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thenightmarketofdathomir · 1 year

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Dead & Dreaming

Pairing: Darth Maul x Reader (AFAB, no pronouns)

Rating: Explicit

Summary: An archaeological investigation of post-war Dathomir reveals that the spirit of the world is very much alive, and it wants you to know it personally: He has a name he does not remember. He has a desire for something particular. But the only way he speaks to you is when you’re most susceptible to his dark influence… in your dreams; in your nightmares.

Word Count: 2,863 words

Notes: Ghost!Maul meets Incubus!Maul yes I had to.

Warnings: CNC (sleep paralysis fucky time but Reader consents before going under), night terrors, weird Dathomiri kinky supernatural shit, some primal references, choking/throat grabbing, biting, liberal use of both “c” words

Read it on Ao3 > or below.

Twin moons have barely risen as you drink your tea, your sheets pooled in your lap, damp clinging to the mattress leaving everything cool beneath your skin. This is Dathomir, where the secrets belong to the dead, and they are so eager to share with the one living soul who will listen.

What do the dead want?

This is the question you’ve asked yourself since coming here. You think you have a few answers… to be known, to relive what they lost, to take revenge on those who wronged them, perhaps.

Others only want to be remembered. Memory confers a certain type of immortality, after all, but that is a lesson hard-earned when the distance between you and them is a gulf.

You’ve given them your ear, among other things. Your work has become transcription: spells, incantations, histories of the people, translated hieroglyphs, and little anecdotes of those who grew up with a bit of the ichor in them — from the soil, from the plants, from the rain. Restless spirits, and those who came back because Dathomir was always a part of them.

You think that maybe it has something to do with the Force in this place.

That is the working hypothesis. This is how you’re testing it:

They come to you in dreams. So you’ve been doing a lot of… sleeping.

Mostly.

But some things… some things you’re not recording in your holovids.

The spirits sit so near on this planet that the nightly visitations leave you going to bed earlier each evening just to see if maybe, this will be the night he returns.

He’s not like the other warrior spirits, though he wears the Nightbrother markings, and he moved with the ease of a shadow to pool at your feet atop the covers when you were deep in slumber. How something of such little substance could spill like smoke across your body and ease a sigh from you by barely touching made little sense at first, but you remember that those introductions were just a tease.

He wanted you to see him —

Whole and fearsome and watching for minutes before all that darkness fell away from a face carved from your second most insistent nightmare.

You don’t remember his features, though they were chiselled and handsome. You don’t remember how many horns crowned his head, though they were sharp enough to leave scars the next morning.

A phantasm.

A dream so real you believe there might be some magic in it —

He never offered his name. Maybe he doesn’t remember.

But you remember the bright eyes of the dead.

— What it felt like to burn beneath his stare as shadow became substance and he pinned your wrists, the raze of his teeth as you tried to scream, and his laughter —

Silk and shivering and satisfied that you could feel everything. Muscles moving. The heavy drape of his torso above yours. Claws pressing into flesh to edge your pleasure with the bite of pain.

Your nipples pebble at the memory, wanting to recall the feeling of his teeth clamped around them, but those details are misty.

You screw your eyes shut, frustrated.

You want to remember his cock.

Something trills in the night beyond your window. A ghast or a ghoul or one of those bird-like creatures that roosts in the cliffs.

Yes, Dathomir is haunted.

That’s what the archaeological datalog said, but you expected —

Well, maybe coming here for the first time back too many rotations to count, you expected something different: Monsters. Maybe Nightsister remnants. A record that stretches into the near-history before the war, something you could study and report.

That wasn’t how it went, not after you lost your tent to a wayward rancor and took shelter in the caves where it was safer from the elements but not the nexus’ influence: down in earth where the ichor is the strongest, and those who lived here used the waters to boil their roots and herbs and —

You just had to try the tea yourself once you found the recipe.

A little sip to welcome vivid dreams, but hardly enough to induce visions.

That’s right.

That’s all this is:

Scientific experiment.

Because research.

