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constantlymisspelled · 8 months

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Mandalorian Armour Colours

Armour Colour meanings and Classifications

Perhaps it's a little ridiculous, but with more and more fans wanting a full comprehensive guide to colours, and my own frustration at not being able to find the fanon colour charts of old, here we are. For both your sake, and mine, please don't be upset if anyone doesn't utilise this guide, it is after all a guide, and only a fanmade compilation. If anyone has any criticisms, that's what edit is for, and if you want further definition, do not hesitate to let me know in the comments.

The Classicly Accepted;

[This section is the clolours accepted by Canon Media, both Disney and Legends. I will include a colour swatch and the Taubman's pallet code for ease of use. If there are colours you wish to see evaluated, or meanings you wish to infer, let me know.]

[The tiles above are literally the closest I could find to Jaster's colour, and to Boba's visor colours. The left is Red Alert, T12 26.H5, and the right is Crossfire, T15 196.6.]

Red - Ge'tal

'Honouring a parent.' This colour has been seen on the edge of Boba Fett's visor for years, and has been a staple Mandalorian colour for a long time. Honouring a parent is considered acceptable in most forms of Mandalorian Society, hence its widespread use. Honouring does not have to mean morning, and when some Mandalorians move past the grief of a lost loved one, or parent, they move to change the greys to reds, or oranges, in remembrance not of their death, but the life that family member - usually a provider in this case - had lived.

White - Cin

'A new start/Clean slate.' The literal translation for the phrase describing white on armour (Cin Vhetin) is 'White field,' or 'Snow Covoured Field.' It creates the notion that you are starting over, as winter has come, and it covers all that you used to be, allowing you to completely restructure yourself before spring arrives to thaw it, as a totally new person, with new honour and oaths to fulfil. Often associated with adult adoptions, or redemption vows completed, signifying new life.

[The image above features Jaster as he was in the first issue of Jango Fett - Open Seasons. It is accessible (the pic) on wiki, and I'm pretty sure the comic is available on most comic archives. Jaster's colour are, famously, dark grey, black, red and the yellow Haat Mando'ade Crest.]

Black - Ne'tra

Justice - the colour of Mandalorians whose moral code is unshakable. A notable wearer of this colour is Jaster Mereel himself. Most kute are often this colour, or dark blue (navy) and in most cases that is for cost reasons, and to prevent staining. However, black is the colour of night, and of Death - an important concept to all Mandalorian Sects - and creates a sense of uniformity amongst even the most visually different individuals. Justice, Death, and all that this might entail is a corner stone of Mandalorian culture and perception. One cannot live if they do not accept that Death is a possibility. Black can denote serving of justice, seeking justice, or preserving it.

Grey - Genet

'Honouring lost love, or mourning a lost loved one'. The separate shades of Grey have meaning in some Clans and Houses, but across most of Mandalorian Space, Grey is to signify the passing of a loved one. It can even be worn if either a Clan has been lost, or if a member has been excommunicated. There are also occasions of possible ven'riduur wearing the colour when another warrior gets there before them.

[The above image is the reverse of the New Zealand Free State of Niue's reverse coin. Gold does not promote prestige in Mandalorian culture, but danger. If dressed in gold, one is to be weary.]

Gold - Ve'vut

Vengeance, a common place, and important part of Mandalorian Culture and Law. Methods of vengeance are protected and controlled by Mandalorian Law. Acts that go from vengeance to Revenge can face serious consequence. Outsiders that meet warriors in this colour are warned to practice caution. A Mandalorian's wealth is not decided by the colour of their armour, but of their actions, and gold denotes a thirst for vengeance, in a control, personal manner.

[The image to the left is Nocturne Shade, T15 139.6, and the image to the right is Bright Cerulean, T15 138.7. I included a vivid and deep blue to show the scope of what is considered baseline, before entering Light Blue, Sky Blue, or Navy. I chose as close as I could to Jango Fett's armour, and both Paz Vizsla, and Vizsla House.]

Blue - Kebiin

Reliability, a warrior and Mandalorian who is secure in who they are, what they are capable of, and what they have to offer the galaxy. Warriors in their prime often wear this colour. It is often taken as a show of subtle faith and loyalty to whichever leader these particular Mandalorians serve. Blue is also often worn by mercenaries and Journeyman to create a sense of calm and trust between them and their charges. Blue is often seen as a solid, and dependable colour, and associated with leadership, and their support. Blue is the colour of the Mandalorian Protectors Universal Sigil. Parents who are raising children alone also wear this colour, as a way of reinforcing the belief that they can care for their child alone - a rare occurrence in Mandalorian Space.

Orange -

lust for life, shereshoy

[The colour to the right is literally as close as I could get to Boba Fett's armour. The image on the left is Irish Stone, T15 164.7, and the right is Deep Veridian, T10 54F-2.]

Green - Vorpan

Duty - often considered the workers' colour, green represents hard work, and deep commitment to a cause, a task, an ideal, or an action. Many members of the Fett House predominantly wear this colour as a nod to their humble beginnings, and many farmers and tradespeople wear some small segment of green to denote their occupation. The kind of green, and the way it is worn can also denote different trades and employment types, although like with most colours, each mandalorian is ultimately able to make decisions for themself on what their colours mean to them.

The Observed and Official Greater House uses;

[This section is for Fanon, or non-official colours. The Mandalorian Mercs and other cosplay groups have commonly accepted colour codes, as do some sections of the Fanfic writing community. If anyone has any colour ideas, do let me know, and feel free to leave a link to other colour charts in the notes! It's my ambition to make sourcing knowledge on Mandalorian culture easier and easier for newer fans.]

[Image for Beskar Silver was taken from the Etsy Adds for Beskar Ingots. There are multiple companies and craftspeople that make these - vey cool! I can not let myself buy any. I can not!!!]

Silver - Beskar

The Colour of unpainted beskar, the associated meanings are either that you have not had the chance to paint it, or if you are in full, evidently in use armour, that you have no right to wear paint. It is the assumed non-colours of the Silver Children (An Elite Group of Mandalorian Ori'ramikade) and the Naasaade (the Nameless Society, a group of Mandalorians who have either been put towards the path of redemption by order, or by choice) and of many bounty hunters of the Outer Rim who seek to keep their clan affiliations a secret. It is widely believed that if any Mandalorian is to have honour, it is one in silver, as it infers that this particular Mandalorian will do all that is possible to be seen as honourable once more by themselves, others, their clan, and the Ka'ra.

[The image on the left is Blue Booties (I know right?), T15 142.1, and the image on the right is Reflection, T15 142.2. I included an eggshell blue, and a powder, almost greenish pale blue. I even checked the definition of Cyan for you. Essentially, really light teal, like, really light.]

Cyan, or Sky Blue -

'New Love', often used as the symbol of engagement. Most Mandalorians cannot afford to exchange and modify pieces of their armour from one partner to another, and so instead of this practice from the eras of battlefield weddings, most unmarried warriors are encouraged to carry a small vial of this colour paint instead. This is a practice seen more amongst the traditionalists, who believe in earning armour on your own merit, and not upon the backs of others. Other methods of using this colour is in Cyan Beads upon your kute, or the addition of decorative cord upon a warrior's shoulder to denote engagement, or new marriage.

The Two Shades of Purple

[Purple is a difficult colour. Caught between red and blue, and having so many varied shades and meanings across both Mandalore, and the fandom, I've done my best to create the general feel of what purple means to a culture obsessed with living life to the fullest, and honouring your oaths.]

[Image on the left has Imperial Violet, T15 211.4, and the image on the right has Purple Statice, T15 210.5. I grabbed both a warm and cool variety for those of you with colour schemes to match. Purple is a colour often associated in fandom with chance, hope, and luck.]

a) Lavender, or Violet

The colour of luck and chance, Violet and Lavender are supposed to be a sign of recognition and faith to the old Mandalorian God and Spirit of Luck, and although belief in the Gods has long since faded, folklore still holds most shades of lighter purple as the colour of chance, change, and good futures. It is a common colour for new parents wishing to do right by their children.

[Image on the left is Imperial Purple, T15 213.7, and the image on the right is Royal Indigo, T15 130.7. Again, I have used both warm and cool shades to allow as much versatility as possible with colour palletes.]

b) Indigo

Often considered the colour of hope, Indigo and its shades are often used to mean the same things as other shades of purple, and when paired with colours such as Cyan, and Teal, or even most forms of blue, is meant to inspire a sense of gratitude, or gratefulness for victory, present peace, currently good fortune and such, whilst lighter shades are meant to bring said fortune.

[Image on the left is Tapestry Teal, T15 153.6, and the image on the right is Lagoon Teal, T15 153.5. Both Teals are on the lighter side, but you can absolutely go darker in this colour and have the same meaning.]

