Jecki doesn’t even do Yord the courtesy of sparing him a second glance. “Yes, I’m sure.”
But you don’t blame him for asking. All you can see beyond the light swirls of snow is dense, dark forest and the reflection of the headlights on the road. There aren’t even streetlights out here. You might almost suspect Jecki of kidnapping you if you didn’t know any better.
“Because it’s been almost 40 minutes since we saw another vehicle-”
“I’ve been down this road a thousand times,” Jecki sighs, her fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “And the only ones insane enough to be driving on it right now are us. We’re fine, Yord.”
It doesn’t help his anxiety or yours that this is the first time either of you will be visiting the Aniseya household. You’ve heard all about its extravagance from Osha, seen a few photos on Mae’s insta of previous holiday parties and business galas, and have even assured by Sol that this is a family occasion – intimate, warm, and nothing to be nervous about. But you still are. Driving out into the middle of nowhere, amid the swirling start of a potential blizzard, all in an attempt to fit yourself into a family you’ve only become acquainted with in the past three years is a lot more stressful than you’d initially thought it would be.
You pull out your phone and send a quick message to Yord. His phone illuminates his face a couple minutes later, though you can’t see much when you’re sitting directly behind him. Just the glint of light off the golden bands in his locs and the earring hanging from his lobe.
The car is mostly quiet, so it’s impossible to miss the heavy release of his breath. Jecki’s head tilts slightly in his direction. “You alright?” The question hangs awkwardly in the air between them. Everyone present at tonight’s party is fully aware that Yord is as far from ‘alright’ as one can get, but what else is there to say? When he doesn’t answer, Jecki falls back on her usual sarcasm. “You’re not actually nervous, are you?”
His silence is answer enough.
Jecki rolls her eyes so hard that you can see them flash in the rearview mirror. “Ugh. They invited you! Both of you! It’s not as if you’re strangers.”
You can’t help snorting a bit derisively at that. “Easy for you to say, you and Osha have been joined at the hip for a million years.”
Yord nods in agreement. “Besides, you heard Sol. This is a family engagement.” He gestures vaguely between you both. “We aren’t family.”
“Of course you are,” says Jecki, instantaneous and incredulous. The reflection of her eyes and nose are all wrinkled, as if the idea that you might think otherwise is genuinely offensive to her. “D’you really think you’re not?”
Jecki is one of the most remarkable people you know and you absolutely adore her, but in this instance she’s out of her depth. She has the honor of not only being Osha’s best friend, but of being Sol’s daughter. And Sol has been an unofficial member of the Aniseya family for decades. You and Yord… all you really are at the end of the day are students, amicable enough with your former professor to have gradually been introduced to his circle of friends and family until you finally found yourselves integrated into the group. You’re the odd ones out, even if no one says so. It’s why the invitation came as such a surprise to both of you.
Once again, your shared silence is understood for the answer that it is. Jecki shakes her head, though she doesn’t say anything for a while. You slip your hand over the window side of Yord’s seat to rest your hand on his shoulder. I’m here, you promise him, and you think he understands. In the darkness of the passenger seat, he places one of his hands atop yours.
It isn’t until the road begins to narrow and the yellow-white lights of a house start to pierce through the blanket of snow that the silence is shattered. Jecki’s ringtone suddenly blasts through the speakers and Osha’s name appears on the display screen.
Jecki humphs and accepts the call. “Yes?”
“Where- … -you?” The isolation of the Aniseyas’ house and the snow combined are doing a number on the reception. Still, it’s nice to hear Osha’s voice. You haven’t seen her in months now. You miss her.
“We’re nearly there,” Jecki replies. “I can see the house just up the road.”
The call crackles sharply before finally dropping, taking Osha’s response with it, much to your relief because the sound of her voice clipping in and out was bound to give you a migraine if it persisted. But the silence is quickly filled with the crunch of tires upon gravel and the hum of electricity. The once distant lights shining like little beacons adrift in a great sea are now brighter and bolder as Jecki pulls into a gated driveway. A two-story house rises out of the snow, encased by pines and oaks and neatly trimmed rose bushes. Its front windows are massive stretches of glass that offer you a glimpse inside – gauzy curtains frame a fancy Christmas tree decorated in shades of violet-red and gold, plush furniture, expensive looking art on the walls… Just how wealthy are they?
Then you spot the shiny black Jaguar parked on the far side of the driveway – Sol’s, of course, purchased with his robust Cornell professor paycheck – and you remember exactly the kind of people you’re going to be keeping company with tonight. Well-to-do people who have worked hard to make a name for themselves and now have the money to show for it. Way out of your league. Well, mostly. Osha’s beat-up old truck would definitely spoil the illusion of finery and grandeur if it were here but unfortunately, it’s nowhere to be seen. She must still be on her way. You try not to let the disappointment get to you.
Jecki’s quick to usher you and Yord inside once she parks. “We’ll get the bags later,” she tells you when you make for the back hatch. “Come on! I’m starving.”
The three of you waddle through the biting cold and sharp winds, up the elaborate walkway that ends at the foot of the even more elaborate front door, all decked out in a massive wreath laced through with tinsel and satin ribbons, and Jecki… doesn’t even knock. She pushes the door open without any preamble, and you’re immediately met with and a gust of warm air that hits you right in the face. Jecki ushers you inside, then Yord, before pulling off her coat, gloves, and shoes, making herself comfortable as if this were her own home.
Okay, so maybe you didn’t realize just how far in over your head you’d be by coming here. Amoy is a wealthy and successful businesswoman, and Koril is a world-renowned dancer. You’ve always known they were well-off, but it was a distant understanding that never fully registered in your mind. Now, though, bathed in the lights of the dazzlingly elaborate Aniseya Christmas display, you understand why Mae can buy anything she wants without even looking at the price tag.
The house is all broad, smooth expanses of marble and mahogany and burnished bronze. Real pine garlands are strung along the banisters, dotted with pinecones and gold and crimson ribbons. A somewhat modest chandelier hangs above the entry, which is also home to a bench – so fancy that it physically pains you to look at it, let alone sit on it – and a coat rack now overflowing with scarves and jackets. Snowy boots have been discarded by the door, and you’re starting to wonder if everyone is waltzing about in socks or their bare feet.
You and Yord share a quiet look, both of you clearly uncertain of what to do while Jecki simply toes off her shoes without a care in the world. He hangs his coat next to yours and you place your snow boots next to his, and you try very hard not to feel overwhelmed at the enormity of the situation.
Following in Jecki’s footsteps takes you to a high-ceilinged hallway with multiple open doorways, but only one is illuminated by the soft glow of electric candles, the only guide you have in the maze that is the Aniseya mansion. It’s funny. You would have thought Amoy and Koril too fancy for something as mundane as an electric candle, but you suppose fire safety is universal across the class system.
The sound of mellow Christmas blues and soft chatter draws you into the largest living room you think you’ve ever seen. The high ceilings and pine-scented décor extend here, too, punctuated by a brick fireplace and another, more modestly decorated tree. The dinner table has been furnished with endless food and drink, the lights are slightly dimmed to encourage a more intimate setting, and standing in the heart of it all is Amoy Aniseya herself.
Your heart seizes up in your throat. She’s an absolute vision. Her dress is just shy of skintight, but tastefully so, all black velvet and silver trim that crisscrosses her arms and torso, highlighted with a splash of red along the plunging neckline. If you were braver, you might even think she looks more like a neatly packaged Christmas gift rather than a savvy socialite. But you’re not. And you won’t. Not even when she and Koril notice your embarrassingly underdressed party of three and welcome you with a smile.
“Jecki!” she coos, her arms spread wide to invite Jecki into an embrace.
Where Amoy is all refinement and suavity, Jecki is a wrinkled ball of joy burrowing into Aniseya’s warmth. She receives a gentle kiss on the crown of her head and a tender hand upon her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Auntie,” she says happily.
“And a very merry Christmas to you, my dear.”
Yord, meanwhile, has solidified into something resembling a statue. You’ve unintentionally taken to mirroring his stance, frozen in place as you take in the extravagance and elegance and compare it to your own outfit. In his eagerness (or anxiety) to make a good impression on Koril and Amoy, Yord had chosen to wear a nice plaid suit in dark blues and greens. You’d laughed at him and called him a suck up, and decided to go casual like Jecki was. Now you wish you hadn’t. Not only because Amoy and Koril are dressed to the nines in their matching black attire, each outfit cut dangerously low across their chests and bedazzled with shimmers of silver and gold, and not only because the house is decked out in fashionable décor and expensive art. But because Sol is here and he looks remarkably handsome in his own dark colored suit and dress shoes, with his hair swept back over his temple and an expensive looking watch on his wrist. Because Mae is here too; her presence unsurprising, but her appearance certainly is. You’re pretty sure that’s a Gucci logo on the back of her leather jacket. The only people not dressed in expensive finery are you and Jecki, and you don’t have the excuse of being a part of the family in all but name and blood.
You unsubtly elbow Yord in the ribs. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me to wear something nicer?” you whisper.
He glances sideways at you, unamused. “I did. You didn’t listen.”
Amoy catches your eye then, and her smile makes your stomach flutter. You’re not sure if you’re nervous because she’s beautiful or nervous because she’s Mae and Osha’s mother, and you honestly don’t know if it matters. She waves a welcoming hand in your direction.
“Do you think they’ll notice if I just turn and run?”
The corner of Yord’s mouth quirks up, not quite a smirk but definitely more than just a smile. “Don’t even think about,” he murmurs.
Amoy calls your name this time. Shoulders slumped, you finally acknowledge her and nod. To Yord you ask, “Why?”
“Because I’ll never forgive you if you leave me here.”
Even though he’s smiling, you know he’s being at least partially serious. Well, you muse, at least he’s loosening up. For Yord, that’s about as much as you can hope for.
