#jangokit

[blackkatmagic]

For the Send tag prompt ( if still valid)

Tag: Jedi are Mando Bait

Character: Kit Fisto

(please ignore if not up your alley)

I am always down for some Kit tbh.

the way ever-after collides

[miceblinded]

“Listen to classical music! You’ll write faster” yeah well I’ll ALSO write more depressed, listening to the Tchaikovsky’s Grand Pas De Deux now means that Jaster is gonna have to deal with the loss of his son (metaphorically? Physically? Who knows!) so now who’s writing faster hm??? Can not fathom that this started as a Tooka Au,,, tis the season or what ever they say

[blackkatmagic]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jango Fett/Kit Fisto, Hondo Ohnaka/Agen Kolar Characters: Jango Fett, Kit Fisto, Hondo Ohnaka, Agen Kolar Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Slavery, Undercover Missions, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Alien Biology, briefly Summary:

Jango takes a job for the Mining Guild, reinforcing security around one of their mines. There are slaves in the mines, and one in particular who breaks everything in his world right open.

[blackkatmagic]

What's with Kit in Hawk's' verse? I don't think he appeared yet? Do you have any story for him yet? I hope that you are getting fun prompts!

He has not but I was waiting for the opportunity to toss him into the mix!

only a Bird will wonder

[blackkatmagic]

Do you have any Kit-centric wips at the moment that you would be willing to share a glimpse of?

Kit catches a glimpse of him across the marketplace, through the crowds, and stops dead, completely frozen for the space of a breath.

“Sir?” Fil asks, halting as well and signaling their squad to pause. When Kit doesn’t answer, not quite able to find a response, something like alarm touches his voice. “General? What’s wrong?”

Kit closes his eyes for a moment, that half-second glimpse of a face too sharp behind his eyelids. “Tell me, Fil,” he says, a little rough. “Are there any other Republic forces on this planet?”

“No, sir,” Fil answers, and Kit can feel the grim edge that tangles his emotions, the wariness. “We’re the only ones in this system. Republic wouldn’t have sent more than a squad or two into Hutt space uninvited.”

It’s something Kit is fully aware of, and yet—

“Head for the meeting point,” he says, and steps away from the troopers. “I will rejoin you there.”

“Sir?” Fil asks, alarmed.

“Just something I need to check,” Kit says soothingly, giving him a smile that takes a little more effort than normal. “We still have two days until our contact will be here. There is plenty of time.”

“Let me come with you, General,” Fil says. “The sergeant can—”

“Fil,” Kit says gently, and touches his shoulder. “Take the men. I believe I have business here as a Jedi and not just a general.”

“Jedi business is our business, sir,” Fil tells him, and Kit can feel that he means it, the thread of glass-sharp devotion that’s echoed in the men behind him. Still, he takes a step back, settling, and says, “General Kolar won't be happy if you're late.”

Kit chuckles, more than able to imagine it. “Maybe not, my friend, but you will be there to distract him. Agen is quite fond of you.”

He doesn’t have to see Fil’s face flush to feel the heat that washes through him. “General Kolar sure knows his way around a thermal detonator,” Fil says determinedly. “But you're our general right now, sir. If you're in danger—”

“I won't be,” Kit says, and knows it’s true. Doesn’t need the Force for that, even if it echoes with the same certainty. “Go ahead, Commander. I will catch up with you, I promise.”

“All right,” Fil allows reluctantly, and Kit claps him lightly on the shoulder and turns, drawing his hood up over his head. This is a rocky, arid world, and there aren’t many Nautolans that he’s seen so far. Hiding his species isn't plausible, not when Nautolans are so distinctive, but Kit can at least make it a little less obvious without a second look.

Thankfully, this is very much a Hutt world, and people are very careful not to take second looks, not to involve themselves in other people’s business. Kit pushes through the crowd easily enough, past stands and little shops, and turns down a shadowed alleyway when instinct tugs. The awnings above keep it cooler than the open air, and Kit pauses, taking in the shadows. His eyes see better in the dark than most, but it’s still a very dim stretch of shops. The natives all have night-eyes, and a few of them are out despite the heat of the day. They turn and look as Kit starts down the street, but no one stops him.

