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handspunyarns · 6 months

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You Were Marked: Days Sixteen to Nineteen, Part I

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C

word count: 4.4K

chapter summary: Fennec feels worn out, Din feels hungover, and Marathel doesn’t know how to feel

warnings:  fluff, angst, mention of blood and injury, rape aftermath, English and Mando’a cursing

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***   

You Were Marked: Masterlist

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter

Fennec was very, very tired. She hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since meeting this Marathel woman, who currently lay tranquilized on the cot before her. Marathel, who tried so hard to make herself as unobtrusive as possible, had instead sent the palace into an uproar. The silver-haired woman collected champions everywhere she went. Silnima was ready to adopt her as well as make her chief baker, if Marathel wished. Din Djarin was obviously completely in the most stupid variety of love with her, and right behind the Mandalorian, Cobb Vanth was hurriedly catching up in the adoration race. Boba had admitted to her that even he found her charming, and he was ready to jump into any fray to protect her, like an old mobster uncle would protect his favorite niece.

It might have been more amusing if Marathel was actually manipulative. Marathel was not. She was in fact so simple she was straight. She had no guile, no artifice whatsoever. Cobb had mentioned to Fennec that he thought of her as a full-grown child who had dropped from the sky, an apt description if there ever was one. Everything was black and white in Marathel’s world. She had a child’s sensibility, a child’s gullibility, almost to the point where Fennec wondered if the woman even had object permanence.

Fennec had just witnessed another emotional breakdown from Marathel, the reasons for which were still unknown to Fennec. Marathel had been lying quietly, appearing to be deep in thought, before she suddenly began to weep, and had become hysterical enough to require intervention from the medi-droid. Obviously — at least to Fennec — it was all somehow the Mandalorian’s fault. The fact that Din had both cleared the room and turned the lights off led Fennec to believe that he had: one, removed his helmet, and two, most likely kissed her, and three, probably told her he loved her. Both apparently had trouble with complex emotions, but at least Din should know better than to run in, declare his love like a soldier heading off to war, and run out as if a Hoth blizzard were approaching. At least give the woman a chance to reply, thought Fennec. After Din had left — having given her a handful of the Aurodium coins — Fennec had turned the lights back on in the med-bay to see a flushed and bewildered Marathel, sitting up on her elbow, her hand to her mouth, and tears in her eyes as the sounds of Grogu screaming “MAMA!” reverberated through the ship.

Then the ship began take-off, which shifted Marathel from bewilderment to panic until the ship ceased quaking and began to fly smoothly. Marathel had then commented that the persistent engine noise was somehow soothing to her, and she began to relax enough to rest.

It was shortly after this that Marathel’s latest crying jag occurred, and Fennec was nearly out of patience. After Marathel was tranquilized, Fennec left the med-bay in search of the Modifier, who was in the cockpit with the pilot. The pilot looked like the average mercenary: faceless, nameless, and uninterested in the cargo.

“Is the commotion all over?” asked the Modifier.

“It’s never over with that woman,” mumbled Fennec.

“Something new offended her delicate sensibilities?” Fennec sighed, and reminded herself that Marathel was doing her level best to cope. Then the Modifier asked, “Did the Mandalorian provide payment?” Fennec flicked her eyes to the back of the pilot’s head. The Modifier nodded. Some things were never discussed in front of a mercenary, regardless of how inconspicuous they were.

Din awoke in Marathel’s bed alone, curled up on his side, his mouth feeling as if he’d chewed on a Jawa all night. His nose was stuffed up, his neck was sore, and although his visor kept out the blinding light of the two suns, his eye sockets were throbbing with the dehydration headache. He felt around him, looking for Grogu, for Cobb, or even the Jawa he believed he was chewing on. But he was alone, and the door to Marathel’s room was shut tight. Din scooted over to the edge of the bed to peer at the side table, which held a large, beautiful pitcher of glorious looking water, several hydration powder packets, and a glass.

Silently thanking Silnima, Cobb, Frith, whomever had left him this morning-after gift, Din drank the entire pitcher along with all the hydration powder, took a runner-beast-sized piss, and had a quick hot shower to cook out the remainder of the booze from his pores.

Feeling human again, he straightened up Marathel’s bed, smoothing the sheet over her pillow. He sat in her padded chair to pull on his boots when he noticed items on her large treatment table that had not been there yesterday: a large, waxed bag that looked as if it contained sweets, three large hanks of yarn, a big ball of near-white fluffy wool, knitting needles, and two jars of dark honey. Set off to one side of these items was a new pair of shoes. The shoes were an ankle-high slip-on style in a deep grey leather, flat-heeled, simple, and very appropriate for someone like Marathel. There was a tiny scuff on the outside of one of the shoes, a few grains of sand on the inside of the other. Din had a fleeting desire to smell the inside of her shoe. That’s weird, right? Yeah, that’s just weird. I’m still drunk. Din stood, making sure his bandolier was properly buckled, and his blasters were properly positioned on his hips. He lifted his helmet and held it above his head to put it on when his eyes fell on Marathel’s shoes again. He dropped his helmet into one arm, grabbed Marathel’s left shoe and took a deep whiff.

Well, that was disappointing. All he could smell was new leather. With a laugh, Din put down her shoe, wondering if he would have preferred her feet to smell badly or not. He put on his helmet and opened the door. Cobb was leaning against the opposite wall, drinking from a mug of caf.

“How are you feeling, friend?” asked Cobb.

“Better now. Thank you for the water.”

“That wasn’t me,” said Cobb with a shrug. “I just supplied the hydration packets.”

Din looked up and down the corridor. “Where’s Grogu?”

“With the other palace kids.”

“How did he seem?”

Cobb shrugged again. “Subdued.” He smiled wryly. “He ended up between us, and we had positioned ourselves like a little fort around him. Our arms made the roof.” He raised his eyes to Din’s visor. “It was quite nice. It felt good. Made me a … little jealous of Marathel.” Cobb went silent for a few moments, and then he took a drink from his caf. “Look, I gotta head back to Freetown. I trust the new deputy only so far, and I really have no reason to hang around if I can’t get my arm worked on.”

Din remained silent. Both men stood still for a while before Din reached out to take Cobb’s arm. Pulling himself close to Cobb, Din whispered, “You’d leave me?”

Cobb’s eyes went wide, but after a moment’s thought, he squinted his eyes and said, “You’re pullin’ my chain.”

“Mostly,” said Din. “I need to go find buyers for the Aurodium, and I need a distraction for Grogu.” Din’s hand went to Cobb’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Come with us.”

“Uh … no. I’m not stepping off this planet. Jumping around the vacuum of space in a tiny metal box is my personal vision of hell. Not even you can change my mind.” Cobb lifted Din’s hand from his shoulder and held it. “But give me updates on Marathel. And … consider her staying here for a while when she’s better.” Closer to me. “The palace is a controlled environment for her. Out there … I think it’s hard for her to feel safe.” Cobb dropped Din’s hand. “She was scared of a Trandoshan she saw in Mos Espa.”

“She should at least be cautious. They’re assholes.” Din nodded. “You’re right, though. Here at the palace Marathel would have only a limited number of people to contend with. She’d be safe, even if I’m not here. And Silnima can help her have a purpose. Marathel is not one to be idle.”

Cobb grinned. “And she now knows where to buy yarn.”

Under the helmet Din was smiling too. “Thanks to you.” He leaned forward and hugged Cobb, hard.

Cobb squeezed back, and in Din’s ear, he whispered, “Love her.” Din drew back. “What?”

Din shook his head. “That’s what … the Dahl told me. Rodanthe. I figured … I imagined it. That she’d growled and my brain turned it into words. But she hadn’t made a sound.”

Cobb tilted his head. “That was something you mentioned last night.”

“I did?” Din reached under his cuirass and scratched the bite mark; it was suddenly itchy. “I guess it wasn’t a dream after all.”

“You don’t think it’s strange?” asked Cobb. “That this —Rodanthe critter ‘talks’ to you and then the next day Marathel can seemingly control you?”

Din scoffed. “The whole damn thing is strange. A woman can bond with an animal on a biological – chemical – neurological manner to the point where she allegedly loses physical control and goes into a heat cycle? And drags me into it as well?” Din looked up and down the hall. Seeing no one, Din leaned in towards Cobb. “She could barely look at me at first, and the next thing I know, she’s wrapping her legs around me and climbing me like a damn tree.”

“And I’m sure you fought that little wildcat as long as you could,” Cobb said with a smirk, but then he sobered. “You can’t think she’s been manipulating you.”

“I know she’s not telling me everything.” Din scratched the bite wound again. “I know she’s lied to me. I probably … shouldn’t have told her I love her yesterday.”

Cobb rolled his eyes. “Someone’s got morning-after guilt,” he said with a sigh. “Look. You need to fence those coins. She needs to get better. Then you two must seriously talk. And I recommend not starting with, ‘Marry me’. Or whatever it is you Mandalorians do.”

“Oh? What should I start with?”

“I suggest you tell her about the land mine to your sack. That should give you two a lot to talk about.” Cobb shifted sideways. “We should both get going, you know.” The two men clasped each other’s hands, and Cobb began to walk towards the landing tunnel, whistling. After about 5 meters or so, Cobb turned and said, “Man, you didn’t even tell me about the land mine. That’s classic.” Din shot him the finger, and Cobb walked off, laughing.

After Cobb had left, Din heard the pounding of feet and happy shrieks of children coming from the opposite direction. He turned, and a whole passel of kids were running full tilt straight for him; one of the taller girls was carrying Grogu on her shoulders. Upon seeing Din, Grogu squealed and leapt from the girl’s shoulders to Din’s arms, doing a forward flip in mid-air. The other children cheered; the noise went right through Din’s helmet and exploded somewhere behind his hung-over eyeballs. One of the boys yelled, “Let’s get something to eat!”, leading the other kids to run to the kitchen.

Grogu bounced on Din’s arm, chanting, “Mama? Mama? Mama?” while slapping Din’s cuirass with his little hand.

Din took hold of Grogu’s hand, shaking his head. “We haven’t heard anything yet, little guy.”

Grogu scowled and jerked his hand away. “MAMA!”

“I want to know how she is just as much as you do, buddy, but … Mama needs to go far away for a little while. She needs special doctors who can help her. Special … secret doctors.”

Grogu grunted, his face in a deep frown. “See-kit.”

“See-kit, that’s right,” said Din, a flush of pride going through him at Grogu saying another word. That’s my boy. Din held Grogu close, pressing his helmet to the little green fuzzy head. “What say we go fly while we wait?”

“Fy!”

“Wizard. Let’s go.”

Fennec got a message from the medi-droid that Marathel was waking up. She got into the room just in time to see Marathel roll to her side, rubbing her eyes. Fennec sat back down on the stool next to the cot. “Doing better?” Marathel still looked distressed, but she nodded. “Can you tell me what upset you so much?”

Marathel swallowed and closed her eyes. “He lied to me. The Bounty Hunter.”

We’re back to calling him Bounty Hunter. Dank ferrik. “What did he lie to you about?”

“The Bounty Hunter still had the coins. He was … he was supposed to give them to his covert, but he still had them!”

Fennec sighed inwardly. “He gave me some of the coins to pay for your treatment, wherever it is we’re going.”

“But he’s not supposed to still have them! Why would he lie to me about what he was going to do? “

Maker, save me. “Marathel … please consider that there is a perfectly logical explanation.”

Marathel sniffled. “Like what?”

“Perhaps the covert wouldn’t accept them. Those coins are … very old, and they don’t exactly work as money anymore. Perhaps Din needs to find a buyer for the coins so he can exchange them for usable money.”

“Then why give them to you?”

“Well, it’s not as if we had a lot of time to figure things out. We needed cash in hand for whomever these Reconstructionists are. Now, please, Marathel, please try to stay calm. Try to not worry about every damn thing so much!”

Marathel colored and looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Don’t be sorry. Be calm. Be quiet, and we will all get through this,” hissed Fennec, near the end of her own rope.

Marathel took a shaky breath. “Yes, Fennec,” she said in such a conciliatory tone Fennec felt bad for snapping at her. Fennec dropped her face into her hands for a while, upset herself. Now she had these damned coins to deal with. Either this Bishop was completely daft, or the men on that planet had no clue what those coins were worth. When Boba had first shown them to her, Fennec insisted they first count them, just so she could feel the gold in her hands, and then they spread out the coins on the bed and … well, rolled around on them a while. They had quite a time locating all the coins after that.

Fennec still had no idea where they were going — the Modifier was being very tight-lipped about that — but she needed something to go on in case she needed to find buyers for the coins herself, and she was already nervous about this whole escapade going sideways.

Fennec looked up at Marathel, who had been quiet for some time now. Marathel’s face was as blank as fresh quarried slate. Her eyes were unfocused, and her breathing was slow, her head slightly tilted to one side, her lips slightly parted. The slack look on her face put Fennec in the mind of someone who was mentally challenged, or in a fugue state. Fennec shook Marathel’s arm. “Marathel? Are you all right?”

Marathel’s pupils constricted, and she blinked. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I was just … being still.”

“That’s what you mean by be still? You just… check out and go into a near-trance?”

“Yes, it … it quiets the mind when they… make you do things to them.”

“Make you do things to whom, Marathel?”

Marathel took a shaky breath. “The Elders … the Bishop, of course.”

Fennec felt uneasy. “Even before you left the Hold?”

“Ever since I can remember,” said Marathel, matter-of-factly. Fennec nodded. She thought so, but it was still painful for her to have it confirmed. No wonder Marathel was so wounded. The poor woman’s never had a damn chance. Fennec was wracked with guilt for her unkind thoughts about the silver-haired woman. “Fennec? Don’t pity me.”

Fennec nodded again, and angrily swiped her knuckles under her eyes. “I should check your wounds.”

“Fennec ...” said Marathel, reaching for her hand. “My wounds are not getting worse, nor will they get better with anything you can do. Just … sit with me, please.” Fennec held Marathel’s hand, and in her eyes, Fennec could only see a kind of … sad tranquility that spoke of defeat. “Tell me again what I’m to say if they question me.”

“You’re to say that you managed to escape from a Red Room; that you don’t know where you are, or how you got there.”

“Yes, a Red Room. I couldn’t remember. I was thinking Dark Room. What is a Red Room?”

“I don’t think you need to know that, Marathel.”

“I think I should know … I should know about what lies I need to tell.”

Fennec sighed. “A Red Room is where … people pay to watch and/or participate in the torture and killing of … another person.”

Marathel furrowed her brow. “Why in the name of Frith do things like that exist?”

“It’s a sick, sad, galaxy. I’d like to say it’s gotten better recently, but … not really.”

“Is a Red Room always red? Or is it named … because of the blood spilled there?” Marathel sighed. “I suppose that doesn’t matter.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I miss my little hut. Life was so simple there. Make bread, set traps for food. Weave if I wanted, pick flowers if I wanted, do flat-out nothing if I wanted. Even when … Din and Grogu showed up, it was still such a lovely uncomplicated life. Made them meals, sewed their clothes. Made them bread. I made more bread for those two in that short time than I would ever make for myself in three moon cycles, those greedy guts.” Both women chuckled. “And I got to pretend I had my own family. We had fun, the three of us. I even got to hear Din laugh.”

Fennec pulled a face. “I don’t believe that man knows how to laugh.”

“He did! He laughed at me; that’s why I had to throw eggs at him.” Marathel launched into the story of the morning she wore her yellow dress and ended up in a tree because she had the temerity to scold a Jedi toddler. By the time Marathel was demonstrating where Din’s hands had ended up on her breasts as she dropped down from the lowest branch, Fennec was near howling with laughter. “So, I chucked an egg right at his helmet. Splat!”

“Oh, kriffing hell! Then what?”

“He said that I should be a … oh, what did he say … a storm …?”

“A Stormtrooper?”

“Yes! What is that?”

“A soldier of the most useless variety.”