“Wish me luck,” you implore before finally allowing yourself to answer Amoy’s beckoning. And all the while, you remind yourself not to say something stupid, not to stick your foot in your mouth as you so often do when you’re on edge. One foot in front of the other. Definitely don’t pay attention to the glittering string of silver that hangs down Koril’s décolletage. Don’t pay attention to the shimmer of Amoy’s skin in the firelight. Don’t pay attention to the flexing of tendons along the back of Sol’s hand or how his fingers tighten around the neck of his wine glass when you pass. Pretend you don’t notice the way Mae is staring at you and how desperately you wish Osha were here, because maybe then you wouldn’t feel compelled to compare your ridiculous Christmas sweater to the luxury all around you.
The sweep of Amoy’s hand before your face brings you back to the present, and you have exactly one and a half seconds to prepare yourself before she’s leaning down to press her cheek against yours, one kiss on each side. “Merry Christmas,” she says sweetly upon pulling back. “Koril and I are very happy to see you.”
If Koril does in fact agree with the sentiment, it’s hard to tell. For someone so highly praised for their talents on the stage, she has the remarkably irritating tendency of looking permanently displeased. Not that you judge her for it because your own RBF has caused some misunderstandings before, but you’d really like it if she would smile at you once or twice, just to prove that she doesn’t hate you.
Oh well.
“I’m happy to be here,” you tell Amoy. “Although I didn’t realize that I was supposed to dress up.”
“You are perfectly fine as you are. We’re simply accustomed to indulging in the opportunity to be festive.” And she slips her arm around Koril’s waist as she says this, prompting your own fleeting smile. They really do fit together perfectly. “Your sweater is delightful,” Amoy assures you. “As are you.”
Indeed, if anyone else were to say it, you’d think they were mocking you, but coming from her it sounds so genuine. Maybe it’s the lilt of her accent, a remnant of her boarding school days in England, or maybe it’s the gentleness of her eyes, of her touch when she moves to cup your chin in her hand.
“Make yourself comfortable, my dear. You’re family.”
You glance at Koril, for… confirmation? Agreement? A way out? You don’t expect her to give any of it. But she nods almost imperceptibly, the corners of her mouth curling, and you feel your entire body flush. They really mean it. Both of them.
Words fail you. You stammer around the vague idea of a sentence for a few moments before you finally manage a very hoarse “thank you”, to which Amoy simply encourages you to eat, drink, and mingle. You have little more than a second after their departure, Amoy already eager to greet Yord, before you hear your name again, though there’s no guesswork involved in who it is. You’ve spent so many hours listening to Sol lecture, not to mention the countless days spent in his company outside of university, that you would recognize his voice anywhere.
You turn to him in an instant, like a flower seeking out the warmth of the sun. He meets you halfway with a hand already extended to greet you. He always tries to be stiflingly professional with you, even in moments like these, but this is the one time when you simply won’t allow it. Here he’s your friend, nothing more or less, and you greet him like one.
“Merry Christmas,” you sigh as you pull him into a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”
And it really is.
Sol doesn’t quite meet your eyes when you finally part, though you think… No, you’re just imagining that his cheeks are a shade or two darker than usual. Either way, he looks pleased to see you. In fact, he looks incredible. He’ll often wear suits to work, so it isn’t strange to see him dressed up, but you can tell that the suit he has on now is expensive. The coat feels like velvet, if you’re not mistaken.
“This is nice,” you say with an affectionate pat on his arm. “You look fancy.”
His laugh is quiet and a little shy, which tells you everything you need to know. “You can blame Amoy for that. She talked me into it.” His throat bobs even as his hand goes to the fashionably large bowtie under his collar, fingers splaying out over its large creases.
“Well at least you actually dressed appropriately. Look at me, I look like I’m twelve.”
“You don’t,” he smiles.
It’s sweet of him to pretend. “I do. It’s embarrassing. If I’d known we were supposed to dress for a fashion show, I would’ve worn something without Christmas trees on it. But that’s what I get for listening to your daughter.”
This time Sol’s smile fully reaches his eyes, his skin delicately crinkling from the force of his amusement. “Did Jecki talk you into this, then?”
“Oh no, I chose this.” The knit reindeer and holiday tree pattern is less appealing now than it was a week ago when you bought it, but you really had thought it was cute. “I just also believed her when she said everyone else was going to be dressed casually. Shows you what I know.”
Sol’s expression turns thoughtful then, and he takes the momentary silence to sip at his drink, something pink and bubbly that may or may not be alcoholic. “Amoy has a penchant for finery,” he says with a hint of laughter sparkling in his eyes. “Clearly. This–” his fingers brush lightly over the sleeve of your sweater “–is fine. Don’t spend your energy worrying over what you should have done. Think instead of the present.”
Moments like this are common in your friendship, little snippets of wisdom that he offers you when you allow yourself to be vulnerable and honest in his presence. Admiration sweeps over you, and for a long stretch of eternity, you find yourself studying him, analyzing the valleys and swells of his face, the softness of his gaze as it flickers uncertainly under your attention. How he always manages to conjure up such astute observations, you’ll never know, but you value them more than you can express.
“Thanks.” You nudge him playfully with your elbow. “I’m not your student anymore, y’know, you don’t have to keep teaching me valuable life lessons.”
He hums in consideration and takes another drink. “It’s a force of habit.”
“And I’m grateful for it.”
Unfortunately, your stomach chooses that exact moment to emit an embarrassingly loud rumble, loud enough that slapping your hand over it does nothing to silence it. Six pairs of eyes suddenly fixate on you. You’ve never wanted the Earth to swallow you whole quite so badly.
“Hungry?”
“Tchk, shut up, old man.”
But you do eventually wander over to the dinner table at his prompting. All the traditional favorites one might expect at a regular Christmas party are on display: chocolate candies and peppermint candies and butterscotch and brownies, gingerbread men and candy canes and several chilled bottles of champagne, cider, and juice. There are other things, too, though. Some kind of stew has been left to simmer beside several plates of curry, meat, and rice and peas. Next to that is a basket of oddly shaped bagels, each one braided into a circle but with one side of the circle noticeably thinner than the other. Some are glistening with brushed butter or oil while some have poppy seeds or powdered sugar sprinkled on the top.
A hand blinks into your field of vision, warm and dark like the glow of a fire, and you start, following the line of the arm to the sharp angle of Mae Aniseya’s face. She snags one of the misshapen bagels with a flash of her long nails, similar in shape and color to her mother’s but still shorter in comparison. “It’s called kolach,” she explains with a waggle of the thing in your direction. “They’re Russian.”
“Oh,” you reply dumbly, still a little stunned by her sudden appearance. She has the uncanny ability of popping up where you least expect her and even after three years, she still manages to surprise you every time. “Um, that’s cool.”
Mae quirks one of her eyebrows at you. “You look lost.”
“Not lost, just… looking.” Wow. What an amazing attempt at conversation. Could you sound any more refined? “I, uh, haven’t seen some of this stuff before, that’s all. But it smells amazing.”
An idea comes to mind, then, something you hope will ease the awkward tension between you. As you reach for a plate, you shuffle a little closer to Mae’s side. “Would you tell me what everything is?”
Her eyes, dark and penetrating and beautifully punctuated by the curling shape of makeup along her waterline, watch you for a few seconds before she finally nods her consent. You can’t help noticing how her entire face seems to glow when she moves. Is that some kind of uniquely Aniseya trait, you wonder, or did she just hire a really good makeup artist?
“Oxtail.”
And just like that, you’re tumbling gracelessly out of your reverie. “Huh?”
She points to the pot of stew on your left. “Oxtail,” she repeats, though this time there’s an edge to it, less inviting and more standoffish. “Mama learned to make it from her mother. In Jamaica.”
Of course. Though you don’t know the details, you’ve picked up some background information about the Aniseyas over the years, but you know Amoy is the daughter of Jamaican immigrants and Koril emigrated to the US on her own several years ago, so it makes sense that they would plait pieces of themselves into their family dinner. In fact, you feel kind of stupid for not realizing it sooner.
You try to make up for it by scooping a large serving of it into a bowl, even though you’ve never tried it before and aren’t even sure you’ll like it. You probably will. But the last thing you need is for Mae (or her mothers) to think you’re being rude.
She doesn’t say anything, but it’s clear by the downward tilt of her mouth that Mae isn’t terribly impressed by you either way. “That’s turkey,” she continues, “chicken, goat, curry, and rice. You do know what rice is.”
“Yes, I know what rice is,” you snap back. “I don’t live under a rock.”
“Hm. Your sweater says otherwise.”
You’re still sputtering for an answer by the time she disappears, leaving you with only the sharp memory of her eyes and the lingering scent of her perfume. She’s so much like her mother in that regard, always saying something that leaves you speechless and feeling very much a fool, but she does it more in the way that Koril does rather than Amoy. You sigh. So much for making a good impression.
The oxtail, as it turns out, is really good. Everything is really good. The music, the ambient lighting, the company, the conversation. Even if you’re still embarrassed by your outfit, even if you still feel out of place, this whole thing feels good. It feels right. Nice. Pleasant. The only thing that’s missing is Osha.
“D’you think she’s actually coming?” you whisper as you lean into Jecki’s ear.
She nods. “I think so. She seemed more open to it this year.”
There’s an unspoken “Qimir didn’t talk her out of it” that lingers between you, though neither of you acknowledges it. It’s been relatively unspoken for the past two years, mentioned only in passing or noticed in a wordless expression that says more than any remark ever could. Everyone knows it and pretends not to for Osha’s sake, because pushing her away is far worse than simply putting up with her shitty boyfriend.