Teal -

Considered the unofficial colours of the New Mandalorians, the colour was originally worn only by medics, emergency workers, and those who had retired from active combat. It was supposed to be the colour of those who had seen violence, and stood up to atrocities in the name of peace. It is now considered a cowards colour amoungst Kyrtsaade circles, and New Mandalorians forbade its application in armour as a falsehood and a breaking of the Healers Code. However, Traditionalists and Way Followers still view it as the colour of choice for more reserved, shrewd verde who fight as a last resort.

[images above are to the left, Minty Green, T15 165.3, and to the right, Sherbet Lime, T15 167.3. Once again, included a warm and cool option.]

Light Green -

'Lust for peace', 'The Guardian', or 'Peace Keeper's Colours'. Often used by warriors who practice non-lethal forms of combat - guards that utilise stun batons and blanks instead of live ammunition. Under the New Mandalorians, it became indistinguishable from Teal and its meanings, but in all other forms of Mandalorian culture, Light Green is used for warriors and guards of sacred r special places, such as schools, hospitals, or the water ways. Light Green is a deeply respected, and widely used colour, even if its meaning has been watered down and misinterpreted by the galaxy at large.

Yellow - Shi'yayc

Dark Green

Dark Blue

Tan

Brown

Cream/Beige

Maroon and Burgundy

[I couldn't pick one... Image above contains Baby Girl, Pigtail Pink, River Rouge, Spring Pink, Jaguar Rose, After the Dance, Flamenco Fire, Turkish Delight, Pink Flambe, Pink Clay Pot, Bold Flame and Strawberry Splash. The codes are found on Taubmans website.]

Pink -

Respect, Knowledge, and Respected. Interestingly, pink in Mandalorian Space is a colour of status, as a unification of white and red, it combines the ideas of horouring those that raised you, and your new beginnings, and the outcome became the colour pink. Different shades mean different things in the more secular coverts, but it is important to note that field archivists, officers, and journalists have a tendency to wear at least some pink.

Additional Colours and Varieties;

Metallics

Mattes and Gloss

Patterning

Symbols of the Mandalorians;

The symbols used in Mandalore are vast, and complicated, and often the colour can change the meaning of the symbol. Colour is, as always, up to the discretion and particular tastes of the Mandalorian in question, but there are common associations, and symbols mandated for use by specific beings.

[Extrapolation will be added]

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[Wrote this for my own use, and as a guide on mainstream Mandalore and the subsects we might actually see in Disney media (can you see me distancing their bizarre writing from myself? can you??) after all, the official website lists Din's armour as grey? What?? Bro, no.]

Resources;

The only copy of the old Fan Canon List I could find:

[Fanon List in image is as follows; Purple - Luck, Pink - Respected or Respecting Someone, White - Purity, Brown - Valor, Maroon - Power, Light Green - Lust for Peace, Scarlet - Defiance, Silver - Seeking Redemption, Yellow - Remembrance, Teal - Healing.]

Found on Pinterest. It used to part of one of the cosplay forums, but I can no longer find it. It runs off old canon. There are some issues with the list, but ah well.

Mandalorian Mercs Forum; [here]

They're rather official, and a great deal of their stuff is incredibly helpful, but I find their website hard to navigate. Probably just me though.

Mandalorian Wikipedia Colours; [here]

It doesn't have any of the extended fanon colours, but it dos have an in depth expose on what colour canon and EU Legends has provided us with.

Mando'a Translator; [here]

Not entirely sure how well it works, but it does simple words fine. Its sentence structure is terrible, just like all translate apps, so be warned.

Mando'a Dictionary and Forum; [here]

This Mando'a dictionary has got to be the most comprehensive I have found, however there are still mistakes. The only reason I know that is I printed the whole thing and read it like some kind of nerd.

Mandalorian Colour Definition found on Tumblr;[here]

This one is made by another user, I am unsure of their sources, but it matches closely with a great deal that I have found, so it’s pretty accurate so far.

Another Handy Mando'a forum; here

If there are any other helpful websites and links you can think of, let me know. The Codex will have reference to this chart at some stage, but I'll get to that later. I'm just religiously ignoring the Mandalorian Cookbook I started whilst sick last year. You never hear of it, it never existed.

[I will update this as I make further research.]

#star wars #mandalorian culture #mandalorians #mandalore #mandalorian language #mandalorian colours #mandalorian armour #mandalorian lore #mando'ade #mando'a

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alcida-auka · 1 month

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My first, and ultimate Fett theory

Since season 1 of the Bad Batch, I've long believed that eventually Omega and Boba will be the final two clones. Omega's name has always had an ominous tone to it, she will be the last, maybe outliving her brother Alpha.

However, I do believe their ultimate story is one of family longing to connect, a brother and sister destined to remain as the final of Jango's children.

I've felt since the the Bad Batch began that Omega's brothers could all die at the end, though I think Crosshair may survive. Hopefully Emerie. I feel like their lives are just beginning.

But ultimately, accelerated aging will take away even Emerie and Crosshair.

Boba has lost his father, all his father's associates never cared about him, and his Tusken family too was killed (and I believe he feels guilty about that, just as Omega feels guilty for her brothers being in danger for her sake).

I think Boba and Omega will need each other, and I hope they find each other to be the family they deserve.

I said long ago that Omega's story was a Snow White tale. There are many such versions of these stories, but just as Ezra's story had an Aladdin motif, so Omega's story has a Dead Princes and the 7 Knights/Snow White motif.

But Omega's "prince" isn't a romantic partner--he is her last brother.

I think Omega will "disappear" at the end of The Bad Batch. Like the Snow White and the Tsarevna, she must be hidden way in a metaphorical Glass Casket, believed to be dead from the world, until she can be revived with love.

#the bad batch #star wars meta #tbb omega #Boba fett

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imarvelatthestars · 6 months

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Just a Man: I

Pairings: Jango Fett x f!Reader

Content: this is a Headless Horseman au set during a historical time period on Earth with a special focus on Māori culture to honor Tem's heritage; warnings include - decapitation, violence & warfare, mercenary activity, explicit references to colonization, (D)jango is morally ambiguous and a problematic king but we love him anyway, and also smut

Notes: no use of y/n, although the reader is given a placeholder last name.

Many thanks to @moodymisty who inspired it & @wolffegirlsunite who let me yell all my feral ideas at her.

a playlist | next chapter

important vocab: aotearoa - literally 'the land of the long white cloud', the māori name for new zealand korowai - a type of cloak waka - canoe; waka hourua - large double-hulled canoes made for ocean travel iwi - tribe tamariki - children mana - the supernatural, indestructible power of the gods that exists in everything pounamu - special greenstone or jade that many pendants and patu are made out of patu - a traditional māori war club kaitiaki - guardian django - possibly from a romani word meaning "i awake"; fetu - alternate spelling of the māori name "whetu" (wh- = f-)

1575 – Rotorua, Aotearoa

It is cold this night and he draws his korowai tighter around his shoulders. Most are asleep by now and he ought to be among them, but the stars have kept him up, the stars and their reflections on the lake and what lies beyond them all. This wonder is not a new one. Fetu has wondered about the great beyond many times, enough to have been scolded for it beyond what he can count. Yet still the desire remains.

It calls to him now, itching at the back of his throat, at his hands, his feet, urging him to action, to run into the night and never look back. For the thousandth time, he wonders what sort of chaos would erupt in his absence. His wife would be furious and it might honestly be best that he never return should he indeed choose to leave – her fury would certainly kill him. His brothers would shake their heads, his parents would bow theirs in shame and reluctant resignation, but no one would be surprised.

No, he tells himself like he’s done every night before, I will stay. Duty. Honor. These are things that he believes in and to run would be to abandon them. I will stay.

The stars are quiet. So are the gods, though he swears he hears something on the wind, something like the crashing of waves on a shore that whispers, “Go. Run.”

Fetu shakes his head, one corner of his mouth cracking into a smile. He’s letting his mind run away with him again. Best to get some sleep before any more foolish ideas take root.

Sleep does come, but it doesn’t calm the hunger gnawing at the edges of his mind. The not-quite voice from the lakeshore follows him into his dreams and it is here that the world comes alive with thunder and lightning and the rumbling of the earth. He sees things he has never seen before – a great waka of a shape he would never have conceived with cloaks hovering high above the bow, strange weapons that spark as if crafted by god-fire, lands as brown as his skin that rise and fall like the mountains but shift like the sand on the beach, long stretches of ice and snow, beasts of unimaginable heights and with strange faces, taller even than the tallest warrior. All this could be his to explore, the dream tells him, less with words and more with the kiss of the sea breeze on his face.

Think of the legends, it says. And he does think of them. He pictures the ancestors who sailed from Hawaiki to discover this land, the waka hourua that sailed over vast oceans, the bravery and boldness still recalled over fires so many years later. He thinks of the desperation that has burned in his gut since he was a boy and how everyone in the iwi has tried to douse that fire, his parents, the elders, his brothers, his wife. But it doesn’t have to be that way any longer. He could run.

It would be shameful, he reasons.

It would only be shameful if he were to return. And both he and the dream know that he would never want to.

I have tamariki. They are young.

They are strong like he is. They will endure.