Ahead of him, there's something important. Kit can feel it tug like a hook beneath his skin, sharp and insistent.

Kit knows what he saw, knows he wasn’t mistaken, but it still sits oddly in his chest and makes it hard to breathe. Still makes him question, even when he knows he isn't wrong. They're far beyond Republic space, and there are no other squads here, just Agen working alone. Mace would have told Kit if something had changed—they spoke barely two rotations ago, a long conversation about this mission in particular, and there's no way Mace would have forgotten.

Brushing back a hanging, Kit ducks around a corner and walks right into the barrel of a blaster.

“Hands up,” a familiar voice snaps, and Kit obeys, taking a quick step back as he does. The blaster follows him, pressed up against his chest, but Kit doesn’t fight back. He lets himself be shoved up against the wall of the building behind him, and when a hand reaches out to grab his hood, he holds perfectly still as it’s yanked down, baring his face to the sun.

“Why the hell are you following me?” his captor asks sharply. “Talk.”

Kit breathes in, breathes out. He can feel the twinned wash of emotion, in pheromones and in the Force, and there's hostility, but there's also confusion. No recognition, and it kicks in his chest, makes him shift back a little further from the blaster, the dichotomy between what he should feel and what he does almost jarring.

There's no denying it, though. This isn't a clone. This is the man Kit remembers so very well.

“I followed you to find you,” he says, and meets dark eyes squarely. “It’s been too long, Jango.”

The blaster dips, and that familiar face twists.

“Who the hell is Jango?”

[blackkatmagic]

Did I see a request for JangoKit prompts? If mymy eyes did not deceive me, please receive this humble offering: Jango and Boba ending up in deep and dangerous waters, in danger of drowning due to a deal gone wrong/betrayal (maybe Dooku?) only to be saved by a certain Nautolan Jedi who was following medics orders and spending his leave underwater ;) Have fun! IgnisFelicis

Jango probably should have expected something like this, but he’d been so angry.

“Boba!” he snarls, hauling at the cuffs around his wrist, at the piece of metal he’s tied to, and feels them cut into his wrists. Feels blood, and fear, and an edge of pure desperation he hasn’t experienced since he saw Jaster murdered in front of him, but the beam doesn’t move. It doesn’t even shift.

“Dad!” Boba cries, and he’s struggling too, wriggling and twisting and trying to get free, but the damned Sith bent a strut down across his chest, pinned him to the deck of the half-gutted ship, and—

With a lurching drop, the nose falls as the next wave rises, and Boba goes under.

This is all because Jango got arrogant. This is all because he thought he could set a trap for the man who led the massacre of the True Mandalorians, and he’d failed. Dooku got them instead, and now Jango is going to have to watch his son drown to death.

The sound that leaves his throat is hardly human, all rage and grief and helplessness, and he throws himself forward against the bonds again. Blood splatters the deck, the dark water that washes across Jango's boots, and he strains—

The nose comes up again, and Boba resurfaces, choking, coughing, spitting seawater. It feels like a blow, even if Jango knows it’s only a momentary reprieve, and he slumps forward, breath coming in ragged pants as he tries to think, tries to figure out a way through this with both of them alive, or even just Boba alive. “Slow breaths,” he says, loud enough to carry over the howl of the wind. “Boba, breathe.”

“Easy for you to say,” Boba manages between coughs, and he looks too small with his clothes plastered to him, his curls stuck flat to his skull. Futilely, he shoves at the metal pinning him, but it doesn’t move any more than Jango's, and he slumps back, closing his eyes. “Dad,” he says, voice thready. “Will anyone know we’re gone?”

Jango grits his teeth. His clones will. They always keep track of when Jango's around, have always treated Boba like an older brother the handful of times he’s been around them. and right now, facing all of this, that feels like the biggest irony of all.