You leave the conversation as it is, not wanting to draw up anymore of the complicated feelings that Qimir and his relationship with Osha trigger within you. All you want is to see her again, to know that she’s happy, that she still remembers how to smile. That she’s still your friend. Instead, you clap a hand on Jecki’s knee and gesture toward the front door with a nod of your head.
“You wanna help me bring our things in?”
Jecki frowns. “Right now?”
“Well…” Mae’s been hinting at wanting to open presents for the last twenty minutes and you think she might actually develop the ability to kill with a single look if she’s forced to continue waiting. “Unless you feel like fighting Mae for my right to keep breathing.”
“Tchk, she’s just mad ‘cause I put her on her back last week.”
“… In practice, right?”
Almost immediately, Jecki’s face goes red and she jabs you right between the ribs with a hiss. “Shut up, it’s not like that.”
“It could be,” you shrug. Honestly, you don’t even know if it is, you just get a kick out of teasing her for it. It always makes her blush.
“It’s not.” And she steals a quick look around, very pointedly ignoring the curious (albeit still blatantly irritated) look that Mae’s casting your way. “And lower your voice.”
That’s fair, you suppose. You lean in conspiratorially, putting your hand up over your mouth so you can whisper into her ear, “’cause all the homoerotic tension between you means nothing, clearly.”
She smacks you in the arm. You snicker and smack her right back. And after she’s sufficiently walloped you for implying things you have no business implying, Jecki finally agrees to help you. You shuck on your coat and boots without bothering to tie or tighten anything and stumble into the cold together, pressing shoulder to shoulder against the wind.
The snow’s accumulated probably another inch, and you’re not worried. Not at all. Osha will be fine. She’s a mechanic, after all. If she gets stuck on the side of the road, you know she’s resourceful enough to fix the problem. She’s smart. And she did grow up here, so it’s unlikely for her to get lost. Really, you’re not worried at all, you’re just… lightly concerned. That’s all.
Content: modern au, christmas au, first kiss + mistletoe kiss
I. 'Tis the Season
II. Better Company (Osha x Reader)
III. Permission (Jecki x Reader)
IV. More Nuanced (Yord x Reader)
V. Memories (Sol x Reader)
VI. Unfinished Business (Mae x Reader)
VI. Breaking the Rules (Aniseya x Reader x Koril)
working on a fic (don't ask) and i would just like to point out boogie lesbian milfs aniseya and koril w/ their cadillacs and bmws, yale university prof sol and his jaguar, lesbian jecki in her subaru, and fucking osha in her beat up old pickup truck that needs to be put down
i. i'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired
ii. reset my patient violence along both lines of a pathway higher (coming soon)
iii. grow back my sharpest teeth, you know my desire (coming soon)
Pairing: Jango Fett x f!Reader
Content: headless horseman au, historical sleepy hollow, māori jango, use of reo māori, reincarnation, soulmates, canon typical violence, eventual smut
You incline your head politely in Sol’s direction. “Master.”
“Knight,” he replies, returning the gesture with the same lighthearted air.
“What a surprise meeting you here.”
His eyes flicker across your face for a moment, his expression shifting just slightly with the softness of his affection. “Indeed.” The muffled ambience of the bakery lingers in the space between you – it’s mostly half whispered discussions and muted laughter and the chime of the register because all you can really hear is the beat of your own heart and the rush of blood in your ears. “A surprise, my dear, but a pleasant one. I hope…”
Sol hesitates, long enough for his face to flood with uncertainty, and you don’t press him for more. You know he’s nervous. You’re nervous too. Rather than placate him with words, you reach out with the Force and brush against his conscious mind with a voiceless murmur. It’s alright. It’s just us.
He raises a brow. It’s a look that says everything he’d said last night, every anxiety and every uncertainty translated into an assemblage of expressions that only you can interpret.
You reach out again. All they see are a couple of strange Jedi. They won’t pay us any attention.
That is, after all, his greatest fear and understandably so. He has more to lose if his attachments surface within the Order. He could lose his Padawan, his title, and everything else he’s worked so hard to achieve these last few years. At worst, you think you might be prompted into guided meditation with a Council member to ensure you aren’t starting down a dangerous path.
But such are the risks of love in the world of the Jedi.
“I hope you are well.”
Your eyes meet Sol’s and you feel as if your heart is going to burst. “I’m better now that I’m with you.”
This time, he laughs. It’s the most wonderful sound in the world. No matter where you are or who you’re with, if you catch even a glimpse of Sol’s smile or happen to hear the low and gentle rumblings of his amusement, it immediately brightens your day. It’s just a shame that you’re in public right now or else you’d kiss him breathless for it.
“You’re trying to get on my good side.”
“Maybe,” you shrug. “Is it working?”
Dark eyes glitter in the fluorescent light of this tiny Coruscanti bakery, jam-packed with civilian regulars and intergalactic tourists, and you think you love him more now in this manufactured normalcy than you ever have before. “A little too well, I think.”
After ordering you manage to snag an empty barstool in the back corner of the building, sandwiched in between a startlingly large Nikto biker and the wall. Ever the gentleman, Sol places himself between you and the rest of the world, and you swear it’s like falling into your own little world. Here you can pretend that you’re just another citizen of the galaxy on a normal date with your even more normal lover. You’re not hiding from the rules of your own society here. No, you’re too lost in Sol’s eyes to be afraid of anything at all, not even losing him.
The Nikto behind him jostles with laughter and Sol very nearly collapses on top of you. He stops himself with a hand braced against the table, and his caf sloshes over the rim of his paper cup onto your robes, and you don’t give a damn. How could you when he’s looking at you like that? Like you’re everything to him?
“This is…” He can’t even find the words to finish the thought.
“Perfect,” you answer for him.
You know it’s not what he wants for you. If Sol is anything, it’s a romantic, and that’s just another addition to a long list of reasons why you love him. But it’s because this bakery is so imperfect, so crowded and noisy and maybe a little dingy, that you find yourself enamored with it. It’s that little bit of normal you can never have in the Temple. Your own little slice of “could-be” that you’ll only ever share with him.
The clientele are noisy enough, in fact, that no one can hear you say you love him. No one but him. His eyes immediately mist over and, well, if he kisses you in the corner of that too-tiny bakery on the 5,000th level of the most crowded planet in the galaxy, then you two are the only Jedi who will ever know about it.
got a halloween-y mae oneshot in the works 🙏🏻 shapeshifter mae and sweetheart reader in a fantasy setting (same vague universe as my daiyu veteran piece)
Only two more weeks until The Acolyte Week 2024 from Oct 27-31.
Just choose a prompt and celebrate your favorite part(s) of the show! Each day has two prompts; feel free to do either or both. If you can only do part of the first prompt, that's totally fine too!
SCHEDULE & PROMPTS
Day 1: Beginning/End | Favorite character or relationship
Day 2: Truth/Lie | Favorite episode
Day 3: Healing/Hurting | Significant moments
Day 4: Wisdom/Ignorance | Object or location
Day 5: Peace/Conflict | Tropes
I'll be tracking #theacolyteweek2024. Make sure to use the tag in your first five tags and mention the prompt you chose in your post.
Content: werewolf reader, medieval/fantasy au, clones speak mando'a māori (translations at the end), some violence, vaguely halloween themed
Word Count: 5.6k
originally posted sept. 26th, 2023
[ao3 link]
The people in this town are a fearful lot - superstitious, suspicious of everything and everyone around them. They fear the woods more than anything. There is some sense in this fear, after all there are things that lurk in the shadows there that no human ought to comprehend. But the woods are not evil. They bring life to everything they touch, shelter for those in need, food for all, and the forest floor is often dappled with puddles, creeks, and ponds.
To you, it's home. Cool in the summers, pleasant and abundant in the spring and autumn, but the winters are hard. You tend to spend your winters in town instead because here there are fires, hearths decorated with cast iron pots that overflow with stews and warm, hearty meals that fill your belly and leave you satisfied. It's not so bad here. But it is lonely.
There is no family to stay with, no parent to hold you on chilly nights and now siblings to offer their comfort when you fall to your lowest, and there is no one to tell your secrets to. The townsfolk are wary of you, but friendly enough when they need to be, when they want something from you.
"Stranger, I need a hare for my family." "I need a deer for the equinox feast." "Get me the best fowl you can find, hunter, and I'll make it worth your while."
Not all of them are greedy, but most of them are. Not him, though. He's not like the others. The chill of the autumn and winter months lingers in their eyes year round, but his eyes are warm. They remind you of the undergrowth in the forest. The frogs and their tadpoles bathing in the mud, the squirrels and birds that build their homes in the tree trunks, the color of the leaves as they turn and fall. The hearth in midwinter, when the fire is sparking and the wood turns to embers, and the bread bakes in the oven and cracks and steams in your hands. He's kind, this man who sits in the dirt everyday and asks for the things he cannot afford.
You wonder if a man like him, with kindness in his bones, would still be so if he knew your secret. If he knew who it was that left him scraps in the dark of the night. You hope he isn't like the others in this regard, but you're too afraid to ever try and find out. For now, your secret is safe and your friend is, too.
This night is the first that's been properly cold. The weather has been fickle this week, hot one day and cool the next, but never dipping too low. Tonight, however, it's caught everyone by surprise. Some families haven't gathered enough firewood yet, so their chimneys aren't smoking. The few stragglers still out after dark are shivering in their boots, too cold to notice the shadow darting by or the coat of wolf fur around your shoulders.
You make into the forest and strip off your clothes, fold them neatly and tuck them into a hollow in a fallen trunk, then you lay out the fur on the moss and curl up on top of it, waiting. It takes a moment for you to relax, but once you do, you feel something stir deep in your stomach. You've waited too long to transform, put it off for too many days. It's going to be painful this time.
