning he spanked her, not terribly hard, but enough for her to make a startled noise. Din tutted and slowly moved his finger in and out of her. "For every time you make a noise, I'm going to add another spank," he promised her. "Let's see if you can make it to ten, shall we?" She was breathing heavily, trying to keep quiet, and turned her head slightly to nod at him. "Good girl," he purred and pressed against her walls, knowing he had found what he was looking for when her knees trembled against him. He set a slow pace, pumping his finger in and out, in and out, sliding over that spot inside of her.

Slap.

She betrayed nothing. He struck across her cheek again a little harder.

Slap!

Her cunt clenched slightly around his finger as the blow landed and he ramped it up yet again.

SLAP.

Her hands fisted in the material of the couch cushions. He was nearly at the sweet spot of walking the line between pleasure and pain for her, he could feel her whole body beginning to tense beneath him.

SLAP!

An exhalation of breath from her, but no noise. Her restraint was admirable, her desire to reap the reward of her silence intensely arousing and Din's cock was now fully hard and begging for attention at how completely he had her at his mercy, but he ignored it in favour of spanking her once more, the sensors in his helmet telling him that the imprint of his hand on her skin was beginning to heat with every swat.

SLAP!

Her legs trembled a little under her from the force of him, but she did not make a sound. Instead she turned to look at him as much as she could, her eyes full of mischief and lust and invitation and he lost a little of his own restraint the next time.

SLAP!

She ground back on his finger and the next time he withdrew, he added a second and began to pump a little faster, a little harder. He only heard the soft moan that came from deep inside of her and that she successfully bit back because of his sensors. He upped the ante.

SLAP!

He twisted his fingers within her, angling so that his thumb could swipe her wetness over her clit. Circling, circling, circling until he could feel her tensing around him again, trying to chase down what he was so expertly teasing her with.

SLAP!

As he began to pass his thumb over her clit in earnest, her knees almost gave way and he pressed himself more firmly against her, trapping her between his broad frame and the couch. His thigh guards pressed against her now-sore cheek as he continued to slide his fingers in and out of her body, the cool metal no doubt providing minor relief from the stinging slaps he had bestowed. Couldn't have that, he thought as he moved back slightly.

SLAP!

She nearly cried out. He could feel the noise forcing its way up her body. Instead she turned and bit down hard on the meat of her bicep. He could see how the sweat was beginning to sheen on her skin - on her back and on her forehead as she half turned to him again. He had to admit he was impressed. He never thought this spoilt brat would have any kind of tenacity in this way. Although, he had already witnessed her stubbornness so he shouldn't have been that surprised.

SLAP!

With the last slap, it rocked her, sent her body jolting against the couch and he could see how her back was heaving with the intensity of her breath. He returned to pumping his fingers in and out at that maddening slow pace, and the frustration from her as her orgasm began to recede was almost palpable.

"Good girl," he soothed, stroking over the place he had recently been so forceful with. "You did so well. I'm going to make you come now. And I want you to be as loud as you want." He leaned over her back again to whisper to her. "Show those "friends" of yours the good time you're having here."

He redoubled his efforts, his fingers sliding in and out of her and his thumb stroking over her clit in devastating tight little circles. His other hand crept up her body and around, hefting her tit in his hand, pinching her nipple between thumb and forefinger. She moaned, the vibrations sinking through his breastplate and shooting to his cock which was now decidedly cramped within his trousers, the friction of the material against it absolutely not enough. Din rumbled a grunt and groped her more forcefully. He could feel she was close, her body tensing underneath him again, her breath coming in panting little groans. "Yes...fuck...right there, right there," she whined and he felt her clamp around his fingers, the strong muscles of her core rippling around his fingers, soaking him with her slick.

She had no time to recover before he was spinning her on the spot and lifting her up. Her legs automatically came to cross behind him, caging him to her, her heat and wetness a wicked and undeniable invitation against his crotch. Her face was blissed out, a true smile gracing her lips. She was beautiful when she wasn't pouting and whinging, he thought. He set her down on the huge, expensive dining table which was at a convenient height, and stroked his hands down her body, feeling the softness of her skin underneath the ungloved one.

"The next lesson is about control," he informed her quietly, his voice at a pitch both dangerous and full of heat. "Specifically, relinquishing it." He pulled the cuffs he used for quarries from his belt and held them up where she could see. "Specifically you relinquishing it."

Her eyes darted from the cuffs to his visor to where his erection strained painfully at the seams of his flight suit and back to his visor before she spoke. "What are you going to do?" she asked, curiosity rather than fear evidenced in her tone.

"Me telling you defeats the purpose of the lesson," he chided. "Are you going to be a good girl for me?"

She leaned forward to run her hand down his armour, inching lower toward his cock. "And what's in it for me if I am?" she asked in a sultry tone.

He said nothing, merely jangled the cuffs gently in her direction and jerked his hips away from her touch once she got too close to his crotch. She raised an eyebrow and pouted, clearly judging whether or not he could be as good to her with his cock as he was with his hands. Finally she acquiesced with a tiny smile and held out her wrists. He slapped the cuffs on her and tightened them to a point that was just the wrong side of uncomfortable. Then he spun her on the table so her back was to him.

"Lie down," he commanded. She hesitated for a micro second before obeying, looking up at him upside down with a fiery curiosity, her bound hands resting heavily on her stomach. "I was going to fuck you," Din announced casually. "But since you keep questioning me instead of obeying, you can take me down your throat." Her eyes sparkled at his words, and by the way her tongue came involuntarily to wet her lip, he could tell she wanted it as much as he did.

He unzipped his flight suit, finally released his erection from its confinement and pumped himself lazily a few times inches above her face. "Let's see how good you can make me feel," he challenged.

She rose to it. Stars, her tongue was talented. The faintest of touches against his tip at first, then a slow, warm drag down his underside and back up, sloppy kisses interspersed with her licking. And when she took the head of him inside her mouth and softly sucked at it, he had to bite back the moan trying to force its way up from his chest. He had to be silent, maintain control of this. A task which became much harder when she slowly, slowly inched down his length, taking him all, opening her throat to allow him greater access...She moaned around his cock and squeezed her thighs together for relief as his hands landed upon her tits, stabilising himself to thrust softly into her mouth. She moaned again, a wanton sound, a delicious vibration that ran through him. He thrust a little more insistently and she took it, his cock sliding down her throat as he fucked her mouth. A tingling sensation pooled in his stomach and he released her chest and slowly pulled away. He didn't want to come yet. He really did want to fuck her first.

She lay there, gazing at him upside down with lust in her eyes, drool over her lips and chin that she hadn't yet attempted to wipe away. He indicated that she should sit up with a gesture of his hand and he cradled her face and wiped her down with the leather of his glove, his thumb running softly over her face, catching on her lower lip. He leant closer to her, so close that her breath began to fog the visor of his helmet as he spoke.

"Your third lesson is about obedience," he announced, his voice a quiet husk. "I'm going to fuck you now, and you will only come when I say so. Do you understand me?" She nodded and he allowed his gloved hand to slip lower, over the elegant expanse of her neck. He held her there, not squeezing - not yet - but the whimper that escaped her fed his ego, showed him she felt the coiled strength within him and it excited her. "I need your words for this. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," she rasped, her voice a little choked even though his hand was merely resting on her skin.

"Good," Din smirked, using his other arm to circle around her waist and yank her closer to the edge of the table. He stroked down the crease of her thigh until it met the resistance of her silken underwear where he slowly ripped it from her body, the sound of tearing fabric devastatingly loud in the quiet of the room.

"Hey!" she exclaimed indignantly. "They were worth more than you make in a month, Mando."

He regarded her in silence, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly as he did. He looked until she began to squirm a little uncomfortably under the black T of his visor and then and only then did he grip her neck with a little force. "Manners," he rasped lazily. "Manners, brat. Mind them, or I won't let you come at all."

Though the look she gave him was defiant, she remained silent. He could see that she was still wet, evidence of her arousal on the lips of her cunt and the hair there, and even on the inside of her thighs as she opened her legs wider to welcome him. "Put me inside of you," he ordered and she obeyed, grasping his damp, heavy cock and positioning it. Her fingers didn't quite meet around his girth, he would have to be gentle at first. He pushed inside of her slowly, just until the head of him popped inside. The effect was instantaneous - her head rolled back on her shoulders, eyes closed, bliss written upon her face.

"M-maker," she gasped. Inside his helmet, Din was biting his lip as he tried his best not to loudly and fervently agree. She was squeezing him, the tight clutch of her cunt warm and inviting and it took all of his discipline not to thrust forward and fuck himself violently into her. Slowly, slowly. Make the pleasure stretch. He fed himself into her inch by inch, her bound hands scrabbling uselessly at his breastplate as he did so. He understood - she was trying to find something to ground her, to see her through the dizzying opening steps they were performing. But he wanted her to lie back, so she could be more comfortable and to see her spread below him fully. When he gave the command, she sighed a little before complying, stretching out on the table, her hands now raised above her head. Kriff, she was pretty. Her tits were stretched upward by the placement of her arms and he had an overwhelming desire to suck on her nipples. Shame, really. Instead he focused on where he was spearing her, his hips now flush against her, his cock fully inside. He gave an experimental short thrust, making sure she was comfortable. The sighing moan he received in return told him that she was more than. He gripped her legs, hooked them over his waist and pulled her down further on to him, the tight warmth around him making him see stars behind his visor.

And then he fucked her. Short, sharp thrusts turned into long, punishing strokes and she mewled and whined and cursed and moaned. Given her penchant for dramatics, she wasn't as loud as he had been expecting, but he didn't mind because it was real. He could clearly see the pleasure his cock was delivering written all over her body - in her furrowed brow, her lax mouth, the way her legs caged him in, willing him deeper, deeper.

"Harder," she groaned, and he obliged, grabbing her around her hips and lifting her slightly so he could pound into that sweet spot he had found with his fingers before. Her head tipped back, eyes closed, exhaling breathy moans and one hand found its way to her neck again as the other supported her.

"Nuh uh," Din said, his words coming out clipped from the force of his thrusts. "You don't come until I tell you to remember." He squeezed her throat gently, just to remind her who was in charge. Her eyes snapped open and she looked at him above her, her gaze betraying how close she was.

"That...isn't...helping," she panted out and Din's mouth twitched in the shadow of a smile within his beskar.

"You like it like this?" he asked, punctuating his question by gripping her throat a little tighter for a little longer before relaxing his hold. She nodded fervently, and bit her lip, her eyes watering a little at the sensations he was bestowing upon her. "Hmmm...good to know," he purred, as he fucked into her even harder. He could feel the telltale skittering beginning at the base of his spine, the heat wrapping itself around his pelvis. She was close, he could feel it in the way she was even wetter, the trail of her slick escaping where their bodies met to pool on the table where his bare knuckle was skating through it as he supported her.

Not yet.

His gloved hand released her neck and trailed down to her tits where he pinched her nipple, causing her to squirm in his arms, and utter a curse loudly. He slapped over the hardened bud almost lazily, first one side and then the other and she ground down even further on his cock. He wanted to bite her, mark her flawless skin with his imprint over and over and over, taste the salt tang of her sweat upon his tongue and the thought made him drive into her even harder.

Not yet.

He gripped her thighs bruisingly, pushing her knees back up to her chest and almost folding her in half and there! The reaction he had been looking for. She gave a humming whine and her eyes rolled back into her head as she whispered a mantra over and over. "Yes, stars, yes, right there, don't stop, don't stop..."

His own pleasure glowed, burnt brighter and he allowed the filth to fall from his mouth in words that were half growled. "When I say so, you can come. And then, I'm going to come all over your pretty tits. And then youre going to clean me up with that gorgeous mouth of yours. Do. You. Understand?"

The last three words were punctuated by sharply snapping hips, deep thrusts that had her wailing to the ceiling. "Yes, yes Mando, yes!"

"Come," he commanded and the tenuous thread of her control snapped as she allowed her body to let go, to tense and ripple around his cock, milking him as she sobbed her pleasure to the ceiling. He didn't let up his brutal pace for a moment, pounding deep into her as her increased wetness squelched around his cock, speeding his own end ever nearer...

He withdrew and pumped himself three, four, five times before he was coming too. The first jet landed on her stomach, the next on her tits, and when he raised his eyes to her face and realised her mouth was open to receive him he stretched forward, managing to splash the last of his spend on to her tongue before he was wrung out. She smiled at him, satiated, yet still mischievous and he couldn't tear his eyes from her mouth as he scooped his cum on to his gloved finger and she sucked it off. Again, again, until she was clean of him.

Breathless, they regarded each other, both quite unashamed of their respective states of undress. She pointedly cleared her throat and brought the cuffs in front of her, the request for him to remove them clear.

He huffed a laugh within his visor. "Oh I don't think so. I'm not done taming you yet." He could feel the heated lust at the prospect of having her again begin to cloud his thoughts as he added, "I still think you could stand to be a little more polite, a little less bratty. I'm going to teach you some manners, little girl. And so our next lesson will be concerning punishment."

Taglist - @thisshipwillsail316 @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @elegantduckturtle @dihra-vesa @midwesternwitchery @just-here-for-the-moment @eri16 @readsalot73 @littlemisspascal @princessxkenobi @harriedandharassed @pagannightwitch @tentacruels @kirsteng42 @literallydontlook

[roseunspindle]

In which Anakin may be secretly married to a significant portion of the Galaxy

Basically, Padme realizes that diplomacy pretty much straight up can’t work in the current political climate. 

She hates to do it, but she has to talk to Anakin about Palpatine’s manipulations, however instead of fully denying it. Anakin listens. He admits he wants to deny it, but he’s grown suspicious more and more as many things (with as many kriffing emergency powers as the man has) that Palpatine “can’t do or control” and it simply doesn’t add up. He also says she’d never bring it up to him, without firm conviction. Padme feels happy in the trust her husband has for her, even though saddened by the reason it’s needed. 

They talk long into the night, and Padme thinks she’s stumbled on the answer thanks to Anakin. 

They both like to tease about their “antiquated ways” her Nubian flower language and clothing clothing/make-up language, his “everything is a secret in the quarter traditions, and water is sacred” but they both agree weddings are for bonding. 

On Naboo weddings are always large affairs, for the families to mingle and bonds to for between more than just the main participants. In the slave quarter weddings were a bond that could last far beyond the life of either party and often past the time either person could see the other, should one be sold away.

It sticks in her mind. Weddings and bonding, marriage...then it hits her. Marriage would be a good way to start strengthening bonds across the galaxy. Anakin nods along and Padme starts thinking about how to link people...

Riyo Chuchi and Bail Organa are the first people she approaches... it goes a bit sideways, to be honest as both seem to think she’s planning to marry them (and through Bail, Breha) she stumbles and somehow blurts out “I’m already married!” (Bail does point out later that he also is already married) Bail just laughs at her and Riyo takes five seconds to blurt out “Knight Skywalker!” 

Somehow negotiations are still weird and when she comes out, she and Anakin have a date to meet up with Riyo one evening and Bail and Breha via holo another to “further discuss matters”

Anakin makes a weird face when she tells him, but seems to understand a multi-partner marriage had not been her intended plan and seems to join Bail in thinking it’s funny. 

“We should ask the Clones.” he says later, (after Padme has at the very least betrothed them to a good portion of the (sane/decent) part of the senate “ask them to pick a couple brothers to marry us.” 

Padme lights up, it’s perfect, if they can marry, they have rights, and there is no rule stating the clones can’t marry... she begins grinning wider and wider ‘til Anakin starts laughing at her and she pounces on him in revenge. 

(Rex full on volunteers, apparently Anakin already drives him insane so he might as well marry the man.)

Anakin also makes contact with the underground on Tatooine, if they want to unite the galaxy, he wants all the galaxy... 

Beru Whitesun soon to be Lars happily puts him in contact with someone Anakin thought he’d never see again. Kitster... who is apparently willing to marry him and well, Anakin feels a knot that had never gone unknit slightly... he had forgotten his home, returned to pain for himself and the most awful act of his life...

Satine Kryze is open to the idea when Padme broaches the subject...

When the story finally breaks nearly two years later, Anakin is annoyed to find that most people assume it’s his “harem”. Obi-wan can’t believe Anakin was secretly married to more than one senator...

Anakin, with the war ended and the need for Jedi gone, feels free to turn over his lightsaber, (he’ll make a new one, later, one that is true to who he is) but it feels wrong to keep this one. It is a jedi tool, and Anakin understand more now (Breha especially makes a good therapist) that he is not a Jedi. He is a force user, but he can never truly be a Jedi. He leaves with a bow and heads to the hanger.

Time to go free Tatooine and other slave worlds, he has spouses there after all. 

[valkeakuulas]

How about Jesse/Kix, 1, for the fic prompt?

*looks at the sentence*

*starts cackling* Hope you don’t mind a surprise character appearing here. 

1. “Come over here and make me.”

This had not been included in his training.

Nothing like this had not been in any of the training modules Kix had gone through in his miserably short life. Not even in the extra courses the Kaminoans made the medical personnel go through so that they wouldn’t accidentally, say, give the type of antibiotic that helped a Nautolan but made a Kel Dor develop painful warts. 

But this?

Oh, Kix was going to write a polite but very insistent message to the current medical trainers (clones, of course, those snakenecks wouldn’t give a womprat’s ass about this particular slight in their work) and tell them, politely, to update their records on Togrutas.

Especially on Togruta younglings and when it came to certain behaviour. 

“Commander, I am sorry but you need come down,” Kix said carefully because unlike some of the ferals on this ship, he knew his manners. 

The vent above him - sixteen kriffing feet above him! - rattled and he could make out the outlines of nubby montrals and lekku and the eerily glowing eyes of one Ahsoka Tano.

