Anonymous

What happens next in Sightless bird?

Posted on av swmoddy

Leaving the gathering hall is a relief, as bewildering and interesting as it is to hear adults bicker like children, Obi-Wan would admit that he was a bit dazed at this point.

Overwhelmed and overstimulated.

All the sounds and scents, a mix of cologne and perfumes and oils that overpowered his nose that made him sneeze. Then there was the emotions spilling all over without any shields in place on most of these adults were…

These people were suppose to be among those that made decisions on how their society was suppose to work?

These people that bickered worse than children over petty things, who didn’t seem to get that they were suppose to support and care for people all over the galaxy and instead were arguing about petty things?

Honestly, who in the galaxy bickered about parking taxes!?

He and Anakin had more productive arguments, and they sometimes argued about the texture of blankets and what kind of slippers were best!

So yes, Obi-Wan is relieved as he follows his master to get away, tucked into Anakin’s side with one hand holding onto the man’s belt to relieve his own senses just a bit.

Well, until he feels that signature.

That person, unique as all people were and dear to Obi-Wan as he perks up and lets go, rushing forward. Anakin lets out a surprised, worried shout but lets Obi-Wan rush forward, dodging under aids.

“Fox!” Obi-Wan cried with delight, the glow of the man turning towards him, brightening up like a bonfire before the man is reaching out, catching Obi-Wan with little difficulty.

He’s equally easily lifted up into the air, happily reaching out and tucking his legs around Fox chest, holding on as he delights in having his Fox again in reach with vambrace covered arms beneath his ass supporting. He loved Fox, Fox was one of the best people he knew.

“Thorn, get my helmet off.” Fox growled and Obi-Wan would have greeted Thorn, he liked Thorn but he was occupied in basking in the affectionate care of his big brother as Fox dropped his bare head forward, pressing it to Obi-Wan’s.

The affection wraps around him, warm and familiar like an old blanket, echoing through Obi-Wan from the skin to skin touch and like this, so close, Obi-Wan can see Fox.

Or well, what he thinks is Fox face.

He done this with others, fingertips can only give him so much and while there is no color, its still Fox face.

“Hi Fox.” He greeted quietly, arms wrapped around the commander’s neck to hold on with quiet glee.

“Hey there verd’ika.” Fox greeted in turn, voice low and warm as he held tightly onto Obi-Wan, his breath smelling of caff as it washed over Obi-Wan’s face. In the Force, Fox emotions were a convoluted mess but sticking out almost like a sore thumb was the man’s relief with the affection.

Obi-Wan knew that Fox didn’t like he was out in active battlefields, knew that he didn’t want Obi-Wan out in the war but that the other wouldn’t say as much. That he wanted Obi-Wan to spread his own wings so to speak.

And from Fox, those emotions didn’t hurt.

Fox didn’t think of him as ‘less’ because his eyes didn’t work.

Fox was simply worried because he cared.

It had nothing to do with Obi-Wan being supposedly less capable than any other youngling.

Fox has never made Obi-Wan feel less, only loved by someone who genuinely cared. Just like creche master Dolan and Vanda, just like master Yoda and Master Windu.

Just like Anakin and Qui-Gon.

A warm, protective hand rests on his back and Obi-Wan reluctantly pulls away enough to tilt his head in Anakin’s direction, beaming happily. “Panakin!” He clung to Fox still. “Can I stay with ori vod Fox?” He questioned hopefully, feeling Fox arms tighten on his legs.

Anakin let out a deep, considering hum, rubbing lightly at his spine. “Well, as long as Commander Fox feeds you and brings you to the temple before eight, I don’t see an issue.” His master stated lightly.

The arms on his legs eased the grip slightly, Obi-Wan feeling himself dip slightly. “Of course General, we’ll feed him properly.” Fox promised.

Obi-Wan just grinned, feeling Anakin tug on his braid with the Force.

He got to spend time with Fox! “Shooting range!” He cried out, hands in the air, Thorn laughing in his helmet as Fox snorted loudly.

y got any plans for pazdin?

Posted on av swmoddy

The potential for a fight always gets Mandalorian’s geared up.

Everyone of them tense, hard wired for the fight, witnessing or taking sides even with the Armorer defusing the situation as Din pulls his blade away, his moves smooth.