Marathel frowned. “Should I have been insulted by that?”

“Absolutely you should have.”

Marathel giggled. “Good thing I hit him with another egg and told him to piss up a rope.” Fennec laughed. “I stomped all the way back to my hut; I was that angry. Later, Grogu brought me flowers, and Din brought me my favorite fruit to apologize. No man had ever given me a gift before.” Marathel smiled. “The next day, Din made me breakfast. The man made a meal for me. Never had I considered a man would do such a thing. We weren’t allowed to eat what we made for the men, not even the scraps from their plates. But Din cooked for me.”

Fennec smiled as well. And we’re back to calling him Din. “Men can be different when they’re from other places.”

Marathel was silent for a while.  “I didn’t even know that there were other places until Din told me.  I didn’t believe him.  How was I supposed to understand that a tiny point of light in the sky was another big place like the one I lived on?”

“Well, not all those points of light are planets.  There are also stars.”

“He said that too, but I don’t know what a star is.  I don’t understand half of everything he said to me.  He probably thought I was quite dumb, which is true … I don’t know much.”  Marathel sighed.  “When he asked me to come with him, it terrified me, because I knew I would only be a burden to him.”

“Din asked you to leave your planet with him?”

“Yes … we had been digging clams, even though clams make him sick, but he didn’t tell me that.  I was dancing in the water with Grogu, and Din put his arm around me, held me close …  and said I should go with him and leave the Aurodium behind.”

My, my. “But you said no.”

“What else in Frith was I supposed to say?  I was already ruined, I’m … nothing.  I’m plain, fat, and stupid. Sullied. Filth.” Marathel sobbed, tears running down her face. She rolled over to her side and curled up in despair.  “And I knew I was going to finally die — just sooner than later — but I also knew if I could help him in some way, then … my life could have meant something to someone. Even just for a few days, to a frightening man made of metal and his little green boy. I love Grogu so much, Fennec. And he’s calling me Mama. He shouldn’t be doing that. Not someone like me.” Marathel was weeping again, to her dismay.  She was so tired of weeping but could not stop any more than she could stop her slow loss of blood. Fennec held Marathel’s hand and said nothing. She had heard things like Marathel spoke of before, and no number of words to the contrary would change Marathel’s mind in her current state. Not all fears or hurts or ugly thinking could be slayed with logic.

After some time, when Marathel’s current storm seemed to have passed, Fennec asked, “So, what did Din say to you when he came in here?”

Marathel sniffled and scrubbed her nose with her hand. “Well, he turned off the lights, and then I felt something heavy drop on my lap. It wasn’t until he was kissing me that I realized it was his helmet.”

Fennec gave a small smile. “So, he did kiss you.”

Marathel’s cheeks flushed. “Did you know how heavy those helmets are? I thought he tossed a rock on me.”

Fennec rolled her eyes with a chuckle. “So, he did kiss you.”

Marathel shyly dropped her gaze. “Yes.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said …” Marathel took a breath. “He said, ‘I love you, Marathel, ma’mwsh ha’laa, nothing else matters.’”

“And what does ma’mwsh ha’laa mean again?”

“‘Wounded acorn.’”

Fennec chuckled again. “That’s so adorable it’s almost sickening. What was the kiss like?”

Marathel frowned. “Hard.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hard. He pressed his mouth very hard to mine.” Marathel put her fingers to her own lips; they were almost tingling with the memory. “But I could tell he had a mustache. And I touched his cheek; he had facial hair, and his skin was soft. He had told me his eyes were brown, and I saw his brown hair once, briefly … he was throwing up the clams in the tall grass, and I could just see the top of his head.”

Fennec wasn’t about to tell her she had gotten a glimpse of him without his helmet; it probably would upset her, and Din wasn’t looking his particular best at the time, what with the concussion and the blood everywhere. “Din doesn’t sound like he’s very good at kissing.”

“I wouldn’t know. Kissing is only for Diwhyns and babies where I’m from.” Marathel glanced sideways at Fennec. “I suppose Boba is a good kisser?”

Fennec’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

Marathel squeezed Fennec’s hand. “Boba Fett is good to you, isn’t he?”

It was Fennec’s turn to blush. “I didn’t think we were that obvious.”

“Well, I noticed. And if I noticed, I’m sure Cobb did too.” Fennec groaned. “And Silnima knows too, but I don’t think anything gets past that woman.”

“And that’s why she’s such a good Headwoman. She would love it if you’d stay at the palace once you’re well. She has designs on you being her chief baker.”

Marathel curled her lip. “I don’t know if I want to be a kitchen drudge for the rest of my life.”

“No one’s talking about forever, just for right now, for kriff’s sake.” Fennec sighed. “So how do you feel about Din? Do you share his feelings?”

Marathel thought for a while before answering. “I told him that I loved him before I went into the Hold; at least, as much as I knew how to love anyone. I know that I’m grateful for him, grateful that he took me away from there. But … it’s … it’s his Creed I’m having trouble with.”

Fennec frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The day before he took me to the Hold, I asked him if he would take off his helmet, that he could have me if he wished,” — Fennec frowned at this — “but … without the helmet, so that I would have his face as a last memory. He said no, of course. He told me that his affection for me was less than his devotion to his Creed. And I suppose I understood that, but then … he asked if I would sleep next to him, so he could hold me, caress me while he slept. Fondle me. As if I were only a toy. Not a person. Certainly not an equal.” Marathel sighed. “Perhaps he does love me, but … I’m afraid I will always be in the shadow of his Creed. That shadow may be too cold for me to bear.”

“Well, Marathel, that’s certainly a valid thing for you to feel.” Fennec patted her arm. “It seems like you two have much to discuss.”

“I wouldn’t know how to even begin.”

“The truth is usually the best place to start. But … for now I suggest you concentrate on what’s coming up with these Reconstructionists. Okay?” Marathel nodded, then sat up enough to hug Fennec hard. Fennec hugged her back. “It’s going to be okay, Marathel.”

“I hope so.” And she did.

You Were Marked: Next Chapter->

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tiredassmage · 14 days

Note

I can’t NOT send in ❛ you’re a weapon, and weapons don’t weep. ❜ for agent feels perhaps 👀

FINALLY. I FINISH IT! Perhaps a day late for Star Wars day(s) celebrations, but you know how Alucren is about talking about his feelings. Once again, them having issues actually talking about anything didn't end up using this word for word, but the shape of it's there. And... frankly a lot of indulgent intimacy, hehe. :3

Shoutout to the namedrop of my friend's blorbo, Taizi. Let's get these agents the idea of therapy and some supportive poly relationships, amiright?

[hit 'em where it hurts // sentence starts]

Deckard sighs soft and warm as Alucren presses his lips against his throat, dragging fingertips through the short hair of his nape.

Here, Nine is at a special, intoxicating kind of ease - one hand formed against Ellery’s hip and the other cradling the back of his head, encouraging Alucren’s introduction of teeth and rewarding the move by tilting his head back into nails digging gently into skin. By now, he knows Nine’s smiling without looking for it.

He smooths his hand along Nine’s spine, fingertips following the curve of skin down towards subtle implants. Nine sighs into the gentle pressure, content enough, it seems, to remain placated by Eleven’s lips over his pulse.

Ellery frowns as his fingers splay carefully over the implants, tracing the faint hints of scars he knows remains, no matter how masterful the work of droids in removing them. The texture’s rougher than the tanned skin around it, than the brush of Nine’s hand against his over his waist where he’s anchored his fellow Cipher back against his chest.

Dark emerald eyes fall away from the steady rise and fall of Nine’s chest to the murky, soft shadows cast in the cloak of Odessen’s night across the room. In this, he’s come to see that the skeletal fingers of Imperial Intelligence still whisper around their throats - the common tattered, lace thread tying them together that Deckard tugs on between the half-familiar dance of briefings and deployments, in the half-held breath of hallways and half-clouded eyes meeting silently over a desk.

He was an idealistic bastard at the best of times, their Nine… Always so concerned with not letting another choke on the decaying dust and rot that he prefers to line his own throat with it than remain idle.

Alucren swallows and tucks his chin into the crook of Tyr’s neck, tracing the outlines of those implants. It’s not the first time he’s seen them. Nine has bared plenty more than flesh to him, dragging him this far out into unknown and - to them - unmapped regions of the galaxy.

Sometimes, what Nine never wrapped words around said more than that which he did. Alucren wonders almost idly if it’s one of the reasons he was a better agent. Even a latecomer transfer as the war had reignited like himself had heard some of the whispers, the stories… Even a stubborn bastard like him had at least once seen the few extra lines across Keeper’s fair features.

And yet all the younger man had for him tonight was patience. Surely, some days it was shorter than others, but…

“Deckard…”

Tyr hums softly in acknowledgement. Alucren closes his eyes as Nine tilts his head slightly, just enough to brush his chin against his temple.

“What was it like?”

The draw of Tyr’s fingers against his knuckles slows to a stop. “Mm. ‘Fraid you’re gonna have to specify a bit more, darling.”

Alucren’s hand stills against his back as he turns to brush his lips briefly along Nine’s jaw. A moment later, he’s passing under Nine’s steady, watchful eyes. The urge to flinch nearly rushes up his spine.

Nine’s good at that - seeing all of him. Tracing fully down from the furrow of his brow, the aging lines Taizi tells him to stop fussing about, and not missing a single note in the depths of his eyes. It’s been damned infuriating at times. Alucren has yet to figure out how to swallow being so utterly disarmed.

Tyr’s eyes fall after only a few moments. It could’ve been hours, for all he takes from it. “You know I live with it,” he says quietly.

“Part of the job description,” Ellery supplies.

“Sure,” he says.

“Sure.”

Alucren’s chin settles against his shoulder again. Tyr pulls the hand from his hip away, draws it in front of him so he can watch as he traces over their fingers.

Living. It isn’t so simple as that. Taizi had told him… on Marr’s fleet to abandon his side, to go, flee, to live. Too much smoke had been in his lungs to discern the sting in his throat from the mauling of his chest.

In five long, lonely years that were as restless as the tempests over Dromund Kaas, Alucren Ellery had learned he’d never quite learned what living really was.

“Hell of a thing to live with…”

Tyr nods slowly as a frown begins to pull quietly across his lips. He turns Alucren’s hand over carefully in his and traces fingertips carefully along his palm, then up along each finger in slow succession. Alucren’s gaze falls to watch.

“They don’t talk about that much in Academy.”

“Did they send you?” Tyr asks.

Alucren’s head shakes faintly against his shoulder. “Not really. No time for it, with the war and all. Just some… accelerated program.” He weaves his fingers with Deckard’s and squeezes carefully. Nine lets him. “Suppose you gave them a run for their credits.”

A faint whisper of a sharper exhale clears Nine’s lungs. One corner of his lips barely flickers up for a fraction of a second - so slim Alucren’s half-content to believe it the blink of his own eyes at the edge of his vision.

“I think you’re skilled enough at that yourself, Eleven.”

He doesn’t imagine much, if anything, in that training explored the intricacies of the political fallout when an agent has to stand against the very head of their sphere, the very entity supposedly in control of their orders. There’s plenty in the handbooks for Minders about internal security. There’s regulations for these things between agents. From the most wet-eared recruits to the Minister of Intelligence, they all shared a duty to report security risks.

There was a time, Ellery imagines… There was a time he might’ve held a blaster to this man’s temple.

There was a time he might have - would have, likely - pulled the trigger himself on their infamous Cipher Nine.

He closes his eyes and tightens his arm around Nine. One hand against skin and metal and their linked ones over that heart of his.

Tyr’s chin nestles against the top of his head. He can feel the unspoken inquiry in the draw of Nine’s thumb once more against his knuckles.

Nine could talk a lot about Imperial Intelligence. Eleven usually balks on the matter.

He’s not sure he could’ve done what Nine did. He’s fairly certain he can’t do what Nine does now.

“How?” It’s hot and muffled against Deckard’s skin. It’s easier to hide than find the words for the hollowness in his chest, for the shape of the tremble in his arms, racing through his blood. “How did you..?”

Tyr inhales slow and carefully and releases the breath as a weary exhale. Their hands tighten around one another again. He’s not looking, but he’s sure his knuckles must be paling, constricting around Nine’s calloused, warm hands.

“Ellery…” Softer.

He turns away, not yet willing to cede the stinging in his eyes even if dodging it won’t obscure it.

“All I had were orders, Nine. A weapon, preferably in both hands.” His next breath shudders through him. “And no use for tears for what's given in the line of duty.”

“So they tell us, hm?” Tyr murmurs.

Quiet falls between them again for a few moments before Tyr presses his thumb a bit further into his skin. “Think I can have my hand back, love?”

Alucren inhales sharply, eyes turning from hiding behind his shoulder back to him only to find a soft, gently amused smile draping easily across his lips. Alucren’s knuckles are indeed pale around Tyr’s hand still in his grasp. He clears his throat and flexes out his hand.

Only for Tyr to reach out and take his chin before he can turn away again, pressing his lips carefully to Eleven’s temple.

“You’re here now, Ellery,” he says. “It’s alright. I promise.”

Alucren ducks under the arm he opens, pressing into the crook of Nine’s neck as he turns to face him. Now it’s Nine’s fingers at the nape of his neck, gently drawing lines up and down through short hair.

Living was very different from surviving, he’s learning. And even Ciphers have plenty of uses for tears.

#swtor #swtor fanfic #swtor fanfiction #dot words #still agonizing over this frankly god they're SO. so. indescribable sometimes but so so important to me #ch: tyr #ch: alucren #imperial agent #two of them even!!!#it's okay. you're here. i see you. ouuugghhhghghg #tyr deckard the man that you are #answered

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wolveria · 4 months

Note

"Echo Reader" for WIP Wednesday please!

Echo!!! In this wip he's wearing the "droid" outfit, my favorite ;)

After cuffing his wrist to the nearby pipes, and placing larger stuncuffs around his ankles, you patted him down and found a pistol strapped to his thigh plate, hidden underneath the cloth kama. You removed the pistol and placed it on the workbench out of reach, not taking chances. Your next task involved feeling along his helmet until you found a latch on the side of his headgear. The mask clicked and lifted upward, revealing his face.

You blinked, not sure what you’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

Cheep beeped in binary, tottering back and forth while waving his spindly arms.

“A clone?” you asked, studying the pale, unconscious face. “Are you sure? He doesn’t look good. Do you think he’s sick?”

<He’s definitely a clone! Though I am not sure if he’s ill.>

You crossed your arms. This was far more complicated than a simple thief sneaking into your repair shop.

“I thought they all worked for the Empire. This one doesn’t seem Imperial.”

“Do it.”

The grey and yellow astromech rolled forward, a blue light bathing the clone’s arm where he scanned it. After a moment, he beeped in distress.

“That’s because it was removed.”

You gave an undignified squawk and jumped backwards, Cheep mirroring your panic.

The clone was now awake and seemed very unhappy about the new development involving two sets of binders and the removal of his weapons.

You cleared your throat and straightened your posture, crossing your arms over your chest. Cheep mimicked you, crossing his tool arms in place of real ones.

“Are you with the Empire?”

“No. I told you, I’m here to retrieve a droid. That droid,” he said with a pointed glare at Cheep, who immediately scooted behind your legs, bravado forgotten.

“Cheep isn’t going anywhere with you,” you told the impetuous clone, “especially if you’re taking him back to that spice-dealing scum.”

“Then we have a problem, because I’m not leaving without him.”

“You’re not leaving at all! You’re the one in binders!”

The clone removed his hands from behind his back, the binders in fact, gone, and then proceeded to release the binders around his ankles with a simple spark of his scomp link.

You grabbed the pistol on the workbench and aimed it at him, trying not to think about how quickly this was spiraling out of control.

“Stay back!”

Cheep rolled in front of you, pulling out his stun tools and firing them up in a display that didn’t impress the clone. He simply glared at you as if you were the inconvenience, and his patience was wearing thin.