“No.”

Kix sighed, rubbing a temple. “Sir, I know you are used to the Temple’s medics and General Che’s notes on your arrival were very comprehensive but they need to be updated.” He looked up at her again. “I can’t do that unless you let me do some tests on you. So please, come down.”

“Come over here and make me,” she replied, acting far more like a freshly decanted tubling than a Padawan she often insisted to be. 

Kix did not miss the irony. 

Ten minutes later they were still in the same position.

“Commander - “ he started but stopped when someone walked up to him, coming to stand next to the medic. 

“Is that...?” Jesse asked, blinking, as he also stared up into the open vent. 

“Yes.”

“Why is she - ?”

“Because Commander Tano has decided to join the rest of you bastards to make my life miserable,” Kix muttered, ignoring the slightly put out “hey!” from above them. “I need to do some tests but instead of sitting on the medical bed, she got herself up there.” The medic waved his hand upwards. 

Jesse blinked again. “Huh. ... Want me to get her down?”

“Please.”

The other trooper flashed Kix a cheeky grin. “Give me a kiss and we are even,” Jesse suggested.

Kix didn’t even hesitate: he grabbed Jesse by his cheeks and gave him a thorough kiss. There might’ve been tongue involved. And teeth. Kix had manners but he was getting desperate.

A minute later the sound of a jetpack igniting was heard in the hall, followed by a chorus indignant shouts as Jesse and Ahsoka started a very weird version of tug-of-war. 

(Kix got to do his tests in the end.)

(Jesse ended up with a few bruises while Commander Tano had a bruised ego.)

(Generals Skywalker and Kenobi arrived from who knows where just in time to witness the two of them tumbling down from the vent. Hence the Commander’s bruised ego.)

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

LUKE YOU FUCKING IDIOT WHERE DID YOU LEAVE YOUR ENTIRE FUCKING CHARACTER YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BRING SOMETHING NEW INTO THE OLD AND DUSTY AND SLOWLY FAILING WAYS OF THE JEDI - WHERE DID YOU EVEN FIND THAT STUPID RULE LUKE I FUCKING SWEAR BY THE FORCE IF YOU ACTUALLY PUT THIS BABY THROUGH THIS I WILL FUCKING END YOU

[phoenixyfriend]

hey i read through your Anakin and Jedi babies au, and got to the part about Shmi eventually having a kid and Ani being supportive and listen man i just have emotions bc i realized that her daughter would be the first freeborn child in the Skywalker family. like god knows how many generations of slavery on Tatooine, and this tiny baby is the first one born free. of course, while everyone knows this is a big deal, i feel like Anakin and Shmi are the only ones who truly Know how much of a big deal this is. tiny new baby skywalker draped in japor charms and whispered desert blessings

Context: Anakin and the Jedi Babies, chrono, how Shmi ended up on Mandalore, the post about Jango/Shmi.

YEP.

I’m thinking her name is something like Amika or Amyas? I’ve come to the conclusion that she is the result of Shmi and Jango getting into a relationship, but not actually planned. Anakin absolutely offers to fight Jango for Shmi, and she scolds him for it despite being a solid ten years younger than him.

Jango and Shmi do get married, after a bit more fumbling to make sure this is what they really want.

I imagine that the disaster lineage moves back to the Temple a year or so after that, when Ben is eleven or twelve. The Force just said it was a good time, and Mandalore seemed to be in good shape, etc. There’s a lot of sidelong glances and questioning looks because Soka and Ben still insistently refer to Anakin as buir (or Skyguy, on Soka’s part), and there’s a variety of conspiracy theories, and Ben acts Very Grown Up for a child his age, etc. They actually tell the council the full truth and cause a number of headaches. Mace isn’t amused. There’s rumors everywhere about Obi-Wan and Ben being related but nobody has the guts to ask after the first Scary Skywalker Smile.

What’s really relevant, though, is what that move does to relations between Mandalore, the Jedi, and the Republic.

"Okay, so if the Jedi Order does any negotiation with Mandalore, it has to be through Skywalker." "Why?" "The Mand'alor is his brother-in-law and they met when Fett was fifteen; I've seen Skywalker give this man a noogie and suffer zero consequences for it."

Like, please understand: Jango becomes Mand’alor in his late-twenties even while Jaster is alive, a few years after the Shmi thing, just because he’s Very Good At It. But also, he’s Anakin’s brother-in-law. Anakin, who knows that Shmi can take care of herself but is very protective anyway, and made a hobby of kicking Jango’s ass when he was younger, and has always had Weird Vibes around Jango, and at least once made veiled comments about how he didn’t trust Jango’s ability to be a father.

Jango, of course, doesn’t know that this is because Anakin judges him on the fact that he had three million clone sons that he didn’t give a shit about in a future that won’t happen.

So Jango is actually very concerned with maintaining Anakin’s good favor, something that he feasibly had for a few years but is struggling to hold onto after getting with Shmi and having a kid.

If it were almost anyone else, Anakin probably would have been very “she can make her own choices” about Shmi, but it’s Jango Fett and Anakin has concerns.

A few years later, let’s say Ben is fifteen, the Temple gets notified that the king of Mandalore is coming. The Mand’alor is going to be here, and hasn’t told anyone why. He’s bringing his spouse and several other people, but not a full guard or anything for a formal visit with the Republic.

The ship lands. The Mand’alor exits in full armor. There’s a woman next to him, a small brunette with a toddler in her arms, not wearing much armor, but she has enough to make it clear that she is Mandalorian. Vambraces, greaves, a gorget,  and there’s a sigil on it somewhere declaring her the the spouse of the Mand’alor.

The Jedi Council is mostly polite. Mostly hesitant. Confused. Diplomatic. Dooku is there, and asks, “Did anyone inform Master Skywalker of our visitors?”

“He recently returned from a mission and is likely asleep,” someone tells him.

The Queen of Mandalore sighs. “Oh dear.”

This is when a recently-woken Anakin Skywalker, age thirty-seven but looking like he stalled out on aging in his late twenties, strides out into the hangar and yells, “Shmi!”

The queen gives her toddler to her husband and sprints to Master Skywalker, throwing herself into his arms and letting him spin her around with a laugh. “Ori’vod!”

Dooku’s smile could be, at a stretch, described as ‘shit-eating.’ He turns to the councilors. “You didn’t forget that Skywalker has a sister, did you?”

They didn’t, but they clearly hadn’t expected it to matter.

“Let me see my niece,” Skywalker says, with a grin out of a holo film. “Fett, gimme.”

“Hi, hello, it’s good to see you’re alive too,” the Mand’alor grumbles. “Oh, I’m doing well, and--”

“Yeah, yeah, su cuy'gar and all, let me see my niece.”

The Mand’alor, one of the most influentially dangerous men in the galaxy, sighs and hands over the toddler to Master Skywalker, who immediately starts cooing over the little girl and otherwise making it clear just why he ends up in the creche so often.

“Master Skywalker,” Dooku calls over, as the only person to have encountered the Mando contingent often enough to get away with saying something right now. “You knew they were coming?”

“Nope! Felt ‘em arrive,” Skywalker cheerily replies. “Did someone tell my kids? Somebody tell my kids, they’ll want to see Shmi.”

“Has Ben gotten any taller?” the woman stage-whispers, and Skywalker grins at her.

“Not as much as he’d hoped.”

The Skywalker teenagers in question come sprinting out with less decorum than even their father had. Ben at least tries to slow down and greet the contingent politely, but Soka just barrels into Shmi like there’s nothing in the galaxy that could stop her. There’s laughter and hugs, and Skywalker hands the toddler off to his daughter and steps back to watch his family interact.

(They get justification for the visit eventually: the child is terrifyingly force-sensitive, and the queen has only just managed to convince Fett to let them take her to the Temple. The Council knows just how tenuous their guardianship here is, in that they’re sure this child would have been kept away from them if not for Skywalker’s presence here. Mandalore’s warriors and Tatooine’s slaves hold family to be of utmost importance. Skywalker is the only reason this is happening.)

“You know, I was getting respect from your High Council before you showed up,” Fett grouses, now without his helmet. “I’m the Mand’alor, the first in centuries to step foot here without war in mind. This moment should be historic. People should respect and fear my presence.”

Skywalker looks at him, pitying.

"Fett, I don't care that you're Mand'alor. I've known you since you were fifteen, and you're married to my little sister. You know you don't scare me."

“Anakin--”

“Also you’re short.”

“Oh, get kriffed, you asshole.”

[bitchin-beskar]

Royal Affairs - I

A Choice is Made

Rating: T (Will change to M in future chapters)

Warnings: None, for this chapter. 

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Hey all!! This is a brand new AU that I’ve decided to dive headfirst into!! An anon sent @absurdthirst a message, asking if anyone had written King Din before, and I saw it on my feed, and that inspired this series!! (on the off chance that that anon follows me, if you wanna send me a message or something, I’d be glad to credit you as the inspiration behind this story!) This is an AU story where Mandalore never fell to the Empire, and Din is the King by right of conquest (winning the Darksaber). More of the AU will be explored in the story, but if you have any questions, feel free to send me some asks! I’ll gladly answer what I can, as long as it doesn’t spoil anything!! I wholly blame @mxndoscyarika for being the reason this chapter is out so soon. She is an enabler. (@ollypopp also got to hear a lot of rambles about this au... i’m not sorry). I hope you guys like it!!!!! Please let me know what you guys think!!!

Please consider reblogging and leaving a comment!! I love hearing what you guys think!!

When you’d gone to bed last night, you certainly weren’t expecting anything monumentous to happen today. Today was supposed to be just another day spent running your little apothecary with your sister, before going to sleep and doing it all over again tomorrow. 

But as you stared down at the small little green alien child hiding behind your counter, you knew that today wasn’t going to go the way you planned. 

“Hey, little one,” you murmured, crouching down, but staying far enough back that he wouldn’t feel trapped by you. “How’d you get in here, huh? Where are your parents?”

He looked up at you with his huge round eyes, his little lip quivering, and your heart broke. 

“Hey, it’s alright sweetheart,” you whispered, holding your hands out. “I’m not gonna hurt you, it’s okay–” You were a little thrown off when he waddled straight into your arms, and you instinctively clutched him to your chest. He buried his little face into your tunic and began to cry, little heart-wrenching sobs as his tiny body shook in your arms. 

Standing, you quickly moved to the back room, seeing your sister in the middle of bottling some healing bacta salve. 

“A’denla, can you cover the shop for me?”

She turned, about to ask why when she saw the sobbing child in your arms. You mouthed that you’d explain later, and she just nodded, turning and heading for the counter, leaving you alone in the back with the little one. 

You rocked the little baby back and forth, humming softly as you tried to get him to calm down. You didn’t have a whole lot of experience with children, but you knew enough from helping watch the children of other villagers while they ran their shops when you were younger. 

His tearful cries eventually slowed to little whimpers and hiccups, and you were able to encourage him to detach from your shirt. He rubbed at his eye with his little arm, and you were startled to see a dark green, almost black bruise on his tiny wrist. 

“Who hurt you, little one?” You gently took his hand, inspecting the bruise. He whimpered when you brushed your fingers over his skin. “I bet that hurts something fierce, huh?” 

You take him over to where your sister had the bacta salve out, setting him down gently on the countertop. “Can I use some of this, sweetheart? It’ll help you heal faster.” You’re not sure if he can understand you, but then he takes a long moment to look at the little bottle of blue gel you’re holding before looking up at you, solemnly nodding, his big ears flapping a little with the motion. 

You step away to wash your hands, grabbing a small strip of gauze as well. Dipping your fingers into the salve, you gently brush it over his bruise, your heart twisting every time his little features scrunch up in pain. Once his arm is sufficiently covered, you carefully wrap the gauze around the bruise, securing it with a small clip. 

He looks at his arm before looking back at you, cooing, a wide smile on his face, showing off his baby teeth. His arms raise in the universal sign for “up please!” and you’re unable to deny him, scooping him up in your arms, and cradling him once more to your chest. 

Pressing his face against your skin with a contented sigh, he nuzzles against you for a moment before you feel his breathing begin to even out. “It must be exhausting being so little, huh?” 

You carry him over to the small bassinet you have set up for when you’re watching your brother’s baby girl when he’s busy. The little child fits easily in the small padded space, and you carefully cover him up before stepping back. You have no idea how he got to your shop, and he’s not exactly a race you recognize. Hopefully his parents are somewhere nearby, otherwise you’re going to have a hard time finding them. Although, you’d noticed that his bruises seemed to be in the shape of a hand, and you really didn’t want to place him back into the arms of abusers. 

The tinkling of a bell rang through the shop, signalling the arrival of a customer. You quickly shut the door on the small room with the bassinet, walking towards the counter where your sister is. A’denla isn’t exactly the best with people, and you know she prefers to work in the back, so as soon as you get to the counter, you nudge her away so that she can go back to packaging up products. 

She gives you a grateful smile, ducking into the back as you turn to face two of perhaps the strangest customers you’ve ever met. One is a Rodian, which isn’t necessarily odd in of itself, but usually they tend to stay away from Mandalore. Most Mandalorian’s aren’t exactly known for their tolerance towards other races. The other appears to be human, but you’ve learned to not judge people by their outward appearances.  

“We’re looking for our bounty,” the Rodian grunts in Huttese, and your eyes widen a bit. Bounty hunters. You should’ve known. You’re also surprised that Huttese is the language he chose, especially considering the two main languages on Mandalore were Mando’a and Basic. Luckily for him, you’ve always been a fan of learning different languages, and you understand basic Huttese. “It got away from us. It’s very dangerous. Have you seen it?”

You raise an eyebrow. “What does your bounty look like?”

The other hunter chimes in, this time in Basic. “It’s fifty years old but looks like a child. Some weird green frog-like thing with big ears. It’s incredibly dangerous, and you need to tell us right now if you’ve seen it.”

You manage to school your features, but internally, you’re shocked. Their bounty is the little green child you just patched up and is now sleeping in your back room? And he’s fifty? 

Something about the way the two hunters are acting strikes you as odd, and you make a split second decision. You lie. 

“I’ve not seen any creatures like that,” your voice is smooth and calm, betraying nothing. “But I’ve been in my shop all day. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

For a moment, you think they don’t believe you, but the human quickly nods, grasping his fellow hunter’s arm and tugging him out of your shop. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, sagging a little as the door swung shut. 

You ducked back to the backroom, seeing your sister waiting with her arms crossed. 

“You wanna tell me why you just lied outright to two bounty hunters?” She hissed, eyes flashing. “Do you know how kriffing stupid that was?” 

You stared blankly at her. “Do you really think I’d lie to bounty hunters without a damn good reason?” Your voice was incredulous. “I’m not a di’kut, A’denla.”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “Alright, what’s the reason then?” 

You sighed, slumping against one of the tables. “They said their bounty is fifty years old, but the little one who came into our shop? He’s a baby A’denla. He may be fifty, but it’s clear he doesn’t age the same as us! What could a baby do to warrant a bounty? He was hurt, and he was hurt badly. He was sobbing and shaking and it’s clear he was terrified. I wasn’t about to hand him over to the bounty hunters who probably hurt him that bad in the first place!”

A’denla looks shocked at your little outburst, before softening slightly. She’s got a soft spot for little kids too, and you know she wouldn’t be okay with handing a child over to bounty hunters. 

“Fine, but if this brings hell down on us, I’m telling buir it was your fault, okay?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbed a basket of products, and went back out front to restock the shelves.

***

The little one had slept for a couple of hours, but now he was wide awake, and demanding your attention. You’d done your best to keep him occupied out of sight in case the bounty hunters came back, but so far, the coast had been clear. 

The door suddenly burst open, and Vyshena rushed inside. She owned a shop a couple doors down that sold mechanical parts, so she was a regular, often needing basic medical supplies to patch herself up after being a little too careless with a socket wrench.

“What do you need to–” You started, only to be cut off as Vyshena practically flung herself onto the counter, her grease stained fingers gripping the wood lightly.

“Did you hear?!”

You almost winced at the squeal, and you felt little claws dig into your legs. You looked down, to see the child grasping your leg, his ears drooping as he looked up at you with sorrowful eyes.

“Did I hear what, Vys?”

You bent down to pick up the little one, smoothing one hand over his ear as Vys started in on a rant.

“The King is coming! Apparently his kid went missing and he’s tracking him down! Y’know, he used to be a bounty hunter, so it only makes sense that he’d track his own kid down, apparently there’s a bounty from the Empire on the little guy and–”

You looked up as Vys suddenly stopped, and your brow furrowed as she made a choking sound, her eyes wide as saucers as she stared at you.

“And what, Vys?”

Instead of answering, her arm raised shakily, pointing at the little bundle you held on your hip. Her mouth was gaping, and she looked like she was about to pass out.

“Vys, are you alright?”

Her eyes flickered between your face and the kid multiple times before she sucked in a gasp. “WHAT?”

You actually flinched back at her sudden shout, and the kid whimpered, burying his face in your side.

“Vys!”

“I’m sorry, but how do you– where did– HOW DID YOU GET THE KING’S KID??”

Your eyes widened. “I’m sorry, what?”

“YOU HEARD ME!”

“What is all this racket about– oh, hi Vys.” A’denla came out from the back, her hands full of bottled bacta salve. “What’s going on?”

Vys sputtered, and so you mumbled “Apparently this is the King’s son?” As you gesture to the giggling baby on your hip.

A’denla’s jaw dropped, and she nearly dropped the bacta salve. “Are you kidding me??”

You shook your head, feeling faint, and Vys started laughing hysterically, which got the little one going too. “Not helping,” you muttered, but you couldn’t help but smile at how happy the little one looked.