I belong here. Even though he has always known that a part of him belonged elsewhere.

Had the ancestors stayed where they belonged, he would not be here now to live and die. Had the ancestors lived in their fear-

Fetu bristles. I am not afraid.

And yet he stays.

He surveys the things his dream has shown him, the almost glimpses of foreign people at the edges of his vision. There is destiny in the wind that pulls at their hair, there are legends in the footsteps they leave behind. There is a place for him, only if he is willing to go.

He wakes to the sound of his son crying. Another bad dream, something about drowning in the belly of a beast whose mouth is too full of teeth. Fetu thinks that facing such a creature would be an admirable end, an exciting end. His skin pimples with the idea. But he shushes the boy and tells him to go back to sleep. After all, it was just a dream and dreams are not always true.

But sometimes. Sometimes they are. This is the part he keeps to himself.

He’s always been good at plans. It’s why his brothers have always deferred to him. He sees things differently than they do, understands how others think and how best to use that to his advantage. He knows when to be quiet and when to speak, when to wait and when to strike. So he knows that now is not the time to run off chasing his dreams. The start of his story must be slow and careful, it must be restrained, and while this restraint burns in his throat, it is nothing new. He’s been waiting his whole life. He can wait a few months more.

The seasons will change with the arrival of the new year. The weather will warm, food will grow, and he will prepare. New weapons will be made, provisions carefully measured in the back of his mind, valuable skills resharpened, deals made with neighboring iwis in the late evenings when no one knows he is even missing.

Strangest of all, though, is the ache that burrows into his sternum when he watches his children. Poa is growing into a man more and more with every day, a man both very like and very different to him. There’s a gentleness in his eyes that Fetu never felt at his age, but there is also his quiet strength and warrior’s prowess. And Omeka is much the same. She is soft at heart, but it is a deceiving softness. She’s wise for someone so young, very kind and very smart, and incredibly fierce. He smiles when he thinks about the man she will marry one day. Whoever he is, he will need all the help he can get.

He's proud. And he knows for certain now that they will endure without him. They will outlive him and carry his lessons on to their own children, and he will live on through them. It could almost be enough, but… it isn’t. There is a difference in his mind between the legacy of his descendants and the legacy of his name and deeds stitched into song.

The lands of his dreams still call to him when he sleeps. Forests and barren valleys and faded grasslands. He will go there one day. Soon. The weather is almost right. His provisions are nearly ready. His weapons are made. The rest of the world is so close that he can almost taste it.

There is a place at the very north of this land that is said to be the first spot where the ancestors first saw Aotearoa. The rest of the world lies beyond this point. Hawaiki is to the north, apparently, but that is a dead land. His focus is set on the west. Where does the sun go when it sinks beneath the horizon? What people live there? What markings will they bear on their faces, what stories will they tell? He wonders if Poa’s sand beast that eats children whole lives in those faraway lands, and he smiles. There’s only one way to know for sure.

And so the long white clouds of his people fade away with the waves. He sails into the horizon with his own waka and a man from another iwi, a fellow adventurer yearning to discover the untouched reaches of the sea. It is a long voyage and it is hard. Fetu’s back burns under the sun and his arms ache at the end of each day, but he is more alive now than he ever was before. He finds himself smiling. His chest hums with something he cannot name, perhaps some new mana granted by Tangaroa for daring to venture where few will not go.

The land they first come to is not too unlike their own. There is greenery and there are people, a remarkable people that themselves in bright colors and speak in tongues he cannot comprehend. He doesn’t learn much of their language because the sounds don’t quite fit inside his mouth, but he learns enough to understand fragments of stories that tell of islands further up the coast. That is when things change. The land becomes red and cracked and dry, rocky and barren, and he cannot comprehend wanting to live in such a place, fascinating though it is. Yet still, there are people who make it their home.

It's not enough. He wants more. A part of him says that there isn’t much more he can find. He shouldn’t need more. He should be content with what he’s found.

To be content is to be complacent, and that is one thing that Fetu will never be again. He wants more, so more he will find, even if he finds himself sailing to his own ruin, to the underworld itself.

There are so many islands. There is so much water. There is so much world, and he eats it up like a starving man, consumes everything he sees with an appetite so ravenous that he cannot see beyond it. There is only the memory of the dream, the promise given to him by the gods (for what else could it have been?) that keeps him going. His companion left long ago, too tired, too homesick, too weak. He found another. And another. New islands and people come and go, new creatures for him to sink his teeth into, new weapons that crave blood like he craves the unknown.

He never looks back.

Why would he when everything he needs is before him?

He is making his own destiny, carving it out of seafoam and sweat and the constant beat of pounamu above his heart, the only piece of home he deemed worthy.

The stars shift a bit, the weather changes again, but it doesn’t become cooler. Now Fetu finds himself sweating more often than he isn’t. Now his own breath feels heavy in his chest and his hair wilts under the weight of the air. His latest companion suggests they stop and rest.

He travels on his own after that, and the rim of the waka has a dent in it from the force of his patu striking through sinew.

He’s so hungry. He’s never been so hungry before, but no food can satisfy it. It keeps him up at night, burns through him during the day and pushes him through every current and storm. He cannot stop. He’s almost afraid of what will happen if he does. All he knows is that he is searching for something and he has no idea what it is. It calls to him all the same.

The dreams return. They crowd his mind when he wakes. They whisper to him, tell him to keep searching, keep clawing his marks into history and if he tries hard enough, children will know stories of the great warrior who traversed the seas and took the world in his hands, made it his.

And then one day, he sees it. The waka from his first dream, the one that stretches into the sky with cloaks full of sea air. The people that guide it are so strange that it almost scares him. Almost. They are pale like corpses, like clouds. (He came from a land of clouds once.) Their words are sharp and harsh, their teeth are yellow, rotting, and their bodies stink. But their eyes spark like fire. Their weapons are unyielding, harder than stone, painful and brutal in a different way than the wood and whale bone and greenstone his people have used for time untold.

Whatever has brought them to him, he is grateful because for the first time in his life, Fetu feels a knowing. This is where he was always meant to be. He holds the thing they call a “pistol” in his hands and senses something awaken deep beneath his ribs the first time he fires it, something that should never have seen the light of day. It marvels at the destruction wrought by a single little pebble and a bit of fire.

Every day, there is something new to learn. Compasses, maps, pistols and sabers, letters and ink and paper, a new language of sounds and ideas that make no sense to him, but he devours it all, swallows it whole. He learns that the curves and lines on the paper spell out his name, mark places they’ve been and places they will go, immortalize the ideas in their heads so they can never forget them. This is how these people tell their stories. He thinks they must have terrible memories, but he learns their ways without hesitation, makes them his own, stitches their knowledge into his very being so that he can travel in ships like theirs and discover riches like gold and diamonds and spices, and he will write the stories that will live on after he dies.

Finally, his dreams are inching toward reality.

There’s no room for nuance in the life that Fetu the Bold the Brave the Great just Fetu has built for himself. Colonies, empires, they matter little to him. What matters most is turning a profit, since that is what gives power in this world beyond the edge of the sea, and profit can be made on any side. Captains and soldiers are eager to find their local resistance blotted out in the middle of the night – unfortunate accidents and animal attacks take the Império Português by storm – and dethroned sultans and disillusioned nobles are more than happy to find a mercenary to defend their homes, their fortunes, their wives for a night.

His ambition takes him far and he take great pride in his achievements, but there comes a time when his ambition fails him. October 31, 1596 – a curious amalgamation of calculations that the Portuguese like to use to mark the passing of time – is an ordinary day. Fetu wakes up and collects payment for a job well done. He stops the client when he sees that his money is short. This one time, he misses the obvious and all his well thought out plans fail him when a sultan’s sword slices through his throat.

The pain is so hot that it goes cold and the disturbingly uncomfortable sensation of blood bubbling out of his body, his esophagus ripping open and his trachea crackling sends him to his knees. Double crossed for the last time.

The only regret that comes to mind when his vision starts to go hazy is that he cannot kill the man who did this to him, who snuffed out his light before he had a chance to properly shine. He was just getting started. There was still… so much… left to see…

October 31, 1596 – Somewhere in Malacca, Malaysia, Portuguese Empire

After all the stories he’d heard as a child, he’d thought that Hawaiki would be… different, somehow. More water, perhaps, and less blood. But then Fetu has a moment of realization. That blood is his, he remembers it pouring out of him. The ground pressed into his cheek is not the ground of Hawaiki, but the earth of a kingdom far from the one he was born to. It stands to reason, then, that Hawaiki is not a literal underworld in some very far away place, but simply a vision of the place where you die, something you are forced to relive over and over again.

Only, he can feel his chest rising and falling. He can see his breath creating clouds in the dirt. He can hear it rasping in his severed throat. Alive. Oh, he does not like that. fingers map out the jagged tear through his body, slick with blood and saliva and shattered, jagged pieces of something he doesn’t know how to name, but it makes him feel sick. He doesn’t want to know what happens if he vomits now, he just needs to get cleaned up. He needs a doctor, he needs a fucking miracle, whatever those damn Portuguese are always going on about in their book of gods and magic.