“Put down the blaster.”

“No,” you growled. “You’re not taking him.”

“Are you really going to shoot me to keep that from happening?”

He asked as if genuinely curious. Or maybe he was just stalling for time.

“I don’t want to, but I will.”

He stared at you for a long moment, studying your features with that same consideration, and then he gave a small shrug.

“Despite the fact you’ve never held a blaster before, I believe you.”

You frowned.

“I’ve held a—”

The clone lunged before you could fire, grabbing your hand and squeezing your fingers so you couldn’t grasp the trigger. He moved behind you, yanking the pistol out of your grip and pinning your arms to your chest with his scomp link. You kicked out with your legs, but he simply held you off your feet, taller and stronger than you even with one prosthetic arm.

“Let me go!”

The clone pointed the blaster at Cheep, who was just about to stab at the clone with his cutting tools.

“Don’t do it, droid. The client only needs your memory banks intact, not the rest of you.”

Cheep backed up but sputtered angrily, cursing the clone and the tube he came from.

“You bastard!” you seethed through your teeth, your struggles failing to dislodge you from his grip. “I thought you of all people would understand. He fought in the war, just like you.”

The clone went still.

#tbb echo #the bad batch #echo x reader #wip game #kedreeva #reader is a twi'lek #so glad i got to write for him a little bit

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frostbitepandaaaaa · 1 year

Text

Give Up the Ghost, Ch. 2

hey howdy hey, folks.

here’s chapter 2... after 2 1/2 months wait, you get 13k worth of me just screaming about these two a new chapter and a finished story!

thank you to @justwandering-neverlost for all your continued support and constant warmth and patience (also, beautiful moodboard incoming). and of course to all the Discord ferals. (especially to @gaygingersnaps and @quarantineddreamer for dragging me out of a pit of despair).

PREVIEW:

Cassian flinches at the sting of the needle being removed and the droid sprays the incision with bacta. “Water,” he rasps as he searches the empty room for any evidence that he hadn’t simply dreamt up Jyn the night before. Perhaps his dreams had lingered. “Please.”

The meddroid beeps in response, trundles off to do as asked and Cassian leans his head back against the rough wall, takes in a great, cleansing breath.

His life had been whittled down to a pin light just days ago— a flash of gold on the ocean, the hot spray of boiling sea and yet he is sitting in the quiet calm of the med-bay of Yavin IV.

He’d become well-practiced at spotting death over the years. It had become something of a habit, a study, a challenge he readily accepted. One he even sought out, at times.

”Kill me, or take me in.”

But, on Scarif, death hadn’t flinched. It hadn’t suddenly smiled in strange gratitude or taken a little bit too long to explain itself. On Scarif death was simply an immutable fact, a law of the universe: Cassian Andor was doomed to die.

And here he is, back twinging and throat sticking with thirst and badly needing a swig of revnog or something… and it’s a just a bit too much.

He flexes his hand again, the tingling fading now, and looks to the crook of his elbow. The only remnant of the needle that had saved him is a small, rust red scab. He knows, medically speaking, that her blood has been resorbed and recycled by his body, is identical to his own by now, but he also knows that he will always feel the spirit of it there under his skin. The memory. An echo in his veins.

read it on ao3!

#rebelcaptain #rebelcaptain fic #my writing #give up the ghost #cassian andor #jyn erso

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celinamarniss · 11 months

Text

We Can’t Keep Meeting Like This, chapter three, part seven. Part one. Part two. Part Three. Part four. Part five. Part six.

“Hey!” Peli shouted from the other side of the workshop. “Now that you’ve got two working hands, you wanna lend us one?”

“Shall we go see what we can do, Grogu?” Luke asked, propping Grogu on his hip and heading over to the ship. Mara wandered after him.

Din picked up the ratchet and returned it to Luke’s tool kit, trying not to think about how Luke and Mara’s display of open affection made him feel. He disposed of the old chip, slotted all the tools back into the kit and closing it up when he was called over to settle a debate between the Luke and Peli over the best way to compensate for the missing vapor manifold.

Peli, surprisingly, won that argument.

Luke put Mara in charge of the hyperdrive. Apparently, she’d once worked as a hyperdrive mechanic, though she claimed not to have the same affinity for machines that Luke had. As far as Din could tell, she knew what she was doing. He helped her lower the drive onto the ground so she could disassemble and clean its component parts.

To Din’s relief, she shooed the droids away when they came nosing around, clattering and chirping at each other. The droids regrouped and clustered around Luke, who gave them each a task to complete with a patience that Din had a hard time comprehending.

Mara set Din to work flushing out the Din lines, which was a relatively simple task, but took longer than it should have. Din kept looking over to where Luke and Peli were taking apart one of the nacelles and still bickering over the best way to repair the ship. A Tatooine drawl began to creep back into Luke’s voice the longer he spent around Peli, and he seemed to be picking up certain expressions and vocal patterns. He sounded more and more like a local. He hadn’t put the jacket back on again, and he’d rolled the short sleeves of his shirt up, leaving his arms bare.

Din couldn’t help but stare at the way the muscles in his biceps moved as he levered up a section of the ship’s outer casing. Tubing slipped out of his hands, and Din had to stop what he was doing and start over again, cursing to himself.

Mara’s head popped up from behind the heap of the hypedrive. She glanced over at Din, deciding with a quick glance that he wasn’t in need of any help, and looked past him to where Luke was holding up the heavy curved shell of the nacelle, his shoulders tensed against the weight. She stopped to stare as well. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips, and Din was transfixed by its motion as well.

Then the Skywalker droid made annoyed squawk and let out a long babble of incoherent beeping, its dome swiveling reprovingly in the direction of one of the smaller droids nearby. Luke dropped the casing back into place and turned to respond, laughing to whatever the droid was saying.

Mara ducked back behind the drive, and Din went back to work again.

After a couple of hours, Mara disappeared and returned with bags of take out from a nearby eatery. “Time for a lunch break,” she called, gesturing to the long work tables.

“Did you order any ahrisa?” Luke asked, as he practically shoved his entire face into the closest bag. “Ah, there they are.” He removed his head from the take-out bag. “You didn’t forget the hot sauce, did you?”

Mara shot him a frosty look and lifted a small condiment bag. “This isn’t my first trip to Tatooine.”

To Din she said, “I wouldn’t recommend it unless you want to sear out your sinuses for the rest of the day.”

“Core worlders,” Luke scoffed. “Weak palates.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Peli agreed.

Luke and Peli dug into their portions with as much gusto as Grogu did whenever offered anything slimy and wriggling. There was nothing in the bags that matched that description, but Grogu seemed perfectly content to gnaw on a long dewback kebab until he was stuffed.

No one objected when Din took his meal to the Razor Crest and ate alone. Once he’d eaten, he climbed into the cockpit and ran a few diagnostic tests on the system. He wasn’t avoiding anyone, he told himself, just getting a few things done while Grogu wasn’t underfoot.

He was halfway through when a recorded comm from Greef came through. The message wasn’t long, and the information that Greef passed on to him via a fuzzy holo was barely more than a few lines. He wasn’t sure how long he sat, turning the message over in his head.

Luke and Peli were still deep in the starfighter’s guts when he left the Razor Crest. The low thump of heavy bass drifted out of the workshop, accompanied by the shriek of some electronic instrument and a vocalist’s wail. Under the music’s heavy beat, droids scurried around, ferrying tools and supplies across the hanger.

Mara was sitting in a low sling chair under a sunshade not far away. Grogu was curled up in her lap, fast asleep. Din was glad that she’d found a place out of the sun.

“Everything alright?” she asked as Din approached.

“I’ve been trying to find my people—other Mandalorian survivors,” he said. “I just got word that there are Mandalorians on Trask. Or there were…” The message hadn’t said if they were members of his covert or other survivors.

He looked down at Grogu, snoring softly into Mara’s rib cage. He should have been eager to jump in the Razor Crest and tear off to find the other Mandalorians before they disappeared into

There was a part of him that wanted to keep standing there, looking at them.

Looking at her.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him,” she said, coasting a hand lightly over the soft fuzz on Grogu’s head. “You should go.”

“Thank you,” Din said.

“We’ll be here when you return,” she said.

#we can't keep meeting like this #wip weds #wip wednesday

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coffee-n-spite · 1 year

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Meeting Rey and BB-8

I was tired and my brain got stuck on that Rey and Finn as part of Hondo’s pirate crew prompt from ages ago and I write... so have a glimpse of this that I will inevitably continue when it’s again 3 am and I cannot sleep. Oh yeah I’m a commissionable writer...

“Oh this, this is gold! Should get me at least a portion,” They clambered through the last unburied chamber of the Starcruiser. The hyperdrive chamber. She grinned wide at the sight of a complete reactor core. Everything else she’d managed to grab had maybe amounted to two quarter portions two days' meals that could be stretched if she barely ate. She disassembled everything around it as carefully as she could removing the mostly round component before placing everything back as orderly as they could.

She slung the reactor into the mesh bag and began the clamber out of the cruiser.

“Now for the hard part,” she grabbed her makeshift staff using it to swing the bag up and over the vertical. Easy to get down and in, not so easy to climb back out. With the weighty treasure now safely above she scrambled to find purchase points and begins the climb. One, two, three.

“Gah,” a hand came loose and blood dribbled down, “Shit, right this used to be a floor. Handholds are probably sharp, real smart Rey.”

Rey hoists herself without the use of her injured hand groaning as she manages to flop over the edge onto the slight platform. Right what do I have to wrap that with, she gazes at the injury before sighing. Just this once? She concentrates on the wound and wills the small cut to begin closing, she never knew what this ability was, just that she once saw someone else use it felt the energy around how it worked and using her talent for reverse engineering decided to try it. When it had worked she was shocked, it had been a broken thumb, practically a death sentence on Jakku. Gone without a trace. She also knew that she couldn’t tell anyone.

“Just gotta get to the speeder without further incident,” she grabs her things and begins the tightrope esque walk to the sand. Thudding into said sand was rougher than she expected, still manageable though inconvenient. Fumbling her first steps slightly she reaches her speeder.

Her cargo attached Rey starts her speeder and despite its shaky nature heads for the port town.

**********

BB-8 let out a low buzzing woop. He landed the ship as close as he safely could to the unstable dunes, but it had well and truly sunk by the time he had arrived. He conducts a quick scan hoping for any life signs but there are none to be found.

It was logical to conclude that Poe had died in the crash, at least BB-8 hoped that was the cause of his death, not the sand consuming him. He whirls once before turning away, his ship wasn’t able to continue flight but staying with it would increase his chance of rescue. He held vital information and he had to deliver it or Poe would be dead for nothing.

The dunes were feeling endless even for the droid. BB-8, programmed with near sentience but endless patience was feeling the need to speed up. He’s been going for an hour when he picks up a noise. A speeder. He starts beeping frantically heading quickly towards the noise.

*********

Rey speeds along the dunes, hoping to be back in the port before the impending sandstorm. She doesn’t know how she knows when a storm is coming but she always does. Jakku has no weather systems, no broadcasts, so any warning is quite the blessing.

Something glints in the sand ahead, somewhat distant but still determinedly small and light in colour. It’s in my path so I can investigate, the thought was heavy in Rey’s head an impending sandstorm was a large threat but something like that could be worth a month's worth of food. She kicked her speeder to the highest speed. Something it could not hold for too long judged by how intensely the exhaust rumbles.

Rather quickly she is but a few meters from what was now obviously enough a droid. A BB model if she was up to date.

“Hello there, what is a little guy like you doing out here?” Rey shut down the engine to hear the replying chirrups from the droid, “Now that does sound like an awful time. The main port is only a couple hours that way by speeder. Maybe I can help you find your friend there?”

BB-8 as Rey understood from his beeps and chitters, she would have checked his serial number except it had been scratched off.

“Well, can you attach to the speeder, BB-8?” a best effort to interpret beeps, “I am mostly sure that was a yes. There is a sandstorm on the way so you should clip on or whatever so we can get to the port.”

#starwars #fanfic #commisions open #I'm Australian the spelling is fine #Yes this will be Finn/Poe but don't even breathe at me about Reylo #it's not happening #I will be killing off Ren we hate him in this house #no questions at this time #If it gets finished in some fever dream she'll probably be on AO3 #sequel trilogy #the force awakens

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uponrightful · 3 years

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A Little Wolffe Blurb

Hey @rex-is-best I heard you were thinking about our dear Commander Wolffe, and thought I might give you this:

Wolffe didn’t get his name from his “perpetual grumpiness”. That just developed as the war went on and he lost his patience for anything mildly inconveniencing. No, Wolffe didn’t get his name until after a few sieges into his career. It started as disbelief. One that came from the 104th’s shock of seeing one of their newest shinies right in the middle of a battle… missing his helmet.

Yes. Fighting. With no helmet.

But that wasn’t what stuck out in everyone’s mind. It was the fact that he had the most predatory smile spread across his face. It wasn’t evil, and it really wasn’t even enjoyable. It was pure and simple ferocity. And at this point, no one knew that he would be that vicious. This shiny had no fear, and despite having his helmet knocked off his head, there wasn’t anything that seemed to phase him. His blasters were smoking, and every movement was made with strength and prowess. That shiny didn’t make it through the end of that battle before his name was given to him. From that moment on, anyone who saw him called him Wolffe.

***

The second time acted as reinforcement. Wolffe wasn’t a Commander yet. And although his superiors were competent, there was always a question as to why Wolffe didn’t lead the 104th. He was born to it seemed, his simple presence garnered respect and order of the highest kind. It was another battle, unsurprisingly, no one remembers where. There were so many, and no one was paying that much attention to the scenery anyways. And Wolffe was backed into cover with what would eventually become the remaining men of the 104th. The odds weren’t in their favor, and there was a moment of pause in the fire-fight. Everyone seemed tired, and even the droids were starting to lose their momentum. In those few precious moments, the 104th’s current Commander was silent over comms, and Wolffe knew that the men sitting beside him needed a reason to keep pushing. Even if it meant death. So that’s exactly what he did.

Wolffe removed his helmet with that same snarling smile glinting in the sunlight. A switch had flipped in his mind, and there was no hiding his desire to win. To come out victorious against their opponents and prove that he was worth being afraid of. His men needed to have that same drive as well if they were going to get out alive. Boost and Sinker were still helmeted, but their shock of seeing Wolffe uncovered was palpable through their visors.

“What the fuck are you doing Wolffe?” Sinker was perfectly astounded.

“Taking in the day…” Wolffe smirked lazily, reaching down nonchalantly to reload both his blasters as if he had all the time in the world to face a legion of battle droids approaching them.

“W-what?” The stuttering response only made Wolffe’s grin deepen.

“Taking it all in. The victory we’re about to have. Imagining the shuttle-ride home with a clanker head strapped to my belt as a trophy.” He mused, sounding a tad bit unhinged but still as collected in his movements as always.

“Wolffe, what’s with you?” Boost finally shook himself out of whatever daydream he thought himself part of and sputtered out the question; All the while taking the hint and beginning to reload his own weapons.

A long pause filled the air, only ending with the sound of Wolffe rolling his head to the sides and emitting a few stiff cracks of the joints. The soon-to-be Commander simply chuckled, as if it was the most obvious question in the galaxy. And before he answered, he lifted his fingers to the comm on his wrist and held it up closer to his mouth;

“I feel dangerous boys,” Wolffe didn’t wait to hear the disbelieving comments from anyone. “Anyone else feel like taking a trip to hell?”

Something so simple shifted the entire atmosphere of the battle. No Jedi could slice a droid faster than a clone could turn them into scrap. Animalistic yells from the entire 104th could be heard echoing in comms across the landscape, and at the head of the fight was Wolffe, somehow back to back with General Plo Koon and giving commands when no one else did. He was deadly calm, and even laughed on occasion. No one had ever seen anything like it from another clone, and even for Wolffe this was considerably unusual. He wasn’t reckless in the slightest, but that overwhelming sense of confidence had turned into a lethal concoction of power that had somehow proved to feed the entire battalion a healthy dose of pride.