And it is. Your bones creak and snap before reknitting themselves into a wolf's skeleton, this is how it always is, but it hurts so much more than it has in ages. Your joints are sore and your gums hurt where your teeth have transformed into canines, your spine aches right where your tail sprouts out, and your muscles are on fire. But finally, it's over and you feel like yourself again.
The moon is only half full and doesn't illuminate the earth enough for human eyes, but for your eyes it's perfect. You can hear everything, every twitch of a whisker, every twig snapped underfoot, every heartbeat going pitter patter, and you can see the glassy, frightened eyes of little critters hiding beneath overgrown ferns.
You hunt. There is an old hare whose mate died earlier this month. HIs sorrow is so strong that you can smell it and it makes him slow. It's better to take his life than the life of the mother around the bend; she guards five tiny little hearts going pitter patter and that is a line you cannot, will not cross. You thank the old hare for his life and the life he will now be able to give to others, and then you move on. His body rests by the tree trunk that holds your clothes. Soon he's joined by a pair of chipmunks, a squirrel, another hare, and a bird whose wing never healed right. Most of your finds will go to those in town - the single mother making stew for her children, the angry old grandfather who lives in the smithy and yells at everyone, the young widower and his baby girl - but you always save something.
The chipmunks and bird are dropped off first, then the squirrel, then one of the hares.
"There you are," he rumbles, the tiny fire he's built illuminating the dimples in his cheeks when he turns to look at you. "Was wondering where you'd gone off to."
Your paws pad lightly on freshly fallen leaves, and the hare falls at the man's feet. You nudge it lightly with your nose before sitting back on your hind legs.
"For me, hm?"
You pant. It's your way of saying "yes, of course".
"That's very generous for an old veteran."
If you were human, you'd roll your eyes. As a wolf, you settle for a moody huff and leave it at that. He often says things like this when you come visit him, that he's old and not worth your time, that a handsome young wolf like yourself ought to be spending time with its pack instead of visiting him. He speaks sometimes of days long past when he was younger and stronger, a soldier in the Emperor's legion, but never enough for you to grasp what happened to him or why he's now a pauper who can only beg for scraps.
But you can sense things in this form that your human form can't. All your senses are more finely attuned, sharper, clearer. You can smell the pain he hides. It's stronger when it's cold. Perhaps the weather makes it worse. Whatever it is, it's in his leg. It seems to radiate from his ankle, up his shin, and into his thigh.
"You must be hungry after all that hunting," he says as he pokes at the fire. The tray he uses to collect coins and food from the locals is balanced above it. He then pats the space beside him. "Stay. We'll share."
A wolf's face cannot flush with heat or embarrassment the way that a human's can, but the quickened beating of the heart is the same, the rush of hormones in the blood. Do you panic, do you stay, do you go? You want to stay. You like him. He's the safest thing you have beyond the forest. But he's no fool. He must know you're no ordinary wolf. Wild wolves aren't like you, they aren't nearly as friendly and nowhere near as considerate. And he speaks to you like you understand him, like he can hear the very human thoughts running through your head.
"Stay, wuruhi. I won't bite." His tone is soft and his mouth is smiling. He probably thinks he's funny.
"I shouldn't be seen with you," you say, but it comes out more like "rrrrrgh oooowa". It could be dangerous for him if you linger. But then you pause, trace your eyes over his profile as the fire illuminates it, you see the creases by his eyes and the gray in his beard. You wonder if he's as lonely as you are here. You wonder if it wouldn't be so bad to stay for a bit, just this once.
You huff again, somewhere between irritated and resigned, and walk around the edge of the fire to come to his other side. You have to be gentle, you don't want to jostle him too much and make him hurt more, but finally you find a comfortable position and rest your chin on his thigh. The pain still radiates through his sinew and bone, but you sense his body react to your warmth almost immediately. Hopefully this will help.
The night is soon filled with the smell of cooked rabbit. He feeds you for the first time since this unofficial partnership began. He's hesitant at first, and wisely so, but he doesn't need to be afraid of you. You'd never do a thing to hurt him.
It's easy to drift to sleep then with your belly mostly full and the fire warming your paws and nose. His body is soft and comfortable, like something you've been longing for all this time but never even knew was possible to have. His hand is broad and warm when it settles atop your head just between your ears, and you find yourself thinking that this is... nice. Better than the forest and better than the tavern full of raucous drunkards.
Everything is warm when you wake up, almost stiflingly so. Your entire torso is nearly overheated, although your limbs and nose are a little cooler than that. Your first thought is that you added too many layers when you went to bed last night, but then you properly open your eyes and see that you're outside. It's startling for a moment, but not entirely unexpected. You've fallen asleep outside after more arduous transformations before. But that doesn't seem right. You don't remember falling asleep in the forest, and you realize now that you're not even in the forest, you're...
The weary veteran is snoring behind you. The sun has crested above the trees and hilltops and distant mountains. It's daytime and the moon is gone, and you're still a wolf, but you're out in the open. Exposed. Visible. Vulnerable. His little camp is just on the edge of town by the main path that leads to other towns and kingdoms beyond this one. Anyone could see, anyone could ask.
You wriggle up and out of his arms in an instant, tail tucked between your legs as you start to panic. You're so disoriented from your heavy sleep that for a moment, you can't remember where your things are. Your clothes, your shoes. The things that make you human. Where are they? What if someone sees you? What if they know, somehow, just what you are? What if, what if, what if-?
The leaves and dirt scrape and shift behind you, and you turn on your heels, teeth bared and ears pinned back, ready to fight, only to see him. The veteran. His bark brown eyes and ember sparked freckles. His hands are raised and he's withdrawn into the little fence he'd fallen asleep against.
"Easy, wuruhi, easy. 's just me."
Your mouth snaps shut and your ears prick forward a bit. You'd never hurt him. Never. It hurts to think that you've scared him, but you don't have time for this, you have to get out of there before someone sees.
He tilts his head to the side just slightly, likely eyeing the fur that's raised along the ridge of your spine and tail. "What's got you worked up? Hm?"
A rooster crows just inside town. A sharp breeze whistles between the houses and barns. The nearest house creaks when its front door opens. You turn to run and you don't look back.
You make it back to the tavern and you don't leave until hours later, not until your heartbeat has evened out and the adrenaline has stopped pumping through your veins and you stop hearing voices clamoring to chase you out of town.
That was too close. You let your guard down. You can't afford to do that again. As much as you don't like some of the people here, this town gives you a purpose to focus your time on, people to interact with and casual friendships to make, the money you need for clothes and finer, pretty things that you aren't able to craft.
You sigh as you press your forehead to the door of your room.
You can't let yourself close to him like that again. It's not safe for you and you can only imagine what might happen to him if he were seen interacting with a creature like you...
Monsters. Beasts. Demons. These are the words the folk in the tavern use when they tell stories late into the evening and the days grow shorter. "Beware the wolf that roams these woods" is the warning bestowed to travelers. "He'll tear your throat from your chest and feast on your heart." They laugh and shiver and drink from their tankards, and then one will nudge another and say, "and avoid that old beggar on the road."
Those stories hurt more than the ones they tell about your kind. You know the truth of living a life half between wolf and human. You were never cursed by a witch, never damned by the devil, nor abandoned by your mother for being the foul offspring she never wanted. You were simply born like this and your family was lost long ago to hunters and soldiers, fearful townsfolk like these who start at every shadow. But the things they say about the man with the gentle eyes and tired smile makes your blood boil.
They don't know what they're saying, who they're speaking in the presence of. They don't know that he's yours to protect, or even that he's worth protecting. All they know is their simple, pathetic existences and crass jokes made into beer foam and hissed between moldy teeth. They're fools.
But some good still comes from their mockery. It reminds you that the "old" beggar is still alone, probably wondering what happened to the wolf who fell asleep warming his injured leg. And he's probably hungry. It's been several days since you brought him something.
You eye the credits you've most recently earned and count them up, then catch a glimpse out the window. Sunset isn't for a few more hours; you still have time and opposable thumbs.
Hardly an hour later, you've purchased a bundle of potatoes, turnips, apples, and old bread, and are marching out to the edge of town. It's nerve-wracking, this decision to finally interact with him as a human, and you're half convinced he'll see right through you. He won't, of course, he has no reason to even suspect you, but you're nervous all the same. Your stomach's all knotted up and your heart's in your throat. So many "what-ifs", so many worries and anxieties, so many unknowns, and it's stupid really because he's always been kind and gentle, never been a threat to you. Why do you even care so much about how he might react?
"Hello," you say when you finally see him. It's about all you can say, but it's embarrassing that it's all you can muster for your very first conversation.
He doesn't start - must have heard you coming - but he does look curiously at you. As if he can't figure you out. Or maybe he thinks you look familiar. You really, really hope that isn't it.
His response is halting and unsure. He nods at you. "Hello."
Your arm shoots out of its own accord and the bundle swings wildly in the air. "I thought you might be hungry."
His eyes flicker, sizing up the bundle, sizing up you, curious, searching, questioning, but... grateful. It's not easy to miss the way his shoulders relax and slope just a bit. "Thank you. That's very kind."
Your body switches to moving on instinct and you soon find yourself on a knee, just across from the spot where you'd fallen asleep with him before. The bundle is handed over and the new rabbit skin gloves that cover his knuckles catch your eye. Roughly sewn, some fur missing in spots where his knife or your teeth must have caught, but clearly made by his own hands. It strikes you as oddly sentimental despite being the smartest, most logical thing he could have done. He didn't make them because the hare came from you, he made them because he was cold and winter is coming, you know this, but still. He preserved your little tooth marks. He keeps them close to him. It may mean nothing to him, but you find that it means everything to you.
So you return to him once night falls and the moon is out, against your better judgement. You can't help it. You want to see him again, you want to see if he enjoyed the food, if your human presence is something he wouldn't mind sitting with again.