The trek between the spot of his resurrection and the only strong-stomached person in the city who can stitch him back up is a bit of a blur. Fetu finds it hard to gauge where he’s going half the time because the world feels out of focus and uneven. His hearing has decreased dramatically, too, and his smell and taste – well, he’s no fool, he knows those things may be lost to him forever. It matters not. He’s still alive and he is not giving up, no matter what the world may throw at him to slow him down. He still has a story to write.

He isn’t entirely certain how this story will write itself, though, because his own capabilities have diminished significantly. Even after he recovers and his throat is somehow stitched together into some semblance of not-destroyed, his eyesight doesn’t return to normal, nor does his hearing or even his touch. The world is muted. Colors are less vibrant and music is more muffled, the smells that were once most pleasant to him now smell of nothing at all, and food leaves him feeling incurably ill. What he had assumed was life he now sees for what it truly is – another kind of death that has transformed his surest desires into mere fantasies.

There is no pleasure in the world. And the hunger that once gnawed at his stomach grows until it becomes so insatiable that nothing could ever quench it, not the blood he draws on the battlefield, not the gold he obtains from wealthy fools who crave control, not the finest silks nor the richest feasts, and not even the knowledge and people of the distant lands he once sought.

He joins a crew sailing for the seat of the empire. Good. He wants to leave these scattered islands full of people who remind him of the ones he left behind. He wants something new, something to satisfy the emptiness that lingers in his belly. But the crewmates whisper in the dead of night, say things they think he cannot hear because they assume he’s asleep. He hasn’t slept since the day he died and came back wrong.

“He’s a savage, like all the rest.” This does not surprise him. The Portuguese are a delicate lot, easily offended by anything they do not understand, and he knows the mere lines of his moko are enough to frighten them. “You see his eyes? Half clouded and empty.” “Can’t even look at him, mate, that scar on his neck is damn ugly.” “Maybe he’s a demon.” “Don’t even look alive.” “Like a corpse.”

These things, however, do.

Is he truly such a gruesome sight to behold? He’d never thought about it. For the first time in a long time, Fetu wonders what he looks like. He thinks about the stench of their fear and the hushed insults they would never dare to voice in the light, and he smiles, and it feels like the first smile of his life.

A demon, he muses. A monster. Monsters live on in legends, haunting the living and children’s nightmares, they are immortal and powerful, feared and respected.

The ship docks in a new land dotted with hills and odd structures. Lisboa, they call it. A quick look at a map tells him he is in another world entirely.

Fetu thinks about the things the crewmates whispered through the voyage and he decides that it would be cruel to disappoint them. He leaves the ship with blood staining his wrists and a quiet in his gut that he has not felt in ages.

September 1820 – Sleepy Hollow, New York

Dead leaves skip over cobblestones. The wind, cool and sharp. One of the horses in the pasture whinnies and huffs, shaking its mane. The evening fog is rolling in already and even while the sun is still in the sky.

The weather has been strange of late, oscillating between the warmth of summer and the biting chill of autumn for several weeks. Today seems to be more autumnal in persuasion, with many trees dropping their leaves and the sunlight taking a particular glint, somehow warmer and darker without any physical warmth to show for it. And while you find this time of year to be particularly delightful, you can’t help shaking the feeling that something is different this season, more than any of the others before it.

Perhaps it’s the withered look of the apple trees, or the petrichor in the wind and the lingering smokiness of chimney fires, or maybe it’s the call of the ravens as they flock overhead the woods. Perhaps it’s just a feeling, albeit a bad one; it will pass, like all feelings do, so you choose not to put too much stock into it.

You end your walk with a final visit by the pasture so you can watch the horses, enjoy the calm and quiet of the moment before-

“Miss Atherwood!” “Miss Atherwood!”

Before the children spot you. But that was a fool’s hope.

You turn so your back leans against the fence and spread your arms wide as the children come running toward you. Cora reaches you first, nearly knocking your feet out from under you with the force of her tiny body colliding with yours. Her arms are around your waist in an instant and you hardly have a moment to compose yourself before Moses appears too, running so fast that he’s little more than a blur before he’s buried himself in your arms.

“We missed you!” Cora cries. She tilts her head back to look up at you better, and you catch the little strand of silver-white hair at her temple as she does. “You were gone for ages!”

You smile. “It was hardly a week.”

“A week too long,” Moses decides, very seriously. “This place is boring without you.”

These children warm your heart like nothing else. Never before have you felt so loved and wanted, so entirely at home, not even with your own family. You press a palm to the boy’s cheek first, then Cora’s, and you smile.

“Well, now I’ve returned and we can continue with all our mischief just like before-“

“So that’s where the two o’ ya ran off ta.” Josiah Minor’s honey-sweet Southern twang is like a salve on your heart. He’s just exiting the house further up the path, smiling brilliantly as ever.

You duck your head and whisper a cheeky, “Just so long as your father doesn’t catch on. Now get!”

And off they go, like a pair of young horses at the races, giggling and pushing and yelping, narrowly avoiding knocking their father down simply due to pure dumb luck.

“’s good ta have ya home,” Josiah sighs once he’s pulled you into a hug. It’s rare, these embraces, but you treasure every one he offers. “House just ain’t the same without ya.”

“Believe me, I’ve never been so happy to be back.”

He raises one bushy eyebrow. “That bad?”

“Worse. But it’s better now that I’m here with you and your rascals.”

He seems eager to hear how your venture home went and you tell him some of it, but it leaves a sour taste in your mouth. Your grandparents have grown crotchety in their old age, worse now than ever before, and they seem to find fault in everything. They especially find fault in your choice of employment – after all, working under the authority of a former slave is not the sort of appearance they wish to keep up, and it reflects poorly on their choice to adopt you – but you care little for what they deem right and wrong. You’ve only ever known happiness under Josiah’s roof and you intend to stay here for as long as you are needed. Longer, if you can manage it.

Supper that evening is a pleasant affair, full of laughter and delighted exclamations as you tell the children about your travels, the animals you saw along the way, and reveal the gifts you’d chosen for them. Cora adores the little blown glass rabbit you spotted in the market and she chooses to name it “Lula”, although the importance of the name is lost on you. Moses, on the other hand, admires the sketch you made of a Lenape family you passed one day. He’s always been enamored with the original stewards of this land, always eager to learn more about them and their ways, so although this drawing isn’t much, you know it means something to him. And for Josiah, a book you’d gone out of your way to purchase and spent far too much money on, and he almost refuses to take it, but it’s important to you that he does.

“Your wife would want you to take it,” you finally say, softly, no bite or malice but the simplicity of the truth. “She came to mind when I saw it and I thought…”

The book is turned over and over in his hands, but he doesn’t dare to open it. The children lean forward in their seats to see better, and Josiah tilts it toward Moses first to give him the first look.

“’Siddur’. Is this like mother’s siddur, the prayer book?” A coil of his beautiful brown hair falls over his face when he looks up at you.

You nod. “I passed a synagogue on my way home and went in to speak to the rabbi.” Immediately, the children are chattering away, asking you questions about the experience. Not once have they seen a synagogue, they’ve never been outside Sleepy Hollow before. And the last time they saw a rabbi was for Moses’ circumcision – which is to say, such a thing is beyond their comprehension. “I know how much your mother’s means to you, so I thought perhaps a new one that needn’t fear your grubby little paws might be appreciated.” And to Josiah you cast an apologetic glance. “I hope it’s not too forward of me?”

But he smiles. It’s a very sad smile, but there’s happiness there too, a glimmer of hope and love that reminds you of the look he gives Cora when she acts a bit too like her mother. Bittersweet. “Means more ‘n you can guess, Mizz Atherwood.”

The wonderful thing about being a governess in the Minor household is that it simply does not feel like you’re working. Moses and Cora are brilliant pupils who are more often eager to learn than they are not, and they are still of an age where your wisdom and humor tickles them and they choose to include you in their chaos. It’s part of the reason why this house is always so full of laughter. But being employed here has also given you access to all the wonders of elevated class, most notably Josiah’s library.

In his efforts to educate himself and his children, Josiah has collected what you can only assume to be thousands of books, and they cover every subject imaginable. The history of the world, science, philosophy, art, linguistics, maps of foreign lands that you can only dream of, ancient fairy tales and folklore passed down through the generations. You’ve been most enamored with the tales of Scheherazade of late. You wander here when the moon is high and the children are asleep so you may read by firelight, transport yourself to distant kingdoms and times you wish more than anything that you could see yourself. For now, you content yourself with your books.

Only, something catches your eye as you settle into one of the wingbacked chairs near the fire. Something outside.

Everyone in Sleepy Hollow knows better than to go peering outside their window in the dead of night. Local Lenape legends and Old World ghost stories have mingled since the colonies first started, trickling down through each generation until even outsiders like you hear them. There are things in the woods, creatures, things that will look back if you dare to go searching for them.