“Maker, what are we gonna do?”

Your sister’s moan was mostly drowned out by the giggling, but you frowned thoughtfully. “Vys, hold him please,” you said, handing her the still laughing child, even as your request caused her to audibly shut her mouth. You rummaged through the drawers behind the counter before you found a spare sheet of paper and a pen. A’denla tried to see what you were doing but you waved her off, writing as fast as you could.

“There,” you muttered, folding up the paper, handing it to Vys in exchange for the kid. “Take this to one of the guards. They should be able to get it to the King quickly enough. It states that his son is safe, and here in the apothecary. We’re gonna close early just as an added precaution.”

Vys nodded, and you turned to A’denla. “I also wrote what I could remember about the two bounty hunters who came in, they’re probably the ones who kidnapped the kid to begin with.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” your sister sighed. “Maker, am I glad you lied to them when they asked about the kiddo.”

“Me too.” You turned back to Vys. “Go, get that to a guard. I’ll wait here.”

Vys nodded shakily, still a little pale, but she dashed out of the shop. A’denla opened her mouth, but closed it again quickly.

“Go on, spit it out.”

She shook her head. “Buir is never gonna believe this.” You snickered, imaging your mother’s face when she found out that the King of Mandalore’s son had wandered into your apothecary.

“You should go home and tell her. I’d hate for her to hear about this from someone else.” A’denla looked worried, but you shook her off. “I’m closing the store anyways. It’s not like I won’t need your help.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Yes, go.”

After a little more persuading, A’denla finally left, leaving you and the little one alone in the shop. He was still perched on your hip, and for a moment, you stood in the middle of the store, mind racing.

“I can’t believe you’re actually the King’s son,” you muttered, looking down at the wide-eyed child. “Just my luck, huh?”

He cooed at you, playing with the fabric of your top. Your eyes fell to the gauze wrapped around his arm, and you sighed. “I guess we better check on that, buddy. Make sure you’re healing alright.”

Just like before, he was a good patient, not too squirmy as you carefully unwound the gauze. His bruise was healing nicely, and you carefully applied a little more bacta for good measure, re-wrapping his arm. Right as you were pinning it in place, a loud banging sounded from the front door.

You jumped, hand flying to your chest. Carefully picking the kid up, you made your way to the door, peering through the curtains, eyes widening as you realized just who was standing there.

Unlocking the door, you pulled it open, stepping to the side to let the odd looking group inside.

You recognized Fennec Shand, a notorious bounty hunter and partner to Boba Fett, who was also a part of the group. Both were known for their close kinship with the King. There was a woman you didn’t recognize, but judging by the small tattoo on her upper cheek, she had ties to the Republic.

Finally, clad in full beskar’gam, was the King. His beskar was unpainted, the silver gleaming in the low light of your shop. He had no shortage of weapons, his spear was strapped to his back, and a blaster and various vibroblades were strapped to his legs. But the most prominent was the Darksaber that hung from his belt.

Dropping into a curtsy, you bowed your head in respect, a quiet “my king,” leaving your lips. You’d heard stories about the King, about his strength and speed in battle, but especially from his time as a bounty hunter. He’d been one of, if not the best bounty hunter in the galaxy, before winning the Darksaber from Maul in a duel, granting him the right to the throne of Mandalore.

Some said he was cruel, terrifying and dangerous, not to mention volatile. You had no way of knowing. He wasn’t one for major public appearances, so knowledge on his true personality was reserved for those closest to him.

There was a tense silence for a moment when suddenly, the child on your hip reached his little arms out towards the King, babbling loudly. He had a large smile on his face and was wriggling desperately to get out of your grasp. 

The King took a step forward, his own hands stretching out towards his son. You carefully handed the child over, your bare hands brushing over the King’s leather gloves as you transferred the little one to his father’s arms. 

“Su’cuy, ad’ika.” 

The King’s voice was barely more than a whisper as he pressed his helmet against the little one’s brow, his hand pressing against the child’s back to hold him close. 

You fold your arms in front of you, absently noting the way that you already miss the comforting weight of the kid on your hip. You look away from the King and his son, not wanting to intrude on their reunion. 

The others seem a little uncomfortable, like you, and thankfully, the woman you don’t know breaks the awkward silence. 

“You said in your note that you had two bounty hunters come looking for him?”

You’re looking at the woman, so you don’t notice the way the King’s head whips in your direction, nor the way his hand falls to rest on the hilt of the Darksaber. 

“Mmhmm, a Rodian and a human.” You pause. “Actually, I’d almost forgotten, we had security cameras installed about a month ago, they should be on the holos.”

“Why bother with security cameras?” Fett cut in, and you were taken aback by the blatant suspicion in his voice. “This isn’t exactly a high crime area.”

You sighed. “We had a break in a couple months ago. Some di’kut took off with half our supply of bacta salve. We’re one of the only apothecaries on Mandalore licensed to make it, and unfortunately, that usually means we have a large stock, and the prices are pretty steep.” 

“You didn’t report it.”

You narrowed your eyes at the accusatory tone. “I figure if someone’s going to go to all that trouble just to steal bacta salve and not even touch the register or safe, they probably needed it. It’s diluted when it’s in a salve, so it can’t be sold on the black market, unlike pure bacta.” 

“What’s this?”

You started at the King’s voice, turning to look in his direction, seeing him inspecting the gauze wrapped around the little one’s arm. You frowned. “The little one had a pretty bad bruise, it was nearly black. I applied some bacta salve and wrapped it. I checked it just before you got here, it looks a lot better.”

“And I suppose you just thought it was okay to–”

“Fett.”

Your eyes widened at the King’s tone, looking away as the green-armoured bounty hunter grumbled, but stayed silent. 

“I’m a licensed medic, and I have been for close to ten years now. I know what I’m doing.” Perhaps your voice was a little defensive, but you weren’t going to apologize for easing the kid’s pain, no matter the opinion of grumpy men in beskar. 

“Thank you.”

You nodded at the King, eyes flicking up to his helmet before looking away, your cheeks growing warm. You weren’t sure what it was about him, but something about the way he seemed to stare directly into your soul, even through the beskar made you feel... odd.

He handed the little one to the woman with the tattoo, before turning back to you. “May I see the holos?”

You nodded again, turning and walking towards the back of the shop, where the holos were stored. It wasn’t a large room, an old refurbished closet really, and it was a bit tight for one person, let alone a second covered in beskar. You opened up the data station and pulled up the holos from earlier, trying to ignore the silent mountain of a man behind you. You could feel his eyes on your back, and you tried to suppress the shiver that ran down your spine. 

You found the correct timestamp, and enlarged the holovid, pointing to the figures on the screen. “This is when they entered.”

Suddenly, there was a large warm hand on the small of your back as the King stepped up behind you, his other hand coming down to rest on the surface of the table, caging you in as he leaned forward. He was peering over your shoulder, and you inadvertently sucked in a breath at the sudden closeness. 

The two of you watched the footage in silence. Unfortunately, you didn’t have audio to go with the holos, so all the King would have to go off of is the visual. 

“Is there anything distinctive about them that you can remember?” He murmured, the rasp of his helmet’s modulator doing nothing to hide the exquisite way his voice sounded in your ear. 

“Um–” You trailed off, trying to focus, which was especially hard with the King so kriffing close. “Uh, the Rodian? He spoke Huttese.” You could’ve smacked yourself. Of course the Rodian spoke Huttese, it was a common language bounty hunters learned, and Rodian’s were known for speaking it along with their native Rodese. 

The King let out a sigh, and just as you were about to apologize, he thanked you. 

“That– that helps. Thank you, very much.” His hand pressed a little more into your back, and you fought the urge to arch into his touch. You weren’t some child with a crush damn it, you were a village shopkeeper and he was your king. It would be entirely inappropriate, although your traitorous mind was quick to remind you that his touching you could be considered inappropriate as well. 

You told your mind to shut the hell up. 

“You’re welcome, my king.” 

There, that was a perfectly respectable answer. Now all you had to do was avoid embarrassing yourself any further, and–

“Please, darling. Call me Din.”

Well, there went that plan. 

You bit your lip and looked down at the keyboard, hoping that the King–Din, didn’t see your hands tighten at the sound of his voice when he called you darling. 

“Can you give me a copy of these holovids?” 

You nodded, grateful for something, anything to distract you from the peculiar man at your back. Copying the holos onto a drive unfortunately didn’t take very long, and when you turned to hand them to the Ki–Din, your eyes widened when you realized just how close he was to you. Your chests were practically touching, and you had to tilt your head up to be able to look at his helmet, which was aimed directly at you. 

He carefully took the drive, tucking it into one of the pockets on his belt, before stepping back, crossing one arm over his chest and bowing. To you. 

“You’ve done me a great service. I won’t forget it.” 

You swallowed harshly. For a moment, it had sounded like he’d said “I won’t forget you,” although it had to be wishful thinking on your part. He was your King, you were so far removed from royalty it wasn’t even funny. He was just being polite. 

“I’m just glad you were able to reunite with your son. He seems to love you a lot.”

“His name is Grogu. I was blessed with him as my foundling, and I treasure him greatly.”

You smiled. It was clear as day how much the King loved his son, and how the little one returned those feelings tenfold. To be blessed with a foundling was a great honor, and it didn’t surprise you one bit that your King had been blessed in such a way. 

He stepped back to make space for you to leave the small room, and you hurried to where the others were undoubtedly waiting, only just now realizing how long the two of you had been gone.

Fett and Shand were gone by the time you got back to the main floor of your shop. Just the woman and the little one–Grogu–stood their waiting. The King easily plucked Grogu from the woman’s grasp, and with a tight nod, she left your shop as well, leaving you alone with the King and his son. 

He turned back to you, his helmet once more trained on your face. “I must thank you again, for everything.”

You felt your cheeks grow warm at the gratitude dripping from his words. “It was nothing, my king,” you murmured, curtsying once more. 

As you slowly straightened back up, the King reached out and ever so gently lifted your chin, the leather of his glove pressing into your skin. You were forced to look at him, even as the fluttering in your stomach renewed with vigour.

“I’ve already told you, darling. Call me Din.” 

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[rinrinp42]

The Red Planet

For the first day of @jangobiweek, Enemies to Lovers (though it more ended up pre-relationship). It did end up longer than I expected, also there’s violence

Jango wanted to rub his temples, but he trusted Priest about as far as a Hutt could throw.  At least outside of being on contract together. He had only tracked the di’kut down because he was a good soldier.  Same with Reau.  Ward was better but also could just fade into the background to the point that it’d be hard to pinpoint what jobs he’d been on.

But then, the four of them being on this planet was Priest’s fault so honestly, it might not have been worth it.   The damn di’kut demanded they go to Ord Radama before heading to Kamino and then the solar storm hit and scrambled the nav.  And now they had crashed on this planet.

This… weird, maybe abandoned planet?  There were old building overtaken by plants and a few other old crashed ships.  Jango wasn’t even sure they were in the same system anymore.

“Hello there!” a voice cut through the cold air.

All four Mandalorians whirled to face the voice.

It was a Jetii, fresh from their kriffing temple.  His red hair was that growing out from a buzz that indicated he was recently a Padawan.

“Jetii,” Priest growled.

“I am Obi-Wan Kenobi. It would seem we all were caught in that solar storm,” the Jetti grinned at them.

Jango glowered beneath his buy’ce before taking a fortifying breath.  He was starting the process to get his revenge.

“So, it would seem,” Jango spoke.

The Jetii was silent for a moment.

“Well then, I will let you be,” he spoke then and then turned away.

Reau made a sound of disgust that Jango felt in his soul. Jetii arrogance.

They found a ship that might just have a part that could be jury-rigged to get them off the planet, but it had taken them hours.  And there was something about this abandoned planet that was making Jango’s skin crawl under his kute.  He and Priest had gone in the old ship to search the parts while Reau and Ward stayed outside to keep an eye out.

Just because they hadn’t seen anyone since the Jetii left didn’t mean that there was no one else there. Especially as they kept hearing things moving just out of sight.  Even if it was weird that they couldn’t pick up anyone on the scanners.

“I don’t think this’ll work,” Priest finally sighed, “the parts you said we’d need to connect it are missing.  Maybe if one of the other ships had something similar but…”

He was right, damnit. That was the problem with having an experimental ship, the parts were sometimes so specific that he had limited options to repair it or he needed more parts than otherwise to make it work.

“There’s the buildings we haven’t gotten to,” Jango pointed out, “we should probably look there for extra parts.  I think I say a port when we were crashing.”

No need to explain why he hadn’t aimed for the port in the first place.  Priest had also seen the plant life that had creeped violently through the buildings.  The tundra like area they ended up in was better in the lack of hidden dangers for the ground.

When they exited it was to Reau scanning the horizon.  She was carefully moved her gaze from ship to ship as if she would miss something miniscule if she went to fast.

“Reau?” Jango prompted, his own hand coming up to flick on his scanners.

“Ward’s gone,” she spoke quietly, “we were circling to keep an eye on everything and he didn’t meet back up with me.  At first I thought he had seen something and slipped off to investigate but he hasn’t shown back up.”

That… that was unsettling. Ward wasn’t someone Jango was particularly close to but he knew the other man well enough that he wouldn’t expect Ward to not check in.  And Slave I was unusual enough that there was no chance of Ward finding the right piece to get off.  Especially given that Jango had a secondary part that needed to be plugged in to leave given he didn’t actually trust any of them.

“Which side was he on?” he asked, mind already racing.

Reau nodded towards the buildings, “that side.”

Well, guess they were checking out the port then.

They were about halfway there when the Jetii showed up again.  This time he was disheveled, thrown off by something.  He paused when he spotted them, eyes raking over them.

He swore violently when he saw Ward was missing.  The type of swearing that even without knowing the Jetii Jango could tell was out of place coming from him.

“How long has your friend been gone?  Did you see him get taken?”

“What’s it to you-” Jango could hear the sneer in Priest’s voice and rolled his eyes.

Was Jango the only one that didn’t let his hatred of Jetiise cloud his mind?  Obviously, he had run into something.

“Reau, tell him,” he ordered.

She stiffened and threw a glare through her buy’ce at him but answered.

The Jetii ran a hand threw his hair.

“Listen, this planet,” he spoke, eyes scanning the area around them restlessly, “it’s filled with some sort of, I don’t know, twisted organisms?  They don’t act like normal for their species and they…”

His eyes met Jango’s through the visor.

“We weren’t the only ones to crash here due to that storm.  They consumed the others.  Turned them to be like them.  At least those that they didn’t eat.”

Jango felt a chill go down his spine.  He didn’t know why he trusted the Jetii, but he did.  It was insane, but…

“We can’t leave,” he said, “our ship broke when we were landing.”

The Jetii nodded, “mine as well.  Maybe we can cannibalize my ship for your’s?  Work together to get off of this planet?  We can part ways after that.”

Jango hesitated.  He didn’t want to work with the Jetii, even if he believed what he said.  Yet the Jetiise had new ships than what they had been seeing.

“Fine.  Lead the way.”

“So, why’s a Jetii all the way out in the Esstran System?” Reau asked, “isn’t it a bit close to the Sith Worlds for your lot?”

Of course she couldn’t help but to poke at the Jetii.  Jango really shouldn’t have expected better of her.

“It was the Sith Worlds that I came out here for,” the Jetii said, “I was trying to find information on a Sith.”

Great.  A Jetii scholar.  Probably didn’t do battle often then.

“The last mission I went on with my Master we were attacked by a Sith as we were protecting the Naboo Queen.  Given that the Sith have been gone for centuries, it raised questions.”

Priest paused at that, and Jango almost joined him.

“You mean there are dar’jetiise in the Galaxy again?” Priest demanded.

Jango wanted to know as well, a sliver of unease digging into his mind, replaying every meeting he had had with his employer.

He might despise the Jetiise for the hand they had in the destruction of the Haat Mando’ade, but the dar’jetiise had used Mando’ade, had made their culture into a puppet to be directed by them, had pushed them into much that, in retrospect, had weakened them.  Historically allies meant, in truth, used and abused by the dar’jetiise.

And Jango had a feeling he had walked into yet another trap set by them blinded as he was with a lust for vengeance.  And, a voice not unlike Jaster’s whispered in the back of his mind, look what it has already led you to do.  Who you choose to work with.

The Jet- Kenobi turned back, mouth opening to reply.

It was cut off as something tackled Priest down, clawing at his beskar’gam.

It had once been human, that much Jango could tell.  But now? Now it was emancipated beyond anything he had seen, skin tight to its bones except where he could see vines writhing underneath.

Reau screamed in rage, bringing her blasters to arm and started to shoot.

Kenobi grabbed both Jango and Reau and yanked them back.

“They travel in packs; we need to move.”

Reau kept shooting as Kenobi tried to pull them along, eyes darting around, tense.  Sure enough, others joined the being in tearing Priest open like he was a lobster.

Jango pulled his arm out of Kenobi’s grip and tossed Reau over his shoulder, carrying her as she kept shooting.

“Get us to your ship Kenobi!” Jango ordered.

Honestly, kriff this entire planet.  If he could he would destroy it just to make sure no one else had to deal with this.

Kenobi gave one sharp nod and moved forward.  It took a while for Reau to stop firing and then she just snarled at him to put her down and was silent.

The Jedi Starfighter Kenobi had was a Delta-6 Sprite, luckily.  Jango had retrofitted parts of one for Slave I before.

They quickly stripped the parts they needed out.

“Can you use your Jetii powers to carry that?” Jango asked, mind racing for how to get them back to Slave I.

“Yes, but I won’t be much use in a fight if I do so.”