"How is it?" you ask when you come trotting out of the woods, but it's muffled by the critter in your jaws and comes out something like, "ghghghgh ooofgh".
He smiles when he sees you. "There you are, little one." He scratches you behind the ears before you've even dropped it for him and it's so embarrassing, but your tail starts wagging. Like any number of the stray dogs that enjoy attention from the townsfolk, even from you. "'s good t' see you again," he chuckles.
Your nose nudges the sack of food from earlier, played off to look as if you're curious or seeking out an interesting smell.
"You smell that, huh? It's from a friend."
I know. But it makes you feel good to hear it.
"It'll make a good meal for us, eh?"
And it's then that you wonder when you went so soft for a man you hardly know. He cooks for you and tells you stories while you lounge at his feet. He tells you about his big brother, Appo, and his commander, Rex. He tells you about the blade he took to his shin and the cannon explosion that sent shrapnel into his knee. Most importantly, he tells you his name and it's something you immediately tuck inside your heart.
It suits him, this single syllable.
"It means 'the coast' or 'the tide'. It was my father's tongue." He seems distant when he explains this, like he's no longer here with you. "He was from a land far, far away from here. An island kingdom. Full of warriors and great chiefs."
You rest your head on his knee and exhale softly through your nose. "Tell me more," you whine. It's a tricky translation.
He doesn't seem to understand you because he shifts and runs his palm over the scruff at your neck. "I know several tongues, but I don't know yours. Don't even know your name." He smiles, Tai smiles, and scratches your shoulder. "Don't suppose you'd ever tell me, would you?"
"I'm a wolf," you grumble, something like "ooowa woogh", which only makes him laugh.
"Perhaps one day, wuruhi iti."
He does eventually learn your name, though he doesn't know it belongs to the wolf that visits him most nights. There are moments when it seems he might, when he looks at you for a little too long in either form and you think your cover is blown, but it never is. He remains steadfast long into winter and you remain his, loathe to admit it though you are.
And then the worst happens. The shadows become too dark and too long, and the townsfolk become too afraid tucked away in their timber and stone homes, huddled around their hearths. Maybe you became too at home in the warmth of Tai's fire and you let yourself get lazy when it came to covering your tracks. But one day the people present arms and they come for the wolf they've heard tale of on the darkest nights.
You don't realize what's happening at first. You think maybe you've missed out on another festival with all your distractions of late, so you follow the crowd to the fence at the edge of town.
"Find the wolf!" someone shouts, and your blood runs cold. Several silver blades are brandished in the air.
"Get up, old man!" "Tell us where the wolf is!" "Give up the monster!"
Tai. Oh God, they know. How could they know? You were so careful. Had you really become so careless?
He struggles to his feet with a grunt and leans heavy on the fence. His eyes are tired in the light of their torches, weary and unsure. "What is this?"
The mayor steps forward. "Where is the wolf, old man?"
This the moment you've been dreading. He's sure to give you up, any human would. To them, you're just another monster that stalks their dreams and lingers at the forest's edge. You were foolish to ever think otherwise, even for him.
But when you turn to leave, he speaks. "What wolf?"
You pause, back still turned, too afraid to see his face, too afraid to hope.
"The werewolf. Your hellhound."
Tai scoffs. "I have no such thing." You turn.
"Liar!" One of the local women scrambles through the crowd then, her torch burning brightly as she brandishes a pitchfork in her other hand. "I saw you! You were talking to it, casting spells into the fire!"
"I am no witch, nor am I warlock or any other caster of spells. I'm simply a man."
"Are you lying to cover for the creature?" asks the mayor, now getting so close that his spittle catches on Tai's beard. "Or are you one of them? A demon sent to damn us?"
How can they say such things? How can they even dare to think them? Do they not see? Can they not comprehend? Have they no fear? If he were really the wolf, shouldn't they be afraid of his wrath? Or has their stupidity outweighed their senses?
To his credit, Tai doesn't rise to his bait. "You'd like that. Wouldn't you?" He smiles, but his dimples lack their usual depth and his eyes are cold for the first time. Cold like freshly dug earth over a grave. "I'm as human as you are, Lord Mayor. And even if I knew where your so-called beast was, I wouldn't say."
He's a better man than you are. Because you are seconds away from ripping this town apart.
"You'll tell us."
He just blinks. It's not a verbal refusal, but it's as clear as day. Their search ends with him.
But stories like this never end there, do they? You've heard of them from other wolves, ones less fortunate than you. Humans, when pushed to the limits of their wildest fears, are more monstruous than any wolf you've ever known. You know bloodlust when you see it, you know it because you feel it now, bubbling and broiling inside you as you fight with everything you have not to let it consume you. You know this town is dying of thirst and they will see red tonight, whether it's your blood or someone else's.
You run. You're not even out of sight, you're simply tucked under the roofing of the nearest dwelling. You pull your clothes off with enough force to tear them and you don't even bother with your undergarments, you just throw the wolf fur onto the ground and curl up on top. You gaze up at the sky where it begins to turn from pale blue to midnight black, and you summon yourself. It's all a rush of adrenaline and blood in your ears and fur melding with skin, senses coming into focus, limbs shortening, growing, folding, until you are one with yourself again, and then you howl.
There's no need to translate it, they all know what it means: death. You skirt around the edge of the crowd with your teeth bared, snarling, snapping at anyone who dares to step too close, and you barrel right into the mayor, knock him down so that he tumbles into the fence and takes it with him. The torch goes flying, the silver blade in his hand drops, and he screams.
You never liked him anyway. Too greedy and conniving to care much for the people of this town. His life won't be missed by many.
When you've had your fill, you saunter off of his body and begin to pace the gap between Tai and the others. Most of them are horrified, too shocked to even move, let alone try and fight you. Good. There are a few here that you've come to like during your stay and you'd hate to kill them. But you will. As a wolf, your life centers around your pack. The pack is yours to protect with your life, and this is the promise you have sealed with the blood of a human. There is no going back.
"Let him go." They don't understand you exactly, but they get the idea. Tai is off limits.
It takes a while for them to back down. They could perhaps overpower you, but you think the sight of their leader bleeding out has put them off attempting anything more without him. The torches become distant dots of light as the people retreat to their homes. Doors and shutters slam shut, the whole town goes quiet, and the sun falls below the horizon. The only light left is that of the stars and the embers of Tai's fire.
You pounce on him the moment you deem it safe. He yelps a little at first, startled and very probably afraid of you, but you don't care. Better afraid than dead. All that matters is seeing if he's safe. Your tongue is darting out across his skin, your nose sniffing under his tunic and his beard. Is he safe, is he safe, is he hurt. It's all you can think. Even if he hates you now. Even if this was all for nothing because you took a life for him and by human standards, that should disgust him. Even if you never see him again after this night, all you need to know is if he will survive.
He starts saying words. They sound so foreign to you that you think at first he's saying his father's tongue, the language he sometimes mumbles in or uses to call to you. But no, it's your name. Your real name. The one you gave him as a human. The one he isn't supposed to know is yours.
His hands come to gently cup your cheeks. You're still a wolf, yet he holds you now as if you were as human as he is.
"Is that you, wuruhi iti?"
What do you do? What do you say? "I killed someone for you. I'd die for you. You're mine, do you understand?"
Tai says your name again and the entire world stops. You whine. This is so much more painful than you thought it would be, this not knowing.
"It is, isn't it?"
Your tongue lolls out a bit when you whimper. "Yes, yes! It's me!" You want to howl it from the mountaintops, but you settle for licking his nose and panting.
He smiles. His cheeks dimple, and his eyes are the same type of warmth you find in the fires he's been lighting for you for the last few months, sparking the kind of embers you didn't even know you were capable of. He's warm again, not cold like the steel of a wolf killer's blade, but cozy like the forest floor after a day in the sun, soft like the hide of a hare. Home like the forest has always been.
"How did you know?" you ask later under the light of the full moon, your wolf fur laid across the back of the stolen cart and your head tucked under his arm.
The town is long gone, so far behind you that it is little more than a bad memory, though you hope none of them gets a wild hair and decides to come after you. As far as you're concerned, this cart and the goods you stole from the mayor's house are yours and Tai's now. The horse, too. If anyone is foolish enough to try and steal from you, then their fate is on their own head.
He grunts. He keeps falling asleep on you, even though he's trying hard to stay awake. "Know what?"
You butt him in the cheek with your nose. "That it was me."
"Oh." Tai laughs. "It was your eyes. I'd know them anywhere."
Now that you're human, you can feel it when your entire body flushes. What a silly reaction to such a simple statement, but you can't help it. He's been so gentle with you since you transformed, never touching anywhere that might be inappropriate or too presumptuous, never lingering for too long, but always comforting, always there.
"Really?"
"You're different, ipo. Special."
A lifetime of hearing otherwise from other humans has you feeling utterly speechless and a little breathless at his admittance. "How so?"
He hums as he tilts his head back to watch the stars. "You took care of me. Still not sure why you did, but I'm grateful all the same." His arm tightens around your shoulders. "And then you came to me as a human and you looked at me, and I just knew. Couldn't bear to lose you after that."
Your throat is threatening to close on you, your eyes are misty. "Tai..."
"Something about you made me feel a little more alive and far less alone. Thank you."
There's something growing in your throat now, something beyond the tears or the awkward tightness they cause, something you've been hesitant to name but never hesitant to act on. Something you've known for some time but never dared to voice.
"Tai, I don't regret what I did." He looks as if he wants to say something when you pause, but he holds it for a moment, waits for you to continue first. "For those like me, other wolves..." And he doesn't cringe, doesn't shy away from the word. He stays. "It's a promise that you're part of my pack. I, I know that this is not exactly normal for you, and I wouldn't want you to stay with me if you didn't wish to, if perhaps you were afraid of me-"
"I'm not."
Your belly feels warm with this knowledge.