By Mandalorian custom, they should be Jango's sons. They are Jango's sons. And they're the only ones who will realize Jango it when Jango doesn’t come back. But because he’s never acknowledged any of them, because they're not technically family, no one will listen if they try to say something.

Jango wrote them all off as weapons, as instruments of revenge against the Jedi, and now that fact means no one will even think to check where Jango is.

“Maybe,” he says, as much of a lie as he can tell his son, and Boba's face twists. He shoves at the metal again, but there's a wave coming, and the bow is dipping, and Jango feels terror surge like a white-hot lance through his chest.

“Boba, hold your breath!” he snaps, and with a massive, horrible creaking the ship dips, twists, and the wave swamps them.

The salt stings Jango's eyes when he forces them open, the murky glow from the one light hanging off the broken mast just enough for Jango to see that they're sinking. The whole ship—or what’s left of it—is sideways, and dropping through the dark water at a dreamlike pace. Jango's lungs ache, and he twists again, pulls at his hands—

Just beyond the circle of light, a shape moves.

There are predators in this water, Jango thinks, and his heart lurches. A better death than drowning, maybe, but still a bad one, and not one he ever would have wanted for Boba.

And then, swift, with a whirl of long tentacles, a Nautolan plummets through the murky glow, catching hold of a ripped section of railing that didn’t manage to survive the fight with Dooku. He looks at Jango, then kicks off towards him, and Jango feels a flare of pure horror. He lurches back, jabbing an elbow towards Boba, lashing out when the Nautolan tries to touch him, and the man draws back. His head cocks, and—

Peace, my friend. I only want to help.

A voice. A voice in his head, and of kriffing course the bastard is a Jedi, but—

Right now, with Boba dying, Jango will take it, and reconsider his own morals later.

Save my SON, he thinks, as loud and fierce as he can, and the Jedi jerks. His huge dark eyes widen, but he doesn’t hesitate. In a flash of green skin he’s gone, diving towards the prow of the ship, and Jango closes his eyes in relief. His lungs ache, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold his breath, but at least Boba is safe. At least Boba will survive.

He opens his eyes again, just in time to see the Jedi go arrowing up towards the surface, Boba in his arms.

The Jedi will take care of Boba. Especially if he tells them about Dooku. They're not going to hurt a kid, and despite all their conflict with the Mandalorians over the years, despite Galidraan, Jango is sure of that. He watches until the Jedi's shape vanishes into the darkness, then slumps back. Considers opening his mouth, breathing in, ending things quickly instead of drawing it out into an agony—

In the darkness, a green blade ignites.

Jango's head jerks up, instincts sending adrenaline splintering through him. He has no blaster, though, no blade, and after one fraught second he realizes it’s the Nautolan again, the same man. He dives closer, wraps an arm around Jango, and he’s hot in contrast to the frigid water, startlingly so. Jango almost gasps, but before he can, the Nautolan’s mouth seals over his, and air fills his lungs. In the same moment, there's the hiss of a lightsaber, and Jango's hands come free, trailing the chain of his cuffs.

Jango doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the Jedi, hauls him closer and takes another breath of air from his mouth, feels the way his mouth curls in a smile. Under any other circumstances, Jango might object, might shoot him for it, but right now he can't even bring himself to care. He grabs his tentacles and gives a sharp tug, but the only reaction it gets is the shake of a suppressed laugh, and half a moment later they're breaking the surface. The Jedi's arm wraps tight around Jango's back, and he up like he’s wearing a jetpack, right onto the waiting ramp of a small cruiser.

“Dad!” Boba cries, and before Jango can even lift his head Boba is on him, arms wrapped tight around his chest. Jango drapes an arm over him in return, flat on his back on the ramp, and tries not to choke as he coughs up seawater.

“Forgive me,” the Jedi says quietly, leaning over him and shoving his head tentacles back over his shoulders so they don’t fall on Jango. “I could not take you both at once.”

It takes Jango a second to realize what he’s apologizing for, and when he does, he scoffs, tipping his head back against the plating. “Told you to get Boba,” he says roughly. And then, because he knows when he’s in someone’s debt, “Thanks. I owe you one.”