No one remembers exactly how much longer the 104th fought before shuttles came to retrieve them, but everyone does remember how those men looked stepping onto the ships. Soaked in droid oil and grease, dirt, mud, and a little blood, it was a scene from a GAR propaganda holo on how the Clone Army was the most powerful hand in the war. Someone had thought to take a holo though, and it was a sight for the ages. You would’ve seen General Plo Koon standing at the front with a stoic smile on his face. Proud as any father could be of his sons, and not a scratch on him. To tie it all in, he held a B-2 droid head in one hand with both arms crossed over his chest.

More importantly, the clone standing next to him. Newly ranked, Commander Wolffe. His armor was filthy, and bathed in black streaks from multiple grazes of blaster bolts. He stood tall and protectively of the brothers behind him and the Kel-Dor to his left. One blaster was held in his left hand, signifying just how loyal he was to the 104th and its General, while the other hand gripped the edge of his helmet against his hip. Not necessarily relaxed, but simply being Wolffe.

And above all, a wolfish grin plastered on his face.

#commander wolffe #cc 3636 #wolffe #the clone wars wolffe #wolffe my beloved #he does have a wolfy smile #i'm a sl*t for it

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bambiswriting · 3 years

Text

Consequence of Krell - Part 1

Part: 1, 2

Captain Rex x Tactician!Reader (she/her)

Summary: You have joined the 501st and 212th in the campaign of taking Umbara, and now you have to apprehend and arrest the turned Jedi, Krell. But what happens when Krell turns his sights and hurts you?

Warnings: Descriptions of heavy injury, strangulation, choking, vomit, blood, burns, lightsaber wound, head injury, angst, hurt, death. Not a light one!

Word count: 2k

The shield dissipated to reveal the imprisoned clones. You watched as Jesse and Fives took the blasters outstretched in Rex’s hands while you stood on the elevator pad with Tup and Kix. The nervous energy was thrumming from each of them. You were of equal mind. Fives, your best friend, glanced over Rex’s shoulder at you. He nodded and attempted a comforting smile. You dipped your head in a sedated reply. Your stomach sat heavy, a weight ready to pull you under. But… no. You couldn’t focus on it. Not now. You had to do right by them. The grief was already at a mounted peak, but there would be time to sit in it with them later.

You didn’t comprehend the sensation of the pad rising until a blaster bumped against your left side. On your right, Rex’s eyes casted sideways to search your glazed ones. Your pupils were involuntarily flicking left to right, searching the empty space between identical heads for a solution. Anything other than this - an alternative to the loss that would continue once you reached the upper level of the command station. Rex grasped your two fingers closest to him and tenderly squeezed. You squeezed back. A silent promise of companionship to one another.

The doors opened, a cruelty from the Force, and clones immediately filed out, surrounding Krell. The objective was to cut off each inconceivable exit, but every man in the room knew it would make no difference should the Besalisk ignite his sabers. Many of them would not leave the tower. And perhaps you would go with them. You took your stance between Rex and Fives, with a desperate plea to the galaxy to allow you to maintain their safety. A hologram by the door pulsated back online, and the noise made you jump, setting the lump in your throat deeper. You aimed your blaster at the fallen Jedi.

Rex straightened. “General Krell, you’re being relieved of duty.”

He turned, slowly, and somehow that was equally as terrifying as staring him directly in those sickly yellow eyes. His two pairs of arms persisted in a fold behind his back, with optimal access to his weapons. The pressure in your head was building. Rex hadn't yet raised his DC-17s. He was the most vulnerable person in the room. You unknowingly squeezed down on your trigger.

"It's treason, then." Those words carried the condemnation of a death sentence. He bared his teeth in such a way that it would have appeared he was smiling.

Finally, Rex pinned his blasters on the target. "Surrender, General."

If the situation owed to it, perhaps you would have laughed. The mere use of a title, still, was abhorrent to you.

Krell initiated a stalk towards Rex, centering himself in the room and widening his stance by the parting of his feet. Please, no.

"You're committing mutiny, Captain."

"Explain your actions."

The clones moved deeper into the room, cutting off the window at which Krell was just policing the Umbaran landscape.

"My actions?"

"For ordering your troops against one another."

"Oh, that." He raised his head, proud, and gestured nonchalantly. "I'm surprised you were able to figure it out… for a clone."

Your clench around the trigger was building.

Out of your left eye, you had identified movement from Fives. You assumed it was a gesture of advancement. But you didn't turn to confirm this. You couldn't move. Your limbs were paralysed.

“Surrender, General. You’re outnumbered.”

You felt the air around you turn stagnant. A rushing noise built in your ears, and then your feet tipped forward, toes dragging along the floor. The gravity shifted underneath you, and you were pulled towards the beast at full speed.

Quicker than it began, you stopped, making contact with one of Krell's fists. Nothing you had endured in this war thus far compared to the instantaneous pressure around your windpipe. Within seconds your eyes felt close to bursting. You couldn't hear the commotion around you, as your blood was pulsing rapidly in your skull.

Safety mechanisms released in every which direction. Rex pinned his pistols, now gripped in a vice, on Krell's skull. "Drop her."

Krell turned to you, talking steadily along the shell of your ear. "Your feelings for him - all of them - are strong, but they weaken you. They compromise your resolve." He raised you off the ground, your legs squirming as you frantically clawed at his fist.

"She intended to shoot me, for you," he squeezed again, sight tunneling on Rex. A noise like a whine escaped your mouth. “Half-breed."

Rex couldn't make the call. Krell's movements were quick and precise. Any one of his blaster bolts timed with a purposeful shove could hit you. His blood was turning acidic.

"Yes… I sense the fear in you. The anger. The fury. Take your weapon. Strike me down."

Your helpless wheeze cut through the rest of Rex's resolve like glass. Your arms had slowed their fight to return the stolen air to your lungs. You were going limp. Your heart was trembling. His hands shook.

"This is the art of war. Executive decisions must be made."

You felt something in your neck crack.

Krell bowed his head. "And you lack the ability to instigate them."

His arms at his back frayed and thrusted forward, sending the men hurtling to the ground. Rex hit the door and his blasters fell with him, skidding out of reach. He leapt with speed to his feet, in time to see the green blade of a saber come down against your back, splitting your armour, through to your jacket and then along your back. If you could breathe, you would have screamed in agony. The image of your eyes wide in torture would haunt his nightmares forever. Krell threw you carelessly across the room, slamming against the wall. Your head suffered the brunt of the contact, and your body collapsed in a heap.

Fives' voice broke into bottomless rage. "I'll kill you!"

The clones needed no instruction. They opened fire. A second double ended saber entered the battle. What followed was a myriad of needless lives lost. Krell cut down men with no remorse. His sabers spun and pivoted, deflecting blaster fire and creating a shield around him. The plasma shuddered audibly, sound reminiscent of gunship engines, faulting, stuttering and eventually declining in an air battle. He leapt between men, massacring war heroes. Most were fortunate, decapitated or impaled immediately and granted an instantaneous passing. Others were left with pieces missing and didn’t have such a luxury of a fast death. They bled out until painfully slipping away. Orange and blue chipped armour was diced and thrown every which direction, 501st and 212th assuming a role of puppets, and Krell was the master. The Besalisk sliced one clone through the gut, and kicked him at Rex, who jumped aside in a dodge. Krell ceased momentarily, just as the remaining men dragged themselves back on their feet, and his eyes bore into Rex.

“I will not be undermined by creatures bred in some laboratory!” His exit was open. He turned and jumped through the window, glass shattering around him and falling to the ground below. He spun in the air and landed on both feet, the shards from the tower raining around him. Then the clones below began shooting.

He should have run straight to the elevator and pursued the fallen Jedi. But the stability of what would normally be his auto piloted instincts had fragmented. The smell of your burnt skin crippled Rex's mind. You were face down, and the wound across your back was glowing as it continued to melt the area in its circumference. Kix ran over then, seemingly directing his focus to you. Unbeknownst to Rex, the medic had already done a sweep, and concluded that no one else in the room who had been on the end of Krell's sabers had survived. He hadn't registered that Kix was speaking to him. Everything sounded muffled. "I've got her, go!"

"Rex, come on!" bellowed Fives.

He staggered on his feet, bile threatening to spew over his lips. Rex clasped a hand over his helmet, shaking his head violently. Damn it, snap out of it! He just… needs to see your face. He needs to see that you're alive.

"Rex!" followed Jesse, taking a large step forward and tagging him on the arm. Rex finally jolted, and cast his eyes to the elevator. The men stood, waiting expectantly for his lead, all of them far worse for wear. He picked up his fallen weapons, ran in and spun to face the door, casting another pained expression on your failing body as the level ascended out of view and he went below.

The 501st and 212th sprinted out of the command tower, Rex in lead. They followed the trail of broken glass, passing by a cluster of Umbaran ships. Just then, Dogma stepped out from behind one of the transports, blaster trained on his brothers. "Hold it right there!"

Rex whipped out his DC-17s. "Lower your weapon, Dogma," he commanded.

He hesitated briefly, shaking his head. "I… I can't do that, sir."

Rex's patience was already worn into the ground. "That's an order!"

“It’s my duty.” Dogma flicked his aim between them. "You're all traitors!"

Rex deposited one of his blasters into its holster, then removed his helmet, an attempt to show some relation and find a common ground. "I used to believe that being a good soldier meant doing everything they told you. That's how they engineered us,"

Tup lifted his blaster to Dogma.

"But we're not droids. We're not programmed. You have to learn to make your own decisions." He stared intently at Dogma, his brow pinched.

Dogma switched his barrel on Tup. "Dogma, don't do it."

"Damn it, we don't need this right now!" Fives threw his arm down and scowled. "He hurt (Y/N)!"

That broke something behind the tattoo across his eye. "Is… is she alright?"

"We don't know," Jesse said dejectedly, angrily stuffing his blaster into his other hand.

Tup shook his head. “He just… cut her down. A civilian.”

“He’s the traitor, not us! (Y/N)’s not a clone. She wasn’t made to die this way!”

“That’s enough.” Rex’s words weren’t meant to come out as pained as they did. It was like there was a thick wad of sandpaper in his throat, grinding his voice down to a pained shadow of his usual resonance.

The truth is, you were no longer a civilian. You made the choice to enlist in this war, to try and make the galaxy safer for the future generations. It’s one of the things that drew Rex to you - your selflessness and willingness to join a battlefront, to do the right thing, where others would turn and run the other direction. You were hands on like that, believing in doing it yourself, or not at all. Others would have called you mad.

As much as he admired that about you, it was also his downfall, because he knew you wouldn’t walk away. You wouldn’t leave his brothers. You loved them like family. Hell, they were your only family. And they loved you. Perhaps that would mean he would lose you to it all one day. Perhaps he had lost you already.

Rex squeezed his eyes shut and drew his brows tightly together. He sucked in a breath.

Dogma lowered his weapon, and he was tackled by troopers without any protest. He stretched his arms out in front of him and released his blaster. They pinned either arm behind his back and secured his wrists together with binders.

Rex hesitated. "Take him to the brig," he ordered, pulling his helmet back over his head, then pointing to a couple clones.

"You two, get up there and help Kix! The rest of you, don't let General Krell escape!"

"Yes, sir!" They shouted as Rex and the others ran into the treeline.

#captain rex x reader #captain rex #501st #arc trooper fives #Jesse #Medic kix #Tup #Dogma #Krell #General krell #The clone wars #Star wars #Captain rex x female reader #Self insert #Umbara #TCW fanfic #my writing

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bimswritings · 3 years

Text

Armorer x Reder Pt. 2/2

Pt.1

Kofi

Ao3

Warnings: Typical Canon Type Violence

A/N: Part two for my love! Now that I've finished this, you can expect part three of the Savage fic, with the outline already nearly finished! Hope you enjoy, and until next time!~Bim

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“What is the meaning of this?”

She had been expecting Paz to have come to her earlier, seeking answers for what had just transpired . It could be considered nothing short of a blessing from her ancestors that she had been allowed the time she was, for if he had arrived not five minutes earlier she surely would have not been able to answer him. Even now she found it hard to find her voice, swallowing thickly as she tried to dispel the invisible grip that held her. It was as if the dust from the rubble had infiltrated the filter of her helmet, invading her senses and clogging every sense with a layer of dust.

“The empire sent TIE bombers.” The vecoder of her helmet masked the cracking of her voice from the large warrior in front of her, lest she appear anything but unyielding even in such a moment. It did nothing to dampen the way it reverberated within however, and the echo fact was like a hit to the chest plate all over again.

“Were there any other survivors.”

A light shake of her head gave him his answer. Even if they were strangers to her, the carnage she had witnessed would have been a shock to anyone.

None had been spared from the Empire’s wrath. Not a single structure nor person was left standing, and at places there were little more than scorch marks burned into the ground, the only testament of what was once there. The burns matched those marring the flesh of the scattered bodies, which there was no shortage of. Most were too burned and damaged to tell age or gender and she had no doubts that there were more victims, either buried or bodies completely destroyed in the initial blast and still burning flames.

“How did they make it?” He questioned further, and unsurprisingly.

“Their house was located further outside the village. It received the least of the blast, though there is still no home to return to.”

Yet again she was thankful for your reclusive behavior. It was only thanks to your distance, and the armor she found you buried in, did you survive, though you weren't without injury.

As soon as she received your transmission she had turned back mid flight, making it there in record time. Having never used the transmitter before, the fact that you did so now expelled any worry she might have had over your previous encounter.

When she arrived to find what had happened, she had immediately started digging. Using every tool and ounce of strength at her disposal to move the rubble, looking for at least a body to confirm her fears.

At long last she had found you, body bloodied and arm twisted at an unnatural angle. It was a shock to her system, heart nearly stopping as she took in your still form, thinking you were surely dead. Gloved hands ghosted over your exposed skin and still attached armor, which itself was badly damaged. As well made as it was by your own hand and her careful guidance it still had trouble holding up to the immense weight and damage it took. The metal surface was marred with countless scratches and dents, even completely caved in at places. There wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that you were already gone. There was no telling how long you had been under the rubble before she had arrived, and even if she had gotten there minutes after, your wounds were so numerous it would have been close.

Raw pain ripped through her as emotion broke through her carefully crafted dam, spilling out all at once over it’s months of accumulating, effectively taking grip over her entire being. She did not cry however. The ability to do such had been lost to her years before and would never come back. Instead, she simply held your body close as she knelt in the dirt, mourning what she had never had the chance of claiming. She had been so close. Her helmet showed that your heat signature had not even grown cold.

Taking her glove off, she reached for your own hand. Even if it was just once, she wanted to feel your skin against hers, without the barrier of metal or leather you both consistently wore. Fingers lacing your own, it once again brought a wave of sorrow crashing over her.

Your hands, strong and calloused from years of work, felt better pure Naboo silk to her own. They remained loose and unmoving, even as her own knuckles turned pale at the strength with which she grasped them. A silent plea to her ancestors, the maker; anyone who would answer the questions she herself didn’t know. Never having been one to believe that those unseen could have much of an influence on the living, she didn’t expect an answer. Only someone to shift the unbearable grief to.

Yet, as she lay mottionless over your corps, she received one. If her own hand hadn’t been so tightly clenched she may have missed it, and in her stay she thought she was imagining it. But then it happened. Again. Then again.

Your pulse, weak and uneven, but there.

Throwing herself back, she quickly changed the viewing mode on her helmet as she tried in vain to keep her hopes from rising. She knew very well it could just be her own that she was feeling and until there was concrete proof then-

There.

In the corner of her visor read your heart rate weak and uneven, just as she had felt before, but there.