You may as well say it. With the stars in his eyes and the moon highlighting the swell of his nose like some majestic carving in a noble family's manor, he doesn't look like the haggard veteran you've always known him as. You see something beautiful. But then, he's always been sort of beautiful to you.
"I care about you. I'd kill for you, I'd do it all again, I swear, just to keep you safe. And if you don't feel the same, I would understand, but Tai." Why is it so hard to say? Just spit it out! "I think that I love you. And I would like to stay with you, however you'll have me."
You wonder momentarily if that sheen in his eyes is just the reflection of the moon.
"Wuruhi iti." His fingers are shaking when they trace your browline. "I'm an old man trying to make his way in this wide world. Why would you stay with me?"
You smile. "I happen to like you, old man. And you're not so old as you seem."
"Perhaps not, but there are others you might spend your time on. Younger humans, less damaged. Other wolves."
"I will go if you ask me to."
But please don't. Such a request would break your heart.
Finally, he shakes his head and your lungs surge with relief. "I could never. I'm too selfish." He slips something into your palm then, and presses your fist to his lips before settling it on your breastbone.
"What's this?"
He rumbles a bit while he tries to find the words. Is he suddenly feeling bashful? "Token of my gratitude."
The moonlight reveals a small piece of wood, sanded and carved so intricately that you can only make out all the details through touch. There are all sorts of whirling spirals and delicate lines latticing the wood, so many that at first you don't realize there's something more to the design. Then you raise it a little higher and squint, and you see the shape of a wolf's head come into focus.
"It's beautiful."
"Whakairo. Another piece of my father and the land he came from. These carvings were the ways which our ancestors would tell stories. This one is ours." He brushes his thumb over one section of the wood. "Our fire." Then to another section. "The hares and the turnips. And you."
Every inch of your body is about to burst from beneath your skin. How are you so fortunate to have met this strange, wonderful man? But - "Where are you?"
His hands closes around the wood. "I'm here." Then he reaches, slowly, waiting until you nod to move any further, and taps his fingers on your collarbone. "And here. If you'll have me."
You will always have him, and he will always have you.
māori translations:
wuruhi - wolf
wuruhi iti - little wolf
ipo - beloved, sweetheart
whakairo - carving (the wh- is pronounced like f-)
Content: slight angst, rex's clone uprising, tbb s3 spoilers, vague description of blood and injuries, inspired by feast of starlight from the hobbit
Word Count: 2.6k
originally posted march 17th, 2024
[masterlist] [ao3 link]
Sister knows a disaster when she sees it; she's been through enough of them with the 212th. It's just that she's never had a disaster of this magnitude happen to her.
There's so much blood. It slicks her gloves until they're soaked, streaks across her armor until the pink and blue brushstrokes are entirely gone. And her heart. It's pounding in her ears so fiercely that she can feel the veins there ticking, feel her skin pulsating with each beat.
She scrambles out of the wreckage, but she's dizzy and her visor's busted, and everything feels wrong. Everything's too tight, too constricting. Her body's hot and cold all at once. And her head hurts like a kriffing clanker just walloped her in the face.
The helmet comes off and clatters atop the cobbles she's crashed upon. Then her knees give out.
The world is hazy now, distant and far away. Something in the back of her mind screams that this is bad, but she can't find it in her to care. Somehow, that seems bad too.
With the last of her strength, she forces her eyes open and fixates on the burning wreckage of her ship. Hardly a ship now when it's busted into pieces and melting all over the forest floor. But she made it, she realizes in a moment of clarity, and that makes her smile. Even if she dies here, even if this is the end of her story, she's proud to have made it this far. She escaped the Empire and that was all she wanted.
Well. Almost.
A breeze comes drifting through the leaves then and as it stirs her hair, Sister finds herself regretting just one last thing. She wishes she could have seen you again.
"We need a medic!"
Whatever was left of your tiingilar goes spilling across the table as Samson, Greer, and Koa breach the main entrance, half tripping over themselves as they carry a- is that kriffing body? Fireball swipes the remainder of his shit off the table - a data pad, his helmet, his own empty bowl - while you run for the nearest medpac.
"She's bleeding out. I need gauze!"
It doesn't hit you until the moment you return, when you see her, what he's said. She.
The body. The body wearing clone armor, painted blue and pink at the joints and chest, covered in blood. Is it her own? Utterly frozen, your eyes drop to the chestplate that's scored with dirt and vibroblade marks, chipped with paint that you know like the back of your own hand. Maker help you, you know that armor. You know her. Even without the armor, you'd know her.
The medpac is ripped from your hands and someone's grabbing you, shouting at you, but you can't hear a single thing they're saying because she is everything - everything you see, everything your universe contains - and she is bleeding out on the table where you take your meals each day.
You reach for her, but you never manage to grab hold. "Sister," you say, but the word is gritty and raw, dry in your mouth. "Sister. She's..." You don't even dare to say it for fear of speaking the nightmare into existence. But she's bloody and pale, and she's not waking up. And you know she's probably going to die. "Help her."
It's then that you realize why you can't reach her. It's Echo. He's holding you back, a hand wrapped around your elbow and the scomp on your back. You turn to him, but you don't see him, can't see him. All you see is her. Her hair, her eyes, closed but you know they're dark and warm beneath the lids. You know the path of her scars and the shape of her callouses, and she's here and you can't find her, and you can't see Echo, and it's all too much because it's all so wrong.
"Echo," you start. You're squirming as he fights to hold you back. "Echo, she's, she's not... She's bleeding. Help her."
"Samson's got her taken care of," he assures you. "You need to give him room to work."
But you shake your head. "No." That's not right either. "She needs me."
She's dying. Why else would there be so much blood?
"What she needs is for you to give them space to save her. She'll be alright."
And maybe she will be. Perhaps in some other dimension, she makes it out of this alive, but that's not here, that's not now. Here and now, you're watching the woman you love bleed out on the dinner table and it's the first time you've seen her since before the Republic collapsed. And you'll be damned if you're not by her side the entire time.
Echo doesn't seem to see it the same way, and that's what gets you detained in a holding zone for the next hour.
"She's stable now," he tells you once he returns to let you out. "You okay?"
Kriff no, you're not okay. Your stomach is churning and the whole inside of your cheek is raw from chewing on it, and your leg won't stop bouncing nor will your heart stop pounding. Because you really thought you'd lost her.
But for his sake, you attempt a polite grimace. "Yeah. Can I see her?"
His palm flattens against the door controls. Heart in your throat, you follow him across the compound to the table she rests on. All of her armor's been removed and stacked in a vaguely neat pile along the nearby supply crates, but it's still stained with blood, all crusty and rusted pink. Her body is crisscrossed with gauze strips and bacta patches, her blacks torn to shreds to the point where they're hardly useful anymore. But she's there, alive, and realer than any dream you've had before.
"Cyare."
Your hand finds her jaw before you even realize you're doing it. And for a moment, one singular, fleeting moment, it's as if you're back on Coruscant, as if this war had never happened, as if she's just got back from deployment and you're welcoming her into your flat. The way it used to be. The way it should have been.
"What happened to you?" you ask, though there's no one to answer you. Sister may be alive, but she's thoroughly unconscious and likely will be for a while if her injuries are anything to go by.
Your hands find one of hers and lift it to your mouth to press a kiss there, like you always used to do, but your lips are met with gauze. And it breaks your fucking heart.
"It's okay. It's okay, baby." You kiss the wrinkled slip of gauze across her knuckles. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Keeping busy is the only thing you can do. Your mind is too scattered to be of much use to anyone, so your usual duties are taken over by Greer, and the time spent anxiously waiting for Sister to wake is used on other things that won't drive you mad - checking her injuries and changing her bandages, scrubbing the blood from her armor, quietly whispering all the things you've longed to share with her in the year she's been gone. You tell her how you found Rex, the work you did in the early days of his rebellion shuttling food and clothes to the Martez repair shop. You tell her about the brothers that were lost and the brothers that were found, how every day you hoped and prayed you'd find her among the clones fleeing the Empire. You tell her that you never gave up searching, never stopped believing you'd find her again. You tell her you love her, but it's not enough to wake her.
Rex takes the empty end of the bench. "How're you holding up?"
The truth is too painful to verbalize, so you opt for a half-truth instead. "I'm okay. I'm just glad she's here."
He nods, almost smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You want me to watch her for a while?"
"No," you say far too quickly, and with a frantic urgency that should be embarrassing. It's not. Not when it's her. "Sorry. I just, I wanna be here when she wakes up."
A dozen different strings of thought seem to cross his mind then, though he doesn't speak any of them. Whatever he's thinking, he ultimately chooses to keep to himself. "I understand. It's not easy being the one who has to wait."
No, it's not.
"I'd suggest you take a break and get some sleep, but you're not gonna listen. Are you?"
You could apologize for it, but you'd both know it to be a lie. Instead, you offer Rex a smile that says everything you don't know how to say. He sighs.
"Once she's up. I promise."
"Alright." His hand rests gently on your shoulder and then he's gone.
Your attention returns to Sister, to the gentle rise and fall of her chest that marks a rhythm so familiar it might as well be carved into your very bones. "You'll be up soon, huh?" You lean in to nuzzle your cheek against the upper swell of her arm. "It'll be okay, cyare. I promise."
But by now, you're not sure if it's a promise you can keep. The Empire has taken so much from all of you, it would make sense for it to take her too. If you had never known she was still alive, it might have been easier. If you had been forced to endure the rest of your days believing in a dream that could never be, it might have been endurable, but now that you know she's been alive all this time, now that you know she tried to come to Teth and join the uprising, you're not sure you could ever know a moment of peace if she died here.
She has to live. There is no other option.