The Nautolan smiles, and he’s handsome even among a pretty species, with high cheekbones and paler spots speckled over his shoulders and down his back. There's humor bright in his face, too, warm and friendly. “Not at all. It is a Jedi's duty to help those in need, and I was nearby.”

Jango tightens his arm around Boba. “Shut up and accept it, Jedi,” he says, harsh. “I owe you my life, and you can write that off it you want. But I owe you my son’s life, too, and that means a hell of a lot more.”

There's a pause, and the Jedi tilts his head, watching Jango with those pretty dark eyes. “Ah,” he says, gentle more than anything, and his smile is all warmth, “but you gave me a kiss. I think that makes it less a debt and more a trade.”

“What the hell—” Jango starts.

Boba lifts his head and rolls his eyes, attempting to slide out of Jango's hold. When Jango stubbornly refuses to let go of him, though, he huffs, and says, “Dad. Just kiss him again and it’s fine, right?”

Jango will never understand ten-year-old logic, he’s sure.

“Boba,” he says, annoyed, but the Jedi laughs.

“One kiss was enough,” he says easily, raising his hands, and shifts back, offering Jango a hand. Jango takes it, letting the Jedi pull him up to sitting, and he eyes the man.

“You saying it wasn’t good enough for to try for a second?” he asks, and the joking shouldn’t help, but—it does. The tight knot of panic that was curled around Jango's heart and lungs is easing, loosening. He can breathe again, and for more reasons than just getting pulled out of the water.

Mischief flickers across the Jedi's face, brightens his eyes, makes him grin. “Well,” he says judiciously. “You were rather distracted at the time.”

Jango stares at him, eyes narrowed. there's a part of his brain that’s rushing forward, plotting revenge against Dooku, with the Jedi and his whole Order as the blunt instrument of it, but—

There's also indignation, and amusement, and something sharper, hotter, brighter.

“Tell me your name, Jedi,” he demands, reaching out, and finally lets Boba wriggle away.

The Nautolan laughs as Jango's fingers sink into his tentacles, haul him closer and off-balance. He catches himself on Jango's shoulders, and says, “Quite the demand, my friend. Why so insistent that you know?”

“Because I'm going to make you forget it entirely in about thirty seconds,” Jango says, halfway to a threat.

It makes the Jedi grin, lazy, pleased. “Kit Fisto,” he says. “And you would be Jango Fett, the Jedi-Killer. I’ll admit, I hadn’t thought people meant a little death when they referred to you that way.”

Boba groans, plugging his ears, and Jango laughs despite himself, rough from the saltwater but pulled up deep from his bones.

“Guess I’ll have to kill you now to keep you from spreading the word,” he says, and drags Kit into a kiss that’s half dare and half thanks, and entirely relief.

[On AO3]

[blackkatmagic]

Jango/Kit, while on a negotiation mission Kit has an... unusual reaction to some of the local cuisine. Next thing he knows he's waking up barely clothed in a 'drunk tank' and being very cuddley to a grouchy bounty hunter. (At least Jango is trying to act grouchy. His pheromones say otherwise).

Raucous laughter sparks along Kit's nerves, sharp and mean and taunting, and he grimaces as he surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness, the taunting voice slowly sliding sideways into words. It takes a moment to make them out, another to understand them, but—

“Finally knock him out, Fett?”

“Tired of a pretty thing all over you? You could always hand him over.”

“Get karked.”

The third voice isn't taunting. It’s tense, sharp, with a warning edge, and Kit feels an arm wrapped around his lower back tighten faintly. Feels those cruel presences pass, laughing with each other, and then Fett's breath, a careful exhale.

Kit's head feels vaguely like it did that time Qui-Gon got him drunk on honey wine from a very specific plant on a very specific planet, and it’s not overtly unpleasant, but it’s rather alarming. Especially combined with the fact that Kit doesn’t seem to be wearing much more than his breeches, and even those are rolled up to his knees.