And so you choose to tug the curtains shut, ensuring that the fabric overlaps so nothing can look in and you cannot look out, but… you do linger. Just for a moment, just long enough to look in the general direction of the thing you thought you saw, whatever it may be.

A chill runs up your spine.

Best to settle by the fire, you tell yourself. The fire is safe. You are safe. Of course you are. You’re simply seeing shadows in the starlight.

It’s awful. It’s worse than awful. There may not even be a word for the pure dread and horror pooling in the pit of your stomach, but the feeling only continues to grow, nameless or not.

The blacksmith was killed last night. Brom Bones. He was a fierce sort of man, tall and broad and always working in the smithy. His eye had been cast in the direction of Katrina Van Tassel for several months now, and the whispers in the town say he had even planned to propose to her.

Your thoughts drift to her rather quickly. It hurts too deeply to dwell on Brom’s fate or on the reality of what his final moments would have been. You hope the news doesn’t hit her too hard, though you certainly wouldn’t blame her if it did. To lose someone so close to you, someone you may well have thought you might spend your life with, is a thought that scarcely bares imagining.

You decide to do something for her. It will keep your mind off things (off the stories the people are telling of the blood on the anvil, the hammers bent in half, the bullet holes in the back of the furnace). While Cora and Moses are working on their impromptu mathematics quiz, you set to work on a condolences note for Katrina. A few roses from along the pasture path are trimmed of their thorns and bundled together with twine. It isn’t much, but it is something and it encourages a slightly more positive outlook on the whole scenario, even if only just.

You don’t notice the prints in the dirt until your walk back to the Minor home. The grass by Brom’s shop is trampled and at first you think this is a result of the earlier chaos that had to have arisen when his body was found. You think this is very logical and applaud yourself on your amateur sleuthing, only to stop in your tracks when you notice tracks that do not match any you have ever seen in town before. They’re boot prints, likely large enough to be a man’s, but the shape is odd, pointed at the toe in a certain way that doesn’t make sense to you. The detail is minute, almost impossible to miss, and you think again that it is something easily explained away. Perhaps someone was called in from out of town to deal with the matter. A doctor or added law enforcement would make the most sense.

But then you see the prints again. They lead to and from Brom’s smithy, you realize, and they follow the path. The path you’re standing on. Your heart skips over itself momentarily until you remember that this path if often walked and by folk other than you. Josiah often takes this route, as do the children and any travelers passing through.

You read too much into it, you tell yourself. This is, by all accounts, believable and logical, but your mind starts to wander the moment you come upon the edge of Josiah’s property and find the prints crossing over it.

A flash of the previous night strikes you then. The thing in the shadows, the thing you thought you saw. You thought it had been nothing more than the fire’s reflection on the glass or your eyes moving too quickly to make sense of the outside world, perhaps a raccoon or squirrel had darted past, and its tail caught a glimmer of moonlight. This is what you told yourself when sleep failed to take you and you tell it to yourself again now, hoping to soothe the anxiety hammering away inside your chest, but your thoughts are racing, and all logic has fled because a man was found dead this morning and the tracks leading to and from his home seem to have followed you.

Everything suddenly feels too hot and too cool all at once. With your heart thundering away as it leaps into your throat, you feel your body go warm, but then the sharp slice of fear pierces your spine and ice-cold panic shoots through your limbs.

The thing outside, what was that thing outside?

What if it was nothing? What if you are simply being paranoid?

A quick breeze drifts across the road and carries with it a few dead leaves. They make a crackling sound as they skip by.

It’s a silly thought. Brought on by a sudden bought of hysteria, no doubt. But still, you wonder. What if the thing you saw was no mere critter, but a… a murderer?

A new day brings with it new clarity, and the shadows that had clouded your mind previously are quickly chased away. The warmth of summer is fading fast and September is in its final moments. Food is starting to need harvesting. Fires are staying lit more consistently. Clouds cover a fair portion of the sky, both night and day.

Rosh Hashanah comes and goes, the Jewish New Year that you help Josiah coordinate so the children may have their celebration even with their mother long buried. Yom Kippur comes soon after, not nearly as solemn as you’re sure it’s meant to be, but they are young and Josiah doesn’t have it in him to bring sadness back into his home after the losses they’ve all suffered.

Studies are not put on hold necessarily, but they are somewhat reigned in to allow for other things like afternoon harvesting and cider making, the drying of corn husks for use in crafts you intend to teach them later in the month. Apples are peeled and cooked into cobblers, sliced and drizzled with honey and cinnamon, squashes cut open for stews and mashes. The house begins to smell like autumn and even though the days become shorter with each sunset, there is still a dazzling light that illuminates the Minor household.

And then suddenly it doesn’t.

Because Johannes Van Tassel is found dead. His throat cut, a bullet to the temple, the same as Brom. All while his daughter, Katrina, slept. Rumors start to fly. Gossip cuts hot and quick, and everyone believes their own spin of the tale to be the most likely. All you know is that you may likely retch on your own shoes if you hear one more person speak of it.

You and Josiah try not to let the children overhear the whispers. “They’ve known too much death already,” he tells you, and you understand. After witnessing their mother’s passing before the age of ten, it terrifies you both how cruel and violent the outside world can be. They are still so small, so little and innocent. It would break your heart to see them lose that innocence too soon.

So Bones and Van Tassel’s deaths are simplified for younger ears, lacking any of the gruesome details you have heard on your walks through town. They are told not to be afraid, to stay indoors once the sun goes down, and that you and their father will keep them safe. They have nothing to worry about.

But death is fixated on Sleepy Hollow. With Van Tassel’s passing, something turns up dead every morning. Livestock are left in their pastures with snapped or slashed through necks, travelers passing through are found mutilated outside the inn, townsfolk begin to disappear, picked off one by one, and no one can understand why.

Sleepy Hollow descends into chaos as primitive fear takes hold of every heart and mind. People begin leaving precious jewels, the best sections of their harvest, coins, anything and everything laid out before their homes in the hope that the demon who stalks the streets will overlook them. The church benches are filled to overflowing every day. Guards are stationed at key crossroads, the mayor’s house, the infirmary, the Van Tassel residence, and still every morning another man is found dead, his throat cut through.

The curtains of the Minor’s home are drawn shut during the day. You do not look outside once dusk has fallen, you do not dare to dwell on the image of the thing you saw those weeks ago. You do not search for strangely shaped boot prints. You do not watch the horses in the pasture. You do not leave the house.

And as All Hallow’s Eve approaches, you find yourself falling victim to your own panic and paranoia. Josiah gives you a pistol. You acquire a butcher knife from the kitchen and keep it close to your bed. The children do not sleep well and Cora has taken to crawling into bed with you at night. Moses says he’s not afraid of anything, supernatural or not, but you know he is. You catch him sneaking out of his father’s room on more than one occasion, early in the morning before the servants are awake.

For the first time in a long time, you pray. You don’t want to die, nor do you want the children to be frightened. You want them to live long and prosperous lives, happy and content and full of hope. You fear this is a dream that will never come to pass.

And then one night you wake to smoke and fire.

October 31, 1820 – Midnight

Everything is ablaze. Brom Bones’ smithy is nearly burnt to the ground, the Van Tassel residence is smoking and the women inside are screaming, and Crane is dead. Still, he feels nothing. There is no pleasure in the death he deals, no pleasure in the screams of the burned and dying. But there is blood on his boots and across his chest plate, and that could be enough. He thinks that if he soaks himself in enough blood, he may yet feel something stir in the cold, dark pit of his belly.

He marches on. There aren’t many men left of a strong build and capable age – he saw to that already – so his journey through the sleepy little village is an easy one. What few do attempt to challenge him are cut down quickly, cut through the throat. Always the throat. The ones that get back up again receive a bullet to keep them down.

A girl goes stumbling into his path, her eyes wide and frightened, hair loose around her shoulders. He thinks she begs him for mercy, begs him to take her at the cost of sparing her home. And he finds it strange how this brings heat into his body like carnage has yet to do, but it’s not the heat of lust that clouds his mind. The heat of anger stirs him, pure and righteous fury at the audacity to assume he could be bought for such a price. His knife cleaves through her ribs easily and when she falls, whimpering and crying as blood bubbles between her fingers and her yellow hair goes pink, Django feels alive again. Not by much, not enough to be tricked into thinking that his mortality has been restored, but enough that he feels human again for the most fleeting of moments.

So that’s what he needs. In all his years, he has never craved a woman, although he has known a few. His mind was always set on other sights. But now he thinks he may understand what it means to desire one, not for the sweetness of what lays between her thighs but for the sickly sight of her mouth agape in horror.

His attention flickers then to the house just up the path, the one beyond the blacksmith’s shop. He remembers a woman there, young, pretty enough, remembers her face in the window, her body wrapped up in a cloak as she traced the steps he took from Bones’ shop and across her land, back into the forest. Out of the entire town, she’s the one that’s come the closest to finding the truth. It will be good to kill her. The perfect ending to his scourge upon this town.