Hope comes late at night when the stars are out and your body has given in to exhaustion. You're stirred from your slumber when your head thunks solidly on the table. Still half asleep, you jerk into a sitting position and look around in an attempt to assess the situation. Is it an attack? Is something wrong? Is Sister alright?
"Mmh, where... am I?"
That voice. Oh Maker, that voice, you'd know it anywhere. You fear for the longest moment that it's a figment of your imagination, the product of your sleep-addled mind conjuring hallucinations, that this is all just another dream, but no. No, it's real. She's awake and blinking, frowning. She's alive.
You're so frantic to stand that you nearly trip over yourself trying to extract your legs from the bench. "Sister? Baby, are you-?"
"'s so dark," she slurs. "Can't... Where...?"
You're shouting before you even realize it. "Rex! Rex, she's awake!" You're so happy, you could cry. You are crying. "Cyare, honey, it's okay. It's me."
Her head tilts to one side, then the other as she tries to assess her surroundings, but it's clear she's struggling. A concussion, one of her brothers had said, a side effect of the crash that had nearly cost her life. Between that and the dimmed lights, it would be a miracle if she could make out anything in the entire compound.
Her furrowed gaze settles on you a moment later, only without a shred of recognition. "Who, who are you?"
Your heart is shattering. Every broken shard of it is piercing through your skin, ripping you apart from the inside out. Does she truly not remember you?
You press one of her hands to your face. "It's me, Sister, your..." Her what, exactly? There had never been a true label on the thing that simmered between you. In your head and in your heart, she had quite simply been yours as you had been hers. Now, though, you wish for a word deeper than girlfriend and more vibrant than lover. "You remember me?"
Rex, Nemec, and Samson come running in then with a couple of spare medpacs and wide, frantic eyes. Rex wordlessly asks for your hand - to take you away, no doubt, to let their brothers check her over. You know they need to, you know she needs the medical attention more than she needs you, but you hate having to leave her.
"No, wait, Rex, I can stay. Let me stay."
"That's not a good idea," he answers with a shake of his head. He's already starting to pull you away. "She'll be fine. Let's just give the boys some space, alright?"
You lunge for her hand as you're maneuvered apart. "Cyare, cyare, it's okay! It's okay, just stay awake for me, baby, okay? Rex, lemme-"
"Is that...?" It's as if your voice is a magnet, drawing her up until she's sitting upright, blindly searching the room for - for you? Your name is desperate on her tongue in the worst possible way. "Can't be..."
"Easy, vod," says Samson with a hand at her collarbone. "Lay back. You're still pretty roughed up."
Nemec leans in with a bacta stim. "Talk to me, Sister, okay? Can you do that?"
She frowns as she's laid back down. You've stopped struggling by now, but it's more from your own shock than anything else. This all feels too real and somehow not real enough. You're watching her as if through a lens, as if she were far away, as if your reality has ceased to exist while she wades through her the uncertainty of her own.
"What's the last thing you remember?"
Sister grunts when Samson starts swiping disinfectant over one of her wounds. "My ship... They shot me right before I, I went to hyperspace, and then..." She starts to sit up again, but Nemec holds her down. "Where is she?"
"Your ship crashed in the jungle. Not much of it left, I'm afraid."
"No." She says your name again, softer this time, as Rex's arms tighten around you. "She was here, but... She can't be." You know the separation is for the best, that you'd be little more than a distraction if you were free, but it kills you just the same.
The two brothers exchange looks.
"Made sure of it," she mutters, and her head falls back against the table. "'s not safe."
You strain against the press of the Captain's vambraces, but he holds fast. "Rex, please."
Nemec offers her a comforting pat on the shoulder. "It's alright, vod, you're safe now. The Empire's not gonna find you here. We'll get you all taken care of."
But she keeps babbling, mumbling half-finished sentences that don't make any sense, about Kamino, Coruscant, the Empire, you. She keeps asking for you as if she were indeed still stuck in a dream, caught somewhere else where the world is vast and hope is a sure thing.
"Promised her I'd come back. Never, never did. Now she's far away." She smiles in the prettiest way she ever has, half delirious and broken, and you swear nothing's ever hurt so much as this does. "She's... she's like, like starlight."
Samson's head tilts in your direction, eyes dark and tired, but you think he might be inclined to smile. He applies another bacta patch to the worst of the wounds with gentle, steady hands. "Tell us about her."
"She's gone," she laments. "She'll forget about me. 's, 's for the best..."
Later, though, when the boys are gone and she's lucid, you'll tell her just how wrong she is. You'll tell her how you would have waited a lifetime for her, you'll tell her that she's too deeply imprinted on your heart for you to ever love another. And you'll hold her 'til the stars fall from the sky, 'til the universe crumbles around you. You'll tell her that she is the truest starlight you've ever known, always illuminating the darkest night with her brilliantly shimmering heart and her undying hope. You'll tell her that she walks in starlight in another world, and you're simply blessed to follow along in her wake.
Content: wingman cody, first kiss, reader is awkward and flustered, fluff
Word Count: 3.3k
originally posted dec. 1st, 2023
[masterlist] [ao3 link]
Coruscant is the same as it always is, as is 79's - crowded, dirty, bright, a metallic mess built atop a subtle, hidden beauty. Sister sips at her drink, some bitter liquor that takes the edge off, and she sighs. She watches you flit shyly about at the fringes of the dance floor, watches the streaks of neon light on your skin as you bob your head to the music, and she feels her entire body go white hot and ice cold all at once.
An elbow in her ribs has her blinking back to the present, only to find that the Commander is watching her with an entirely too pleased glint in his eyes. Fierfek.
"We still have another day of shore leave," he says.
She could deny it. He's being vague enough that she could pass off the remark as anything other than what it actually is, but despite being embarrassed at getting caught staring, despite the flutter-bys in her stomach that start up any time she considers even approaching you, she finds that there's a part of her that doesn't want to shrug Cody's remark or its implication aside.
She opts for a single nod. An acknowledgement, an understanding, but nothing that will make her have to open her mouth. Force only knows what would come out.
Sparks and Raptor come bounding up then. Their drinks are spilling all over the place and Sparks is laughing so hard he's crying. They're going on about some stupid joke the pretty Chalactan bartender made and Cody's rolling his eyes and all that Sister can do is take another sip of her drink. She doesn't look in your direction again, she doesn't think about what it might be like to dance with you or to hold your hand, and she definitely doesn't think about your smile.
Or perhaps that beauty she always manages to seek out on her least favorite planet is just you.
Clones are, by default, all alike. That's kind of the whole point of them. But every clone you've ever met has made an effort to make himself different from his brothers - a different hairstyle or color, no tattoos, all tattoos, piercings, scars, armor paint, all of the above, sometimes none if they're shinies. It's incredible how they've crafted their own culture out of whispers of Mandalorian tradition like their progenitor before them and nods to the Jedi Order, to Coruscanti or Ryloth or Kel Dorin cultures that reflect their generals.
All two years of this war so far, though, and you've never seen a clone like her. Her. She's the only female clone you've ever met. Well, not met. Noticed. You noticed her the first time she came into 79's a few weeks back. It would be hard not to. She's tall and broad shouldered like her brothers, there's a thickness to her arms and thighs that screams about the type of fit, competent soldier she is. Her skin glows under 79's fluorescents, her teeth are brilliantly white when she smiles, but the thing that really gets you like, every time, is her hair.
You've gotten lost in glimpses of it too many times to count. When she first came in, her hair was braided tight against her scalp and her armor had a few streaks of blue and pink. Now, though, the braids are long gone. She's let her hair down from its bun and is - oh kriff, yeah she's shaking her hair out and it should not be giving you this many flutter-bys, yet here you are.
She's beautiful. Does she know? Is she aware of how stunning she is? Something about the sternness of her jawline, the strong angle of her nose, the swell of her shoulder muscles as they smooth out above her collarbones, right where her hair rests in large, frizzed curls. Fucking Maker, she makes you nervous. The fact that she gets her genes from Jango freaking Fett just makes you even more of a flustered disaster.
"You look lost."
The voice that startles you from your stupor belongs to the commander of the 212th himself, Cody. He's professional, but has been friendlier toward you of late, offering snippets of conversation when he comes to request refills for himself or his men. And woman, as the case may be.
You chuckle to yourself as you take the glass he offers you and start to refill it with liquor. "Promise I'm not," you say. "'m right where I'm supposed to be, aren't I?"
Cody nods, but his expression is thoughtful, slightly humored. "You're behind the bar, alright, but you're not here." His forearms brace against the lip of the bar as he leans in a bit, and it's the closest the commander's ever been to you since you first started working here. You almost wonder if this is his way of flirting with you. It's not such an awful idea, although it's tiresome in this environment. "Somethin' on your mind?"
You top off his glass and place it near one wrist, not too close to the bar's edge. "What makes you say that?" you ask with a too-sweet voice and a well-practiced smile. You make an effort not to look in the direction you had been before Cody approached you, the direction of his sister, the one clone in the entire galaxy who's managed to catch your eye more than any other.
He takes a sip, hardly wincing at the sharp bite of the alcohol when it hits his throat. "She likes you, y'know."
And it's a good thing you're not allowed to drink on the job because if you had, you'd be spraying it all over Cody's chest plate now. "What?!" you sputter as you choke on your saliva. It hits you a second later to attempt plausible deniability, though you know that ship has long since sailed. "What, um, what are you... talking about?"
The laugh he gives you in response is enough to make your face burn. "She's one o' the good ones. And I don't say that lightly. Most of these troopers are di'kute." And he emphasizes this with a thumb tossed over his shoulder and a not-so-subtle roll of his eyes. But then he takes another drink, pushes himself off the bar, and nods politely at you as if he hadn't just uncovered your secret crush and brought the entire galaxy down atop your head at the same time. "See y' around, civvy."