“That’s fine.  You stay in the middle.  I’ll take point, Reau’ll bring up the rear.  We need to get back to my ship quickly and get off.  I don’t like our chances with those things the longer we linger.”

They both nodded.

They encountered two more packs on their way back.  One they were able to avoid, seeing them a while off and diverting around some of the crashed ships.  They were tense the whole time, Kenobi keeping the parts as close to himself as possible, and they moved slowly.  But the pack wandered off, searching for meat elsewhere.

They weren’t able to avoid the second pack though.  That one spotted them between clumps of ships.  It also had a transformed Ward.  But it seemed as though Ward had taken down much of the pack before they got him, as it was only numbering 3.

Jango was able to shoot down one of them, a Zeltron in the tattered remains of black robes before they got close enough that he had to bark at Reau to join him in taking them on.

The things moved fast enough that they couldn’t get either down before they were too close for blaster fire.  Not with allies there as well and Ward still in beskar’gam, though missing one [pauldron]

Jango was able to push Ward back some with his flamethrower, the flames pulling an inhuman screech from Ward.  He kept trying to put himself between Ward and Kenobi, hoping to hold off long enough for Reau to finish off the other one and help him take down the now-inhuman Ward.

Reau, on the other hand, pulled out a kad to keep the other one back.  That one, a blond humanoid, didn’t seem bothered by the various cuts Reau landed on them.

Reau was able to end it though, when she impaled the thing and it pushed her down.  It sank down on top of her, her kad going through it more and more.  It tore at her as she struggled to keep it away.  Its hands catching on and ripping her kute before she pulled one of her blasters out.  She pressed it to the thing’s head and pulled.  It toppled over, still.

At the same time, Kenobi twisted around Jango and with a hum, his blue jetii’kad cut through Ward at the neck.

Kenobi immediately deactivated his jetii’kad as Ward fell over as well.

Jango wasn’t sure how he felt about a jetii’kad killing another Mando’ad, but.

But Kenobi had just saved his life.

“We need to move,” was the only thing he could think to say.

It was lucky.  They were close to Slave I.

They hurried there. Jango and Kenobi worked quickly and efficiently to install the parts, patching what they could.

Jango handed Kenobi the piece he had taken from the cockpit and told him to start up the ship as he grabbed Reau.

He found her outside, stripping her beskar’gam off.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“My kute was ripped,” she said, “that thing bled on me.  I won’t risk exposing the rest of the galaxy to whatever is on this planet.”

She hesitated then, looking at him.  It was a look filled with too much that he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“You would have been a great Mand’alor,” she told him, “make sure my family knows I fought bravely. Give them back my beskar’gam.”

Her lips quirked then, “maybe apologize that I couldn’t send back my blasters and kad.  I want to take as many of these [fuckers] out as I can once you two are gone.”

“’lek.”

It was all he could offer her.

He closed the hatch then.

“It’s just you and me,” he told Kenobi as he joined the Jetii in the cockpit, “Reau is staying. She thinks she’s infected.”

“Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la,” Kenobi murmured.

Jango closed his eyes and the ship took off.

It was going to take a while to figure out where to go once they were free of this planet and Jango had some decisions to make about what to tell this Jetii.

Because he was going to tell him.  He refused to be a pawn to the dar’jetii and Kenobi…

Obi-Wan Kenobi cared.

[doorsclosingslowly]

Your death is a number but I cannot count that high (12/16)

In which Death Watch take prisoners and make friends. Zombie Savage AU | 3.4k

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Clank, clank, clank. Rook kicks her armored boot against the main hold’s wall, again and again.

She can afford to lose control now. All prisoners are sedated and shackled, and Maul, Savage and Ventress are still mysteriously asleep. All prisoners: the Entralla encampment and ship are smoking rubble and most of Sidious’ five-hundred-strong battalion are tied up over on the second dreadnought, with only fifty of the soldiers wearing cheap fucking imitation beskar over on her ship, along with the unhelmeted red-bearded human man that might be a commander of sorts. Or he might be Sidious. But she’ll only find that out once the ‘Alor wakes up. Commander Sid or whoever is tied up extra carefully and gagged with the nozzle of a soporific weedkiller tank that’s turned up to full blast for good measure, and Gar has stationed snipers with slugthrowers all throughout the ship. That should suffice. Besides, Rook has bigger problems.

Savage’s injured. Horrifically maimed from the looks of him, tortured with techniques utterly unfamiliar to Rook—but he’s alive and he’s stable, Hens had reported after a short examination. She couldn’t tell Rook anything more: she’s a specialized battlefield medic, and besides—Hens just muttered that with the head injury alone he should be dead—besides, this reeks of weird force shit. Which means they need Lord Maul to tell them what’s going on, only, again, Maul’s still snoring quietly, half atop of Savage on the cot. (“Lord Maul does not like to be touched,” Rook declared when she gave the order to evacuate, after she’d stormed into the room two minutes after her Mand’Alor and eyed the weird way the plan had gone boots-up. Everyone asleep, really?

There was sedative gas everywhere, of course, but… Rook knew that Maul’s gas mask worked. She’d tested it herself. “Just put him on—I’ll heave him onto the cot next to Savage, and you’ll carry—I ordered you to leave the jetpacks on our ship, but I know some of you brought ‘em. That should give you the thrust to carry that cot. You! Take Ventress. I’ll take beardy. Hurry! Hurry out!”)

The ‘Alor is snoozing, and so is Ventress who Rook wouldn’t trust as far as she can toss her—not just because Rook’s sure she could get at least a few meters—but who knows about the force and the Republic and Sidious and all that crap, and in a pinch she would have done. It’s better than going in dark.

Rook has bigger problems than anger or sleeping Mand’Alors or tortured Mand’Alors’ brothers. She thought she could do this, but she knows nothing. She grew up on Concord Dawn and then she went to Mandalore to fight and she’s been flitting around Mandalorian space ever since, but life there made sense. The people made sense. They had honor. Clan rivalries, factions, battles for the soul of Mandalore—that’s what she knows, but she’s never even truly met any outsiders except for Maul and Savage, and they don’t count. Ventress is on Rook’s turf. There was that Republic jetii showing up for Duchess Satine—may her memory be a noon shadow—but Rook wasn’t even there for that, and all Gar would say is that the ‘Alor sure hated him.

Rook knows nothing.

She knows about the Republic from her mother’s songs and an old man’s stories. She knows about the Annihilation, and she remembers. She knows Mandalore will rise again.

She knows to hate the Republic for its past atrocities.

But how earth could she have predicted the presentones.

Those soldiers—the soldiers that Ventress recognized as Grand Army of the Republic when they touched down—those soldiers are wearing armor made to look like beskar’gem.

Beskar.

Cheap fucking plasteel fucking imitation fucking beskar.

The Republic dressed their soldiers up in the armor of Rook’s ancestors.

The Republic that shelled and annihilatedMandalore seven-hundred years ago is dressing its mooks in a mockery of sacred armor. Rook would have preferred it if they’d pissed on her mother’s corpse.

They’re dead. All of them, they’re fucking dead.

Jagrub’s hand is tousling Rook’s hair, but where usually it would be a conscious act to keep Rook from more committing grievous bodily harm than necessary, right now her hatred burns just as hot. Neither of them can bear the sight of the defilement of Mandalore. They’re not the only ones either.

Discipline in the face of a dangerous mission and the life of the ‘Alor’s brother hanging in the balance had kept the Death Watch commando on the ground tightly focused on their objective. The need for speed had made them manacle the armored pretenders and move on. The order to evacuate, including prisoners, had made them carry their bodies onto the dreadnoughts.

Now, though—right now adrenaline-fueled Death Watch commandos are pacing all round unconscious Republic mooks adorned with a hateful mockery of Mandalorian beskar, and there’s only one thing left stopping them—stopping Rook, too—from tearing them apart limb by plasteel-clad limb.

Gar keeps his bleeding heart well-hidden. He’s strong and dependable and a great fighter and a lummox and a massive pain in Rook’s ass on a good day, and on a bad day—

On a bad day Gar faces down livid supercommandos and says, “It’s for the Mand’Alor to decide what we do with these prisoners. We started the mission on his lead, and so we will end it.”

On a bad day Gar sends his slick-haired boytoy Ja Goos over to the second dreadnaught and gives him command, promotes him to Mand’Alor’s Counsel, parsecs above his current rank, on a whim, except Ja Goos is charming enough that he might just make it work… Might be the one time when it’s actually useful, as much as Rook dislikes charm. It’s cheating. But Ja Goos commands the other dreadnaught now, just because he listens to Gar implicitly and is therefore the only one who’s also hell-bent on those fake-beskar soldiers surviving, and even if he was as angry as the rest of Death Watch—if he wants the chance to keep wooing Gar with wine and late night athletics, Goos needs to follow Gar’s lead. And he’s got his heart stolen real bad…

On a bad day Gar pulls Rook aside and whispers, “Trust me, please, if you calm down you’ll admit I’m right,” before he swans off to instruct his anti-Sidious snipers.

So now Rook is here in the main hold of the stolen ship, with Jagrub and twenty other pissed of Death Watch supercommandos, and fifty Republic soldiers in white cruel plasteel styled after the armor generations and generations and generations of Mandalorians fought for the right to wear, and an unconscious Ventress, and a mysteriously asleep Mand’Alor clinging to his sleeping, tortured, should-be-dead-according-to-all-info brother, and a Republic commander who may or may not be a demagolka Sith Lord. Rook’s in command here, and this isn’t just a battle anymore. It demands careful strategy. Rook’s in command, Rook who made Mand’Alor’s Counsel three months ago, and only because the most seasoned members of Death Watch followed Bo-Katan to the Nite Owls and her and Gar were the first ones to stand up and swear allegiance to Maul as Mand’Alor. She’s never left Mandalorian Space except for incursions like this one, and all her knowledge of the Republic is from seven hundred years ago. She’s got more intel about the Sith, at least, but all she learned was from Maul’s traumatized recollections. She knows nothing.

This is more than a fight to the death now.

Rook’s a brawler playing at general only because no-one else was stupid enough to volunteer.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

If only Lord Maul would wake up.

He doesn’t, though; instead it’s one of those ancestor-besmirching Republic troops startling awake and tensing their arms and legs against the manacles. Well, Rook promised Gar she’d let them live… but she never said anything about venting her horror, just a little. Besides, as Mand’Alor’s Counsel she should interrogate these impostors. There, she even has an excuse ready.

It’ll be hard to keep her cool staring at that monstrosity of a fake beskar helmet, though. Rook pulls it off, and… “Fett?!”

Jango Fett blinks up at her, most of his head shaved clean with only a stripe of dark hair running from his forehead to the nape of his neck. He has twin tattooed lines in semicircles under his eyes. He looks weirdly young, but still, it’s definitively Jango Fett, Jaster Mereel’s son, claimant of the Mand’Alor title, enemy of Death Watch, last survivor of the True Mandalorians. He disappeared twenty years ago, occasionally surfacing as a bounty hunter far from Mandalorian Space, and now he’s working for the Republic? A True Mandalorian, wearing plasteel armor?! And who then are all the others… It can’t be true. But Rook’s seen holos from just before he left. Jango Fett looks exactly like this. He… he looked exactly like this, twenty years ago. What—

“Fat’s over in the Wolf Pack,” Jango Fett says after a long pause. He shakes his head, as if he can’t believe what he’s saying.

Well. That makes two of them. “But you’re Fett,” Rook says. “You look like Fett.”

Jango Fett stares at her. Rook gets the distinct impression that he wants to call her stupid, but also doesn’t want to die. “I’m not Fat,” Jango Fett says. “I’m Taxi.”

“You look exactly like Fett.”

Not-Jango Fett swallows a series of what must be incredibly strong expletives, because his reply to the heavily armed Death Watch supercommando who drugged and captured him is still, “Gold star, fucking genius! That’s how it works when you’re kriffing cloning!”

“Clones?!”

“For fuck’s… Take off Eel’s helmet it you don’t believe me,” Jango—Taxi explains, still looking at Rook as if he’s never met anybody as dense as her.

Rook does as instructed. The unconscious Eel looks exactly like Taxi, except for his full head of hair and three scars on his left cheek, two small and round and the middle one long and curving to the ridge of his nose.

“There,” Taxi says. “Clone troopers. The Clone army of the Republic. Clones versus clankers. That’s us. Glad you caught up.”

It doesn’t explain half as much as he obviously thinks it does, and what little Rook can glean from his answer is bad. Horrifying. Worse than the fake armor on its own. Much, much worse. “The Republic cloned Jango fucking Fett!?”

Taxi nods.

“Jango Fett, last Man’Alor of the True Mandalorians?! Remade his beskar in plasteel to dress you up?! Just absorbed you into its army?”

“We are the Grand Army of the Republic. There’s no-one else, except some Jedi.”

“The Republic is using cloned Mandalorians to fight its war,” rumbles Jagrub from behind Rook’s shoulder, loud enough for every supercommando in the hold to hear and freeze in shock. “Cloned Mandalorians in imitation beskar’gem! The Republic is using Mandalorians!”

Taxi smirks. “There’s a war on, haven’t you heard? Clones versus clankers. Didn’t know there were rocks so large a whole gang could live under them.”

Rook studies his face. “You’re not at all scared, are you?”

“You went through the hassle of tying us up,” Taxi says. He sounds bitter. “We’re not usually taken prisoner.”

If she wasn’t already furious enough to die of a stroke immediately, this would have done it. “The Republic is using Mandalorians as discardable fighters?!”

“Don’t have a choice.” Taxi shrugs. “They make and train us up on Kamino, and then we get shipped to the Republic and sent to the front and die.”

No-one has ever survived as high a blood pressure as Rook’s currently sporting. She breathes in and out and in until she can be sure not to scream in anguish, because Taxi deserves better. Eel does, too and so does Fat and all the other Mandalorians enslaved by the cruel Republic. She silently thanks Gar’s instincts. She could have killed this brother. But she didn’t. She’s seen him as he really is. And now… “You have a choice, now, Taxi. You are Mandalorian. We are Mandalorians, too. We are Death Watch. We leave none of our siblings behind, ever. We fight to the death for every single one of us. We do not rule over each other, either—we give our trust to the Mand’Alor and if we deem it necessary, we fight for a new leader. We work together, but we are equal. We’ll fight the Republic for your freedom. Join us. Join Death Watch. You are a child of Mandalore. Join us.”

Rook looks back down, expectant, but Taxi has shed the angry ironic detachment that characterized his mien thus far. His eyes are wide, slightly glassy, and he’s breathing too fast.

Panic attack.

Jagrub’s recognized it as well, and she hands Rook one of the paper bags she keeps stowed in her hip pockets. Then, she carefully unbinds Taxi’s hands and legs, while Rook kneels and holds the paper bag over Taxi’s mouth to prevent hypocapnia.

Slowly, his breathing evens out. He doesn’t regain his control straight away: he clings to Rook and she runs her hands over his hateful plasteel armor, over and over, vowing not to let a single building in the whole Republic stay unbombed if this is what they would do to her brother. If a single offer of free choice and equality could melt him down. They would use children of Mandalore as disposable weapons, and if Death Watch wasn’t already at war with the Republic over what this Sidious did to Savage they would declare it this second, a thousand times over.

“I—yeah,” Taxi whispers eventually into her ear, still completely sagged against her. “I want—I don’t want to desert my brothers, but I want that.”

“We’ll make the same offer to your brothers,” Rook promises. “All of them. You don’t have to answer now, either, Taxi. Free association. We’ll let you leave if you don’t join Death Watch, you’re free to become a Nite Owl or even… even a True Mandalorian if you must, though we might have to rescue Jango Fett first to revive them. New Mandalorians are history, but you wouldn’t have liked them anyway. Sanctimonious pricks.”

“I don’t—”

“I’ll tell you what they are. I’ll tell all of your brothers, or one of my friends will. They’re all Death Watch, like me. They want you to be free.”

“Yeah,” Taxi mumbles, his young angry bravado all used up, and he stays wrapped up in Rook’s arms.

“If you feel comfortable, you should tell your brothers when they wake up. They’ll trust you more than us.”

“Yeah, okay, yeah, yeah,” Taxi mumbles, and Rook just keeps running her hands over his shoulders and down his back. She’s a brawler who made Mand’Alor’s Counsel three months ago because there was no-one more senior left in Death Watch. She knows nothing. The depravity of the Republic, to clone and use Mandalorians as cannon fodder, is so much above anything she expected to face, but she owes it to Maul and to Taxi and to Jagrub and to Gar and to Death Watch and to Mandalore and to herself not to give in now.

“You’re free now, Taxi, you’re Death Watch,” she keeps repeating, gently butting her helmeted forehead against his bare one. She keeps repeating her words, only pausing to whisper orders—“Comm Ja Goos and inform him the soldiers are enslaved Mandalorians,” and “Tell Bo-Katan Kryze what the Republic did. We have a common enemy. Death Watch wants to parlay”—until the tell-tale scuffle that informs her Ventress is finally awake.

She looks unnerved, is all Rook can deduce from her vantage point kneeling on the floor, still holding up Taxi. Something about the way she’s uncuffed and the way Savage’s chest is rising and falling faintly over on the cot seems to displease her greatly. But Rook’s got bigger problems.

“Do you know when Lord Maul will wake up?” she shouts at Ventress.

“What—how would—no, I do not.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is this Sidious?”

“How would I—” Ventress glances at the red-bearded unhelmeted commander that Rook’s pointing at. “Kenobi?!”

“So you do know him!”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi’s a Jedi Knight. Great flirt, decent fighter, regrettable morals.” Ventress is exaggerating her grin, as if she’s worried about something.

Taxi, though, mutters, “Yeah, that’s General Kenobi. He’s decent,” and that’s all the corroboration Rook needs.