She wasted no time pulling you from the rubble and nothing short of sprinting back to her ship, keeping in mind there were undoubtedly unseen and internal injuries as she did her best not to jostle around. She could only thank whatever force there was out there that she had taken the one ship of the coven that had a med chamber in it. Though it was well worn and outdated at best in comparison to the newer ones, it would serve her purpose until she could do something better.

The machine’s light humming reached through the air as it began working on your more severe wounds, the steady drone of the machinery a stark contrast to her own shaky hands as she piloted the ship off the cursed planet, making sure to keep an eye out for any lingering ships of the empire. It would only make your situation worse if you were to be caught in the middle of a firefight as your wounds were tended, though she did not even know if she would be able to gain enough control of herself to fly away from such an endeavor unharmed.

Once certain that there was no one following and they were out of range of the planet, she set the craft to autopilot and was back by your side immediately. The droid had just finished removing the armor from your body and tending to the majority of life-threatening wounds, moving on to what it could finish with the limited supplies it had. She had to resist grabbing your hand, instead putting the energy into pulling the medical log. Reading over it, her heart sized at the vast number and varying severity of each listing as she read further and further on.

Oblique-displaced fracture-R/Humorous, Transverse Fracture-R/Tibia, Hairline fractures of Ribs-R/arm/leg, Bruising of Kidney/Lungs/Liver, Puncture of R/Lung-Bone Frag. Removed-Origin-twelfth intercostal rib, Sever Grade four concussion, Multiple lacerations

She had no idea what had been fixed and what had not, but the number of bacta patches missing from the supply put a small ease on her, and the sight and sound of your slowly steady vitals was enough to keep her from jumping to extremes. She had no particular love for droids, though certainly not hating them as much as the young Din, the money spent to install the machinery was well used, even if the original purpose had been to heal warriors after missions with wounds that needed immediate attention.

That did not mean she found any time to rest on the way home, constantly watching for the slightest sign of life other than the low beeping of the monitor, and the ever so faint rise and fall of your chest as she counted each breath you took. The flight seemed to take double the amount of time it normally did, each second dragging on for eternity, until finally the landing gear of the Starjumper touched the surface of Nevarro. Thankfully it was night, and she had no issues once again lifting you into her arms and carrying you through the deserted streets to the coven. Its familiar coolness encompassed her as soon as she emerged from the stairs into the lower levels. The deathly silent halls were a stark contrast to her own panic.

Ignoring the guards, who’s attention faltered as they caught sight of her haul, she brushed past and headed straight to the only person who could help.

Olia, their healer, answered the door in her sleeping clothes, helmet clearly having been shoved on in her haste to answer the Armorer’s loud and incessant pounding on the door.

“What in the stars do you want this late..at..” Her sentence tapered off as she saw it wasn’t just a random idiotic warrior who had injured themselves, but her Alor, holding someone who clearly wasn’t Mandalorian.

“Fix them.”

The next few hours were a flurry of activity as Olia fixed what the med unit had not, resetting your afflicted arm which had been simply bandaged before and trying not to flinch at the nasty noises it made while doing so. Each thread of the needle to close skin together felt as if it were digging into her own flesh. Still, she watched, unable to tear herself away even as she knew in the back of her mind that rumor had already spread about her return. They would be looking for answers, and she would give them in due time. For now, they would have to practice patience just as she was.

Finally, two hours later, Olia was done. Wiping the sweat from the back of her neck as she admired her work, she explained the situation to the Armorer as she approached your bedside on stiff legs. She simply stared, not daring to touch when you looked so fragile. She hated it, the way your skin had lost its beautiful tone. The once powerful and proud posture she had seen stepping around the forge like a wild loth was nowhere to be seen. Your body seemed to have sunken in on itself, defensive even now.

“Her body is keeping itself under for now. Not surprising given the amount of trauma and injuries sustained, but if she does start to come around, I’ll give her something that should keep her under, or at least enough that she won’t register what’s going on. I would recommend it for as long as we can so that her wounds have time to heal without issue.”

She looked back over your still body, letting out a sympathetic sigh as she moved to do so.

“Even then, she’s not going to be moving around on her own too much any time soon. Wherever she came from, I hope they aren’t expecting her back anytime soon.”

The Armorer could feel the underlying question in her words, and for what she had done the women had earned her answer.

“That won’t be an issue. There is nowhere to go back to.” She looked away from your form for the first time, something that did not go unnoticed by the observant healer.

“She’s ours now. Treat her as you would any warrior, for she has fought just as bravely.”

She nodded solemnly. The Alor was know to always be serious and straight laced, but the way she was acting now gave way to more than words could ever tell. Tentatively, she rested a hand on her pauldron.

“Go. Get some rest. I can watch over her for now.”

The Armorer hesitated, feeling the lack of rest catching up as the adrenaline finally began to wear from her system. But to leave now would only leave her mind to wonder instead of knowing what was happening at every moment.

Olia sensed her hesitation, pushing her more firmly in the direction of the door.

“Once she’s more stable I will move her to a more comfortable bed. If there’s any changes then I’ll alert you but until then there’s nothing for you to do, and the others are bound to be wanting answers.”

Rod straight shoulders dropper slightly at her words, and a smile tore its way across the old woman’s face as she realized she had won.

Guiding her further out, she made sure the smith was out and well on her way to her own space before closing the door. What she didn’t see was that, instead of turning down the hall that led to individual dwellings, she instead turned right, down the path that would lead her to the only place she could think, to feel less powerless than she was right now. Her forge, where she fell heavily onto her work bench, unmoving as she stared blankly into the once comforting blue flames of the fire. Now they only acted as a painful reminder, thinking back to the times back in your own dwelling. She had yet to move, and Paz found her in the same position when he entered, leading to their current situation.

“I would never doubt your commitment to the tribe, but I must doubt the wisdom of bringing an outsider here! Into the heart of our tribe!”

Had she been in any other situation, she would have no hesitation in putting him back in his place. Heavy infantry expert and lead warrior or not, he had no right to speak in such a way to her. The only thing that saved him from her hammer and tongue was the fact her mind was still filled with thoughts of you. In this moment she even found herself thankful for his questioning. It meant that there was at least one person still thinking straight enough to be an effective leader in her stead.

“It’s her.”

“It's her?” he parroted the words, twisted with their own sense of confusion. “What do you mean it’s h-“ The words stuck mid-sentence as the wheels turned in his head, slowly putting the pieces together. From where he knew she was going, the small glimpse and rumors he had gotten from the others describing you, and the way his Alor was acting now, he was able to come up with his own relatively accurate assumption.

“The Smith.”

Her silence was his only answer, but it was all he needed.

Moving slowly, he settled his own large frame next to hers on the bench, which creaked under the weight. It felt odd, seeing her look so deflated and almost small. Even after years of putting on muscle from the forge and training, she still had nothing on him size wise. Though he was still positive she could beat him in a fight if it came to it, and she had countless times before.

His voice took on a softer, more rumbling tone.

“How did it happen?”

“The Empire. I only got there after they were gone, though there was really nothing left to go back to.”

He wanted to ask more, what they were doing there, why they chose such an outlandish, insignificant town, but he already knew. They both knew. It was because of them. While tolerated by the empire, both sides knew the other would wipe them out if given the chance. With so many going to one town multiple times, it was bound to draw attention. They had just been willing to believe that the Empire would turn a blind eye to it, just like they had with Nevarro.

How foolish of them.

Now they had dragged an innocent bystander, who had done nothing but help them and expecting nothing in return, into their fight, costing them not only their home but almost their life.

Though Paz was more akin to fighting than feelings himself, he could see the turbulence going on within her. Years of being what one might consider confidents let him know everything he needed to.

“She’ll pull through. From what you’ve told me, she’s strong. Not to mention she has Olia looking after her. And besides,” he stood up, walking out to give her space to do what she did best. To think, and come up with the next best plan of action for them to take.

“I still have yet to meet this mysterious smith.”

_______________________________________________

You had never been much of a morning person. Waking up bright and early just to face the scorching heat of your planet's twin suns combined with that of your forge didn’t make for a promising work day. Alas, that was when a majority of customers would come looking for wears and weapons, as well as to hire your services. Even though you preferred working during the marginally cooler nights, you still braved the day, gritting your teeth and dragging your feet as you forced your body into motion. As hard as it had always been then, it was nothing compared to how you were feeling now.

Every fiber of your being felt as if it had been run over by a Loshev, then further trampled on. Not even in the early times of your apprenticeship, when you had gone to bed with the inability of even being able to lift your arms to fold back the blankets after lifting your hammer an immeasurable amount of times, had you ever felt this sore. Everything from head to toe hurt, and the thought of moving at all was enough to fill your body with a sense of dread.

Instead of doing so, you settled on just getting your eyes open, which itself proved to be a difficult task. They felt as if the skin itself was welded together; made of Kiern metal as they dragged open painfully.

Darkness was the first thing you saw. Shapes and colors only came along after a few moments as your eyes adjusted. Blurred objects slowly came into focus as you took in your surroundings.

You were in a dimly lit room, the only source of light coming from a small lantern hanging from the wall. It’s glow cast drastic shadows on each object, giving the unfamiliar space a touch of comfort with its warm light. The furnishings themselves were rather bare, consisting of only a few boxes stacked on top of one another with small trinkets of one kind or another littered around, and the bed which you currently resided on.

Pulling the blankets aside, you hissed at the way your body groaned in protest, feeling as if every nerve were on fire. It appeared that the lantern also provided the only source of heat because as soon as the surprisingly quality blanket left you were subjugated to the cool air of the small space. You noted areas of bandages scattered all over your body, covering most of your arm and spilling across your torso. The scratchy material could also be felt under your pants, catching on the material and rubbing uncomfortably at your temples.

Pushing yourself into a sitting position, your head swam as the pounding from within increased, leaving you gasping for breath. As much as it hurt, you had to keep moving. You didn’t know where you were, or who was around. The last thing you remember was the walls of your home coming down around you as fighters screamed overhead. For all you knew, you were being held by some backworld smuggler who intended to use you for profit, working to make weapons or using your body for other means. Bandaged wounds or not, you had to get out before the choice was taken away.

Getting to your feet was, unexageratly, one of the most difficult things you had ever done. Your legs gave out as soon as they touched the ground, forcing you to use a majority of upper body strength to drag your way across the room to the door on the opposite wall. It was far from graceful, and there was even a point where you bumped into one of the various stacks of crates. It was nothing more than a little bump, but enough to knock a precariously placed holoboard from its perch on the edge.

Clattering to the floor loudly, it only prompted you to move faster, the fear of someone having heard the ruckus and coming to investigate. You prayed to the maker that wasn’t the case, but with the luck you had been having lately it should have been no surprise when the door opened with a loud creak. A shadow fell over your crawling form, and you looked up expecting the worst. Someone like a pirate or scavenger, maybe even an enforcer. What you weren’t expecting was a child, or what you assumed was one at least.

The person standing in the doorway was small. They were just shy of reaching halfway up the frame, lithe frame hunched in on itself from what you could see peeking around the opening. It was hard to tell their exact age, due to the achingly familiar helmet they wore. While far from being a replica, it was still close enough to that of your beloved Armorer to send a pang through your already aching body. The polished metal reflected the new light of the hall in an almost blinding manor. An owlish visor stared down at your form, just as frozen as you were.

Then, before you could react, they were gone. Light footsteps echoed down the corridors, growing more and more faint until they disappeared completely, leaving you in silence once again. There was only a moment of hesitation before you were on the move once again, now with a reinvigorated urgency.

Finally making it to the door, you used the frame to pull yourself up, gasping all the while as sharp jolts of pain stemmed from every part of your body. Emerging from the room you were met with the sight of similar metal walls as the room. They extended in both directions, the one to your left extending into darkness while there were two branching paths on the right. While having no idea where exactly you were and no reference on how to get out, you still pushed forward.

Heading right, your path was lit by only the occasional light on the wall. Some were the normal low lights that could be found on virtually any planet, while others were a more archaic version using oil and gas were scattered in between. You could tell you were most likely somewhere underground judging from the cool, damp feel the air carried. Either that or you were on an already cold planet, as judging from the state of the room you woke in, it was doubtable that you were in such a place that would waste resources on high quality cooling.

Reaching the split path, you paused, giving yourself a moment to breathe and recuperate as you listened carefully down each. The left was dead silent, almost unnervingly so, and for a moment you thought the second was the same. However, the light flicker of the nearest flame caught your attention. It moved consistently back in the direction you came, not like how it would normally; and with how much of your life had been spent staring and carefully watching such flames it was almost childs play to tell it was being manipulated by something else. Listening closer once again, you could hear it. The slight whisper of the wind. It’s draft was light, almost undetectable, but if you enough it was there. Gently caressing your skin and whispering promises of a way out.

It was a slow go, and painful the entire time. Your body gave not a moment of relief, in just as much pain as when you woke up if not more. It was hard to even take a full breath. Your lungs felt as if they would burst with each inhale. It was as if the air itself was made of fire. The pain didn’t leave much room for thought, but those that you did have were for the armored warrior you had been so abruptly reminded of earlier.

You had no idea where she was now, or if she even knew what had happened. The message may have never even gotten through, and while the Mandalorians were always well informed of the events going on around the galaxy you had no idea how long you had been here. It could be just a night or day; maybe even a week. She only visited every thirty rotations, so she could only find out when she came by for her next visit, only to find nothing but ash.

Would she mourn your supposed death, or would it be more so due to the loss of a weapons provider and face they could use to get supplies and information without knowing who it was really going to? Maybe it would be a relief not to have to worry about any information about them being uncovered. A loose end tied up without them having to do any of the work.

The thought of her throwing whatever connection you thought you had away, especially after having fallen so hard for the strong woman, hurt your heart almost as much as your body. It was a mortifying thought, and one that distracted you from not only the pain for a moment, but also caused a lapse in judgment that allowed your pursuers to get so close. It was only too late that you heard their footsteps echoing behind you in the dimly lit hall. A new wave of fear coursed through your body, pushing you further as they got closer to you, and yourself finally emerging into a larger section of the hall. This one had alcoves lining the top of the wall, allowing the moonlight and cool night air from outside to filter in and drain the hope from your body. The entire time you thought you were getting closer to a way out, you had just been losing yourself deeper in the maze of the unfamiliar compound. It was cruel for fate to do so, but there was nothing to be done now. Not when your pursuers were getting so close.

Your eyes darted around the small area, locking for a place to hide or at least a weapon to defend yourself with, before settling on one of the many alcoves. It was under the small windows that allowed the traitorous light and breeze in, leaving it bathed in darkness.

Thinking quickly, you limped over and forced yourself into the narrow space. It was plenty tall, but so thin it forced your shoulders straight and grated on your exposed skin as you slipped in. Here, your breaths sounded even louder and more labored, forcing you to muffle them with your hand and making it even harder to breathe. It wasn’t the best spot, and quite obvious now that you thought about it, but there was no time to find a new one as a group burst in through the arch you had emerged from seconds prior.

It was hard to see with your eyes still adjusting to the dimness of your little space combined with the light blur they still held, and you simply squeezed them shut, unable to watch as you listened to them get closer to your hiding spot, and focused on remaining as silent as possible. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other wrapped around your body as it squeezed as tightly as possible, as if it were the only thing keeping you together.

You could hear them talking. Their voices sounded muffled even as they bounced off the cold stone walls, and they spoke in low tones that made it nearly impossible to hear. A few still made their way through however.

‘Escaped’ ‘gone far’ ‘Find them-’ ‘kill’

The last word sent a shiver down your spine. It was only made worse as one of the group got closer than any had yet stopped mere feet away. The rough, damp stone dug into your skin as you pushed yourself further back, duly noting the itching pull of your wounds as they grew heated.

They were going to find you, and once they did they were going to kill you, or worse.

A moment passed. Then two. Then several more, all waited out with tension so thick it would put any ship hull to shame, before the shadowy figure retreated. Their own footsteps faded in with the others as they moved on in search of their present target of you, continuing to head down the maze of halls.