He’s also plastered face-first against a Human’s chest, nose practically buried in his shirt, and he has no memory at all of how exactly he ended up this way.

“Awake?” that sharp voice says, and the arm around his back doesn’t move, but the hand curled over his hip loosens slightly. “If you go for my belt again we’re going to have problems.”

“Not the entertaining kind, I assume,” Kit says, and his throat is dry, his voice scratchy. Carefully, he lifts his head, and every one of his tentacles feels overly sensitive, enough so to make him wince as they shift. There are pheromones in the air, attraction and low-level arousal, but he deliberately shifts back regardless, settling on the bare duracrete floor of some kind of drunk tank with a faint grimace.

The last clear thing Kit remembers is…dinner. He finished his mission and stopped at a food stall, and the owner recommended the soup. And then nothing.

Quite the soup, Kit thinks wryly. At least for a Nautolan.

“Unless you think me breaking your wrist is entertaining,” Fett says, but despite the violence implied in the words there's a flicker of something that’s almost concern as he eyes Kit. The Mandalorian armor is a surprise, but—Kit's heard of Jango Fett by reputation, and he’s absolutely certain that the man’s reputation doesn’t include anything like this.

“Justified, likely,” Kit says wryly, and settles on his knees, wincing a little as his tentacles brush each other. That’s a less than pleasant side effect, apparently. Hesitating, he looks Jango over, and then says, “You have my deepest apologies, if I intruded in any way—”

Jango looks sour, but there’s a curl of pheromones around him that are anything but—heady, sharp, dark with want, and they send a shiver through Kit's tentacles, ripple down his spine. He has to catch his breath carefully to keep from showing a reaction.

“You were drunk,” Jango says. “Drunk and handsy. I can handle one tipsy Nautolan.”

“Drugged,” Kit confesses, a little wryly, and when Jango's gaze snaps to him, narrows dangerously, he raises his hands. “Involuntarily, I assume. Whatever was in the soup I had, I believe it could be marketed as an aphrodisiac for my species.”

Some of the tension eases out of Jango's posture, and he huffs. “Perks of exploring Outer Rim worlds,” he says gruffly, and when he catches Kit's wince as he shifts, suspicion flickers over his face. “Hey. Did you—before they tossed you in here—”

Kit chuckles, shaking his head, and then regrets it as his tentacles ache sharply. “No, no, my friend, I'm fine. I've never suffered through a hangover before, but I believe this is the equivalent.”

“Your head tentacles?” Jango asks, frowning, and when Kit inclines his head, he huffs. “Then quit kriffing moving. Come here.”

Not about to turn down the invitation, since Jango apparently doesn’t object, Kit slides closer, lets himself be pulled down against Jango's chest again. A hand gathers his tentacles up, and he hisses, but holds still as Jango gently wraps a length of cloth that’s probably his cape around them, then settles them against Kit's back, and—it’s better. Like dulling a sense, and Kit breathes out in relief, resting his forehead against Jango's shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says. “That is—much better.”

Jango grunts, but his hand presses flat against Kit's back, stroking right over the spread of his silver markings. “Thank me with dinner,” he says, offhand, like Kit can't feel the heat and want that hum, low-level but unwavering, right beneath the surface.

Kit chuckles, enjoying the brush of Jango's fingers now that he can focus on it. “Looking to repeat this experience?” he asks, amused.

“It’s cute you think I need to drug you to drive you out of your mind,” Jango retorts, and his fingers dig in, just faintly, as an image rises. It makes Kit's breath catch, makes him shiver before he can help himself, and Jango smirks, all smug intent.

Kit lets him keep it, if only for the moment. He’ll be able to prove he can hold his own soon enough.

[On AO3]

[blackkatmagic]

Jango as a Mermaid Hunter, Boba wants to meet a mermaid, and Kit is a Mermaid who *exists* to annoy Jango and entertain Boba and cannot help but flirt with Jango every time Jango fails to catch him

Hi yes this ship is everything I have ever wanted of needed thank you.

Just say the word and I’ll part the sea