“Let’s wake him up then! I have questions. Turn off the soporific, Lerl. Stick him with that antidote, and bring him here,” she shouts, with a manic burst of energy that should probably worry her. Just in case, though, she asks Jagrub to prod the muzzle of her slugthrower against the back of his skull. Maul’s paranoia has been rubbing off on Rook, even if the strategizing hasn’t. Can’t have everything.

Kenobi blinks and groans in pain, and then his eyes focus travel up Rook’s stolen armor and come to rest on her face. He grinds out, “Obi-Wan Kenobi. General, commanding officer of the 7th Sky Corps. Krill-Esk-Nern-Osk-quadruple zero-one.”

So he agrees he’s Kenobi, then. But the answer… “Save your serial number, we’re not at war.” Not formally. Not yet, anyway.

Kenobi stays quiet, though his expression probably intends to tell Rook something.

Absent-mindedly, she runs her left hand down her right vambrace. If she was less stressed, she might be better at this interrogation lark—if she was less stressed, it would be because the Mand’Alor’s awake and in control and she’s only running support for him, but Maul’s still asleep… She traces her fingers down to fiddle with the familiar shape of the backup ignition of her whistling birds, but it’s not there. The vambrace is wrong. Of course it is. It’s the stolen disguise vambrace, after all. “Shit,” Rook mutters, “Shit. Shit. Shit.” The ruse. They can’t lead Sidious or the Republic back to still-weakened Mandalore. They’re dressed up and pretending to be Separatists, and Rook just kriffed the plan. “I mean—yes, we are at war, yes. We’re totally Separatists. Absolutely. Thanks for the identifiers.”

Kenobi’s eyebrows are climbing. He doesn’t seem to believe her. Why is Ja Goos never there to smooth things over when Rook needs him?

To Rook’s relief, Ventress comes swaggering over, sans helmet now. She doesn’t bother hiding her amusement, but she also immediately distracts Kenobi into shouting out her name.

“Let me take this, Rookie. You’re atrocious. Yes, it’s me. Strange times, strange bedfellows.”

Kenobi quirks up an eyebrow. “You’re slumming it with the Separatists again, I see.”

“This? No, this is just a disguise.” Ventress stretches languidly in her CIS armor, cheerfully, as if she hadn’t just mocked Rook for inadvertently revealing the same thing a second ago. “To keep Sidious off our trail when we went after Opress. Only if you’re there, it’s not Sidious after all, is it?”

“You know about Sidious?!” Kenobi looks utterly shocked.

“Maul’s Sith Master?”

He sighs. “Dooku’s, too. And… and ours, in a way.”

“Kenobi—”

“Palpatine,” Kenobi says. “Sidious is Palpatine.”

Several things happen then. Ventress starts laughing hysterically, Taxi just howls and curses and howls again, and Rook is just utterly lost. “Hey! Hey!” she shouts, but no-one reacts. She starts poking Taxi. “Hey, Taxi, calm. Calm. You can do it,” she mutters until he settles back into her arms, eyes wet but responsive again. “Hey Taxi. Who’s Palpatine?”

“Who’s—the kriffing Chancellor of the fucking Republic!”

Rook shudders. She knew the Republic was evil, but… “The Chancellor of the Republic enslaved and tortured Lord Maul?!”

“The Chancellor of the Republic is Dooku’s Master,” Taxi howls back at her. “Dooku leads the Seppies. Which we’ve been fighting. For the Republic. In an… in an utterly pointless fucking meatgrinder.”

“Yes,” Kenobi says. “All of that is true.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Rook bites out.

Kenobi laughs tiredly. “That is the plan. I was about to return to Coruscant and challenge him when you interrupted. I wouldn’t mind a lift. Ventress?”

“He killed my sisters.”

“Lord Maul wants to kill Sidious, too,” Rook says. “We can plan our course of attack while we fly.” Maul will join them. He’ll join them, definitely—he hates Sidious, and besides, just as Death Watch joined his quest to retrieve his brother, so will he help them rescue their enslaved kin. She’s still in over her head, but this alliance feels right. He’ll agree.

As soon as he wakes up…

[letarasstuff]

I like it

A/N: Ok ok, this is like my first Poe Fic (and Star Wars tho) ever, so please don’t be mean to me :c Also, English isn’t my first language

Summary: After having your whole family slaughtered by the First Order, Poe takes you in. Suddenly the base gets attacked by them, when he is not there. How will he react?

Warnings: Language, mentions of death, anxiety, panic attack and bad grammar

father figure!Poe Dameron x Teen!Reader

On your homeplanet there weren't many options to make money. You are either good with mechanics and motors or you look good enough, that the greasy men like you. As one can say, you were lucky.

Your parents owned a workshop. This isn't anything unusual, given the fact there is one at every corner in the bigger cities. But yours was the best. You don't wanna sound cocky, it's just the truth.

So your mother and father taught you the inside of every thing, that has a motor. Before you were even able to form a proper sentence, you could repair any ship on the planet. Still you had a nice childhood, playing with the kids in the neighborhood, going to school and learning new stuff. You are happy to say, that your parents did a damn good job at giving you the best memories a kid can ever have.

But anything good comes to an end, so does this. You were 14 years old, when the First Order came down to your homeplanet. Even though your leaders weren't that nice people, they still refused to be in an alliance with them. Initially they wanted to stay neutral in the war, but as soon as they declined the offer, they tried to get into contact with the Resistance.

Unfortunately, they were too late. When they got their pilots on your ground, nearly everything was burnt down. They swarmed out to look after survivors. Even though they did their best, they couldn't find anyone, who has a beating heart. The sight was heartbreaking. This once living planet was now the aftermath of the First Order's wrath.

The pilots gave up eventually. Nobody agreed to it, but they didn't have many options. The last one to leave the planet was a man, who is known as the golden boy of the Resistance. Poe Dameron. Especially to him it was unacceptable to leave this planet with bare hands. 

So he started a last desperate attempt and looked into one of the most destroyed buildings. He shoved a bit of rubble to the side, when he saw a leg. Hope began to rise inside of him. Quickly he put another rather big piece of rubbish to the side to expose a face. It was a young kid, their eyes are closed.

Poe rushed to their side and checked the wrist for a pulse. The sigh he let out, when he felt a light one, has to be the loudest the galaxy ever witnessed. Happy to be the messenger of good news, the pilot told his squadron about his found. All of them cheered, it was kind of a miracle for them.

Now they have to act fast. Poe picked the kid up and rushed them to his own ship. He knew, that a team of nurses would take too long to get to the both of them. So he put them on a seat and secured them with the belt. He was quick to make his way back to base. He told the ground team about the only survivor and let them prepare a team of doctors and nurses to help the kid.

Luckily the kid made it. Just a few broken ribs, a concussion and a few bruises were what they got as a punishment for their leader's decision.

You are a lucky kid.

You spent a few days unconscious in the medical wing, before you woke up to a steady beeping. To be honest, this noise really got on your nerves. So you opened your eyes to be met by blinding lights. After shutting and re-opening them you got used to it. Then you had the time to take your surroundings in. There were a some machines, that monitor your vitals. Seemed like you were still alive. But why were you here?

Out of all sudden it hit you. The First Order attacked your homeplanet. Your parents, who tried to bring you into safety. Then another missile hit the building and everything goes black. What happened to them? What about all your friends, neighbors? Where were you?

Your breath began to quicken. The beeping got faster. This added to your panic and made you more and more frantic. Your throat tightened as did your chest. Everything seemed to break over you and you don't know what to do.

Then you feel another presence. The person put their hands on your shoulders and spoke in a calm and warm voice:"Hey, hey. Breath, ok? Just take a long breath in, hold it and let it out slowly. Try to feel the way it enters your body and leaves it again. We can get through it, but you have to work with me here, buddy."

You do as the someone told you and mimicked their breathing as they showed you the exercise. Your breathing steadied again as did the beeping. Finally you were able to face them. The person, who talked you through your mini panic attack, has dark brown locks and brown eyes. There were also the shadow of a beard on his jaw.

"Better?", he asked you and gave you a glass of water. After savouring every last drop of it, you answered:"Yes, thank you..?" "Poe, Poe Dameron. The Resistance's best pilot." Well, this is an introduction only he can do.

"Then hello Mr Dameron. I'm (Y/N), the best mechanic my age you can find in the whole galaxy." Actually, you were never the person to be cocky around strangers, but with this Poe guy it felt right at an instance.

"Hello (Y/N), just call me Poe and if you want to address me by my last name, do it right. It's Commander Dameron." "Thank you for this information. Where are my parents though? Why are you here, not them? Also no offence, but it seems pretty weird to wait for  a random teenager to wake up."

The first answer were a sigh. He explained the whole situation to you, even though he didn't want to be the one to bring the bad news. Your only reaction was crying. You felt so many things at once and this was your only way to let it out.

While holding your crying form, Poe promised himself to take care of you from now on. He partly did it, because he felt like it was his fault, that your family was dead. If he was there earlier, he could have saved them. But the other part was you. Even though he only knew you for a few minutes, he felt a connection. Now it's upon him to protect you.

And he does keep his promise until the very day. The both of you share a room, you and BB-8 get super good along, he helps you to make yourself a name as the best mechanic the Resistance has to offer. Hell, he even teaches you how to fly an X-Wing. To say he is impressed by the skill you already have is an understatement. But neither he nor Leia allow you to tag along missions until you old enough. This also counts for training and wearing a blaster.

One time you ask Poe which age this should be. He answers with:”It’s the same age you are allowed to kiss somebody.” It is this moment, when you realize, that you will never be old enough.

It is another rather calm day on the base, which is quite suspicious. The First Order hasn't pulled any stunts recently. Still everybody has something to do, except for the majority of pilots. There aren't many missions for them now, That's why Poe sits next to you, while you repair an astromech. "And then I saved the whole galaxy", ends the older man yet another of his heroic stories. "Again", you add with an eye roll. He nudges your shoulder with his own and exclaimes: "Well, somebody has to do it!" Laughing you tighten another screw and knock gently on the astromech's head.

"Now you are all done, buddy. But be more careful next time while playing with the others tag, ok?", you speak softly to BB-031. Happily she nods and drives off to her pilot. You turn back to Poe. "When do you have to leave?" "Not in another two hours, that means we can grab lunch together. It's just an abandoned outpost with new activities. I don't even think that this has something to do with the First Order", he reassures you. 

You sigh. "I know, but still. So many things can go wrong and I don't wanna be alone again." The both of you walk towards the mess hall. The brown haired man throws an arm around your shoulder. "We are soldiers, as sad as it may sound, it's the truth. We have to keep in our mind that death is always right beside our side. But as long as you are on this base, you will never be alone. Leia is going to take care of you. Always."

You look up to him and smile, a warm and fuzzy feeling bubbling inside of you. The last time you felt like this was with your parents at home.

Before he boards his X-Wing, Poe gives you a last hug and says:"Be good for Leia, ok buddy?" "This sounds like I am four!" "Well, when I think about it, you are like a four year old!", he jokes. With a pout you punch his arm. "Good luck out there and come back in one piece or else I hunt your dead ass down!"

When the Black Squadron left the hangar, you turn back to your own work and get totally engrossed into it. It's just you, your tools and the project infront of you.

That is until a blaring alarm sounds over the speakers. Confused you look up, only to see everyone in the hangar running around like chickens in panic. People throw stuff into bags, others finish their work up hastily and the remaining just run out. And you don't have a kriffing clue what's happening.

You try to stop one of the other mechanics. But to no avail. Nobody wants to explain the situation to you. But then you see the reason for all the commotion:

Outside at the sky are countless TIE-Fighters and it won't take long until the first one reaches the ground. 

You begin to scramble and run, but get pushed into a cart with tools on it. With a loud yelp you land on it and get pocked and cut by wrenches and such. Again, nobody pays attention at you. The own safety is the only present thing at the moment. 

When you hear the TIE touches the ground, you get up as quickly as possible. Even though your legs hurt from the fall, you run like your life depends on it. And it does.

The hangar is deserted. No pilots, no mechanics, no one is there. Expect for you. You can hear the stormtrooper enter the building, while you dash for the gateaway. Their steps are getting closer and closer. It doesn't take long for the enemies to spot you. Sooner as you want, you have to dodge shots from behind. But this isn't your only problem.

As a kind of safety guard the gateaway closes. You run faster than you ever did before. A quick look behind you tells you, that there is a stormtrooper too close for your liking. So you reach into your utility belt and throw the first thing you can grasp at him. Turns out it's one of your favorite wrenches, but it's not the time to mourn the loss. Saving your own life is way more important right now.

When you are close enough at the gate, you throw yourself on the floor and slide under it before is closes completely. But there is no time to catch your breath. You make your way through what feels like the whole base to get to the safety ships.

When you finally reach them, there's only one left. Leia stands at the entrance, looking for someone. As soon as her eyes set on your form, she seems relieved. The General grabs you by your arm and drag you inside the ship. Once you left the base, she pulls you into a hug while scolding you: "Never ever scare me like this again, (Y/N)!"

The Black Squadron is already on the new base. The news of the attack were spread fast to them, so they were quick to react. After your ship's landing the hatch opens. You emerge out of it into a crowd of nervous, scared and clamouring people. But there is one voice shouting, that stands out.

"Where is my kid? Where are they? Has anyone seen my kid? (Y/N)?!" 

It's Poe, who is looking for you. You try to make the direction out from where he shouts. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you see his dark locks. You push your way over to him and so does he, when he catches a glimpse of you. As soon as he is able to he pulls you in for a hug.

Poe strokes through your hair and makes it a mess, but you can't care less. "I was so scared, that I lost you, kiddo." "I'm fine. I'm fine", you assures him. "I don't care, let us get you to the medical wing, kid." "Ok, Dad."

"Did you just call me Dad?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, I like that. Love you, kid."

"Love you, too, Dad."

[meteor752]

Will you?

Summary: Kit and Plo has been together for five years now, they are already taking care of a padawan together, why not just take the next step? Well, you could freak out, is Kit’s only answer.

Warnings: Anxiety, and yeah that’s it lol

Pairings: Kit Fisti X Plo Koon, Luminara Unduli X Aayla Secura (background)

Word count: 1656

Notes: Me? Writing Plokit fanfiction despite the fact I have three other fic’s going on? It’s more likely than you think

***

Kit had never been a nervous person. He was in fact the total opposite, not to many people’s surprise.

He was charming, confident, easy-going, and relatively flirtatious. Not as bad as the resident Negotiator Obi-Wan, but still enough to make people he met swoon.

But for some reason, Plo had always made him feel different. He’d made him feel more aware of himself, of how he acted around him. Plo had always had such a calm demeanor, even when they had first met, and Kit had just been an inexperienced padawan.

It took Kit a while to figure out why he was so unsure of himself around him, why he felt that he needed to prove himself all the time when the Kel-dor was nearby. It took Aayla smacking him on the head for him to realize it.

Kit had fallen in love.

And so had Plo.

Which is where they were now, almost fifteen years after their first meeting, more than five years after they had first gotten together.

They were both lying in their shared bed, Plo sleeping without a care in the world while snuggled up to Kit’s chest, his face resting in the crook of his neck, but Kit couldn’t find rest.

He couldn’t get the words Nahdar had spoken so casually earlier in the day out of his head. It had seemed so obvious to the young Mon Calamari, and he could not help but wonder why he’d never thought of it before.

“If you love him so much, why don’t you just marry him?”

It had been more of an annoyed remark than an actual question, as it had been spoken after Kit had once again gushed about Plo to his padawan while helping him with his homework.

Kit had been left in stunned silence, which seemed to glad Nahdar as he continued writing on his holopad as if he hadn’t dropped a literal bombshell on his master.

Marry him.

Marry Plo.

The thought had managed to leave his thought just a few minutes after as Nahdar needed help with a question, but it had managed to slither back into his mind as he went to bed, cradling the Kel-Dor in his arms.

Would it be such a bad idea?

Kit couldn’t help but grin at the image of him introducing himself as Kit Koon, it made him feel all giddy and jittery inside.

Plo shifted gently in his arms, burying his face deeper into his neck and letting out a quiet groan. Kit couldn’t help but smile down at him, gently stroking his back and kiss the top of his head.

The idea of Plo as his husband was more than wonderful, it was downright brilliant, and Kit wanted that image to be real.

But the idea of actually asking him horrified Kit to his core.

*** “You’re making way too big of a deal out of this,” Aayla said for maybe the tenth time as she leaned her chin on her fist, sighing deeply, “Just kriffing ask him.”

Kit snorted, crossing his arms against his chest, “You know I asked for your help so you could give me advice, not complain the entire time.”

“You didn’t ask me!” She replied, throwing her arms in the air, “You tricked me to come here you boc'ara!”

Well, he couldn’t exactly deny that, he had told her to arrive at his quarters for a meditating session, but instead he’d pulled her in and immediately started rambling to her.

“That doesn’t matter at the moment!” He argued back, pouting slightly, “What does matter is that I need your help to pull this off!”

Aayla sighed deeply while rubbing her face, “Listen muchi, I know you want to propose in some grand way, but I also know that Plo would appreciate whatever you did, so stop making it into a big thing and just ask on your next mission or something.”

“But it’s not that easy!” Kit was well aware that he was whining, but he didn’t care, “Should I have a speech prepared? A plan for the actual wedding? A ring of some sort? Do Kel-Dors use wedding rings? What if he says no?!”

Aayla let out an airy laugh at the last words, “Please, from what Shaak has told me he’s rambling about you as much as you are about him, there’s not a chance he’d say no.”