He's hardly conscious of the carnage he leaves in his wake, or how he breaks through the barricaded door, the servants shrieking and trembling in the corners of each room. He pays them no mind. All he sees is her, you, fuzzy and half shapeless in the back of his mind, but he will know you when he sees you.

The room he finds you in is simple, plain, sparsely furnished, but he spots you easily enough. Cowering between your bed and the wall, a pistol against your breast. There are shadows behind you that he can’t make out, strangely shaped things that rustle like little kits hiding behind their mother in a storm.

All he sees is you.

What remains of his vision is tunneled and fixated on you, your eyes, how wide they are, how the sparse rays of moonlight catch your irises. His boots are loud and heavy in this room. Your chest rises and falls as he steps closer. His fingers begin to twitch, eager to lift his blade and slice through your flesh, hoping, pleading, desperate for relief. He doesn’t know if he’s the one pleading or if you are.

The sound of a pistol firing takes him by surprise, for surely he hasn’t fired his prematurely? But then the dull ache of something lodged in his shoulder tells him otherwise. He turns.

This man reminds him of something, someone. He cares not who or what it is. He cares not for this man and the smoking gun in his hands. A quick flourish of his wrist is enough to topple him, and so he turns back to you.

His heart no longer beats, but he thinks he hears the ghost of it now as he advances. This is it. This is the moment he has been dying and living for. Your blood will be the answer. It must be. He raises his hand and-

“No!”

Time has not stood still for Django since the day he died, but it pauses itself in this moment. Long enough for him to see the whites of your eyes. Your teeth are bared. You’re screaming. Your pistol is smoking, and his sternum feels shattered. And this time you advance upon him, a knife brandished in your other hand as you scream and scream, and when you move, the shadows behind you are illuminated. The knife flies, buries itself in the crook of his arm when he raises it, and it hits him with enough force to make him stumble. But what brings him to his knees are the shadows, the children.

224 years have passed since he first died. Even more have come and gone since he left Aotearoa, his iwi, his tamariki. He didn’t even realize he still remembered the words. 224 years and he still finds that he would know them anywhere.

He sees Omeka curled into a ball and crying, though she’s trying to be brave. He would know that face anywhere. The wide brown eyes, so kind, so wise, the dark hair streaked with silver, the mark upon her temple that she was born with. He sees Poa, still just a boy, not yet a man, sees his lip snarl and curl, those little teeth bared and flashing against his dark skin, the big brown locks of hair Django still remembers grooming for him.

And then he sees you. Your weapons are spent, you have nothing, yet still you stand before his children like a warrior. You will not let him harm them; he knows this. You will give your life in defense of theirs.

The tamariki are shaking. Poa is crying now, but he hovers over his sister like a kaitiaki. He is proud of what they have become, proud they are his, yet all he feels now is shame. For how far has he fallen? To draw blood from an innocent woman, to loom above innocent children like a warmonger, to crave the fleeting flickers of their heartbeats as if their blood would fill the empty hole inside him? His people have not been above the consuming of flesh before, and it would be so easy. It was so easy; it has been for years. To take thoughtlessly, to kill every time he felt alive and every time he didn’t, to let the blood of his victims sink beneath his skin so it became a part of him. Yet sitting between your four walls, covered in gore and rattling with an anger so fierce that it threatens to burn him alive, he finds that this one time, it is not so easy to take.

He runs.

He’s never run before. He did not run from home, he left it behind when it no longer served him. He did not run from his past, but chase after the future, the promises the gods whispered in his head. Django has never run, neither did Fetu. But here in this village on the edge of the map, in this country built on blood and theft and desperation, both halves of him turn tail and run.

All the while, he sees their faces. The Poa he raised himself and the Poa he found under your protection flicker back and forth, morphing together so their faces become one. Both Omeka’s do the same. He cannot tell where his tamariki start and yours end.

He remembers the men he voyaged with, from Malaysia to Portugal, the ones who had convinced themselves he was a monster, the moment he convinced himself that he would become one. He remembers the sultan who took his life and the faceless, nameless doctor who stitched him back together. He remembers the face of every person who has met their fate at the end of his blade or his pistols.

He remembers the blood. So much blood. He recalls desperate nights where he licked his hands clean, hoping it would reinvigorate him, start up his heart anew, trigger the breath that once stirred in his lungs. That is what he had hoped for here, though he hadn’t fully realized it then. He had only wanted to feel something, anything. Just once more.

He can certainly feel now. He feels the burn of bile as he dry heaves inside his helmet. He rips it off and his head goes tumbling through the grass, and it hits him, stronger than any wave or weapon, exactly what it is he has become.

Django wishes he could die. He wishes more than anything that he had never been cursed with this half-life, that he had never dreamt of the worlds beyond his and chased after them like a child chasing after its mother. He was a fool. He is a fool.

He thinks of Omeka’s face and his body retches, even while his head is still detached. The world is out of focus, blurry, and his senses are so dull that he can’t feel a thing beyond the queasy rumblings of his gut. The shame.

taglist: @dystopicjumpsuit @clonemedickix @wizardofrozz @anxiouspineapple99 @multi-fan-dom-madness @deejadabbles @rain-on-kamino @wings-and-beskar

#jango fett x reader #jango fett x you #halloween au #headless horseman au #star wars #jango fett #x reader #yes there are more parts to come!!#at least 1 more if not 2. we shall see what the final edits yield

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dez78 · 1 month

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Multi-Fanfiction Blog

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My name is Dez, I write in a lot of fandoms. Including video games, movies, and tv shows. Healthily into vampires and elves. (Not really though, I'm obsessed.)

This blog is poly safe and LGBTQ safe.

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I usually write for female characters, unless you guys want to request otherwise, I don't want to exclude anyone. See down below at the lists of dos and don’ts for me and my writing!

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Requests are open and welcome, ask away.

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What I will write:

Smut

Fluff

Hurt to comfort

Light Bondage

Angst

I'm also open to writing for your ocs if you wish.

I will write about my ocs as well.

Dom and Sub

Character Redemption or Character Condemnation

Tame Kinks

What I won’t write:

I won’t write about hard core slapping during intimate scenes (Only booty taps)

Being called slut or whore, or partners being disrespectful to each other (unless it’s during an argument and they don’t mean it later)

Nothing with an excessive amount of spit, and hard-core bdsm.

Won’t write about incest, unless it’s for the Game of Thrones franchise.

Nothing derogatory or abusive (Unless it's for a specific setting)

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RULES FOR MY PAGE: No destructive criticism, no negative comments, if you don’t like my writing then don’t read it, please (Constructive Criticism is welcomed)

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Fandoms and Characters I will write for:

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Baldur’s Gate 3:

Astarion

Shadowheart

Gale

Durge

Tav

Ocs

Star Wars (Clone Wars)

Fives

Rex

Wolffe

Anakin

Obi-Wan

Plo Koon

Hondo

Ahsoka

Jango Fett

Boba Fett

Ocs

Fallout 4:

Hancock

Nick Valentine

Nate

Nora

Danse

Piper

Mara (R4)

Heather

Ellen

Yekvad Company (My OCs)

Ocs

Skyrim:

Rumarin

Vilkas

Harkon

Roggi Knot-Beard

Ondolemar

Inigo

Lucien

Serana

Dragonborn

Caryalind

Taliesin

Ocs

True Blood:

Eric Northman

Sookie Stackhouse

Jason Stackhouse

Jessica Hamby

Ocs

Witcher (Netflix and Witcher 3):

Geralt

Yennefer

Jaskier

Ciri

Ocs

LOTR:

Legolas

Aragorn

Thranduil

Kili

Ocs

GOT:

The Hound (Sandor Clegane)

Jon Snow

Jaime Lannister

Ocs

7 notes · View notes

cienie-isengardu · 9 months

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Sources: Jango Fett sold into slavery

Jango Fett: Open Seasons, #3

Count Dooku: "We were forced to hand him over to the governor of Galidraan. He bacame a slave."

Jango Fett: Open Seasons, #4

Jango Fett: "After you Jedi turned me over to the governor of Galidraan... he sold me to slavers."

Bounty Hunter (Game Guide)

"[...] the Mandalorians ran afoul of the Jedi Knights, who wiped out most of the mercenary army and delivered the survivors to the governor of Galidraan. Jango became a slave [...]"

Fact Files v.3 #14 (Jango Fett entry)

"Sold into slavery by the corrupt governor, a burning desire for vengeance on Tor Vizsla kept Jango Fett alive for long years until the transport he was on was attacked. Fett freed himself, killed his slave master and escaped."

Fact Files #124 (Tor Vizsla entry)

"Fett was captured and handed over to the Governor of Galidraan. Vizsla toyed with him for a while before selling him into slavery."

The Complete Star Wars Encyclopedia

"Half of the Jedi task force was killed while the Mandalorians were wiped out - except for Jango Fett, who was turned over to the governor. After years of serving as a slave, Fett escaped and returned to Galidraan to claim the armor of the Mandalorians and enact revenge on Vizsla."