You look down at yourself, touched by the blush of the fading day, ready to surrender to one dream or another, to see where they lead because hope is a strange catalyst, even if the circumstances are just figments because you can’t stop remembering in bits and pieces, lucid and fraught with the memory of calloused palms pulling down the sheets.

That’s why your breath catches, and your palms leave damp marks on the bed. That’s why you’ve chosen to wear as little as possible —

A thin shift, no panties, bared from mid-thigh reveal plenty to the shadows. In the mid-dark, alone in your cave hut, you’re already a little wet.

You gulp back the last of the brew, setting down the cup with the dregs, and ease into a more comfortable position when the memories threaten. Those aren’t true — they are just after-images of a sensation that you’ve dissected and analyzed, the pressure and the heft of a man’s body not unlike a night terror from the data records, but while you remember the inability to move beneath him, you also remember… pleasure.

You shut your eyes, and when the weigh of your body shifts into nothing, you imagine a stirring somewhere in the place between where the living and the world between hold conference: the dead making promises they can’t keep when their demesne can only ever be observation.

“Let’s bend the rules, my dear,” you hear him whisper, but the shiver that chases in a trickle from your ear to your collar like the cold glide of a finely-edged blade is only the breath of the wind through a split in the ceiling.

There’s no one there when you slit your gaze across your room, checking one more time in case he’s come.

You’re alone.

There’s no one and nothing save for a flicker of disappointment.

Sleep takes you swift and sure, pulling you down into the meandering gloom of unconscious with little effort. There is only the tunnel of your vision and mussy dark, and then nothing but grey shadow.

Your sleep is not dreamless.

You are running through a forest — a gnarled tangle of overgrowth that catches and snags at your ankles, gravethorn branches tearing at your dress with insistent fingers and raking over your skin to nick and sliver and raise your blood.

This is a hunt.

And somewhere in the distance, you think you can hear over the snap of breaking branches that crack like little bones beneath your bare feet, you imagine the firelight gaze of a predator whose attention narrows to your body as you crash along.

So clumsy.

So desperately wanting to be caught.

To be put to the loamy floor face first, knees scraped raw, stuffed solidly with the thick weight of a cock stretching you open to your limits as he ruts. No quarter. No mercy. And you, held in place by the hand on the back of your neck, just a body, spasming helplessly around the ripple of ridges that light the dark behind your eyes with each slap of his hips.

That’s not how it happens.

Because what you dream is not what you get:

He’s far too big, a forearm bracing your wrists over your head one-handed, the body across yours so heavy that you can’t even squirm. But you feel him:

Every hot breath against the side of your face. Every dip and plane of his stomach muscles, pressing you deeper into the mattress with each exhalation. A rumble of appreciation when you try to shift, but find yourself trapped beneath a hard chest, your thighs opened around too-wide hips, the brush of flesh against your slicked cunt leaving you clenching, involuntary desperate, as your moan.

This close, you can taste his skin:

Hot and as hard as the rest of him, the tendons along his neck stark from straining.

Is he holding himself back from just taking what he wants?

Is this restraint?

“At last,” he says, and you feel the weight of sinking relief stiffen against your clit. He doesn’t move, but his cock grows as it stiffens, pushing hard against your centre with the sort of insistence that wakes your body beneath his.

Like heated metal.

Hard flesh dripping.

So intimate, to be held like a lover, to be spread so easily in sleep that you can’t resist a roll of your hips or how the feeling of him against you makes your sex throb from pressure absent stimulation.

His purr of contentment to find you writhing is all the assurance you need.

“We meet again, my sweet, sleeping plaything.”

You scent fire and woodrot against your tongue, cut with the bitter dark of his musk.

He nuzzles your pulsepoint, and you see a glimpse of a diamond marking on his nose. A little detail that isn’t at all endearing. The rest of his facial marks paint a skull from his eyes and mouth.

You shudder, a trickle of fear mingling with desire.