Even once they were gone you didn’t allow yourself to relax for a full minute, too fearful of them coming back. But as the momentarily spike in adrenaline wore off and your current position became increasingly uncomfortable, you allowed yourself to relax. Greedily gulping in as much air as your recovering lungs would allow, you were doubled over as you tried to recover. That position, combined with the increasingly loud pounding in your ears, left you unaware of your surroundings and defenseless against the shadow that unknowingly approached.

Their arm reached in, easily pulling you from your hiding place and out into the open.

“N-no! Stop!” You fought back weakly, pushing away at the figure that held you in an iron grip, not yet painful but refusing to budge as you clawed at it uselessly.

“Please.” It was a whimpering, pathetic sounding plea. One born of desperation and fear. Never in your life would you think yourself to sink to such levels, yet here you were, bracing for the pain you knew would come. They would drag you back, either to that little room or somewhere even more secluded, and there was nothing you could do about it.

You braced as the person shifted, recoiling as they brought their free hand up. You expected a hit, a slap. Something that would daze if not knock you completely out. What you weren’t expecting was the gentle caress of fingers along the skin, tracing along your cheek and following its slope up, where it gently rested, silently urging you to open your eyes and raise your gaze.

There was hardly a chance to be confused by the action before a sense of familiarity hit. Worn leather, softer than porg fur and just as warm despite the chilly environment, was stained with the smell of oil and sharp tang of metal. It was a scent that you had thought of many times, haunting your thoughts at night as you wished to be nothing more than wrapped in its comfort.

With a shuddering breath, you forced yourself to look up into the visor of your captor.

The gold of her helmet seems even brighter now as the light of the moon causes it to practically radiate under its glow, starkly contrasting the inky darkness of the owlish visor as it tilts in a way that gives away her concern.

There’s a moment of silence as you simply stare at one another, an exchange of silent emotion as you take each other in.

“Tracinya’ika…” The voice that flows from her helmet is akin to a whisper, seeming almost impossibly soft for such a warrior. However quiet, it’s enough to break the last of your resolve. The Armorer catches you as your legs give out, exhaustion finally catching up. She doesn’t say a thing, simply letting you bury your face in the warm fur covering clasped over her shoulders as you silently hiccup and stutter.

“H-how did I get here? The last thing I remember is-” your unable to finish, screams of the villagers mingling with tie fighters coming to the surface along with a crushing, constricting feeling gripping your chest, as if you were trapped under the rubble once again.

Seeming to sense your thoughts, the Armorer places a comforting hand on your lower back to lead you away. When it becomes apparent that there’s no way you’ll be walking on your own, she pauses a moment, before bending down and sweeping you off your feet to carry you bridal style down the hall, past the other Mandalorians that had appeared without a sound. They were silent as she passed, though their curiosity was almost tangible. She paid them no mind however, easily carrying you through the dim halls and allowing you to once again bury your face into the fur of her cowl. If she minds she says nothing of it.

“There is much to explain.” Her voice rumbles, vibrating through her chest and against your cheek. “But you have been through much. For now, rest. When you awake, you can ask as many questions as you like.”

You wanted to argue, to protest, but there was no energy left to do so. Your escape attempt had left you drained. Instead, you simply let your head rest against the chilled metal of her armor, allowing the gentle sway of her walk to lull you back to sleep without the fear of what was to come, knowing you were safe as long as she was around.

____________________________________

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

You froze, the crate of rations you were about to hand to the man next to you blocking your vision from the worst of the glare you could already feel. That barrier was shortly removed, leaving you exposed to the cross Mandalorian.

It had been foolish to think you would be able to sneak off without her knowing. Nothing went on in these tunnels that she didn’t know about. If you didn’t know any better you may think that she had monitors hidden around the place, or maybe even a tracking device to keep tabs on you. It was more likely someone had mentioned your whereabouts in passing, or she had come for one of her usual check-ins throughout the day.

“You should not be up and about, none the less moving supplies.” Her gaze snaps to the others, who were all similarly frozen as they watched. You felt slightly guilty, knowing they didn’t deserve her wrath.

“Why would you let her in here? If the cold doesn’t make her sick then the labor will only make her recovery that much longer.”

The man visibly flinched at her tone, her attention now focused on him as the others slowly back away, letting him take the blame.

“Well, I just thought-”

“You clearly did not, else she would not be working herself to the bone.”

She takes a step closer to the man, sending him into a panic as he quickly backpedals, stammering.

“Hey.” You grab her arm, instantly shifting her attention back to you. Unlike the others, you don’t shrink back or even flinch. Instead you stare back into the darkness of her helmet. “It’s not his fault. I told him it was alright, that I was fine to work.”

The Armorer stares a moment longer, glancing back once more at the others before grabbing you by the hand, shoving the crutch you had been using since your leg healed enough to put weight on into your hand and dragging you away. She continues to scold you as she walks, never pausing in her climb from the lower levels as she continues to make you feel more and more like a child.

“There is no reason for you to have to work in your condition. Olia said rest would do you best.”

“That was weeks ago.” You huff, using the wall to stabilize yourself a bit better as you attempt to keep up with her quick pace. “And it’s only right that I do something to pull my own weight, especially after all that you and the others have done for me.”

“You have already done enough for us, and once you are fully healed I know you will continue to help. Until then I implore you to rest.”

The concern she held made you blush, her complimenting words nearly winning you over. Too stubborn for your own good however, your tongue speaks your thoughts before you can stop it.

“I know, but I can’t help but feel that I’m taking advantage of you. I just want to be, you know, useful.”

Your words cause her to pause, nearly causing you to collide with her back, sending a glance over her shoulder to your deflated figure. Logically she knows that there’s nothing wrong with wanting to help out, even sending a streak of pride through her at your eagerness to help her people, but the small voice constantly hounding her and leading to her protectiveness was too loud to ignore.

To your surprise, instead of heading down the left hall to what you knew would lead to the room you had been set up in since arriving, she turned to the right. Following cautiously, you looked about with wide eyes, having never been down this way before despite being her for weeks now. There were still many parts of the tunnels you didn’t know, mainly memorizing the paths to important places such as the communal area, storage rooms(which were the easiest to sneak off to help in), and of course the forge.

Soon enough you enter another section. The smell of metal and oil hits as soon as you step over the threshold, taking you by surprise. It was even stronger here than the forge, which was saying something. Though with the number of weapons and armor lining the walls it was to be expected. Every inch of the room, from the ceiling to the floor and even laying in piles were weapons. The order with which they were all organized in was impressive, not a single piece out of place in the organized chaos. And there, in the middle of it all, was one of the biggest men you had ever seen.

Your own father had been large, standing at six five, and while this man seemed to be slightly shorter he more than made up for it with width. Shoulders like a rancore, with hands so large they made you jealous of the potential grip strength, he looked as if he could snap you without a second thought. It’s not as if you were some petite thing in your own right, yet you felt dwarfed for one of the first times in your life.

As soon as he noticed you enter, he stood, his head bowing in acknowledgement.

“Alor.” He helmet shifted towards you, unconsciously forcing you further behind your bronze protector. “How can I help you?”

She shifts to the side, exposing you further as her hand gently rests against the small of your back, pushing you further towards the giant.

“It seems our newest friend can’t sit still. Unfortunately I can not watch them at all times to ensure they do not sneak off, but I know I can trust you to watch and keep them entertained.”

His head tilts, studying you closer as your heart jumps to your throat. In the process of trying to pull your own weight, you were now nothing this man with having to babysit you.

“I’m sure he has better things to do. If we just go back I could-”

“No. You will stay with Paz until I come for you. He will keep you from sneaking to the lower levels and lifting boxes.” A warning lay under her tone, both for you and Paz. His helmet dips in a nod once again, silently accepting his new instructions as she lightly ruffles your hair, pulling back only when your hand swats at hers.

“Do not worry. I am sure you two will get along just fine. I’ve had enough trouble keeping him away as it is.” Before you could try and argue once again she was gone, turning on heel and heading back down the passage. Great. Now you were alone with a giant and potentially grumpy Mandalorian while surrounded by weapons, which was both potentially good and bad.

Taking a deep breath, you gathered your courage and turned back to Paz, as he had been called. He was still standing, watching as you cautiously approached.

“H-hello there.” You mentally cursed yourself for stuttering, only imagining what he might think of you now. Still, you powered on. “You’re name is Paz, right? I’m-”

“I know who you are.” He cuts you off, flopping back down into his seat as he picks up the weapon he had previously been inspecting.

“Oh….You do?”

He snorts. “Everyone knows who you are. You made quite the entrance.”

You flush, still embarrassed you had made such a spectacle arriving. Definitely not how you had hoped to meet such esteemed warriors, bloody and defeated. He seemed to sense your embarrassment.

“No matter. I’ve known about you before then.” He twirled the blaster in his hand, one that you now recognized as your own craft. “Been a fan of your work for a while.”

Gesturing to the bench across from him, you soon found yourself becoming comfortable with the blue man. Within the hour you had relaxed completely, joking around with him as he answered any questions you had about the location of rooms or the odd Mandalorian you had yet to talk with. The conversation quickly shifts to, of course, weapons, as you talk about the ups and downs of each design.

“It’s good to have someone to talk with like this. Nobody back on Quilon were interested in the craft of weapons. They just cared if they shot or not.” He took the weapon you had just finished checking, looking for nicks or spots needing maintenance, and handed you another. It was a small mercy he had granted you. While not a physically demanding task it was enough to keep you busy and feeling useful. There was a lot to get through after all, and he surmised there was no one better to check weapons then one who knows their ins and outs.

“While many like to use the weapons, they don’t get too familiar with their inner workings.”

“That’s why we’re here though.” You point out, only causing him to sigh.

“Yes, but if I have to fix one more blaster that simply has a residue build up that could be solved with a good cleaning I’m going to strangle them.”

“I’m glad she brought me here. What she’s done, what you’ve all done, is amazing. If I could spend my life working alongside her it would be more than enough.

He pauses, in the middle of sharpening a skinning knife, his helmet tilting up before going back to his work. “I’m sure she would be delighted to hear so. You should tell her yourself.”

You pause, confused. “What do you mean? She already knows that I want to continue making weapons for you all.”

Now you had his full attention, staring back at one another across the small gap as you both tried to discern the others thoughts. His words made no sense. She knew your intentions to stay, so why would you need to explain any further? You wanted to stay, more specifically just for her, but there was no way you could just tell her that. To risk ruining everything you had built between the two of you? Just for some silly little crush? No thank you. You were content being as useful to her as you could now, relishing in the little crumbs of affection you received now.

“You have to be kidding me.” He finally says, breaking the silence. “She literally calls you ‘ni tracinya’!”

You blink owlishly, still not understanding. Your Mandoa was still coming along. As of now you only knew a few words, mostly greetings and curse words, much to the amusement of the clan and the disdain of the Armorer.

He throws his hands in exasperation, head practically slamming back into the wall behind him. “It means ‘my flame’ for makers sake! Listen,” He leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees as his voice takes on a more serious tone. “Think real hard, back to when you first came here. You’re telling me you haven’t noticed anything?”

Now that he mentions it, you do remember some odd things that you had never really put into question before now.

When you had first been cleared to move out of bed by Olia, the Armorer had insisted on moving you to a room closer to the forge, claiming its warmth would do you better then the cooler parts of the tunnels where the injured normally stayed. You had been cautious, unsure of being so close to the center of the tribe space and felt as if you were being invasive. She had assured you it was only temporary, to sooth your concerns you suspected, though that was quickly thrown out the window as the small space quickly collected a number of trinkets thanks to the little ones. After overcoming their initial hesitancy and fear of being an outsider, they were constantly bringing small objects and bits of easily bent and cut pieces of metal for you to make things out of, trading your creations for their own crude versions. The majority were from the Armorer however, and you treasured those the most. They were nothing extravagant, certainly not to the level of detail you would go into, but you wouldn’t have expected her to. Her focus was always more on practicality, though that’s not to say her works weren’t beautiful in their own right. Your own just placed more emphasis on the small details, and you were allowed the time and pleasure of putting them there.

She had brought you all your meals during that time, eventually evolving to the point where you would enjoy them together in her forge when you were well enough, your backs pressed to one another with a covering tightly wrapped around your eyes. Hardly was there a time when you weren’t greeted with the warm shine of her armor, the fur she wore brushing your skin and sending shivers down your spine with how close she stood at times. Her hand would constantly be touching your back or shoulder, holding your wrist as she led you through the halls even when you knew the way. There were many nights you would fall asleep in the forge, lulled by it’s warmth and the familiar sound to metal striking metal. It both soothed and made the itch to work once more that much worse.

The memory brought on a shy smile, accompanied by a light flush across your skin. It was times like that when you could allow yourself to wish, to hope, that you might mean something more than just a friend or fellow smith.

Just as soon as the thought arrived you were quick to banish it. Dreaming of the impossible would only bring more disappointment. And so, with a small laugh and roll of your eyes, you implored Paz to put it to rest; and to his credit, he did. The thought still lingered on your mind however, and you wanted to curse him for putting it there.

You continue to check and clean the weapons in peace, avoiding any and all conversation surrounding the previous topic until dinner. Or what you thought was around the right time. It seemed that even with all the time spent in the dark tunnels you had yet to gain the innate ability to just tell what time it was without looking at a clock. Paz sure knew though, racking his weapon with you following his lead.

“Your company wasn’t as annoying as others, and your weapons knowledge and appreciation is respectable, though I would expect nothing else from someone in your situation.” He reached his hand out, watching as you realized he wanted you to shake it. His hands were just as strong as you had thought, firmly grasping your own as you got into a small battle trying to squeeze the other. “Feel free to find me any time you’re bored. Keep Alor from getting frustrated and who knows, once you heal enough I might be able to teach you how to fight for the next time you run into any imperial troops.”

“That sounds...great.” He dropped his arm, handing you your walking stick and leading you back through the tunnels to the communal area as you added the new path to your mental map. His large strides were hard to keep up with, and though you suspected he had adjusted his pace you were still out of breath by the time you reached your destination. Inside the circular space there were a number of mandalorians lounging around. Children ran amuck, some helmed some not, weaving between the adults and ignoring their complaints. As soon as you entered a crowded space they descended like a swarm. Small hands pulled at your clothes, climbing up your non injured leg. After the scolding they had received last time they made sure to give your injuries a wide berth.

They were clamoring, all trying to be first to show you the small projects that had been working on or made that day. The others looked on with mild amusement, or so you assumed that's what was shown behind their visors. There were many jokes passed around that you were turning their young warriors into inventors and thinkers, though you hardly saw it as a problem. Exploring bright minds and exercising critical thinking skills would only make them that much better in any tight situations. It’s not like they couldn’t do both after all.

Your eyes scanned the crowd, bouncing over the family colors painted in intricate patterns on armor as you looked for one in particular.

“She’s still in the forge.” You jumped, causing your current passengers to squeal as they were nearly thrown from your elevation to the ground. Olia stepped closer, shooing the children away, causing a ruckus of groans and complaints, but nevertheless did as they were told. They knew better than to disrespect an elder, and their medic at that. Placing two ration portions into your hands, she’s already pushing you down the main hall.

“Never a moment of rest for that one.” She jokes, turning on her heel and heading back into the common area before you even have a chance to speak.With nothing more than a shrug, you continue on, walking the by now familiar path to deliver the food.

Warmth is the first thing that greets you, a heavenly contrast to the otherwise cold and damp dwelling. Not that you hated it, but growing up on a planet with two suns and working in a forge for the majority of your life made anything below blazing feel like Hoth. The clang of metal striking metal rings clear and crisp, but as owled eyes catch your movement, the hammer pauses mid strike, afloat for just a moment before quickly being deposited back into her belt.