The Clone Wars (Novel)

The snow had melted; the dead were buried. But he couldn't erase Jango Fett's face, the face of a man back from the living death of a slavery that Dooku had delivered him into, etched with all the bitter lines of surviving only to have his moment of justice.

#star wars #jango fett #in universe slavery #count dooku #governor of galidraan #Alternative title: who sold Jango Fett into slavery #Alternative title number2: how unbelievable Fact Files are biased against Tor Vizsla #i mean jango himself said it was governor of galidraan and dooku support it #and sure the man was working for death watch / tor vizsla #but really tor is always said to be merciless killer there was no point for him playing the sell jango to slavery #if he could kill him on the spot and like forever get rid of the true mandalorian problem #other problem i have with this is HOW THE HELL REPUBLIC GOVERNOR COULD SELL JANGO INTO SLAVERY AND JEDI LET IT HAPPEN????#most likely i'm missing some additional tie-in materials but couldn't think of anything more beside repcom but there was no info #how jango ended in slavery so i didn't add it #did i mention how much i love examine jango's traumas? XD

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cabezadeperro · 5 months

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💙 for SparMij bc brainrot — MBW

hello friend!!!!

💙 drunken kiss / tipsy

---

Sometimes Spar regrets his lack of interest in ever becoming Mand’alor. He takes a sip, the bottle half-empty, the glass slick and wet with condensation, and watches Gilamar through his reflection on the window across the room. He’s sitting at a table to Spar’s left, talking as quietly as the rowdy tavern will allow him with a few men Spar knows only by sight.

He’s not ignoring Spar—not exactly. But he’s trying his very best to keep his distance, and Mij Gilmar’s best is pretty good. Spar has spent the last few hours doing the rounds—playing cards, playing darts, talking to men and women Jango once knew, who stare at Spar like they can see Jango looking through his eyes.

They would follow. If Spar decided to run for the title, they would follow him. Shysa’s still in the sector: a short comm call and Spar would have him back on Enceri, full of plans and ambition.

Now and then he wonders—Gilamar would never forgive him. He’s loyal, if not to Spar to Jango’s memory.

Gilamar knows he’s being observed. Spar allows himself to be caught, smiling at his old teacher in the reflection of the window. Gilamar blinks and looks away, lips pressed tight.

Spar finishes his drink and makes his way through the crowded bar, bucket—buy’ce—under his arm.

It’s still snowing. Spar breathes in deep, allowing the cold to seep into his bones. He’s pleasantly buzzed, his face hot, his hair still damp with sweat. The street is quiet, the noises of the tavern muffled by its thick walls, by the closed doors. Spar sighs and looks up at the night sky, the clouds heavy and close to the ground. It’s so quiet he can almost hear the snow falling: he closes his eyes and feels a snowflake land on his eyelid, on his cheek, on his lower lip.

A blast of noise. Spar opens his eyes, shaking himself.

“Spar?”

Spar lets go of his blaster. He turns around, his boots making a mess of the thick layer of snow.

Gilamar’s flushed and sweaty. He’s so pale it shows even in the dark, his light eyes too bright and reflecting the light coming through the tavern’s windows and the streetlamps.

“Trainer Gilamar,” Spar replies. A muscle in Gilamar’s jaw twitches, his shoulders stiff. “Tired of acting like I’m not here, then.”

It’s not that Gilamar doesn’t care: again, he may not be a good man, but he is loyal. Back on Kamino he tried his best for Jango, and his best has always been very good. Now he sighs, his shoulders dropping. He looks away from Spar, down at his feet.

He’s just a man. Red hair and freckles, eyes so light they look like glass. Grey on his temples and on his stubble, laughter lines and broken nose. He’s just a man, nothing more and nothing less, perfectly fallible, and Spar resents him and misses him in equal measure.

Later, Gilamar will blame the alcohol. Spar approaches him, hooks a finger in his belt and goes on his tiptoes to kiss him, drinks his surprised gasp right off his mouth. He tastes like netra’gal, and his hand is hot and damp with sweat when he cradles Spar’s jaw, fingers shaking.

Later, he will blame the alcohol: but now he kisses Spar right back.

#ship snippets #sparmij #star wars #maría writes #mij gilamar #spar

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crispyjenkins · 2 years

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I do love Jango having a lower midi-chlorian count than the average rock, but how about this- Jango is found by the Jedi, Obi Wan taken in by Jaster. They meet on Galidraan. Jango isn't meant to be there, he has a vision or sees the mission info and has a feeling. Either way, the force has apparently decided its his job to save a random mandalorian (the random mandalorian, who can't be any older than him, turns out to be the mand'alor. There goes hoping he can keep this quiet from the council)

(well howdy do would you look at that, jango's got the force visions now

there was not supposed to be so much Yearning on jango's part, but well. what am i if not a writer of jangobi longing

also sorry if the Force bits are a little hard to read: i want them to be all mooshed together to like. convey how rushed and confusing they are. but also i have dyslexia. so i’m trying out this way)

The captain of the Mandalorians they had been sent to deal with is... even younger than Jango is.

He freezes after managing to knock said human’s helmet clean off, watching their head jerk with the blow, watching their flushed, freckled face flinch in momentary pain before twisting into a snarl with blood in their teeth.

nothimnothimdonotharmhimdonotharmhim

Jango stares breathlessly at the scowling man before him and barely manages to dodge the ferocious swing of a Mandalorian sword right at his face. He stumbles back a few steps, wildly bringing up his blue lightsaber to deflect the next blow, and it’s only with the realisation that his opponent must have a sword made of beskar that Jango realises the importance of the Mandalorian coming at him with cold rage saturating the Force between them.

lostlostheislosthelphelphimhemust comebackdonotharmhimdonotharmhim

Jango leaps backwards to put some distance between them and nearly careens right into a snowdrift, stumbling on landing and leaving his defense wide open; Master Tahl is absolutely going to have his ass on drills for months if he even manages to survive thi—

Except the Mandalorian doesn’t take advantage of Jango’s opening, instead stilling right where Jango had left him.

The battle continues on the other side of the ravine, Jango unsure when he had gotten so far away from his fellow Jedi, and the cold air only amplifies the echoing blasterfire and ’saber strikes and screaming. This is hardly the first skirmish Jango has been a part of, but for some reason, it feels infinitely more important than any other battle he’s been in before.

Looking up at the teenager that can only be the kriffing, Force-damned Mand’alor, maybe it isn’t so mysterious a reason.

And the Mand’alor stares right back at him, heaving breaths painting the air before their parted lips in clouds, lips that Jango had bruised and split with the blow landed to their head. Lips that are no longer snarling, the Mand’alor instead furrowing their brow at Jango in confusion, with their sword angled in front of themself in defense.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck, knocking their helmet off was a fucking mistake, because now Jango has to watch blood drip from their nose over a perfect cupid’s bow, down a chin with an endearing scattering of moles, and has to meet eyes so brown they’re almost black even in the harsh sunlight reflecting off the snow.

yesyesyesyesyeshemustlive

Their hair is a perfect copper-red, Jango notes a tad hysterically, cut short to not be a bother inside the helmet, but with two braids framing their face in front of either ear, not... not unlike a padawan braid, actually. A simple, black metal circlet rests on their forehead with the majority disappearing into their hair, a single red gem in the center matching the Mand’alor’s black and red armour perfectly.

A slightly-crooked nose implies a break that had not healed properly, and they have a smattering of small scars on their right cheek, a couple clipping through their eyebrow, that could have only been caused by shrapnel. The tatters of a red rapier cape hang from one shoulder, having seen much better days with a large stain taking up what little of it Jango can see. A blood stain.

hisnothishisbuirhelosthisbuirheis tooyoungaking

To the Jedi’s knowledge, the Mand’alor was a middle-aged human man, so his death must have been recent because the Temple certainly hasn’t heard about a shift in leadership until now. Amd the last Mand’alor must have been this one’s family, Jango realises, for why else would he have taken up the mantle so young?

Jango himself is not yet twenty, and the teen before him is obviously several years younger still. He can’t even imagine what that sort of responsibility is like: he’s not due for the knight trials for at least another five years, if not more, which says nothing of the decades until mastership, and even more to qualify for Head of the Order. How can someone even younger than him lead and care for an entire people?

Actually, that thought makes Jango suddenly question this whole mess of a mission. Why would an incredibly new ruler suddenly attack protestors on a planet far out of their borders? If it was a contract, why would they have taken it at all? He suddenly questions how easy it would have been to manipulate a teenager into a vulnerable position, especially if said manipulators wished them harm.

And isn’t that the saying? All are enemies of Mandalorians (especially other Mandalorians.) Who doesn’t wish them harm these days?

A shift of boots over snow wrenches Jango back to the very present problem of facing down the actual Mand’alor of the actual Supercommandos of the actual Mandalorians. Don’t the Supercommandos have a creed of as little violence as possible?