A murmur, “Did you miss me? Or were you yearning for something specific, in all your somnolent wandering? I felt your stirring — your searching. Your need. An interstice aspect of the Dathomir’s affinities, the Dark of this nexus welcomes malleable boundaries — the living, the dead, and those in-between. All of us bound together by tethers wrought through the ichor. Thank you for indulging me by drinking the waters. It makes these meetings so much easier for me.”

You can’t speak. You don’t have the ability.

“Ah, yes. The perils of dreaming: you find yourself at the mercy of one who does not possess the ability to grant it. Pity. Though I do appreciate your company — your welcome heat. I have been alone for so many years, and with no one to appreciate the body returned to me in so few pieces. I do love how responsive you are to my —” His cock brushes your slit, slicking through your folds with a deft roll of his hips that leaves you open-mouthed and gaping. “Ministrations.”

His lips brush your temple, and he pulls in a breath that terminates in a shudder so profound that you crumple beneath him.

“And I do enjoy the feeling when you strain against me. How you buckle so easily when I hurt you a little bit. I won’t stretch you open, but I can make it fit.”

He tastes you. A long lick from your jaw to your temple, and as you shudder away from the feeling of how much you want that mouth doing the very same thing to your weeping, empty cunt, he smiles at you —

A mouth full of sharp teeth.

And you catch a glimpse of triumph in that burning gaze.

He likes it when you squirm.

“You can try to scream, if you prefer.”

You try to open your legs further, trying to take the rub of his length as the first flicker of his weight starts to cut off your circulation. Unmoving, he makes it hard to breathe, and with your hands starting tingle from the pressure of his forearm across your wrists, discomfort becomes a steady, warning peal.

His lips brush across yours, mocking. “If you can manage it.”

You want to remember this.

You want to remember every inch of him pressing into your hole, stretching you out so you can feel the burn and sting of taking someone so much bigger than your own species without breaking. You want to show him how hard you can squeeze when he hilts himself deep —

As if he’s not the only one who can break things.

You can’t explain these things. You don’t have the ability to express your desperation by begging, so you do the one thing you can —

You catch his lips in a kiss, and you bite him.

Hard.

Hard enough that you can feel the pop of skin.

His snarl like music when he responds by snapping you down by the throat and sinking into your cunt in one deft, sure stroke that whites out the dark with brilliant light for all of one moment, and he groans like it’s the one comfort he’s forgotten.

He stutters a moan, and mouth open, you’d join him, but you —

Pant in your desperation, clawing at his wrist as he withdraws, and your pussy makes a sucking noise of protestation.

“Now now,” he grits out, licking his lip. “One must savour every moment when time is finite. Enjoy it, my dear — every last bit of it. I want you to remember come morning — remember me, remember this moment, remember this feeling, because none living will ever offer the same.”

It’s easier when he puts it back in, like you’re better fitted to the notch and heft of his girth, the press of his balls tight against your ass.

“Ah, yes. Let me feel you clench.”

Rooted again, he grinds his hips, stretching you in all directions to better take him. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s too dark to watch the ripple of his ridges when he pulls out, glistening with your slick, and buts the tip against your clit — rubbing it in little circles to make you squeeze on nothing.

He sinks back in, palm to your chest to hold you in place as he starts to move.

“That’s it,” he soothes. “That’s good.”

Fuck me, you mouth, but his rumble of laughter drowns out the movements of your gaping, open mouth as he fucks you with slow, long strokes stopping just shy of where you need him.

You mouth words.

You make promises without sound.

But his indifference to what you want is part of his entertainment.

“Open,” he commands, but he pushes past your teeth before you can take a breath.

Fingers trap your tongue — his hands taste like salt, and the press of his claws against the back of your mouth are nearly enough to make you gag, but you obey when he tells you to, “Suck,” while he fills you up. Moving them slowly in and out like he’s considering fucking your mouth but he wants to be certain of the performance.

Over and over until you’re pliant and splayed, lips wrapped around calloused fingers and your hips are dragged up his lap. Spit down your chin. Your nightgown split open down the centre from sharp claws. Breathing hard, and wanting anything he might offer if it could satisfy him.