Holding up the ration packs for her to see, she’s already moving, fluidly packing up her project and clearing a space as you pull the bench from the wall, settling on the wood with a light creak. Not long after, gloved hands found your skin, briefly brushing over your cheeks and causing butterflies to erupt throughout your body, setting every nerve on fire as the soft fabric of the blindfold replaced her hands. It wasn’t something you ever questioned or protested, simply content being allowed the level of trust such an action required, though you would often question what you had done to earn such an honor from an esteemed figure such as herself. The tools along her belt clicked softly, the only thing telling her location as she closed the shutters to the forge.

Not a word was said the entire time, and you didn’t need any. The practice had been born after she had gotten on your back about finishing meals, only to have you express your awkwardness of eating alone while she watched, combined with your own concern with her eating enough. She was always working, crafting new armor and weapons, or meeting with elders and warriors to discuss and organize the smaller aspects of clan life. The disregard she had for her own health when she always put so much work into that of others was both adermable and frustrating. It became one of the few things you could do during the day, making sure she had eaten and stayed hydrated in the heat of the forge. Dinner was the only time she sat down however, enjoying whatever rations or food had been chosen for the night.

After the blindfold was on and your own ration pack was in hand, it wasn’t long before you felt her warmth at your back as she too settled down on the bench. The fur of her cowl tickled your skin, telling you of how close she sat. Then you just talk. Telling her about your day and the new things you had learned.

“Introducing me to Paz almost makes up for the scene earlier.” You joke “His knowledge of weapons and their care is amazing. I can see myself getting closer with him.”

You could have imagined it, but you could swear you felt her tense behind you.

“Not too close I would imagine. Olia has informed me that you should be cleared to go back to work within a week or two.”

Perking at her words, you grew excited. It had been so long that you had begun to think you would never craft again.

“I’m glad to hear that. I already worry about the muscle mass I’ve lost since being laid up.” Laughing, you bump your shoulders against hers. “I feel like my shoulders are only half their size now, everything all atrophied and squishy.”

She’s silent, and you think the joke just fell flat, or she’s simply tired from the day.

“So you enjoyed staying with Paz today. I can assume that means I won’t have to worry about you sneaking off if I leave you with him again?”

“No.” Chuckling, you set down the now empty ration container. There’s no rush for her to finish, as you enjoy these small moments. It’s easy to pretend to be something more, something closer.

It may have been the comforting warmth of her body combined with that of the forges own heat and scents, or simply the exhaustion that came with having been able to do actual work for the first time in weeks. Either way, your tongue was loose and words flowed without thought.

“It’s hard to believe I’m here. I never thought I would ever go anywhere besides Quilon. It’s where my family has lived since forever. My mother and father, my grandparents, their parents and so on. We’ve all come from the same planet. After they died I was scared to even think about traveling. I thought that if I left I would be alone. The forge was the only thing I had left even close to family.”

Losing it had been hard. When you had first heard the news after waking it had felt like you were crushed by its foundation all over again. Olia and the Armorer had to practically force you to eat, not having the energy to do even want to get out of bed. Recovery had been slow, especially when there was nothing to go back to. It was around the time she let the children into your room, tasking them with keeping an eye on you while she tended to the clan duties she had been neglecting. It was the young ones, so bright and full of energy, that pulled you from the slump. As soon as your crafting skills were discovered after absentmindedly making a flower out of paper scraps they had all but demanded you show them more. Leading you through the tunnels and teaching you games had come after. Soon enough you were almost back to normal, able to smile and laugh once again.

It had nearly broken her to see you in such a state. The fire your eyes had once held had been reduced to little more than smoldering ash, while the glow that radiated seemed to radiate from your skin itself had dimmed. You had lost everything to the empire, but Maker be damned if she wasn’t going to do her best to give it back and then some.

“Would it be wrong of me to say it was a good thing?” She jerked at your words, taken by surprise.

“And why would that be?”

“Well, I got to meet all of you. Olia, Paz, even the young ones. You’ve all been so kind to me.” A slight hesitation, unsure if the next words would be stepping over boundaries.

No. You had come this far, and knowing her she would only pry in that aloof way of hers until you divulged a proper answer.

“Even if none of you feel the same way, I like to think that you’ve become something of a family to me. It’s been so long since I've known what it's been like to be a part of a family, so that’s what I think this feeling is at least.” A deep breath, pushing the words that seemed to catch. You can’t live feeling like this anymore, Paz’s words coming back to you once again and giving you a small amount of confidence.

“I would like to be a part of your family. With you, that is.”

With bated breath, you wait. She’s silent, but not in the way she normally is. It’s more calculated, the air itself charged. Heart pounding in your ears, you're not sure if you would have even heard her answer. Instead of any words however, you find yourself blinded by the light of the flames as your blindfold is practically ripped off, revealing the cause of your emotional rollercoaster herself, helmet back on yet with a gaze more intense than you’ve experienced yet.

“I have always been content with my deal in life. I provide for my clan, do my best to lead and keep them safe. True leaders are those that are selfless, however,” her hand grasps yours, pulling you closer. The cool feel of her helmet sends shivers down your spine; a stark contrast to your own burning skin. “But since I have met you, I have been nothing but selfish. I want everything that you are; from your body to your soul.”

Getting up, she leads you to the far corner of her forge. A small strike of disappointment hits as she lets go of your hand to dig through one of the storage compartments. It quickly dissipates as she emerges with an all too familiar item.

You gasp. It was a helmet, just like the one you had been working on and lost on Quilon. The real one was lost, but the one before you took many of the elements you had worked into your own and combined them with a more traditional Mandoan style. The eyes had the same wider vision you had been incorporating. A combination of the classic t-visor with the more elegant swooped eyes that females seemed to favor. The jawline was also slightly more convex then normal, allowing for greater range of the head and felt less claustraphobic. Other than that, it seemed she had taken her own creative liberties and upon closer inspection you saw it was eerily similar to her own. Instead of bronze it was a silvery blue, the same three lines running down the forehead with only two horns, looking as if they were coated in the bronze color as her own. Etched into each of the cheek recesses was a hammer and tongs respectively, done in the same elegant etching found on many of your own weapons.

“I will not push you to make a decision, but I do wish you to know; if you pledge yourself to the creed, to the tribe, to me, you will never find yourself alone again. I will personally make sure of it.” Her voice barely makes its way past the vecoder. Never before had she spoken in such a gentle tone, even to yourself.

“You will be mine as I will be yours.”

Taking the helmet in your own hands, the surprising lightness of such a large metal object nearly causes you to throw it. Turning it over and inspecting every inch, you know you’re only delaying the inevitable. For so long you wanted to be part of a family, to help and be more than just a weapons crafter. Furthermore, the very person you wished, no, yearned, to spend the rest of your life with was the one to ask.

“To spend the rest of my life by your side, providing for the tribe, would be all too short.” Smiling, you pull the helmet, your helmet, closer.

For a second you think she’s short circuited, frozen in place. Then, quick as a blaster shot, she grabs your arm and drags you from the forge, all but throwing the shutter open and practically running down the hall as you struggle to keep up with your still sore leg. Briefly you catch a flash of familiar blue armor, but it's gone before you can get a good look. Instead you focus on keeping pace with the bronze warrior.

“Wh-where are we going.”

Others are watching as you pass, moving out of your path as their Alor continues her war path.

“The elders.” She says without stopping and, not winded in the slightest as, in one fell swoop, you find yourself swept into her arms and being carried bridal style as her pace continues to pick up speed. An impressive move if you hadn’t been so shocked.

“We have much to prepare.”

#star wars x reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars #x reader #fanfiction #mandalorian armorer #the armorer x reader #mando x reader #mandalor #fanfic #paz vizsla #the mandalorian

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neon-junkie · 3 years

Text

Bound

Summary: With none other than General Grievous locked away in a cell aboard your cruiser, you enter his cell in an attempt to both pester and interrogate him, but it's hard to resist toying about with such a large prize, especially when he's bound and willingly on his knees for you.

Pairing: General Grievous x Female Jedi Reader

Word Count: 2588

Rating: NSFW

Tags: yes he has a cock, Cyborg/Human, sub!Grievous, dom!Reader, Humiliation, Degrading, Dirty talk, Handcuffs, Height difference, First time, Enemies with benefits, Power play.

Notes: I've never written Grievous before so sorry if it's off :^( I also haven't really proof read this so pls holla if you see any mistakes. kthxloveubye xxx

Who would have guessed that you, a simple Jedi Knight, not yet to honour the rank of Master, has successfully captured none other than General Grievous himself. Yes, you, a Knight who has not long passed her training; it would be foolish of the Council not to give you the title of Master now, not when you have one of the most powerful weapons in the galaxy onboard your ship, bound and locked away in a cell, guarded beyond belief. If only your own Master could see you now - proud is an understatement, and you can feel their radiant energy flowing through the force, expressing their fondness through ways that words cannot express. However, you can't let this victory get to your head. You have a long way back to Coruscant, no doubt with other battles along the way. But for now, the road is steady, or as steady as it can be in hyperspace. After a well earned nap and some food, you decide to play with your dessert, heading down to the ships cells to taunt the barely organic being. It's not wise of you to poke and prod at a beast that could snap you in two, but he's unable to when he's bound like this, on his knees in his cell, both sets of his arms in cuffs behind his back.

You order the guards to wait outside, leaving you and that monster alone in the echoing cell. You're here to 'interrogate' him, and the Commander laughs before leaving you to it, encouraging you to do your worst. General Grievous doesn't look up at first, but now that you're stood directly in front of him, he can't help but glare up and meet your gaze. "Ah," Grievous sighs. "The Jedi that brought me to my knees. Here to cause more damage?" he questions. His voice is a drone - a low hum that bounces around your chest, and you can only assume that he was intentionally made to sound so monotone. "Possibly," you blankly reply. There's a pause. Grievous looks over his shoulder, scouting around the room, and quickly becomes irritated when you make no move to attack him. "Well?" he questions, snapping his head back around and peering up at you. Despite being on his knees, Grievous almost meets your level, his eyes meeting your shoulders. "What are you waiting for?" he snaps. You've heard about how Grievous does possess the ability to be patient, but in a position such as this, it's no surprise that Grievous is on edge, awaiting his next attack, presumably from you. But rather than cause more damage to his already decaying body, you reach out and cup his chin. He feels exactly how you'd expect, cold and hard, sending a chill down your spine that is cut short as Grievous yanks his head away from your grasp. You reach out again, but this time run your fingers along his fin-like cheek panels, watching how they flutter in retaliation to your light movements. "What are you doing?" Grievous questions, and despite not being able to show much emotion, you know he's raising his brow in a questionable manner. "I'm just being curious," you explain as you continue to run your fingers along the thin metal plates. Grievous seems nervous, uncertain on where this is going, but he allows you to toy with him, both out of defeat and curiosity. "I didn't know you droids had the ability to feel," you state. "I'm not a droid," Grievous spits, pushing your hand away with his cheek. "My Master rebuilt me with a nervous system, giving me the ability to feel pain, and failure, if I come across it." "Like right now?" you question with a soft laugh, and begin grinning when Grievous looks away. He continues scowling, staring into the corner of the room as you run your fingers along his mask again. However, as your light touches move from his face, down his neck, Grievous begins to show more signs of nervousness, and something else. "It seems you can feel more than pain and failure," you state. Grievous retaliates, shuffling his body away from your grasp and letting out a low, frustrated, droning hum. "Don't touch me like that," he hisses, and refuses to make eye contact again. From what you've seen in battle, Grievous enjoys eye contact when he knows he's got the upper hand, earning a sadistic pleasure as he comes across victory. However, he's bound on a Jedi cruiser, returning to the council, with a Knight exploring him in ways that he hasn't yet felt in this armoured body. You rest your hands on your hips, staring down at the General. "You've never felt anything but pain before, have you?" you question. "I have, but not for a long time," Grievous willingly tells you, his molten gold eyes meeting yours for a brief moment. There's silence - the nervous, suspenseful kind that can make anybody tremble if dragged on for too long. Grievous continues looking out into nothingness, staying away from both your touch and gaze, but for some unknown reason, he follows your next order without question nor protest. "Stand up." Grievous rises, towering over you, his hands still bound behind his back, lacking his cape. He finally looks down at you, and for once, Grievous straightens his back, puffing his chest out, as if to remind you of exactly who you're ordering about. There's a high chance that he could overpower you at any second, especially now that he's up on his feet, but Grievous noticed your lack of lightsaber when you entered the room, and it's hard to hold anybody hostage without a weapon pressed to their throat. For now, Grievous continues to have the losing hand, and curiosity has him hooked on where you're taking this. Again, you reach out, and this time you run your fingertips along his chest. You feel him hold his breath, causing him to lightly cough when he finally lets it out. He's nervous, isn't he? And you can also sense eagerness, although you're unsure if his eagerness is to get out of this situation, or dive deeper into it. You begin to wander, slowly pacing around his body, your fingers following as you walk. They move from his cold chest, running along his built shoulders and dipping down his arms, then begin their journey across his wide back. Grievous stands tall, proud, as if he's showcasing the prize that he is - the prize that you were lucky enough to capture. As you come back round to his front, you make eye contact with the cyborg; his eyes are piercing, dominating, with a tint of submission in them, seeing as you're clearly in charge here. He watches as you run your hands up his other arm, meeting his shoulder, and then dip back down his chest. This time, you continue trailing south, and the lower you go, the more Grievous slouches his back, his face eventually pressing on your shoulder. You run your fingertips over the brim of his codpiece, and Grievous hums in admiration, his eyes falling shut. For a cyborg, he's tense, and let's out a desperate whine when you hook your finger over the armour and lightly tug on it, teasing its removal. Grievous moves his head along your shoulder, burying it in the curve of your neck, the thin panel of his cheek pressing against yours. His eyes remain scrunched shut, his breaths long and deep, and you're almost certain that he's attempting to nuzzle you. You tug on his codpiece again, and Grievous speaks up. "Remove it," Grievous orders, humming directly into your ear, attempting to be dominant, but desperation clouds his tone. "I'm the one who gives the orders here, General." Grievous lets out a frustrated whine, and as punishment for his lack of patience, you take your time, running your fingertips around the brim of his codpiece for longer, often dipping your hands down to play with his thighs. Once you're satisfied with how long you've made Grievous wait, you begin unfastening his codpiece, uncertain on what you'll find. The metal armour is cast to the floor, hitting the ground with a clank, exposing something that you'd never expect to see. Grievous moves his head off your shoulder, straightening his back and tugging on his binds. You tut him whilst your eyes remain fixated on that. Grievous picks up on your confusion and questions why you've stopped. "I wasn't expecting that," you explain, reaching out to grasp a hold of Grievous's cock. He hums, and dips his head down to watch as you explore his length. He feels leathery, not quite droid-like, but far from organic, and from the way Grievous is reacting, you know he can feel everything that you're doing to him. "I have made my own personal adjustments to my form, adding things that my Master doesn't need to know about," Grievous explains. "And have you put them to use?" "Not yet."