His distraction costs him this time, the Mand’alor shifting their grip on their sword before snarling that perfect face again and launching themself at Jango. He barely gets his ’saber up in time, but is still slammed onto his back into the snow, knocking the breath from his chest and leaving him panting.

Panting as the Mand’alor straddles his chest and bears all their weight down on their connected blades. Instead of afraid, or panicked, or even offended, Jango feels nothing but awe as he as he’s forced to stare at the teen above him, entranced by brown eyes that turn the inky purple of Wild Space in the blue sparking light of beskar against kyber, as this Wild Mandalorian tries to take his head 0ff. And Jango is no poet (despite Master Tahl’s continuous effort), but if he could simply name the colours that ripple over their face in infinitely more shades than blue, Jango thinks he would make a very fine poet indeed.

Now if the Force would just allow him the time to start counting them.

yesyesyesyesyES

savehim.

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little-stellabellum-blog · 28 days

Text

Tales of the Fetts: The Unwritten

A/N: Ever since The Book of Boba Fett came out, I always anticipated that they would show us the childhood of Boba Fett. And while we only caught glimpses, I wish there were more to it. Especially with the Tales of Boba Fett book series I had read as a kid, we glimpse what Boba's life had been like as the son of the most feared bounty hunter in the Galaxy. While it was short-lived, it holds a special place in my heart. So, I like to say thank you for reading this very short fanfiction. I may add more chapters so long as I can fit them into my schedule.

Chapter One: Alpha

Short Description: Ever since the cloning program began, Jango's only request was a simple one that surprised the Kaminoans: A son. Unaltered and left simple. After some time, with many trials and errors, codename Alpha was created.

Today would be another ordinary day for Tipoca City. The domed cities were not met with the harsh rains of the night, only the light showers that silently tapped against the vast windows that revealed the brightening grey sky and the dark blue sea below the towers. There were no birds that signaled it was morning as there were on many planets. No sun to alert it was day, as the thick clouds blocked any sunbeams. Just the sea and the sky and the city.

Silence was a gift that no one else could afford. Not in other planets to the closer rim. It was a luxury for those with large pocketbooks who could afford to hide away such shady deals from the Republic that slowly grew its influence. Inside one of the many domes of the city, a female Kaminoan was lying in her bed. Her name was Taun We. She was a tall amphibian-sentient woman, with pale skin like snow, a long neck, and large eyes that were currently closed. Small breaths lightly entered and exited her flat nose. She was sound asleep, her arms crossed over her chest as a thin blanket covered her. A soft hum broke the still cold air of the room.

Hmmm…!

Taun We would quietly awake from her light slumber to the soft hums of her alarm that indicated it was early morning. Her large eyes, blackened with stormy grey pupils, stared straight at the alarm clock as her long pale hand extended outward, tapping one of her nimble fingers onto the cold metal to silence the hums.

The female Kaminoan rose slowly from her bed, gently closing her eyes as the small air vent next to her bed slowly filled the room with heat. It was always cold on Kamino, a watery planet that never knew the sun and only embraced itself with heavy rains and ravaging waves from the vast oceans that surrounded Tipoca City, her home.

Even with her calm expression and lack of emotions, she felt a twinge of curiosity. After all, today was the beginning of their cloning program.

One that had been requested from the Republic itself. By a Jedi Master nonetheless. It was quite a strange request, even for the scientist herself. She would just proceed with the request with no questions asked, just obliging with the order. While she did not know the name of their client, she could easily gather information from other fellow scientists who lived in the city, namely from the Prime Minister of their city and planet, Lama Su.

Taun We prided herself on being one of the few geneticist scientists who was tasked with such a mass order.

No, not pride. Pride is a deep satisfaction with one’s achievements that can be widely admired. That was not the word she was looking for. That was not what she was supposed to feel, as it was just an experiment coming into play.

It was content.

She was content with this vast order of clones. One that would be bred and cloned to be of use for the Republic as an army. Perhaps it costs less than creating an army of droids like the Separatists and bringing their small world a hefty profit. Perhaps it was quite amusing, Taun We thought, that such beings needed other beings to fight their wars, let their hands remain free of any stains. “Perhaps.” Taun We stated to herself as she slowly exited her room, where the bright light of the domed hallways sprung with the lifeless droids that walked or floated down the hallway. ~

Further away from where Taun We resided, the most fearsome and best bounty hunter in all of the galaxy was residing in a small dark apartment. Jango Fett was already awake. He was a man who did not need to rest, not today at least. Especially not today.

He just watched the water trickle down the window staring at the little dots that ran down the glass, racing one another to reach the bottom. His hand reached out, dark and riddled with thick scars, and touched the cold glass as he slowly pressed his forehead against it. In due time, he would be pressing his forehead against something warm. Not one of a lover or his ship, the Slave I. No, he would be holding someone very small and dear to him, one he would come to love as soon as he could lay his eyes upon it… A son.

That was all that Jango first requested of Taun We and Lama Su back when he was first approached by Count Tyrannus after he had won a tournament. For his genetic template- and a hefty sum of twenty million credits- all that Jango requested of an unaltered clone. No modifications at the slightest, just a perfectly made clone that could be nurtured and raised by the man.

And today was the day that Jango would finally see his son. He had just received a comm from Lama Su earlier, who expressed through vague words how the cloning experiment went very well, even with the lack of modifications they had wished to give to the first male clone.

The light of his apartment began to brighten to signal that the morning hours were beginning to start. That was his signal to head out. That it was time to meet his son.

There was a slight knock at the door as the Mandalorian headed toward the front door of his small apartment. When the door slid open, Taun We was standing there, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

A ghost of a smile barely lifted the female Kaminoan lips as she peered down at Jango. “Good morning, Jango,” Taun We softly spoke as she bowed her head at the man. “Did you have a good night?”

“I did,” Jango responded as he nodded back at the Kaminoan. He offered the smallest of smiles back.

Always be polite to a client.

That was one of his codes to use when he was off and on missions. Whether he was Jango Fett the man or the deadliest bounty hunter, he always had a set of codes to keep himself alive and get the job done.

And this was just another job that he had been contracted with. The only catch was that he didn’t need to cut ties with them. He was perfectly fine with that, given what he was about to receive.

“Shall we be going then?”

“Let’s.”

The two beings walked down the empty city domes hallways. There were no words spoken between the two that were not necessary. Small talk could be made but there was already an uncomfortable silence between them. It could be because Taun We did not understand humans and Jango Fett didn’t wish to understand Kaminoans.

But both had made silent agreements that this was purely business. Only politeness should be shared amongst them. It was better off that way.

“Here we are.” Taun We spoke as the doors of the laboratory slid open. Inside, the room was as white as the rest of the city, if not even paler as the lights above gave off a piercing glare that almost blinded Jango.

Many Kaminoans were roaming around the large room with tanks that stood still in long endless rows. Hundreds, if not thousands, of nameless Jangos clones, filled each of those tanks. With every tank, a tall pale Kaminoan was busy typing away the clone’s progress Each of them held the face of the man that had given his genetic template for this experiment. Jango didn’t dare stare at the clones for too long but he already pictured what they looked like.

They each had the same dark skin, black wavy hair, and the same brown eyes that were currently closed as each of the men just floated in the strange blue liquid of the tanks. But they were much younger than Jango, for they were barely children. Not teenagers, just children. He couldn’t stare at them much longer as he turned his head away from the next batch. He came here for one thing only and it was not to see the process of how his clones are made.

Small was the first thing that came to Jango's mind as soon as he held his child in his arms.

Alpha (the codename for the first-ever male clone) was happily asleep, wrapped comfortably in a bundle of white blankets. He was around six months old, according to Taun We, as she handed the child to the bounty hunter. He had brown skin, the same shade as Jango, but it was smooth. There was no scar at all, not even the palest of pricks from needles.

“He seems rather keen on meeting you, Fett.” Taun We stated as she took a few steps away from the child and the man.

She did not like holding such abnormal things, even if she did regular checks on the baby and fed him. But there were no motherly intentions as it was not something that Taun We would ever become accustomed to. Or to any Kaminoans outside of their species.

As the female Kaminoan placed the child in Jango's arms, something clicked. It had just occurred to Jango just how small a being could be. Jango had never held a child before, never cradling one or even been close to one in ages. The bounty hunter was a busy man after all, never wanting to do anything more than to fulfill his jobs for his numerous clients.

Now, he felt like a simple man who was trying to make his way through this vast galaxy. And that now comes with a son, an apprentice for his legacy to continue once he is gone.

The child, Alpha, opened his eyes to the words of his father. A small yawn left his small lips. And then, the yawn turned into a lip. A small smile, whether it was a real one or just the child becoming comfortable in the warm eyes of his donor- no, his father.

“Welcome to the world, little one,” Jango whispered as he cradled the sleeping child in his arms.

#jango fett #star wars #star wars fanfiction #boba fett #tbobf #book of boba fett #sw tbobf #sw fanfic #the bad batch #tbb #boba fett fanfiction

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