It doesn’t.

He scoffs. “Maybe next time.”

Wet smears mark your thighs. He daubs your clit with your own spit. Rubs it slow and sure, your nightgown pushed up so he can watch the contractions of your stomach as his touch brings you closer to finishing.

But you don’t want it to end.

You don’t want him to ever stop.

“There are other more pressing matters at hand.”

You lift your arm, reaching for that stern, scowling face — to let him know with a gesture that he’s not so alone. That you are here.

With a jerk of his chin, he pulls away.

He watches you, hunger and determination mingled with an unhappy twist of his mouth. Maybe he knows that this won’t last. Maybe he knows that when morning comes, once again, all you’ll have are echoes of the experience — sweat on your sheets and an impossible account of a dream that might’ve been real in another life, at another time.

“This is Dathomir, my dear,” he tells you in a lower register. “Do not despair. If you do not remember me come morning, I will only remind you again the next evening. Over and over in the depths of unconsciousness when the veils between us are thinned.”

He presses a thumb to your clit, unmoving. Just holding it there so that the overwhelm of his thrusts and the intensity of his stare is enough to sear a mark into your skin —

Something to remember him by.

“I will not be forgotten,” he says.

What’s your name, you would ask him, if speaking was still your friend, and your body wasn’t shuddering at the slap of his hips, pushing you over into depths where the dark is darkest and the stars wink out overhead.

Then there’s just oblivion, and the burn of your pleasure when the torrent breaks, leaving you to unconsciousness and the trailing drift of a ghostly lover who seems to have lost everything. Even you to the morning, where nothing is certain about the encounter, save the weakness in your body and the feeling that something is missing.

Some part of a dream left to a spilled cup, overturned on the bedside table and the twist of sweat-soaked sheets.

A little dapple of blood on the pillow, but you’re uninjured.

Body aching.

Satiated.

The bed around you is cold in the pre-dawn gloom, and only wisps of your unconscious wanderings linger, drifting farther away the longer you try to hold onto them:

Dream or nightmare, you don’t remember.

But tonight you can try again.

#Darth Maul #Maul #Darth Maul x Reader #Darth Maul x You #Maul x Reader #Maul x You #AFAB Reader #Darth Maul Smut #Star Wars Smut #Dathomir #Sith Smut #Nightbrother #Nightbrothers #The Clone Wars #The Clone Wars Smut #The Night Market of Dathomir #hoo shit that's a big gif

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dathomirdumpsterfire · 5 months

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another entry in my post 'twin suns ghost au'. #3 so far.

the entire idea here is we do NOT leave a depressed man alone in the desert for twenty years. INSTEAD we let his rival haunt the fuck out of him. 👍🏽

#obi wan kenobi #darth maul #star wars #sith #tatooine #maul opress #obimaul #if you wanna read it like that #jedi #red bastard man now blue #still a bastard #force ghost maul #twin suns ghost au #dumpsterfire content

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irenadel · 8 months

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Fear Leads the Way

Darth Maul x Reader Filthy porn ahead, Darth Maul and Savage Opress and Reader, eventual pseudo-threesome, but only sexy cuddles for Savage because he's got The Trauma, eventual robodick but right now we're dealing only with Ken Doll Maul. Therefore: TRIGGER WARNING TALK OF AMPUTATION AND LIMB LOSS. Nothing detailed but you have been warned. Chapter 1 of Force knows how many.

It was true what they said, that wild animals were more often afraid of you, than you of them.

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 1

It had begun out of wariness. And Maul’s always short temper when his decisions were questioned, especially decisions he wasn’t entirely confident in. If it bothers you so much, he had snapped at his brother, stay and stand guard. That was usually how it went with Maul and Savage. Shut up and stand guard, was the principle through which they both operated most of the time. Savage seldom objected because he did, always, on some level, want to keep an eye on his brother. It eased some ache within him he did not even want to think about.

And for all his snarling and protests, Maul would agree. It was always better when Savage stood guard. Better strategy. More firepower. Safer.