“But what if?!” Kit shot to his feet as he shouted, “What if he thinks it’s too early?! What if he doesn’t want to risk it?! What if he finds it weird and wants to break things off?!” Kit had begun pacing the room as he rambled up all the what if’s he could think of.

“Kit,” Aayla said, her voice still calm as she stood up and stopped his pacing by putting her hands on his shoulders, rubbing them slightly, “Calm the kriff down. Plo loves you very much, and you love him. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“There’s always something to worry about,” He muttered. Especially around Plo. Kit had always wanted everything to be perfect when it came to him, despite the Kel-Dors insistence that it really was not necessary, he was already perfect.

“How would you do it?” He asked, glancing up at his friend, “If you were to propose to Luminara, how would you do it?”

Aayla snorted, “I’d just ask her, maybe after some mission or something, simple as that. But we’ve been together for less than a year, so maybe we will wait for a little with that,” Despite her words, Kit could see Aayla smirk slightly at the idea of being married to Luminara.

“You make it sound way too easy,” He groaned, rubbing the palms of his hands over his eyes.

“Because it is that easy,” She said, her voice more comforting than before, as she rubbed his shoulder, “Let’s just make a plan, that does not involve you freaking out, okay?”

***

And so they did.

Kit and Plo were planned on going on a mission together just a week after, and Aayla saw that as a perfect opportunity to ask when they were finished and alone.

She’d helped him prepare a speech, though made sure it was his own words, and even helped him with buying a ring.

That did not make him any less nervous when Plo and him were back in their quarters after the mission, Plo speaking fondly of one of his clones, which normally Kit would have loved to hear about but he just couldn’t focus.

“Plo,” He finally said, realizing first after that’d he’d interrupted him, “Sorry, I-”

“It’s alright,” He said, and despite the fact that most of his face was covered Kit could see the concern on his face.

It became silent after that. Not awkward, it was never awkward when it came to them, but it was as close as they’d ever come to it.

“Plo I-”

“Kit-”

Both the Jedi chuckled as they spoke at the same time, and Kit started fidgeting lightly with his fingers. The small box with the ring felt heavy in his pocket.

“You first,” Plo said.

Well, it’s now or never.

“Plo,” He started, looking up at the Kel-Dor with nervous eyes, “I love you,” He started, and he could see a slight confusion pass over Plo’s features.

“Yes, I know that Kitty, you tell me every day and I love you too, but this is something else,” His voice was stable like it always was, but he could detect the question in his tone nonetheless.

“I know,” Kit said, a smile tugging at his lips,” I love you more than you could imagine Plo, and ever since I met you I knew that I would break the Jedi code a thousand times over if it meant being with you.”

“But being around you makes me more nervous than I let on, Plo. You’re just too perfect, and in your presence, I feel less than, in a way,” Kit could see how Plo wanted to argue, but he held up his hand to stop him, “Let me finish. I may feel more anxious about myself, but I also feel better and more confident, kind of. I know it sounds, weird, but this whole thing is kinda, weird, so I guess it fits.”

Kit chuckled,” What I’m trying to say, is that you make me stronger. You gave me something to truly fight for in this war, and I know that I make you stronger as well. And I don’t want to lose that feeling. Ever.”

Plo grabbed a hold of his hand and stroked it tenderly with his claws as he leaned his forehead against Kit’s, embracing his force signature against the Nautolan’s. It was warm, soft, comforting.

Kit reached into his pocket with his free hand and grabbed a hold of the small box with the ring. It was a Nautolan ring, designed to look as if seaweed ensnared the green gem in its middle.

He took the box out of his pocket and his it behind the palm of his hand, as he looked up at Plo.

“Plo, will you mar-“

“Kitty, will you m-“

Kit took a step back, stunned at the sight of a box that Plo held up, similar to his own. Inside there was a dark golden ring with a light red gem placed. At a closer inspection, he could see that there was an engraving in the ring the looked a lot like the patterns on Plo’s mask.

Kit looked up from the box to Plo, and he could both see and sense that he was just as stunned as he himself was.

After a beat of silence, before a snort escaped Kit’s mouth.

“I take that as a yes?” He said, snickering lightly while taking the ring from Plo’s hand, replacing it with the one in his hand.

“You’re a dork, Kitty,” Plo replied, slipping the golden ring onto his finger, before placing the Silver seaweed one onto his own.

Kit grinned widely, wrapping his arms around his now Fiancé’s shoulders, nuzzling his nose into his neck while engulfing him with love through their bond. Plo wrapped his own arms around Kit, embracing him tightly while whispering declarations of love into his ear.

Really, what had Kit been worried about?

***

If you’re wondering about Plo’s perspective throughout all of this, it was basically that he saw a ring one day and was just like “Might as well propose.”

Aayla will be real smug when Kit returns with an engagement ring of his own on his finger.

[37-children-of-the-dreams]

Day #5 of Crosshair x Korkie

I’m gonna write this like a fic.

It’s going to be long and full of bickering.

Crosshair wished he could just break the silence by putting a toothpick in his mouth, but he didn’t think that could even work.

“Kriffing Korkie and his dramatic ass,” Crosshair thought.

Kenobi and Korkie kept saying nothing to each other as they looked at the similarities. Korkie’s hair was showing some auburn roots that were hidden along dyed blonde hair. The same color that plaster Obi-Wan’s hair. Korkie’s eyes were a shade closer to Obi-Wan than Satine. And their facial features were close.

Obi-Wan was looking at a mirror of himself, but with Satine Kryze’s grace mixed in the boy.

“I never knew,” he finally said.

“I only learned the truth the day my visions came back,” Korkie said. “I guess she wanted to keep this a secret.”

“Possibly because she thought it would protect us. That was Satine for people, she makes the hardest choicest for herself, but she forgets there are others who want to help her with the decision.”

Korkie laughed. His mother was like that. Every time he wished he could help her, Satine would already have a list of other things Korkie could do. He had to see the woman who raised him work herself to death without giving Korkie a choice to help her.

“Basically Korkie here was living a lie?” Crosshair asked.

Father and son looked at him and Korkie was ready to apologize. Crosshair was biting his toothpick and crossing his arms. He looked amused at the sight of them finding out their relationship with each other.

“Crosshair, please don’t.”

“No no Korkie. I was just finally figuring out this weird puzzle piece called your life and now you shuffled the puzzle and put in more pieces.”

“I didn’t mean to lie.”

“So you’re saying that your information that we’ve been using for bounty hunting came from your half Jedi side? And I am supposed to go along with that?”

Obw-Wan looked at Korkie. “You used the Force for what?”

“Bounty hunting,” Crosshair pointed out.

“I never used the Force for years!” Korkie stated. “Also, he would never let off Kalevala if I didn’t use it.”

“So bounty hunting was the only choice?”

“Maybe? I was desperate to do something with my life.”

Obi-Wan sighed. He knew Korkie from Ahsoka and said the boy was prepared to be a leader of Mandalore, which meant that he was raised well and looked after by Satine. So what happened? Exile couldn’t have been that bad.

He looked at Korkie again. The boy was looking at his partner in anger. The other man gave him a tired glare. It was almost like he knew Korkie was going to do something dramatic and was about done with him.

“You know,” Obi-Wan broke. “It is nightfall and you two are exhausted. Let me lead you both to your room.”

“Fine!” They shouted.

Korkie pouted the entire way while Crosshair broke his toothpick and replaced it with another one. The room was small, but had enough space for both bounty hunters. When Obi-Wan left the room, he swears he heard the start of a long argument.

At his own room, Obi-Wan sat on his bed analyzing the conversation he had with his new found son. He knew Korkie chose to be a bounty hunter in desperation, that he and Crosshair knew each other long enough, and that he had the Force, but only uses visions and nothing else.

He was intrigued by the fact Korkie mainly uses visions because Force seers were rather rare and he only saw a few in his time as a Jedi Master. To have his own son be one was a surprise.

“His son,” he thought. “His son, that was going to be a new one to normalize.”

Obi-Wan wished Satine was still here. He had a million questions for his late love and he wished she could answer them. What made her hide their son from him? Did she know he had the Force? Did she do something about it?

He rose from his bed and walked back to Korkie only to hear them still bickering.

“What do I have to do to have accepted this apology? I told you everything about me! You know me now!”

“And still you forgot to say you were part Jedi and I could have died by being near you.”

“I needed some time to fully trust you.”

“Do you actually trust me? Or are you using me?”

“Maker, you are dense. You have more power against me, I stopped wanting to use you after realizing how I was over my head in this situation. I’m powerless and I’m just following your lead.”

“So you trust me?”

Obi-Wan heard a slap and Korkie came out of the room red in the face. He saw his father and left. Crosshair was sitting on the bed caressing his face. He looked at Obi-Wan.

“You have one dramatic son,” the clone stated.

“He gets it from his mother,” he explained. “I‘ll talk to him.”

“Good luck. He might make nuclear food first.”

Obi-Wan walked to his son and found him in the kitchen looking for recipes.

“Korkie,” he softly said. “Let’s talk.”

Korkie said nothing and pouted at his father.

“Please?”

Suddenly, Korkie opened his mouth and spilled everything. His reasons for acting this way, his need for doing anything, and his partnership with Crosshair.

“I don’t even like him and I still want to be next to him!” The broken boy exclaimed. “He’s nothing like me and I trust him. I think I’m going mad just being next to him.”

“He’s the first person that you befriended in a long time isn’t he?”

“Yes. I guess I’m so desperate for someone I might trust I latched onto him.”

“But you’re both bickering and fighting?”

“Maybe, but he’s also nice to me when he wants. I know my antics are bad, but no one told me how to act when I’m finally independent. I guess I just want Crosshair to argue with me about it because I wasn’t raised like him, I was raised like a royal and I want him to tell what I’m doing wrong.”

“Because you don’t actually know anything?”

“Because my visions only work when I can actually control them. I only learned to use the Force a few months ago. Let’s just say Mandalorians know how to make Force suppressing pills.”

“Understandable. Now, what are you going to do with him?”

“I’m in it for the long run. I’m just going to make this partnership work and we will get along one day.”

Obi-Wan nodded and the two went back to the room. He heard Korkie apologized for his behavior and Crosshair accepted the apology. When Obi-Wan left the room, Korkie and Crosshair were busy talking to each other.

“Satine,” Obi-Wan thought. “If only you were here. The sight of our son having a bounty hunter for a partner is quite amusing.”

[ergomaria]

The Past is Gone (but something might be found) Preview pt. II

(I’m posting a little more of this because it still delights me. Ironically, the whole thing is almost written (it’s short), but I can’t post it until I finish Miles to Go. Note that there are some really minor spoilers for that story, including Vann’s real first name.)

PLOT: Vann, Meetra, and Carth touch the wrong thing at the wrong shrine and are turned into themselves at 18. Alek finds himself paying his penance to the Force when he has to simultaneously watch over the trio while trying to figure out how to restore them to their proper ages.

Snorting in disbelief, Onasi shook his head. “There is no way that you can take a few random words and symbols and piece together enough of a dead language to translate this.”

“Actually, he can. I’ve seen him do a lot more with a lot less.” Meetra jerked her chin up defiantly.

Like talk the Council into granting permission for Jedi to become soldiers. Like defeat Mandalore the Ultimate with nothing but a pair of lightsabers. Like convince a good-hearted Consular to use a superweapon. The only thing more dangerous than Deran’s unshakable determination was Meetra’s unshakable belief in his vision for the galaxy. That combination was deadly for the Mandalorians during the war… and for the Republic.

“How? Because he’s just that perfect?”

“No!” The ‘p’ word had been uttered, which meant things could only go downhill. “Language and syntax are usually easy for me because they’re like a puzzle. Patterns and sounds, rhythms, tones… decoding them is fun.”

“You are weird.”

“What? Working puzzles and solving problems is also what makes me so good at battle strategy. It helps me to see beyond what’s logical and push the edge of what’s possible. It’s how I can defeat opponents twice my size in spars or duel two combatants at once. What can you do, nerf-brain?”

“Seriously? You can take on two opponents at once? And win?” The incredulity was hysterical considering that adult Onasi was mildly terrified of his partner.

“Yes, I can.” Shifting into a ready stance, Deran cocked his head to the side. “Do you want a demonstration?”

Onasi was about five seconds from getting his ass kicked by a kid who was 8 centimeters and 13 kilos smaller than him, and Alek was going to let it happen because his own hubris would appreciate the spectacle. He wasn’t a good person, he already knew that, and witnessing this moment was entirely about soothing his own jealousy. But Meetra was staring at him with her big blue eyes, her expression clearly stating, ‘Someone’s going to get hurt if you don’t do something!’ It was the same look that she gave the Revanchists’ leaders for the first year of the war until she finally learned that pain and death were ‘acceptable sacrifices’ provided their side was winning.

“Stop antagonizing someone who’s spent the last six years learning to kill with his bare hands and his mind. It will not end well for you, and I’m not highly inclined to help you out of your apparent death wish.” Just because Alek was doing the right thing didn’t mean he had to be nice about it.

“Jedi don’t rely on size or strength, at least not completely. We can augment our physical capabilities through the Force when we need to but...” Hooking her foot around Onasi’s ankle, Meetra gave a slight tug that set him off-balance. As the cadet stumbled, the little Consular spun around his back and rammed her knee into his opposite hip before driving her heel into the back of his calf. As Onasi lost his footing completely, a light push to his chest sent him down like a bag of duracrete. Meetra just grinned. “We ultimately rely on speed, maneuverability, and the wisdom to turn our opponents’ movement against them.”

That little display seemed to quell the worst of the prodigy’s temper and he snorted at the sight. “She’s had the least combat training out of any of us.”

“Deran’s always at the top of his class at combat skills, and Guardians receive more combat training that the rest of us combined.” Smiling sweetly at Onasi, Meetra extended a hand to help him to his feet. “You should be more careful about who you pick a fight with.”

Accepting the assistance, the cadet stared at the blonde with an expression that was equal parts impressed and aroused. Honestly, that explained a lot about his attraction to Vann. Despite the fact that most of his open hostility had faded, a lingering hint of annoyance continued to pulse around him. “So, you’re seriously a linguist, a strategist, and a combat expert? And all of that just comes naturally to you?”

Meetra’s indignant response of, “Well yes! He’s a prodigy!” was immediately drowned out.

“Hells no!” The frustration that filled Deran’s voice was the same forbidden passion that he would later turn on the Masters when he demanded the right to go to war. “I work from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to sleep to be so good at what I do. Yes, some things come easier to me, but none of it is actually easy. I train one-on-one with the Order’s Battle Master and I take most of my Force classes with Consulars like Meetra who specialize in its use. I even carry out independent studies. And sure, sometimes I’m tired or sore. But it’s all worth it because pushing myself is what enables me to be the best.”

Panic attacks, insomnia, migraines... Alek mentally added. Can’t forget those.

“Alright, I understand wanting to be good at what you do. But, isn’t that a little… much?”

“I have the potential to become one of the best Jedi the Order has ever seen, and with that type of power I can help so many people. I can defend whole planets from scum who think that they can pick on anyone weaker just for fun. I can protect people like Squint… He’s my best friend who lost everything to a Mandalorian raid. When he immigrated to Coruscant as a refugee he learned that he was Force-sensitive and was sent to the Temple. But sometimes I think he’d rather be home with his parents. Except that’s not possible since his home and family are gone because the Mandalorians decided to target a defenseless colony. I never want to see that happen to anyone else, and if I get strong enough I can make sure that it doesn’t.”

“Shit.” Truthfully, Alek never knew this. He never knew he was the catalyst for some of Deran’s worst habits or the inspiration for what would become the Revanchists. This was new information and it somehow hurt more than anything else he’d experienced today.

“Are you okay?” Concern, bright and warm, flowed around Meetra. “You feel upset.”

Alek was upset. “I’m fine. That was just… very intense for someone so young, and there is no emotion. Keep that in mind.” He was a terrible Jedi. How these kids didn’t see straight through him in the first five minutes was a miracle of the Force.

Unfortunately, Onasi just looked amused. “Well, maybe you should start with that explanation and not act like such a little…”

The insult hadn’t even left the cadet’s lips and Deran was already poised to pounce.

Putting both boys in a stasis field was probably not the most Knightly solution to the problem, but Alek was emotionally drained, hungry, thirsty, tired, and absolutely finished trying to process this situation. Meetra nodded to him approvingly, as though he was doing this for anything remotely altruistic.

“Both of you stop it! You’re practically adults, so start acting like it! You are allowed to misunderstand each other. You are allowed to disagree. You are allowed to not like each other.” That last part might not have been accurate, but Alek was anything but a relationship counselor. “But be civil. Stop the name calling. Be kriffing respectful you karking assholes!”

[loremastcr]

〈⌈Ja’hailir. Aru’e joruur⌉〉

COORDINATES:  REGION:  The Outer Rim Territories. LOCATION:  Arkanis Sector GRID:  R-17

“My apologies,” The stranger said, a smirk loud in her voice. “For keeping you waiting. I hope Siskeen has been treating you fair, our weather is nicest this time of year.” 

Dark eyes cut upwards to meet hers, disinterest giving way to skepticism, one rough hand raising to scratch at his stubbled chin. “Knew I was comin’? Then you’re—“

“It’s a pleasure, mister Grigg.” Scissa Deg Rhoael said without stretching her hand for a formal greeting.

The place had gone quiet, or quieter than it was before anyway. Torin saw some aliens shuffle further to the opposite end of the cantina, heard the drinks and food being prepared more carefully and silently, the band even lowering volume of their music. 

The ex-bounty hunter had been hearing more and more of this apparently ‘‘formidable’’ woman as of late. Ludicrous rumors circulating a half-step behind the very mention of her name, voices dropping low to spill the news of what she wished to conquer, and the sheer impossibility of the feat.

