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Organization for Transformative Works
This is my fic for the Luke and Vader Holiday Fic Exchange! My giftee was @pebblish <3
Luke Skywalker has always known that he can transform into a dragon. He hates it.
Vader seized the X-wing.
His claws wrapped around the whole thing with a crunch. Metal shrieked. Luke, in hatchling form, howled in terror—his own roar, of sorts. If nothing else, it was high enough to shatter transparisteel, tearing apart the rest of the ship. Luke’s tiny body, unbound by the crash webbing now, launched into the black abyss.
Vader’s draconic grin was broad and gleaming.
It was so dark and cold, here. The one source of heat that Luke could rely on as a hatchling, the fire in his heart, seemed pitiful. Stars were pinpricks of light that blurred into oblivion when his vision wavered from the strain of it all. This was an extreme—and extremely stressful—environment.
But it was one that star dragons were designed for.
Luke’s wings, stubby and thick, spread. He flapped them. Something more than matter moved beneath them; he shot away from his ship, away from R2’s frantic attempts to steer it back towards him. Away from Vader. Towards the starlight, towards the distant silence, as far from the firefight as he could get.
In the Shadow of the Valley (Padawan!Din AU): When young Death Watch assassin Din Djarin fails his mission to kill Anakin Skywalker, he expects the Jedi to kill him. What actually happens is far, far worse: Skywalker makes him his padawan.
The lasersword cuts through Galaar blaster rounds and durasteel like silver fish through dark water, yet when the plasma blade retracts and the hilt is shoved against Din’s throat it is as cold as the frigid blue eyes of his target, Jedi Anakin Skywalker.
“See that button on the side? One push and your head kisses the floor,” the Jedi hisses, digging the hilt in deeper into the exposed skin between helmet and chest-plate. The peculiar pressure from before is back, the Jedi’s magic bracketing his ribs and flooding his lungs with molten iron. Din does not struggle this time — knows the spell is not one so easily broken, not with Skywalker’s large rough hand snarled around his wrists and shoving his face into the temple floor. “Give me one good reason not to.”
Go on, Din thinks, Kill me. I am already dead.
Inside the helmet, bitter tears sting his eyes and sour his mouth, his open mouthed, bruised-breath exhalations rust-tinged and shaky-kneed with pain and fury; but on the outside, where the beskar that is his true face shields him from the world, Din is all cold metal and proud heritage, clad in the silver bones of Mandalore and the Resol’nare, the soul of his people: unshakeable.
He may have failed his mission, but he will not embarrass the Watch, and he will not forsake the Way of the Mand’alor.
Kote at kyr'am. O'r kyr'am, at kote. At kote, ni slanar.
Din tilts his chin up, defiant and proud in the way only the young can be. He licks his lips, and they taste like war. “Spare me, Jedi,” he murmurs, voice delicate with hate, “And it will be the last thing you do.”
The Jedi blinks, the frozen fury in his eyes cracking with something Din can smell in the air like blood: doubt. His finger hovers over the button. For the first time in his life, he wishes he was not wearing the helmet, so he could spit in the Jedi’s face before he dies. Din closes his eyes, ready for the black to take him and the world to go silent–
And then fingers jam under the lip of his helmet and yank.
Light hits his eyes knuckles-first. He reels, blinking rapidly against the cacophony of unmitigated light, and squints up into shocked blue eyes. Skywalker steps back, the lasersword’s hilt jerking away from skin with only an imprint to tell the tale.
“Kriffing hells,” the Jedi whispers, “You’re just a kid. Obi-wan’s gonna kill me.”
The name means nothing to Din. But the insult of childhood — the very thing the Jedi have denied him again and again — and the shame of unmasking, mean everything. “Me first,” Din snarls. Before the Jedi can react, Din spits a bloody glob of saliva in his face and tackles their legs, pummeling his knuckles broken into exposed skin like Boba taught him, sending them both sliding across the floor and over the edge of the ruins and into the hungry darkness below.
If he must find his end here at the hands of the Jedi, let it be glorious.
Kote at kyr'am. O'r kyr'am, at kote. At kote, ni slanar.
Glory to Death. In Death, to Glory. To Glory, I go.
meet NOBLE DIAMONDI from GREETINGS FROM THE GREY GARDENS:
"Oh, scales and stones. Why are you here?" the apothecarist hissed.
"There was no mention of an interview component in the Help Wanted advert, but alright, I'm game," Noble shoved the neatest, most important looking stack of documents onto the floor and promptly seating himself in their place. He tapped a single gloved finger against his chin with a thoughtful hmm, the edge of his scarred mouth twitching upward at the apothecarist's incensed glare. "Well, in the general sense, I guess I'm here to get rich, raise hell, and look good doing it -- while doing whatever it is you do at apothecarists' and whatnot."
"A street twat like you ain't interviewin' for shit," the apothecarist snarled through gritted teeth, his hand inching not-so-subtly toward a suspiciously dangerous object tucked into his belt. "Why's the real reason you're in my fuckin' shop fuckin' afterhours?"
"Ooooh, right, of course!" Noble chirped. He clapped twice. The white powder on his gloves ignited in a flurry of pale smoke, solidifying into his trusty saber. "Silly me. In the specific sense, Mr. Macey, I am here to stab stab stab you until you die. Any other questions?"
noble is... a real, genuine shithead, but he's ~fun~!
sixty years ago, a pandemic in his world caused 1% of the population to develop a condition that slowly turns them to carcinogenic stone, but before they die horrific deaths the dust from their bodies gives them odd abilities and a fluctuating connection to all mineral matter; thus, the nickname "dusters".
noble is a thespian-turned-duster who is less interested in finding a cure than he is interested in figuring out a way to ruin and/or kill a reclusive entertainment reviewer who trashed his latest show. he is, obviously, a charming asshole with a flair for the dramatics, who has a bad habit of causing problems everywhere he goes -- which is why he is also on the run from the grey gardeners, a medical militia intent on hunting down dusters, studying their guts, then summarily executing them in the name of national security. fun times!
for the fanfiction tropes ask game: enemies to lovers, soulmate au, modern au?
give me a fanfiction trope and i’ll grade it
enemies to lovers: A+++ GODTIER. yes. this is what i live for. the violence. the love. delectable.
soulmate au: between d and f. it does nothing for me personally. the concept of choice, particularly in love, is important to me. soulmate aus remove the choice aspect that makes love interesting to me, so no thank you.
modern au: f. hate it. kill it with fire. will immediately make me nope out of a fic. imo the appeal of modern fics is that they remove the plot, difficulties, conflicts, etcetera of canon, which is... absolutely not what i read fiction for in any capacity. i've read only three modern aus that modernized canon for a meaningful purpose. those, i can get somewhat on board with.