(Less lonely)

You did not seem to share the brothers’ enthusiasm for a rear guard. At least not in this particular situation.

You had said nothing, though. You weren’t in the habit of questioning Lord Maul of the Shadow Collective and Maul, in turn, often ignored the degree to which you were always still a little terrified of him. You’d been snatched off the streets of Nar Shaddaa to work your magic on Lord Maul’s cybernetics. A present meant to court favor. A trifling bauble. A girl too afraid to do much more than her job for a long time. When he didn’t pointedly ignore it, he spent considerable time and effort convincing himself it was just right and proper that you should be afraid of the sith lord who ruled your life.

But it hadn’t been easy in this particular case.

It had been a mistake, a sign of weakness, Maul decided, to let himself grow used to the certainty of your touch. It had begun with the strong, firm hands you had ran over the tender places between where his cybernetics ended and his flesh began. It had gone beyond anything he should have ever allowed when, still cowed and unsure, but in that moment somehow fearless, you had uttered words like prosthetic genital replacement, sensory recovery, advances in brain and limb nerve arrays. He should have beheaded you then and there. Nipped this in the bud and sealed it with your blood.

Instead he had let you talk to him about the nerve endings of his forearms, still very much alive and intact to feel the tips of your fingers ghosting over them. He had let you stutter about flesh grafts and possibilities, illustrating each suggestion with a tentative touch. He had let you take a traitorous hand to the soft, vulnerable skin of his ears, its sheer sensitivity forgotten years after that initial reckless vanity that had made him pierce them.

There had been a shame and wariness in you he had not understood and then that impossible, naked audacity that had brought your questing fingers to his lips, to his chest, to a hard and aching nipple you had ministered to with nails and tongue and teeth. And then you had been impossible to contain. Because the same knowledge that had made your work on his cybernetics invaluable, had let you crumble him apart like clay. He’d let you press the heel of your hand to the back of his neck that day, the skin on his shoulder blades suddenly, uncomfortably alive, eager to be touched because it had never been touched with tenderness, with pleasure instead of pain.

You had tried to flee him that day, having stepped over a boundary that had never existed between coerced attendant and frightening patient. And he’d snatched you back with one awful, terrible gesture of his impossibly strong arm and you had stayed there, precariously hanging off his body. A body that had seemed so fragile a second ago and now stood horrifyingly solid underneath your hands.

Savage had been there too, as always, watching his brother’s back whenever a vulnerable position demanded it. But Maul had been too focused on the warm proximity of your body and the sudden overpowering aroma of your sweat and arousal, to pay attention to his looming baleful figure. You had not. You had watched with increasing wariness as the tendons on his neck had stood out in stress and horror, monstrously thick and powerful like starship cables. His angry glare had narrowed the moment he’d heard his brother’s first pained noise: a low, deep keening against your neck.

And you had feared, not without reason, that Savage could have killed you then and there. Could’ve used the Force to shake the life off you and thrown you against the wall like an abused ragdoll. You’d watched both of the brothers and knew them capable of that and worse… but for Maul’s second pained noise: a ragged, impossible please against your lips. You had not cared for death in that second, forgotten in the heady realization of what your patient needed, of the whole, absurd, delicious horror of it. Your responsibility to him, your fear of and desire for him, his furious brother watching…

Let him watch, you decided recklessly.

You’d kissed Maul then, after a furtive whisper on the erogenous quality of mouths and he had responded so immediately, so hungrily that you had forgotten about anything else. You had kissed him and he’d almost made you come solely with his mouth on yours, just through his single-focused, aggressive pursuit of the taste of your pleasure, thick in your mouth, gums and tongue.

Savage had not killed you that day, but he had insisted on talking to his brother afterwards. He, so often conciliatory and willing to let things go, had argued with a Maul still half swimming in the hitherto undiscovered waters of sexual desire, that there were things he needed to learn. It had almost been a fight like the one they’d had about zabrak horns and oil and overbathing. Maul being so used to dry, flakey skin and the certainty that if it had been important, Darth Sidious would have informed him, had refused to change his grooming habits for months.