You're a fool, and you know you shouldn't seek her out when her commander leaves, but you do it anyway. The purple, pink, and orange paint job makes it easy. She's as beautiful as ever, nursing her drink with something of a panicked glimmer in her eyes, but there's something more there, too. It's difficult to make out in the dim lighting that 79's provides, but you can see it better when she tilts her head and looks at you properly. You'd almost call it hope.
It's your job as a bartender to be aware of your surroundings. Fights break out easily when the building is packed full of boozed up soldiers and their dates. So of course you notice that one trooper in particular lingers this night. She stays long after her brothers and higher ranking officers have left, long after the main buzz sustaining the bar mellows into something much more tame and the night grows late.
You try not to think too much about it. Lots of troopers stay late, lots of troopers stay after their companions have gone. But this time is different because it's her and you want it to be different, you want it to mean something. And you don't even know her name. It would be laughable if it wasn't so pathetic.
So imagine your surprise when your shift ends and your replacement slips into place behind the bar, when you've grabbed your bag from the staff room and are about to head out, when the very trooper you've been thinking of the entire night approaches you. She's much taller up close than you'd first thought. Perhaps you'd assumed she'd be shorter than the others, seeing as human women are often shorter than human men in your experience. Or perhaps you'd never really thought too much about it. Either way, her height paired with the broad span of her shoulders and the way the lights catch her eyes when she smiles at you all leads you to the conclusion that you're done for already.
"Hello." She has a nice, rumbly voice that's a bit like Cody's, but different somehow. A smoky alto that makes your heart feel weird.
You swallow your nerves as you resettle the strap of your bag over your shoulder. "Hi." You're not normally this timid, at least not on the job, but she makes you feel so many things that you can hardly think.
She shifts on her feet a bit, one hand rubbing anxiously at the plastoid on her thigh. "My name's Sister. I saw you talking with the commander earlier. I'm sorry."
Whatever it was you'd been expecting, or hoping, to hear, none of that was on your list. Funnily enough, you're the most disappointed to hear her name. You've heard all sorts of names here - Charger, Atin, Tango, Tai - some are unique, some are shared, but you had been hoping that her name would be one of the more unique and interesting ones, something that would give you an idea of who she is. Something you might find yourself saying over and over again. But Sister... It makes sense. In this respect, you suppose it is one of the more unique ones, but it doesn't exactly lend itself to romantic notions.
By the time that thought has come and gone, you've managed to blink and the rest of her introduction has finally processed. "'Sorry'?" you echo. "For what?"
Sister manages a wrinkled smile. "He seems t' be under the impression that you fancy me. 's why he indulged himself in a refill."
And finally, it clicks. She's not interested. She's picked up on your lingering looks and generally amorous aura, most likely, and after a miscommunication with her commander, she's here to let you down easy.
You shake your head even as your eyes drop to Sister's shoulder. It's too embarrassing to hold her gaze anymore. "No, I'm sorry. I haven't been professional enough. You... you don't have to apologize for anything. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
Now, if she'll just let it go here, you can head back to your apartment and nurse your rejection with some comfort food and a holo.
"You didn't." And your head snaps up so quickly that it almost hurts. The expression she's wearing now is curious, confused. "I thought I'd made you uncomfortable. Some of the men like t' play matchmaker when they get an idea in their heads," she explains, "and this was one time I couldn't talk him out of it."
"So..."
You don't even dare to hope, but maybe...
"I don't suppose you'd be interested in goin' for a drink?"
She makes for a fierce and brave soldier, you're sure, but it's impossible in this moment not to see the tension in her brows and shoulders, the way her throat bobs when she swallows, the awkward bend of her legs. She's nervous, perhaps as nervous as you would be if you'd ever managed the courage to ask her out first.
"Is that what you want?" You'd hate for her to go to all this trouble just because of Cody. Because it would really hurt if that's all this is.
Sister smiles faintly, the inner corner of her brows turning up a bit as she considers you. There's a few seconds where she tilts her head down at you and the lights change behind her, and it's like she's haloed in hues of purple and orange. Kriff, she's gorgeous.
"Only if that's what you want."
You find yourself nodding without even a moment of hesitation or thought. And the whisper of a smile on the trooper's face blossoms into a grin. She offers you her arm and it feels only natural to take it.
May the gods, the Maker, and anyone else so inclined bless Jango Fett for getting himself cloned. You wonder sometimes if he was much of a romantic, or a flirt, if he was good with the ladies, the men, with anyone who wanted him, if he knew just what to say and do to make people trip all over themselves for him. Because Sister is amazing at it without even trying.
Any time she's on Coruscant, she takes you out, and every time you find yourself falling a little deeper for her. She's often quite serious and keeps many of her thoughts to herself, content to ask a few questions and listen to you ramble on, but it's charming the way she does it. Because she remembers. You'd mentioned that first night how you loved to take your kaf a certain way, and the very next date she took you to a (clone friendly) place on one of the middle levels and recited your order perfectly. She opens doors for you, walks on the street side of the duracrete when she can, and she has this way of smiling at you that makes your heartrate triple and your chest feel tight.
"Can I ask you something?"
She takes a bite of her food and nods, encouraging you with a gentle hum.
It's been on your mind a lot. Not because it bothers you, but because you're curious why she never chose something else. "Could I... I was wondering... Your name. Did you pick it?" You can think of a number of other descriptors that don't simply relay her familial status - considerate, polite, beautiful, smart, strong.
It's hard to read her expression now, but you notice that she goes a little tense. "It was given to me by my brothers. It was their way of showing they accepted me."
"Why wouldn't they accept you?"
Sister's mouth twitches into a frown. "The issue was never with them," she explains, "but those on Kamino who see difference as a weakness."
The idea itself is mind boggling. "There's nothing about you that's weak." It comes unbidden from the depths of your heart, the most genuine and unfiltered thing you've probably ever said to her. You have the decency to flush at your level of earnest honesty, but decide in the end to simply roll with it. "I think you're wonderful."
Whatever she'd been thinking or feeling upon your initial questioning, it seems to morph now into something dazzling that strikes you right between the ribs when she smiles at you. "Not that you're biased," she teases.
You shake your head with false seriousness. "Not at all."
Her hand finds yours, the first time the two of you have touched beyond the offering and taking of an arm, or the exchanging of goods over the counter at 79's.
"Why the sudden interest in my name?"
It's a well-meaning question with no malice or hidden agenda - it's upfront in the same way that she is, but it makes you cringe with embarrassment all the same. Because yes, the two of you have been dating. Yes, she knows you like her and you know she likes you. Yes, these moments you share are precious, but to verbalize your reasoning would be another step closer to making whatever this is between you real. And that's terrifying.
But if you've learned anything these past weeks, it's that you could never deny Sister anything. Certainly not when she catches your eye and looks at you like she's the most beautiful, handsome, wonderful woman in the galaxy. (Even though she is.)
"Promise you won't laugh?" She nods and squeezes your hand for good measure. "I just thought that... Well, doesn't your name get awkward when you see people? I mean, like, dating?"
"You don't like it?" she says after a moment, and her hand goes slack in yours.
"No! That's not it. I think it's lovely, especially coming from your brothers. I only meant that it might have been awkward in the past. If you were ever with someone and they said your name when you were intimate." Your mouth is moving far faster than you can coherently think, faster than you can filter your thoughts, and so it's all coming out and you're helpless to stop it because you have to explain yourself, you have to make sure she understands. You don't want her to think you don't like her all because you stuck your foot in your mouth like an idiot. "Or maybe that never came up. I don't know, I don't want to presume. I don't always say my partner's name when we're intimate. Not that I'm assuming we will be! I, I only meant... Well..."
You're left feeling stupid at the end of it. And speechless. And embarrassed. And horrified that you've just ruined the most wonderful thing to ever happen to you. You can't even look at her now.
All the noises of Coruscant's busy airlanes and buzzing market stalls and irritated pedestrians flood your senses as you close your eyes against your shame. There's a speeder backfiring a few roads over, it sounds like. Someone is arguing in Huttese at one of the stalls. And Sister is quiet when she takes your hand again, impossibly gentle and unsettlingly silent.
"I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."
"You weren't. Or you were thinking too much." But it's not said as an accusation. You peek one eye open, then the other, and are surprised to find Sister watching you with a bemused expression and a quirked eyebrow. "Been sitting on that one for long?"
You sputter wordlessly for several seconds before she puts you out of your misery.
"You're cute when you're flustered, cyar'ika." And she drops your hand in favor of cupping your chin beneath her thumb. It somehow manages to wipe your brain of all coherent thought. "Didn't know you thought about us being intimate so much."
It would be better for a rancor to swallow you whole than to endure another minute of this blissful, terrible, wonderful torture. You want her to let it go, but you also want her to stay exactly where she is and keep teasing you until your legs give out. You're not sure what that says about you.
"Tell you what," she continues once she realizes you've temporarily lost the ability to speak, "if we ever decide to be intimate, you can call me cyare. Yeah?"
Through some miracle of the Force, you're able to manipulate your tongue into functioning again. "What's that mean?"
Sister only smirks, the first true smirk she's ever given you and you're certain it'll stop your heart. But it softens a moment later. "Beloved," she murmurs, eyes lingering on the movement of your mouth as you lick your lips. She's still gently grasping your chin and you're still falling for her, hard and fast.
"I like that. I like you."
"Yeah?" There's a moment where you think she might kiss you, but she leans in and instead presses her nose to yours, then her forehead to your forehead, and all you feel is the warmth of her breath on your skin. "I like you, too, cyar'ika." She smells like spiced meat and kaf and some sort of muted cologne, but it's not like the kind you've caught a whiff of from her brothers. It's rich and sharp, but with a hint of something softer and sweeter, like citrus and jasmine.
tangentwithtanner
yousharknotpass
origamiaround