The taller alpha gave one last snarl before doing the same.

But then Paz Vizla froze, visor focused on Djarin as he remained sitting at the Armorer’s table.

The knife had nicked the skin of the smaller man in the almost fight.

A thin roll of blood was on Vizla’s knife, rolling lightly over the metal in the dim light, more likely hidden beneath their beroya helmet and kute.

But that wasn’t what had frozen Vizla, a knife wound was to be expected with where he put the blade, no, it is the scent reaching slowly but steadily through the compound had reached him first.

Inside his armor and his kute, Djarin had been as good as scentless, most likely coupled with scent blockers their hunter had collected when out of the Covert. A good thing when one was a bounty hunter, those who realized approved of the decision, though no one in the covert had, though others outside it had.

Greef Karga was very careful with which bounties he gave one of his best and if he was honest, favorite bounty hunters.

Those who didn’t made assumption about Djarin.

Beta.

But with the release of blood came the release of scent, barely caught through the filters of their helmets but there.

Omega.

Not just any kind of omega either.

No, a highly fertile one as strong as the scent was even through helmet filters, tinged with distress, uncertainty present in their scent and sharp, sour, hurt.

This was the last thing that had been expected, Mandalorian’s weren’t stupid about designations but having their sole beroya turn out to be an omega…

It rattled bones when they were so few already.

Anything could happen out there. And omegas thrived on contact, it was why most of the omegas of the tribe made more than one bond, to continue on the human contact they needed.

Hell, even the Armorer, solitary by nature of her personality and her role as a leader, had two bonded mates even if she had no children, not even foundlings.

Others had bonded family packs, siblings or parents and not just mates, giving them the contact they needed.

Djarin had been the sole beroya of the clan since his father died, always going, always leaving and not bonding to anyone in that manner.

Had been alone on the Razor Crest since, with no one to hold, no one to touch, no one to look after them when their heat hit.

He simply settled into the pack every time he returned, part of it but not bonded to anyone closely.

“A surprise this is,” The Armorer finally said, resting her hands on the table, quite clearly staring though what she was thinking, no one knew. But there was a question in that voice. “You… presented late.” It wasn’t a question now.

The beroya still nodded in answer, his own hands settled on the table too, away from his weapons. “Buir let me choose, said I should tell whenever I was ready. Then he died.” Djarin’s dark T-visors stares straight at the Armorer. “The Covert needed me.”

That answered everything and yet nothing.

A late presenting, after he got into his armor.

Potential genetic, stress from his life or just a random quirk of Djarin’s, waiting until he was far past swearing the resol’nare, waiting until he was stuck in his armor and away from the Covert with only his buir around.

A buir that took in him, gave him his name, who respected his son enough to let him decide.

A buir, who had been killed on their hunt.

A young but capable beroya, their only one, well aware that he was their only beroya after the Purge and the death of his father, their means to many credits and information, though others went up for shorter trips than Djarin himself.

A new one would take longer to train, maybe longer than they really could afford, their foundlings needing what Djarin could provide via credits, which bought them food, medicine, comforts and all the things a foundling would need.

And so Djarin said nothing and simply made due with what he had.

Who knew how many wires that had crossed in the omegas brain, starved for touch, starved for bonds and starved for contact.

And too late to do anything about right now as Din simply left the beskar to the Armorer and went to find his space, deftly avoiding anyone as he covered the bloodied cut on his neck with a gloved hand.

So. Does Din ever need to fight as Princess? I imagine it would be a shock to everyone else in Boba’s court

Posted on av swmoddy

Din’s body speaks about battle, about violence and hurt.

Of survival where he shouldn’t have, cauterized wounds that should have killed him.

It speaks about skills that must have been honed and yet here he still stands, standing slightly behind Boba on a leash as the man has left the throne for once, ‘Princess’ wearing scanty clothes that some would not think a warrior should wear.

Its comforting though and Din likes to be pretty for Boba, just as he would have fetched Boba a drink if that was all he really wanted.

Din however knows that Boba just wanted to stretch his legs in all actuality.

He’s listened to the man complain about how little comfort the stone throne brought him, the stiff legs and sore back and yet still the man rejected the idea of pillows in the throne.

Grumbled about wearing his armor and how little the pillows would do for the rigidness of his armor.