Grievous continues to hum, but his tone begins to soften out, sounding more like a purr. He attempts to rest his head on your shoulder again, letting out a deep sigh as you stroke his length, and he's stopped as you raise your other hand and gently press it to his face. "On your knees," you order, making direct eye contact. Grievous lets out a frustrated, croaky groan as he allows himself to submit even more, surprisingly to Jedi scum such as yourself. His length slips from your grasp as he moves, and once he's settled on his knees, he peers his head up and watches you, awaiting your next order. "Now lie down." As Grievous moves into position, you reach beneath your tunic and begin taking off your pants, kicking your boots off first and discarding your lower half clothing in a messy pile. Despite Grievous being bound, with his hands trapped between the floor and his back, he's still intimidating. His size doesn't help, towering over you even when his back is arched, and he somehow feels even bigger as you straddle his hips, his cock pressed against your inner thigh. Needless to say, straddling Grievous is somewhat uncomfortable, with an array of rough and sharp edges poking and jabbing you; it takes a while to find a comfortable position, but once you've got it, you raise your hips and begin sliding down onto his length, using your spit to help slick yourself up. From the way Grievous fits, you assume he's designed his length to fit humans, which makes you wonder what he'd have planned if the tables were turned. Grievous lets out a deep, gravelly sigh, his chest slowly rising and falling as you slide down onto him, getting use to the feeling of something man-made inside you. Well, you're no stranger to sex toys, but this is taking things to the next level, isn't it? He's impatient, almost instantly bucking his hips up, urging you to move and knocking the wind from your lungs. Grievous chuckles at your sudden yelp, and you return the favour by slamming down onto him, making his piercing eyes go wide as he comments "bold move." You rest your hands on his chest, the cold metal beneath you sending a shiver down your spine, as if to remind you who and what you're fucking. Regardless, you begin rolling your hips, attempting to find a pace where you're not being jabbed by his cyborg figure. It takes some time, but you find rhythm, and Grievous seems happy too as he rolls his head back against the floor, breathing heavily. Normally, Grievous's breathing is loud, sharp, and metallic. However, this is different, similar to the purr he was doing earlier, but slightly human, as if this sensation is reminding him of his Kaleesh days. His eyes are scrunched shut, his crimson skin seeming brighter than usual, despite the cell being dimly lit. Molten gold eyes soon meet yours again, and you're certain that if he could, he'd be blushing right now. Grievous watches as you ride him, rolling your hips in a way that brushes his cock over your g-spot with every thrust, making your arms shake as you attempt to hold yourself up over his body. You can tell Grievous is enjoying watching you fall apart, slowly struggling to keep your pace up - it's not every day that you get to enjoy such pleasures, so your stamina is low. "Unfasten my binds," Grievous both suggests and orders, and grunts when you frown at him. "Why?" "So I can take over. I see that you're failing to keep a constant pace." "I'm not falling for that," you roll your eyes. Does he really think you're that stupid? "Ughh," Grievous grunts once more. He unexpectedly begins to move, shifting his legs so that his feet are flat on the floor, his knees slightly raised. You only get a brief moment to hold onto his chest again before Grievous begins bucking up into you, merciless and unforgiving, ensuring that your inner thighs are going to be bruised for days, leaving his mark on you. You're not surprised that Grievous has found his own way to take over. Neverless, this means less work and more pleasure for you, so why complain? "Better?" Grievous asks smugly, knowing exactly what your answer is going to be. "Y-yes," you attempt to reply, unable to talk from his quick pace, let alone breathe deeply. "I might keep you," you comment, your eyes peeking open to watch Grievous's reaction. He doesn't reply verbally, letting out a low groan as his eyes fall shut, both refusing to make eye contact with you, and engulfing himself in pleasure. "Would you enjoy that?" you question, prodding at him even more when he fails to reply. "I didn't think the mighty General Grievous would enjoy being degraded all the way down to a Jedi's pet." This time, Grievous does open his eyes, but remains silent, picking up his pace even more in an attempt to silence you. It works, minus your pants and groans; you hope that Clone guards outside can't overhear this, but then again, who are they to judge? You've come across them in more questionable situations than this. Grievous's pace is unbelievably quick; it seems he's not just a hardened war machine. He's wheezing slightly, no doubt from all the effort he's putting in, and it's more than enough to bring your orgasm closer and closer. You're almost screaming when you climax, instantly over-stimulated from his vibrating pace, falling limp against Grievous's cold, metal chest. To your surprise, he slows his pace, soon coming to a halt and chuckling at the state you've wound up in. "Too much?" Grievous complacently comments, making you pout as you raise your head to meet his piercing gaze. "Did you cum?" you question, uncertain if he even has the ability to imitate that. "Not yet." "Shame," you sarcastically shrug, and begin picking yourself up, sliding off Grievous and relying on your bruising, shaky legs to keep you upright. "What?!" Grievous yelps, growling as he watches you dress yourself, stumbling every so often from exhaustion. "You can't just discard me like that!" Grievous states. He continues glaring as you fasten his codpiece back on, forcing yourself to bite back a laugh from the whine Grievous makes when his still-hard cock is completely ignored, trapped behind his armour. "I can, and I will," you grin. "Besides, I can sense that we've reached our destination..."

#swwriting #general grievous #grievous x reader #general grievous x reader #star wars #the clone wars #star wars fanfic #nsft #smut #f!reader #female reader #fem reader #general grievous x you #star wars fanfiction #jedi!reader #cyborg #cyborg/human

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sytortuga · 2 years

Text

Final sacrifice (Chapter 9)

And it is up! Grogu tries to help his buir as much as he can through his bacta sessions while Omera makes some discoveries about Din’s past.

Posted on AO3 on the following link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38372269/chapters/97011864

A huge thanks go to @azertyrobaz for all her input and comments on this chapter. The idea on Din's hand injury during training comes from her fanfic "Apostrophe" which I totally recommend you check out if you haven't already read it.

Any comments are always very appreciated! 😁

Final sacrifice

General synopsis: AU universe, in which removing your helmet is punished by death if the members of the covert esteem it so. Otherwise all canon compliant until E16 “The Rescue”, where Skywalker doesn’t show up but Din fights the Dark Troopers with the Darksaber. Din and Grogu, together, they find the covert, mostly as occurs in E5 of TBOBF. This fanfic takes off from where Din accepts Paz’s duel for the DarkSaber.

Relationships: Mando x Omera

Characters: Din Djarin, Grogu, Omera, Winta. Eventually Cara, Fennec, Boba Fett

Warnings: references to child abuse, violence against children, medical procedures, brain injury.

Link to chapter 8

Link to chapter 10

Boba had sent service droids to clean up the mess caused by the Mandalorian’s outburst. Some were in charge to clean the breakfast plates that Cara had brought to Omera and that were now lying on the ground as well as oil the droid oil spilled throughout the room's floor and walls. Some other service droids were ordered to take the dismembered medical droid and repair it with urgency, given that surely the Mandalorian would be in need of it until his full recovery.

Cara had suggested strapping the Mandalorian down to the bed until he regained consciousness and showing clear signs of being aware of his surroundings. They all agreed, thinking that with a confused state of mind, his behavior could be dicey and could pose a threat to others and himself. They all agreed except Omera despite of how terribly distraught she had been from the incident. So Boba took for himself the task to bind the man to the bed through wrists and ankles.

Days passed, and there was still no indication that the Mandalorian would wake up. The kids were allowed to sit regularly with Din, who remained covered with a blanket to avoid them realizing he was tied up. Grogu cuddled often under his buir's neck while Winta would talk lively to Boba or anyone around about mundane things and life on the planet. Omera enjoyed seeing her curiosity unleashing and was grateful for everybody's patience with the kids. While being absorbed by the vastness of the sands of Tatooine, she couldn’t help but smile thinking about the curious nature of her child, and how it must be exciting for her to leave her home planet for the first time, even if it was under the given circumstances. Dark and negative thoughts were always haunting her, threatening to take over her heart and send her over the edge again. But whenever that would happen, she would focus on her love for her daughter, the only thing that was capable of anchoring positive feelings during the passing days.

The medical droid had been repaired, and resumed his task of taking care of the Mandalorian, surveying his progress and adjusting his treatments accordingly. Omera rarely left the man’s side, wanting to make sure he was not alone if, when (she obliged herself to think), Din woke up. She occupied herself sewing for the kids and mending things that Boba pointed out needed repair. Though he insisted that they were guests in his palace, she felt the need to start paying back their stay and making herself useful anyway she could.

One afternoon, when she was working on repairing a suit that Boba had asked her to mend, the droid started unhooking the IV’s on the Mandalorian’s arm. Alerted by this, she got up, questioningly. Without any prior notice, the droid moved a stretcher next to the man’s bed and set him on it, proceeding to take him out of the room.

-“Where are you taking him?” she finally asked.

-“His condition is not improving. A second bacta session is recommended” his mechanical voice stated.

She followed the droid back to where the bacta tank was and witnessed the process of him being installed inside the tank. After placing and securing the regulator in his mouth, the droid closed the tank and filled it up with the bacta.

By resuming her place next to the tank, a terrible feeling of déjà vu invaded her, making her think again on the first time he was immersed in the tank upon arriving on the sandy planet.

-“Recommended exposure time, 5 standard hours”, the droid said outload, and without any further detail, left the room.

Some time after, the Mandalorian started again thrashing inside the tank, not violently, but it was evident to Omera that he was again dreaming. There was nothing she could really do, so she just stayed faithfully next to him, hoping that whatever was haunting his time in the tank was not as terrifying as what she saw last.

Time seemed to pass, and Boba finally came in with a nervous Grogu in his arms.

-“This little one was starting to get fussy, he clearly wanted to see his buir”, he said, setting him on Omera’s lap next to the tank. The Mandalorian was still shifting in the tank, which made Grogu’s ears drop with a mixture of worry and sadness. Omera couldn't help but think that, wherever he happened to be, the child was somehow capable of sensing that his father was in distress.

- “Do not worry”, Boba started anticipating the woman's question. “It’s not uncommon to dream while in the tank. I find myself remembering old experiences with each session”.

At this point, the child was desperately trying to get to the tank, cooing nervously. Omera couldn't but comply with the kid's request and moved closer so he could touch the window. But once at reach, he suddenly seemed to hesitate and searched Omera's gaze. She immediately knew what he was thinking. His father was dreaming, and he obliviously wanted to help. But by doing so meant he was also witness to the scene accounting within the man's head. Omera couldn't help thinking on the stress of having to see life through the eyes of a person who must have been suffered so much throughout the years. Only the maker knew what he had gone through. He hadn't even spoken much about his life and his past, but she did recall him saying that his parents were killed and that was taken in by the Mandalorians. "What would it entail to be raised by fearless warriors?" she thought to herself. Having to immerse himself, alone, in a foreign culture, forge a new family that, if she had understood correctly, had again lost twice more.

-"I know you want to help little one. I would be scared too after what happened last time…" she finally said.

Boba stood there watching them. "Whatever do you mean?"

-"The child, he can help calm him down, but he sees all the Mandalorian is seeing. Last time it wasn't pretty. I think he's scared" she explained. And she was too, she had to admit to herself, but after some thinking she obliged herself to be courageous.

-"Tell you what, Grogu. If you think you can help him again, I will go in with you, deal?"

The child chirped with some relief.

-"He can show you as well?" Boba said surprised.

Omera nodded and offered her hand to Grogu, who took it with some hesitation. He then set his other hand on the window of the bacta tank and closed his eyes in concentration.

Omera's view on the room started to fade, the sensation now being known to her though still disturbing. But nothing came on the other side. It was all darkness, she couldn't see anything. She started to get nervous when she finally heard people talking in the distance.

-"All the other foundlings have been integrated by the different clans, but none wish to adopt him" said a deep male voice. Omera thought she could hear it being modulated, as it was with Din's when he was wearing the helmet.

-"That's not surprising" said a different voice. "Kid’s mute, I would even go ahead and say he's autistic. Who would willingly take him?" There was silence among the people talking. "He will never withstand the training, he's too weak and will always be a charge to the clan who takes him" the voice continued.

-"The circumstances of his retrieval were exceptionally… violent" stepped in a woman's voice. "His cabur has been teaching him sign language, allowing him to communicate until he recovers from his trauma, which he will eventually. But if I have gathered you all here today, as heads of each of our clans, is to find solution to Djarin's case. The kid witnessed everybody he knew and loved die before his eyes. And that was partly our fault. The setup should have been better conducted, and for that, I make you responsible, Vizsla. You were in charge of the mission in Aq Vetina and should have handled the droids better" continued the woman. "That is why I say he should be taken by House Vizsla".

-"I think I talk in the name of all clans when I say we shouldn’t waste our time with him. But should he stay with my clan, I will give the order to immediately leave him on the next habitable planet we reach" said the deep voice.

After some seconds, Omera heard the woman continue.

-"He will proof his value. But if no clan will willingly accept to take him and train him, he shall then integrate the Fighting Corps" said the woman. "This is the way".

-"This is way" Omera heard everybody answer in unison.

She heard suddenly heavy footsteps approaching, and felt being jerked up.

-"Get up, you useless womp rat". Omera thought she recognized the deepest of the modulated voices she heard before. She could suddenly see, although like through watery eyes. Had her eyes been closed? Everything was still darkened, but she could make out the outline of the corridor she was being roughly dragged down until reaching a small, dark room with a mattress on the floor.

-“Home sweet home, kid” she heard the man say, throwing her to the ground. “You are lucky to have the Alor on your side. Should I have known that you would turn out to be as you are, I would have left you die with your parents”. The man took a couple of steps back towards the entrance of the room. She could see the outline of a tall man suited with Mandalorian armor. In the darkness it was hard to distinguish the colors, but she thought it was blue, and reminded her terribly of the armor the other Mandalorian than came searching for Din on Sorgan wore. “You will join the Fighting Corps, let’s see how much you last there”, he said before stepping out from the room. In the darkness, she could only hear sobs.

Next thing she knew she was back in the bacta tank room, Grogu trying really hard to remain focused, not losing contact with the tank’s window. The Mandalorian was still moving in the tank, clearly disturbed, but it was evident that the child was still trying to get through to him. So Omera returned her contact with the child’s free hand and closed her eyes again.

She opened her eyes to see a bull’s eye in the distance. Looking left and right, she saw that she was surrounded by at least a dozen other kids, all doing target practice. Returning her gaze to the target, she saw herself pointing a blaster and shooting.

-“DJARIN!” a voice startled her somewhere from the back. “You’re supposed to be training with your non-dominant hand, that’s the whole point of the exercise”.

-“I… I can’t…” she heard a young voice whisper, gaze still focused on the target and blaster raised.

And without further notice, she felt a sharp pain in her right hand. In a single movement, she saw the blaster drop while a vibroblade went through the hand that was holding the blaster.

-“I don’t want to hear those words again. You can and you will.”

She felt herself dropping to her knees, left hand holding the injured right, badly shaking with the knife still lodged through it. In her peripheral vision she saw a tall slim Mandalorian who approached and kneeled next to her.

-"You know what your problem is. You're stubborn, kid. But I promise you I will make a good Mandalorian out of you" the armored man said. And with one swift movement, he retrieved the vibroblade, causing a scream of pain to reverberate in the room.

-“Now go dress your hand as you’ve been taught and come back. I expect you to complete the target practice with your left hand before last meal is served”.

-“Yes, sir” she heard again the soft whisper, now with a small tremor in the tone, and the darkness returned until being back in the small alcove. She witnessed how, with surprising expertise for a young child, the hands in front of her started suturing the wounds in both the front and palm of the injured hand. The light was still dim in the alcove, but she saw small droplets of water falling next to a small pool of blood that had formed on the floor, just under where the kid was working. She thought them to be tears but she couldn’t hear any sobbing, just the rough breathing of a clearly hurting child. Before she could notice anything else, she saw how the thick curtain serving as a door was moved away by a small figure entering the alcove. Was it… could it be…Grogu?

With small steps, the child got closer and climbed to the sitting young Din and hugged him, putting his arms through the neck and burying his face under his chin.

Omera found herself back in the room, the Mandalorian again calm within the tank.

-“So that’s how you do it, huh?" Omera said, searching for the kids' gaze. "You can interact with him in his sleep? Keep him calm?”

The kid chirped in excitement, looking tired but evidently happy to have helped his buir. Omera, deeply moved for what the child was doing for his father, gave him a strong hug and then kissed him on his forehead.

Omera looked out of the window and realized the two suns had already set, the horizon being now shades of deep blue. Boba was gone from the room as well. How much time had passed? Her mind was rushing with all the information that had just been revealed to her through Din's dreams, but she realized it was not the moment to reflect on that. There would be time for that, she thought.

-“Come on, let’s go find Winta and get you both bathed and fed, it’s getting late and you need to rest”.

#final sacrifice #my writing #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandomera #mando x omera #din djarin #the mandalorian #whump din djarin

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