This time Savage insisted.

“It’s just the pheromones,” he’d said to his brother. “Get rid of her.”

There were things said between them about the Nightsisters, about Nightbrothers that disappeared, with a grin instead of a grimace, things that sounded to Maul like superstitious bantha shit. You were not a Nightsister and he was a sith lord. He was in danger of nothing except perhaps getting distracted from his goals. He’d conceded that to Savage and had managed to keep away from you for a whole month, via sheer ornery pride.

It was your apology that got his attention that second time. He had stubbornly relegated you to background noise since the first incident. Haughtily ignored your anxious looks the way he had ignored every distraction Sidious had ever sent his way, pleased that it worked to mollify Savage as much as it had ever worked with his master. The dull ache of your work on his cybernetics was as easily dismissed as your stony silence while he talked to the other leaders of the Shadow Collective. When you had spoken up before he had cowed you into silence and, furious and tight-lipped, you had not repeated your mistake often.

“My lord,” you had said, choking on the honorific in a way you had not before you’d know the taste of Maul’s tongue. “This will hurt.”

He had clenched his teeth at your intrusion, attempted to overlook its impertinence and then been caught entirely unawares by your firm determination to be acknowledged.

“I’m sorry,” you had said, looking to meet his eyes, venom gone from your look and replaced with the half-fearful, half-softened gaze that had haunted his few moments of peace ever since you’d touched each other that day. You had worked unobtrusively before, as quick and thorough as you could and here you were, trying to get a go-ahead he had never required of you before. “Brace yourself.”

It was tiresome. It was unnecessary. He had known it was coming and had dismissed it, any recalibration of his cybernetics’ digestive aid always created a feedback loop not unlike quick but unrelenting bursts of abdominal cramps. He would have done it himself with help from Savage, but his brother was away, dealing with an upstart Hutt rebellion and he’d had no time to spare for shutting down individual systems so he could bear the agony while working on the whole thing. It was easier to channel that pain towards cowing unruly underlings. Intimidation did not require the razor sharp focus of mechanical work.

Except now. Now he was uncomfortably aware of the careful, slow quality of your work, of your hands where he couldn’t feel them. The cramps lasted a second and then you proceeded. Now, he was annoyingly, half-attentive at all times of what you were doing, figuring out what you were turning off and bypassing at every turn to make sure to keep the pain at a minimum while working… wondering when you would actually touch him.

It was maddening, a karking waste of time.

He’d hissed at you to get on with it, nevermind the cramps, but still been unable to regain focus on the strategy at hand. He’d been forced to dismiss everyone with a snarl, and stared you down, afraid again, unsure again, but still holding his gaze.

Get to work, he’d meant to snap at you.

Stop staring at me, would have worked as well.

Instead, he’d let the small, childish voice inside him, always wary, always ready to fear the worse, but still indomitably willing to risk punishment for the taste of something sweet, request what he hadn’t even known he wanted a moment ago.

“Touch my back.”

Again.

No, not a request, a desperate wail that came out like an order growled through gritted teeth.

You’d let out a breath you hadn’t meant to hold and Maul was inundated by the overpowering stench of your desire, his mouth watering at the thought. Immediately, it conjured phantom sensations, reminding Maul of his own, of the furtive times of his apprenticeship when he’d been terrified and young and burning so badly he’d risked touching himself just to keep desire at bay. Savage had said something about manhood and Nightsister rituals and Maul being lucky to have forgotten what prickling, overwhelming, unquenchable need felt like before he’d met a woman who could use it against him. To have had that safely amputated with his legs and all the rest, stolen from him, put away where he couldn’t reach it.

Maul didn’t feel lucky. He didn’t feel safe or as serenely removed from his own furious, adolescent loneliness as he had before. He felt adrift like he had then, desperate, ready to force you to touch him if you would not do it willingly. But when you capitulated it didn’t feel like that either.

It was worse.