“The woman tryin’ to rebuild the Bounty Hunter’s Guild,” Head cocked to the ceiling, he shook his head marginally with a scoff of amused disbelief. Torin Grigg sat up higher in the worn cantina chair, spine popping at the reposition, and spurring a mild groan. “Got your work cut out for you, I’ll tell you what. Lil’ piece of advice to start, maybe don’t try to recruit the retired ones.” 

“You came, didn’t you?” The voice on her was a confident one, borderline arrogant, while the candlelight gleaming in her eyes accentuated the gaze of power she was pinning him with. “Took you three days, burned nearly half your fuel, but here you are.”

Torin didn’t like the direction she was taking this small talk, like she was toying with him, reveling in it. He was too old for this kriffing nonsense, “I came,” The man didn’t bother biting back the snarl rippling his voice, “Because your transmission was so damned bizarre, I had’ta come and look into your face as you told me it was folly!”

Her cool toned eyes remained trained on his, unaffected by the blaze of his words. “Sorry to disprove your expectations.” Scissa Deg’s arm snapped up from under the table before he could even unsnap his blaster from it’s holster, and dropped a loosely-tied cloth of no less than 200,000 imperial credits. The blonde continued smoothly through Torin’s abrupt nonsensical sputtering, “Naturally, you’ll be paid the remaining half after the completion of the job.”

“Remaining ha--!?” He was choking on his own spit, line-of-sight dancing shellshocked across every exposed gleaming golden chip. “F-Four hundred thousand credits?! Kriffin’ Maker, lady! What, do you want me to assassinate the whole fucking New Republic?!”

Her unchanging smile made him balk all the more. Acting like he was so easily excited, when she was the one who just promised payment of nearly half a million creds like it was nothing!

“I told you my up-front price during our communications, and I also told you what it would cost.”

Torin had to breathe hard through his nose for a few minutes before he’d gathered himself enough to say, “The girl... The one you said was... was with... with Mando.” He hadn’t spoken that name in a long, long while. Had been quite certain he’d never speak it again.

“Correct.” Scissa Deg Rhoael’s tone applauded his remembrance, then suddenly dropping to an icy temperature. “Linah. That’s her surname. My spies informed me not long ago that a person with that registered name was seen traveling with the Mandalorian and his stolen asset. A beautiful coming together of fate, really. The girl is my prize, but if you feel so inclined, the addition of the Mandalorian and the child would be a welcome bonus.” The frighteningly calm female then produced something else from beneath the table, a beeping object that all hunters with two-wits about them could recognize anywhere.

“That one of the child’s?” Torin was still winded from the discussion of money.

“No. This one was crafted just for the occasion.” 

“You made a tracking fob?” He didn’t know this place possessed the technology advancements, it certainly didn’t look it. Siskeen wasn’t a primitive planet, per se, but it was overgrown with nature and lacked a wholly-functioning spaceport.

“Took some re-engineering, but we managed.” The lady Rhoael murmured, “The girl was put through a standard biometrical scan after retaining some mild injuries following the start of her alliance with the Mandalorian. We can only assume this was also done to start a fresh, unofficial medical record for her.” 

Torin wondered offhandedly who these alleged sources were. He remembered a time when Mando was far more reckless and brash in morale, but he’d never been sloppy by any means. If he wanted away from the public eye, and was allowing some girl to run with him, the Mandalorian would undoubtably be enforcing a grave rule of caution and sticking to the shadows. 

“That data was saved on the Mandalorian’s ship—which we had commandeered long enough to collect. All that was left was to convert the prints and pulse-signature to a tracker.” At this, she lazily turned the blinking fob over in her hand. 

“Hold on, when and how’d you get his ship?”

“We didn’t, technically. But we have eyes in many places, Mister Grigg, one pair happened to be in the right place at the right time.” She didn’t expand on the explanation, merely offered an eery smile. Torin had to admit, a prickle of unsettled nerves arose under her gaze. 

“Right, sure. But how do I fit in’ta this?”

“You knew the Mandalorian, worked with him, were close to him.“ She spoke like it were simple. 

“T’s a bit of a overstatement.” He grunted noncommittally. 

They weren’t pals, or anything. Bounty hunters didn’t have friends, but they’d done jobs together before. Saved one another’s necks a few times, nearly killed each other a few others. Their last mission was seven-something years ago, a lifetime ago, chasing some guy named Fulcrum and his wild haired partner. The mission turned sour, bad. Only he, Mando, and one other recruit got out alive. Worse yet, the targets lived, so they weren’t even paid for their losses. “One don’t really ‘get close’ to Mando.”

“Well, the girl and the child seemed to have cracked that code.” The woman countered with a rising brow. 

“I ain’t surprised ‘bout the kid, stuff’s pretty trademark Mandalorian culture.” Taking in orphaned young ones to raise was damn near an epidemic amongst the race, or so Torin had always heard. It was almost like some weird rite of passage for them. They were an intensely familial people, and they took that to the bone—when they were alive, anyway. 

The girl, though. . . 

“Ma’am, with respect, I’ve not been in the game in many a years. Can’t ya enlist a fresher faced professional to—?”

“That rather defeats the point, Mister Grigg. We have a fair number sworn into our guild already, but most are young and severely lacking the capacity to compete with such an experienced target. Or, rather, the associate of the target. We need to be established better first, regulating this bounty is the breakthrough we need to get word out there about us. Going to remaining members of the old guild wouldn’t spike our reputation, we’d just be their latest hire. The old Bounty Hunter’s Guild is gone, but from it’s ashes another can rise. With your help, of course.” 

That logic seemed flawed in Torin’s mind, though he couldn’t tell exactly where or how, but it aligned well enough with the woman’s show of pride. “And I don’t count, ‘cause..?”

“You said yourself, you’re out of the game. Retired.” Her lips smacked smugly around each word she quoted, further uneasing the man. “Besides, this situation is rather... delicate, for reasons I can’t divulge yet if we have no agreement. Moreover, you know the Mandalorian, that gives you an edge.”

“That don’t mean he’ll trust me within a hundred feet of this girl you’re after.” Torin told her, eyes thinning with thought. “Why’re you after her, anyhow?”

“Now, now,” The grin Scissa showed off could cut straight through transparisteel. “The rules of the Guild still apply, do they not?”

No questions asked. Torin’s teeth ground into his lower lip, hands clasping together and thumbs twiddling in some absentminded recreation of a sword-fight.

A silence befell them. Jumbles of thoughts bombarding Torin’s mind with speeds only known to hyperspace. Scissa did not move a millimeter as he kept prolonging his answer, still wearing that knowing, eased and cocky expression. “What exactly,” His elbows slid up the table as he leaned closer, uncomfortably noting the slow smile which stretched her mouth as he did. “Are you asking me t’do?”

[maryellencarter]

Yay laptop! *type type type*

So I reblogged this meme a bit ago as a reminder to answer all the questions for Wes when I had time. Technically I’m procrastinating on a writing thing, but I’m stuck on that one, so. ^_^

1) Something this character is truly proud of. -- You know, this one is kind of tricky, because as much as Wes acts like a blowhard, he doesn’t actually brag on his achievements very much. His looks, sure. Other people’s achievements, absolutely. But he projects that “not a badass” image about himself. I think he’s definitely proud of the morale officer stuff, though, especially when he manages to get Wedge or Tycho or Hobbie out of a funk.

2) Who they want to please the most. -- Oh, Wedge, forever. That causes some tension in his friendship with Hobbie every so often, because Wes will always put Wedge first. It’s awkward when your wingman knows he’s your second priority. *hugs them* That’s like, the motivating factor of at least two different unwritten/unpublished stories I’m involved with right now, probably more.

3) Who depends on them. -- More people than think they do. The Rogues, the Wraiths, probably most of the Rebellion back in the day. Wes downplays just how much of the emotional grunt work he does on keeping the rest of these idiots functional, as well as how much of the paperwork load he carries. Wedge and Hobbie both know they depend on him, that’s the people who really matter.

4) What they would do if they had one month to live. -- This is an interesting one, because Wes already lives on the basic principle of “eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow you may die”. If he knew for a fact that he *wasn’t* going to die for a whole month... well, it depends. If he was invulnerable for that month, like absolutely unable to die ahead of time, he’d definitely go full Hamster Princess and like jump off cliffs and things. If it was just “you have a terminal illness”, I don’t think anything much would change, but he would get even more affectionate with his friends and also try to set things up so that they wouldn’t be absolutely lost without him, because he does do so much support work for them. If it was some kind of “I’m a time traveler from the future, you die in thirty days, this is absolutely necessary to preserve the timeline / save your friends from some horrible catastrophe, but we know you didn’t die till then”, and somehow telling him that doesn’t Schrodinger the timeline already (which it would)... um. This sentence got more complicated than I anticipated.

If he knew he was like fated to die in thirty days but not until then, but was not protected by a Hamster Princess curse spell thing, I’m not sure. What there should be is major fiddling with causality to find a timeline where he can save them without dying, but that requires roping people like Wedge and Luke into the process, and he wouldn’t. :-( Stupid idiot doesn’t think he’s worth saving. So he’d keep quiet, try to set things up to help his friends without letting them know that anything was wrong. They’d start to realize something was fishy, because they know him too damn well, and depending how angsty you wanted to get, it could wind up in a stable time loop self-fulfilling prophecy thing where he only has to die to save them because they figured out something was fishy or got in trouble trying to help him or something. The trouble with that time loop is that there’s no kriffing reason for the time-traveler to come back and tell him he’s going to die or has to die, if he did die, if things are working. *headshake* Time travel is hard.

5) A cherished personal belonging. -- Lieutenant Kettch, obviously. Yub yub, Commander.

6) Something they lost, but would love to have back -- Hmm. There’s not really much of anything for this in canon, which means I have to make something up. *ponders* Nothing occurs to me at the moment. That’s a story that somebody could write but it’d have to be the right thing (or the right person/friendship/whatever) and I don’t have one here.

7) This character’s favorite character -- Favorite character in what? GFFA media? Earthside media? Favorite person in their own source canon? I think Wes would really appreciate Jack O’Neill, although I’m not sure how Stargate SG-1 would come across in a galaxy where most planets have high levels of civilization, since it’s portraying a galaxy where most planets are pretty backward and only a few kind of patronizing alien races have anything like GFFA levels of technology. Like it’s a very different worldview. It plays specifically to Earth culture in ways that might make it very strange to a non-Earther.

8) What kind of car they would drive. -- Some kind of classic muscle car or hot-rod, probably. Tycho likes speed, Wes is all about power. “I mean a real tractor beam.”

9) What calms them when they are upset. -- Wes really, really needs to have the rest of the Fab Four around him, which is why Distna is such a renewable resource. ^_^ When he’s alone and trying to handle his own emotional shit, he likes to play brainless datapad games (that’s canon, he was playing one to keep from stressing out while he and Hobbie waited at Iella’s for Wedge and Tycho during Starfighters of Adumar) and snuggle Kettch. I also write him being fairly stimmy overall, liking certain textures and repetitive sounds and fidget toys, but that’s just me, it doesn’t have much actual basis in canon, only his general liking for swishy capes and blastswords and shit like that.

10) How they deal with pain. -- Emotional pain, he sits on it and ignores it forever. ;P Physically, he’s pretty tough, but he doesn’t do the kind of teeth-gritting silent-suffering thing I associate with like grungy alpha male types. He’ll hide that he’s injured if he needs to, if letting the others know would distract from an important or time-sensitive mission, but... like, I’m thinking of a bit in the comics, and comics characterization is always subject to being taken with more than a grain of salt, but the bit where Tycho is setting Wes’s broken leg, and Wes is making Noises and Tycho is being like “c’mon Wes you’re tougher than that”. Like Wes is fundamentally not a quiet guy, and he doesn’t have the macho wiring that makes not showing pain a matter of pride. He’ll scream if he wants to. (This holds true whether he’s injured, having sex, having fun, or just making noise for the hell of it. ^_^ At least one of my planned Kinktober pieces revolves partly around the fact that I always write Wes as being really vocal/noisy in bed.)

11) This character’s favorite piece or pieces of clothing. -- The Adumar flatscreen cape, for sure. Wedge may have managed to airlock it on the way home, since it doesn’t show up in other pieces of Legends media, but he likes that cape a lot. It’s so flashy and tacky and amazing. :D

12) How they sleep. -- This one I’ve put a lot of thought into for cuddlefic purposes. His favorite way to sleep is at the bottom of a squadron cuddle pile, being squished under people he loves, like a living weighted blanket. (Which also ties into me writing him sort of autistic/ADHD-coded, but whatevs.) He tends to sprawl all over the place, unless he’s in a bad enough emotional place that he starts going fetal position. Wes is not a person who’s ever internalized any kind of “don’t take up space” message. (Damn, always-a-girl Wes would be an interesting fucking character to write. I’m calling Not It, because that would interact with my brain issues in ways I don’t want right now, but man.)

13) What kind of parent they would be. -- I’m not going to answer this one directly, because parenthood and parenting hits a lot of my buttons in very bad ways. But turning it around to “how are they with kids”, Uncle Wes is definitely Syal and Myri’s favorite when they’re little. They can climb on him like a jungle gym, he tells the best stories, he treats them with this conspiratorial respect that makes them feel like they can conquer the world, he is the best weird uncle altogether. The very saddest thing about the Nonspecific Excuse ‘verse is that Syal and Myri missed out on that. (I have Opinions, possibly. ^_^ Seriously, though. Wedge is a good dad, and Iella is wonderful, but I strongly doubt that Myri especially would have turned out like she did without Wes’s influence.)

14) How they did in school -- This is like twenty percent canon and eighty percent headcanon. We know that Wes is good at math / statistics-type stuff and XO paperwork. He’s a lot smarter than he acts most of the time. In my own head, I actually give him the kind of memory I’ve got, photographic or eidetic or whatever we’re calling it now, except it works on numbers and people’s faces as well as just words -- so, for example, Adumar-era Wes can remember every one of the nurses in the Yavin IV medbay by name, knows which one of them was pregnant but not showing yet (and how the kid is doing now, and probably sends it birthday presents), knows most of their birthdays, doesn’t have a comprehensive knowledge of which ones have died since but knows some of them.

This doesn’t have a lot of support in canon, but it does have a little: Wes gives Wedge that little dossier on Ejector Darpen, and I strongly suspect he could have given the same level of brief background and analysis on any of the other surviving Yellow Aces. (Which is a royal fuckton of responsibility to have, and possibly one reason he’s a little cautious about spreading gossip around, beyond funny stories everyone remembers. Do you know what kind of trouble you can cause if you remember every unflattering thing anyone has ever said about anyone else in your presence? It’s a lot. A lot a lot a lot. I was not a fun friend to have as a teenager.)

So, um, specifically about how he did in school, there are two ways I could go: straight-A student or deliberate slacker. I mean, either way he’s the perpetually goofing-around class clown, I’m just not sure whether he’s also the teacher’s pet / kid who always knows the answers. I think I’d lean toward saying he was, though, because of the little “shill in the audience” bit he does with Wedge that one time -- that has very much the flavor to me of a kid who always made it a goal during the first week of class to get the teacher to go “Not you, I know you know it” and call on someone else, cause that’s me. ^_^

15) What cologne or perfume they would use -- I don’t honestly have enough of a sense of smell to answer this question. Personally I like sandalwood, but that’s Isard’s perfume (well, “leatherwood”), so even though Wes might independently wind up using it, I feel weird going with it. It’s like the Only One Steve rule. ;-) But Wes has a pretty vivid sense of smell -- I noticed when I was going over the “nice rear, Lieutenant” prank for something else, the descriptions of both the Ewok food and the cleaning fluid are strongly scent-oriented -- so either he’d wear something strong-smelling that he enjoyed, or something very subtle so it wouldn’t bother him, or just not wear scented stuff if it does bother him.

(God, the sheer levels of detail I get out of these books. Sometimes I feel like I’m reading way too much into these tiny little details, but it’s fun. And way more harmless than overanalyzing the Bible and Catholic religious doctrine in order to figure out The One Right Way To Act, which is what I used to do with these skills. ;S)

16) Their sexuality -- Oh, pan as hell. I personally write him as pansexual, aromantic, usually polyamorous, and pretty solidly cisgender, but that’s me. I’ve seen him written lots of different ways, but he very much appreciates pretty people of all genders, whatever exact orientation one goes with. (I don’t think I’ve ever seen him written gendervariant, but that would definitely be a possibility. Maybe I’ll come up with a story for that at some point, maybe not. And @virusq had a great suggestion for a bi/panromantic asexual Wes who flirts with everybody and is really into cuddling and pillow-talk but not sex, I don’t think anyone’s written that one yet either. *shoves it into the big pile of prompts in the middle of the table that is this fandom*)

( @tigerkat24 part of me keeps wanting to write an ace!Wes ‘verse where he’s basically James, but part of me wants to actually write those stories with James and Mort instead of Wes and Hobbie, and jesus fuck why do I have to have multiple pairings with the same dynamic. Why. :P I still don’t have an actual arc for Mort since I stopped wanting to write his original arc, either.)

(I keep going back and forth on whether to put my Mort/James stories from Rainbowfic onto AO3. Like they’re “original fiction written in a fannish context” for sure, but they’re also kind of scattershot and rather ancient, and... blergh. idk. Writing is hard.)