Something Din knew was shit and he was going to get pillows into that throne, he knew what kind of pillows worked well when wearing armor, giving padding and support..

The beskar chain in Boba’s hand hangs in a loose loop as Din eyed people, jingling lightly when Boba’s hand moves but the noise and the chatter of people is not enough to distract Din from an unsettled feeling as he stood at Boba’s back.

Shand was out, dealing with an underground deal with her own captain and underlings.

And ever since Din had nuzzled his face into Boba’s neck, he had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, a feeling that grew even as he remained cuddled into Boba. Maybe a bit more clingy than usual, Boba had given him a look through the helmet visor but not questioned him.

It wasn’t something Din could put his finger on though.

But he has learned not to disregard that feeling, the feeling of wrong.

It practically aches through his body, his old scars aching.

Someone has forgotten those scars, the history that lays plain on Din’s skin with the sheer silks and gossamer thin fabrics.

Because the focus suddenly narrows as someone, a pudgy gamorran, raises a blaster at Boba’s back.

At his buir’ika back.

An assassination attempt, right in front of Din and his focus narrows as it would in a hunt.

To Boba, to himself, to the people around him, to the gamorran and the others clearly in cahoots and to the potential weapons around him.

Din counts three, three perps.

Three idiots thinking they could kill the King of Tatooine.

Without his helmet, his snarl cuts through the air as he grabs a polished serving tray off the serving bar, raising it enough to deflect the blast and then he chucks it with all his might. Like a discus, it sings through the air, the edges sharp enough that it buries itself in the chest of the gamorrean.

He squeals like a pig for slaughter, chest spurting blood.

The sound is piercing and the wet, warm blood splashing him is uncomfortable, especially without his helmet but Din is angry and therefore does not care too much. Someone is trying to kill Boba.

His Boba.

Yanking his chain out of Boba’s thankfully gloved hands, Din wraps it around his own to a manageable length and lashes out to the human moving forward with a sword, ignoring the screaming of the court trying to flee.

Instead he moves forward and snaps the delicate beskar chain forward, wrapping it around the neck of the man and pulling him forward. He hits the floor, and his own sword, with a cry of pain.

But still alive.

Din can’t have that as he steps forward, out of his sandals, and places his bare foot on the humans neck, pressing down with his heel and twisting.

A sickening crack fills the air as the act of breaking the man’s neck also pushes him down on the blade, blood splashing up Din’s leg but Din’s focus already shifted on the last would be assassin.

A woman, two slim daggers in her hands, her wide eyed focus on Din as he snarls again in challenge, standing in front of Boba, the chain swinging almost lazily as he tries to decide if he is to kill her or not.

She is a threat, but she may have answers if she was hired. But she was going to harm Boba, Din does not suffer threats to what he loves ide-

A warm hand, gloved hand drops to his shoulder, thumb rubbing lightly at the juncture of neck and shoulder. “Easy Princess,” Boba’s voice is a steady drawl, the vocoder crackling slightly. “I want this one alive. I want answers.” He murmured, both pride and anger in his voice.

Decision taken form Din, even as he snarls angrily, taking a step forward towards the assassin only to pause when she falls on her knees, throwing her blades away, begging for mercy from Boba.

Din snorts in disgust but waits for Boba to call him off, his body trembling in leftover adrenaline, anger and so much fear, even as he gingerly presses the end of the somewhat bloody chain into Boba’s hand.

It feels better, when Boba has the end of his chain, the comforting weight of the beskar now so familiar to Din.

He rests his head on the shorter man’s shoulder, body trembling easing slowly as Boba’s other hand finds the base of his spine and starts stroking. But he doesn’t take his eyes of the brown haired woman kneeling on the ground as she continues pleading with Boba asking short but pointed questions.

Questions that will determined her future.

Several courtiers are slowly coming back out of their hiding, the bartender behind the bar watching warily.

After Din’s head got smashed in, people seemed to forget that Princess must have been a warrior, for all the lace and silk he wears, bared to everyone’s gaze.

They won’t forget any time soon now, as a human and a gamorrean starts twitching in death spasms and a third begs for her life, watching ‘Princess’ with more fear than Boba.

Din’s body is a patchwork of battle and survival.

He still fights, he’s fit.

And he is a vicious protector when what is his has become threatened.

People will think twice before they aim for Fett’s back once more.