He’d let out a shameful, agonized cry, nearly a sob, because your hands on his back were gentle, were careful, were good. No one ever touched him there, in the center of his back, a place he seldom reached for, which seldom required maintenance or thought. And now it was alive under your hands, sweet stars, under your lips which had immediately, no hesitation, sought out his burning skin and he could almost remember what it had been like to climax, unexpectedly, horrifically and absolutely unprepared for it, when he had been young and angry and unaware of what he had. Except he had been alone then and you were here now, your lips pressed to the place where his shoulder blades met, your hands holding his throat so tenderly it hurt, your own panting frantic because you wanted him and he knew it, just like Savage had said (warned) he would. And he had no control of it, just wanting and wanting and hunger, and surely, surely that was enough, that was sithly, because it did taste like the Dark Side, tacky and thick and slow like burnt molasses, when he turned on you and pinned you down so he could rut in between your legs, grinding a sensationless codpiece against the juncture of your thighs, so deeply frustrated the Force crushed the door of the meeting room to echo him.

You held him against it, did not let him lose the thread of this impossible, horrible desire, as you struggled out of your work jumpsuit, wrapped your legs and arms around him and whispered soft, filthy encouragement in his ear.

“Please oh, please, please, please,” you’d said so quietly he felt it more than heard it, your warm, humid breath making him shudder. He hadn’t known how much he would need your eager, ready submission. How good it would feel to hear you acquiesce, hear you surrender, hear you beg. “I can’t,” you’d stuttered, as much at a loss as he. “I’m so wet for you, please, talk to me, I’m so close, talk to me and make me come.”

That he could feel, not against the gaping absence where his genitals had been once, but desperately snaking a hand between your bodies, your wetness soaking through the leather of his gloves, nostrils suddenly flooded with the stinging, musky aroma of your sopping sex. He would have dived between your legs, would have devoured the source of his distraction, gotten rid of this shameful weakness and run you throw with his lightsaber for good measure, but you held him and all he could do was obey your sweet, keening moans, as gone as he, your own nipples fervently pressing against his chest, your mouth warm and soft against the tender skin behind his ear, your nails scratching that terrible, wonderful spot at the center of his back. And he was rutting against you again, grinding and almost feeling it, whispering his own fervent filth, because it helped coalesce the stabs of want, just like you said it would, diffused as they were all over the remains of his body. It helped to tell you he was your lord and master and have you desperately agree. It helped to hold you down as he was pumping his codpiece against your wet, eager core, to squeeze your throat and tell you, nothing explicit because he knew so little of it, but what he wanted of you, what he felt you were doing to him, return it a thousandfold because you deserved it, for teaching him to want this, to need it, to cling to it like he had clinged to life and breath when he was a child and Sidious was killing him slowly.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he’d growled at your throat, a promise of payback, a threat. And you were coming and he was hearing you come and he could almost feel it himself, dizzy and bright painful white like combat meditation. He didn’t know if it had been like that before Lotho Minor, before Naboo, before Kenobi, but it was like this now and he was swimming in the white, hot-searing nothingness of it, of your moans, of your smell and your wetness and you were his, his, his, like his lightsaber, like his destiny, like Savage and it was a freefall, as terrifying a freefall as any possession had ever been for Maul, something to cherish always becoming something you could lose.

#darth maul x reader #star wars #darth maul smut #TW: Limb Loss Talk #TW: Amputation #savage x reader if you squint eventually #kendoll darth maul for the time being #eventual robodick #my writing #iresmut #fear leads the way

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probadbatch · 3 months

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A non-exhaustive list of characters who have come back from the 'dead' (not even counting force ghosts!!)

Boba Fett

Darth Maul

Ahsoka Tano

Cobb Vanth

Fennec Shand

Palpatine

Echo

Admiral Trench

The Grand Inquisitor

Asajj Ventress, apparently

Rey

Additional characters who didn't actually 'die' first but survived some absurd injuries that should have killed them:

Reva

Sabine Wren

Leia Organa

Anakin Skywalker

I have intentionally left off droids, as they can be rebuilt so I find that less ridiculous, and characters whose deaths happened in old Legends that Disney clearly forgot long ago. However, I've definitely forgotten someone because let's be real, this is stupid, so feel free to add whoever!