17) What they’d sing at karaoke -- This is again difficult because GFFA media. Earthside AU Wes, though, I’m definitely thinking the kind of bouncy catchy... do they call it “bubblegum pop”? Songs like “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”, “All the Single Ladies”, those very girly-coded danceable songs, just belting them out without a hint of irony, dancing and shaking his butt and having a grand old time. (You know Wes has at least acceptable dance moves. ^_^) One of the things I really especially enjoy about Wes is that he doesn’t have the toxic masculinity shit that a lot of flirtatious male characters are coded with. He would definitely be a drag queen in any context where that was an option, you know? It’s nice to have a character I read as cis male but who doesn’t have any gender panic about enjoying the girly shit. There aren’t enough of those.

18) Special talents they have -- Well. There’s the killing people. ;P I mean, that really is the main one. He doesn’t have much in the way of non-military life skills, and he knows it. He mostly doesn’t get super angsty about it, because he mostly doesn’t get super angsty about anything, but... y’know, even when it’s just a sentence or two, I really like those little bits where a writer comments on it, that he’s a soldier and he’s not really... prepared to be anything except a soldier. Peacetime would be so, so hard for him to adjust to, and I don’t quite have a solid story idea for that but I really want somebody to tackle it someday, whether it’s me or somebody else.

19) When they feel safest -- Underneath a cuddle pile of all his friends, definitely. If he knows they’re safe, then he’s safe. You know? They have each other’s backs. He’s not really functional as a single person, he’s part of a unit. It’s not super healthy, but god I miss it :P

20) Household chore they hate the most -- Hmm. See, this one requires figuring out what chores Rebel/NR pilots even do, other than KP duty. (I feel like having Wes constantly on KP is kind of cliched; the only person we actually see get KP in the books is Face. So I like to try and come up with other shit. But there’s not a lot of chores that pilots actually do. They have laundry droids and shit for most of it.)

Earthside modern AU, though... hmm. The thing is, I’ve got chores I love and hate, but those are formed by my specific childhood history, which is deeply complicated. Wes specifically... I’m not sure we have enough data. Does he enjoy cooking? Does he have sensory issues? Does he find laundry boring? (I always liked laundry because the laundry room was in the basement away from all the yelling. Wes probably prefers chores that can be done in the middle of a bunch of people, because they’re not yelling at him. ;P Any discussion of household chores really runs into my issues, I guess.)

He probably doesn’t enjoy mopping or scrubbing things down, because we know he dislikes the scent of space Lysol, it’s too strong and sharp. See, if I talk long enough I can always come up with something I can tie back to canon. ^_^

21) Their fondest childhood memory -- Hmm. That’s a difficult one. We really have no data on Wes’s childhood, other than that Taanab is an agri-world and therefore he’s probably by some definition a farmboy. The rest is all speculation. Personally, when I need him to have a family, I borrow the one @irenkaferalkitty invented, because they’re adorable and ridiculous and I love them. So, basic US-Midwest-ish farming setting, working-class family, six kids, Wes is the oldest. (His dad is an autistic ex-Jedi and his mom is amazeballs. She’s like if Wes had never gone into the military. I love her.) But I still don’t have much specific in the way of childhood memories.

22) How they spend their money. -- Well, with the NR providing clothes and housing and all those basic necessities, I figure Wes basically just buys kids’ toys and lets the rest of his money sit. (Hobbie, who comes from a banking world, is absolutely horrified by Wes’s complete lack of financial acumen and summarily invests most of his money for him. So by the time he retires the first time, after the peace treaty with the Empire in 19 ABY, he’s... maybe not necessarily rich, but definitely well-off. He can afford to travel a bit, buy a farm on Taanab, that sort of thing. I’m seeing a vintage Y-wing on blocks in the yard, because I’m from Indiana and everybody has a hot rod and/or a couple of hangar queens up on blocks. ... @shadesofmauve, you have Corrupted me, look at all this space slang in my writing. ^_^) I have one story just about finished and waiting for a potential Kinktober, where Wes and Hobbie’s farm has a custom-built swimming pool for Hobbie, with a hot tub for both of them and a waterslide for Wes. I mean, the waterslide doesn’t come into the story, but it’s there. XD

23) What kind of alcohol they drink -- I feel like I answered this before at some point. @camshaft22 and I have some pretty detailed headcanons about Wes and Hobbie and alcohol, because we needed them for Afterimage. So in canon, pretty much everyone drinks one of a few things: lum, lomin-ale, Elba beer, Whyren’s Reserve (which is usually a high-class Corellian brandy but depending on the author can morph into a whiskey, become lower-class, etc). We know Wes likes Whyren’s, because Wedge gives him a shot glass of it as a sort of apology after the “nice rear, Lieutenant” prank. It’s described as having a “rich, smoky flavor”, so I figure in general he’d like whisky-type drinks with that kind of peaty or smoky flavor to them. (Coincidentally, whisky is basically the only booze I don’t find undrinkably disgusting. There’s supposedly a gene that makes vodka and some other drinks taste horrible; I’ve definitely got something going on on that front, because even the tiniest sip of vodka causes me to splutter and make horrible faces. It’s not the higher proof, that just tastes more like Listerine, it’s something else I can’t describe. Maybe it’s bitterness, Google’s bringing up articles about a supertasting bitterness gene.)

Um. That paragraph got away from me a little. Basically, Wes likes whisky and brandy best, but will happily drink pretty much anything.

24) What they wish they could change about themselves -- Now there’s a question. Wes seems mostly pretty happy with himself. There are things in his history he’d like to change, but as far as who he is, physically and mentally and emotionally, he’s pretty chill with himself.

25) What other people wish they could change about them -- Hah. Depends whom you ask. His close friends wouldn’t change a damn thing. Some other people wish he’d just stop being Wes altogether. It’s a rich tapestry. ^_^ There are a lot of people who fall somewhere in the middle, like if he’d just be a little more serious or a little less obnoxious or at least go be himself somewhere else, but most of those are post-Endor. The remaining pre-Endor Rebels in the service, especially the ones who remember Hoth and Yavin, appreciate Wes exactly as he is, because when you’re stuck on a goddamn iceball for a year, a big huggy guy made of warms who always has a joke or a prank or a game idea or a magic trick to cheer you up and break the monotony is priceless.

(In universes where Wes disappears long-term and is presumed to have committed suicide at some point after Distna -- Nonspecific Excuse is one, there’s another one I might do something with someday when I’m stable -- I always kind of think about the general reaction among Rebellion survivors who maybe hadn’t seen him since Hoth. I imagine it’s like hearing Robin Williams killed himself, like there’s that shock of... *tries to word* You know. It feels wrong, that somebody they remember as this perpetually sunshiny presence in a long dark endless winter, somebody who brought so much joy and love of life to everyone around him, could get stuck in such a dark place. That he helped them and there was nobody to help him when he needed it. Like, I mean, depression is a terminal illness, we all know that, but -- like, if he’d died in combat, that’s one thing, but... *words* Like, if he died in combat, that’s sad, but he was still him. For that joy to go out first and cause his death, that hurts more, in a different way. Am I making any sense?)

[emphasisonthehomo]

please expand on fox’s vacay

I feel like it might be after all the shit goes down in a vague "most people live, some people die (especially Palps)" kind of way. Because we all know he wouldn't be allowed a proper vacation during the war. So I guess this might not be a vacay so much as no longer being enlisted? Whatever.

Fox is- he's not technically a commander anymore? And the whole thing is all very complicated. The senate is still flailing about how exactly they want to rectify the fact that they used a bunch of clone slaves as military labor and meat shields. Anyways, so Fox isn't a member of the GAR anymore, and he's not a Citizen of the Republic (NOT YET, PLEASE KRIFFING SHIT IT BETTER BE A 'NOT YET' SITUATION) and has... nothing to do.

So he decides to take some time and just be. He's never been able to be before, he's never had a chance to figure out who he is outside of the Guard.

Also sleep in. He's never really slept in. He hasn't figured out how to do it yet honestly, even if he tries he still wakes up stupid early and putters around his barrack rooms? Place where he lives with his brothers? What the fuck honestly.

He doesn't know how to dress outside of his uniforms and armor, so he just kinda of wanders around in space sweats and t shirts. He experiments with maybe having a mustache? He doesn't like it, so he shaves it off. And then changes him mind? And then doesn't like it and shaves it off. And then changes his mind? And then doesn't like it-

Anyways, Fox applies himself to Trying To Be A Normal Person with single minded focus, and winds up doing a bunch of CORUSCANT TOURISM 101 shit.

Which is how he finds himself wandering around some weird art installation, wondering what the goddamn sith hells he's looking at, this doesn't make sense-

And bumps into the pretentious and beautiful artist who made the art installation, and they have some very flirtatious banter/argument about the Meaning of Artè™. Fox has no knowledge of art theory or any of that bullshit, he's just going with his gut and first impressions.

So art banter turns into normal banter, turns into going to another art museum, turns into dinner, turns into drinks at a bar, and before Fox knows it he's spent most of the day with this mirialan woman who said "call me Fern" and Fox is Very Sure that's not her name, but he doesn't care, he's having a great time.

Fern knows he's a clone, there's no way she doesn't. But she doesn't act weird about it. She's doesn't ask about the Clone Question that's zipping around the senate and the holonews. She looks him in the eye and is equal parts delighted and horrified by his bad art takes.

As the tail end of the night approaches, she gets a considering look on her face and then the conversation begins to get a little more flirtatious-

When she makes a joke comment about how she got a new strap she wants to try out, Fox- is massively confused? Why did she change the subject to guns? He thought she was angling to sit on his face, and he was 1000% behind that plan?

"Oh." Fern says, because Fox wasn't able to hide his confusion quick enough. "Oh honey, I'm talking about a strapon. A dildo."

OH.

He is also 1000% behind that plan.

And then Fox gets fucked into a mattress.

The end.

[keldae]

Dialogue Prompt - 20. “I will never give up on you.”

Xaja was being most uncooperative to write for today, so here’s the best shot I could get out of her. I’ll probably think of a better response to this later…

(Also, CredFront = Space!Nickelback.)

Leading the Jedi and Republic forces on Corellia had been a feat in and of itself. But then she’d had other people to turn to for guidance- General Var Suthra had always lent a listening ear, Rusk had been delighted to offer his own assessments, and when all else failed, Kira had been there to vent and grumble to.

Organizing Makeb’s evacuation? Jedi specialized in rescue and humanitarian operations. That was just a larger scale than most Jedi worked with.

Oricon? That hadn’t been so much “military commanding” as “the Jedi’s the only one strong (or dumb) enough to go in there without going insane like everyone else”.

Yavin IV? She might have been one of the driving factors behind the rallying Imperial and Republic troops, and somehow she might have been the one spending the most time on the front lines when she wasn’t contributing to Master Satele and Darth Marr’s strategy discussions, but it hadn’t been her party to lead. And if somebody hadn’t started spreading the rumour that she was the only person talented enough with the Force and combat prowess to take down Revan, she probably could have stayed behind the scenes and only gone to back Marr and Master Satele up.

Ziost… the less said about Ziost, the better. That would have been not quite as awful if Saresh hadn’t gotten involved.

This whole mess with Odessen and Zakuul, conversely, was giving Xaja grey hair and ulcers. She was five kriffing years out of experience with… literally everything, including military or Jedi command. It was a war she still felt like she hadn’t been fully brought up to speed on, in a galaxy that was no longer familiar, with a loose alliance of people she still didn’t know. Why does Lana keep doing this?…

On top of it all, the position of Alliance Commander also apparently included public speaking, which Xaja hated.

“What the kriff am I doing?” she muttered as she gazed up at the stars. On this small outcropping where her old Defender-class ship, the Serenity, had been landed, the stars shone brightly in the night sky, without too much light pollution from the Alliance base. They weren’t the same familiar constellations of Tython or Dantooine, but somehow the lights felt comforting. Are you still out there somewhere? Dad… Korin… Kira… Doc… Rusk… Scourge… Her heart panged in grief again with Lana’s news of Sorand’s presumed death at the Wrath’s hands. You deserved a better fate, little brother. And that was before even considering that the Jedi Order was all but defunct, the survivors scattered in exile and the Grand Master nowhere to be found.

She took a sip from the bottle of juma beside her to try and ease the pain of her brother’s death… and the knowledge of everything else that she had missed during five long years. Could I have saved him if I wasn’t frozen? It wouldn’t do for the rest of the base to see the Commander so upset and self-doubting and wondering if she was even up to the task of leading them. She’d already heard the whispers- people, most notably the mercenaries and Imperials, didn’t seem to think too highly of the tiny Jedi woman. Are they right? They’re totally right. This isn’t for me-

“Commander?” Footsteps sounded on the other side of the ship, booted feet dislodging the small stones in their path. Their owner paused. “Xaja?” Theron. Of course he’d come looking for her.

Xaja thought about staying quiet, then decided she missed Theron’s company too much. “Over on this side,” she quietly said, not tearing her gaze from the stars.

The footsteps changed their course toward her voice. “There you are,” Theron said, relief in his voice. “I was starting to get worried.” He paused before approaching her. “Are you okay? Hiding out in the shadows with booze isn’t normally your favourite hobby.”

“Yeah, you know, carbonite does weird things to one’s brain, I hear.” Xaja snorted. “Lots changed in five years.”

“A lot has,” Theron agreed as he sat down beside her. “The galaxy’s turned itself inside out, we’ve got Imperials and Republic people actually agreeing on things… even CredFront made a good song.”

Xaja blinked, then gave Theron a disbelieving stare. “I call bantha shit on that. CredFront couldn’t make a good song if they tried.”

“Like you said, five years is a long time.” Theron winked. “Mind, it’s only one good song they’ve made…”

Xaja smiled despite herself and shifted to lean against Theorn’s shoulder. The spy seemed to hesitate before cautiously moving to take her hand with his, fingers weaving with hers in the grass. “And in all that… did some things actually stay the same? This doesn’t feel like the galaxy I called home.”

“Some things are still familiar,” Theron said quietly. “Nar Shaddaa’s still the eternal cesspit of corruption, rivaled only by the Senate. The stars you’re admiring haven’t come crashing down on any planets yet. Most civilians are still going on with their normal lives, just… existing, not really caring too much about who’s in power right now.” He turned his head to kiss her hair. “This, at least for me, hasn’t changed.”

Xaja smiled and cuddled closer to Theron. “It hasn’t changed for me either, and I’m glad of that.” She looked back out into the stars and softly sighed. “Theron, what am I doing here?”

“Sitting with me and stargazing.”

“Smart ass.” Xaja felt Theron’s chuckle rumble his chest beside her head. “But in seriousness…”

“Yeah?” Theron prompted when Xaja trailed off, gently nudging her.

Xaja needed a couple more seconds to collect her thoughts, and used that time to move their joined hands onto her lap, her other hand leaving the juma to cling to his. “… Why me? I’m just one Jedi who got frozen for half a decade and missed out on what feels like a lifetime. Why am I the one being put on a pedestal and being lauded as some legend?”

“You’ve got a reputation for accomplishing the impossible. I’ve seen you do it, otherwise I would have never believed that one person, Jedi or not, could have done it.” Theron twisted his upper body so he could look at Xaja better. “It wasn’t any of us who could have gone in and killed Vitiate, especially after what he’d done to you already. None of us could have done that twice.”

“Anyone with enough training and luck could have done that,” Xaja quietly said.

“But it wasn’t anyone who actually went in and did it, it was you.” Theron rested his free hand on her knee. “It wasn’t any one of us who actually brought the coalition troops together on Yavin IV- it was you acting and the rest of us following. It wasn’t any one of us who kept Vitiate at bay for as long as you did on Ziost- not even your brother could have done that. It wasn’t anyone of us who got into a one-on-one duel with Revan while the rest of us were incapacitated with that Force-wave he threw at all of us, and survived, much less walk away victorious like you did.”

“Doing things like that doesn’t make me a leader, Theron.” Xaja looked away from Theron’s gaze to their joined hands. “It just means I’m lucky enough to become a carbonite block for five years.” She sighed again. “People are looking to me to make the galaxy right again and kick Arcann and his sister into the void where they belong, and I want to do it for them, but… what happens when I fail them and they see they’ve put all their hope into just one person? Will they all walk away and give up?”

There was a long minute of thoughtful silence. “Some, maybe,” Theron finally said. “But not all of them. Most of them will follow you to whatever end, simply because you’ve given us hope.” His hands shifted, clasping both of Xaja’s smaller hands between his palms as he drew their hands over onto his lap instead. “And some of us, even if you do somehow kark up horribly, will be with you no matter what.” He gently tugged at her hands until she looked up and met his gaze again. “If nothing else, I will never give up on you. You have me until the bitter end, if you’ll have me.”

Xaja finally felt a smile touch her lips. “There’s few people I’d rather have by my side than you, Theron.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Where would I be without you?”

“Down a spymaster, for sure,” Theron murmured as he kissed her back, one of his hands leaving the clasp in his lap to cradle her cheek in his touch.

“And far more lonely and sad, and far colder at night,” Xaja smiled against Theron’s mouth. “If I have to be the fearless leader everyone wants, I’m glad I have you with me.”

“And I would do anything for my fearless leader,” Theron answered as he tugged Xaja into his lap and kissed her again.

“Anything, hmm?” Xaja pulled back from the kisses to give him a mischievous look. “That sounds like it could be dangerous…”

“I like a bit of danger in my life.” Theron grinned, running his hands over her back and sides and making her shiver. “You feel cold… let me fix that for you.”

Xaja glanced toward the Serenity’s entry hatch and smiled. “She’s unlocked if you want to- eep!” Theron had apparently needed no further encouragement to abruptly stand up, scoop her into his arms, and make his way to the entrance of the ship, desire and excitement and something that Xaja thought she could call love drifting from him in the Force.

She still did not want to be the notorious Outlander or the Alliance Commander. But having Theron at her side made the struggle that much easier for her slim shoulders to bear.