#tech lives 2024 #star wars #tbb #bad batch

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anakiinhighwalker · 2 years

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Star Wars boys (+ Ventress) w/ a Jedi s/o!

> Obi Wan Kenobi 🪐

Ooooh boy it’s difficult to love this man AND also be a Jedi. If you’ve ever seen the movie Tangled and watch how Rapunzel struggles to accept the fact she went outside of her tower, that’s how Obi Wan is.

A constant struggle between love and duty. Obi Wan loves you, he truly does, but he’s also a Jedi. And he needs to set a good example for all younglings and Padawans. He feels as if he has to live up to that famous mantle of General Kenobi, the man who killed Darth Maul when he was just a Padawan and who sees the lead in combat of the Clone War.

He’s distant :(. Not fault of yours, it’s just Obi Wan has a lot of battles to coordinate, lead, fight and win for the Republic. On top of that he also has to answer to the Jedi Council. And they could easily recognize your relationship with Obi Wan with how soft and warm his Force aura gets around you.

But at night, at the dead of night, when no Jedi travels within the tall and intimidating halls of the Temple, does love show itself. When it’s empty; nothing but its halls of beige and its ghosts of the past is when the true Obi Wan come out. Gentle hugs, tender moments that could never pass as ‘between friends’ if you two were ever caught. The strong, amorous touches and words are nothing but that; amorous. Between lovers.

He loves you with everything. You’re too much for him to give up to the Council or god forbid, another man.

In battles, Obi Wan puts a lot of faith that you won’t need his help or saving. He doesn’t want anyone to see what you two have because he had a moment of weakness and protected you so fiercely.

He’s always in the medbays, checking each soldier and each bed to make sure you’re not one of the injured.

Obi Wan pretends like Anakin doesn’t know, Anakin totally fucking knows. Anakin has known since he was a Padawan because of how much you hung out around Obi Wan before and after the war began. And thank god it’s Anakin because he isn’t any type of snitch!

“Anakin doesn’t know >:(“

“He just saw us makeout.”

There was one time you and Obi Wan went out to a war meeting with Anakin, Ahsoka and Plo Koon. You two were given questioning stares by Plo as he briefed everyone and Anakin looked like he was doing everything in his power to not to laugh.

You were completely left in the dark until you finally noticed how much bigger and baggier ‘your’ robe was. It dawned on you that you were wearing Obi Wan’s robes and barely bothered to notice in your hurry to the meeting room.

Why yes, you did force Anakin into secrecy and made the excuse that you and Obi Wan were simply having a meeting before the actual meeting and mixed the robe’s together.

:) you two r cute

> Anakin Skywalker 💫

It’s like Anakin does not care who sees or hears what he says or does to you. He’s so loose with the rules of “no pda” and “no affection”. You can’t count how many times he’d be hurrying kiss after kiss right before a Jedi Master turns the corner.

He’s very expressive with his love. And that can be so great for silent nights of cuddling or sharing a moment but it’s not so great for trying to keep Anakin from kissing your every face in ‘empty’ hallways. I mean, it’s not like you don’t like feeling his kisses and his hugs. It’s just you don’t want the Council to find out.

Anakin admires your lightsaber in his genius engineering way. You don’t think it’s anything fancy, just a lightsaber with a metal hilt but he thinks it’s beautiful. He likes to barely touch the metal and feel where the metal connects. It sort of soothes him. It makes him think about you and you just soothe his anger, his worries and his emotions.

Fighting in the battlefield makes it difficult to be with Anakin. The war has dampen your mood on a more than once occasion. With what you’ve both seen, there’s been many times you urged your clone comrades back into ships in a retreat, worried for Anakin who was still fighting. There were many times, where Anakin was in such a battle frenzy that you had to clash your own lightsaber with his to keep him from doing drastic or crazy things. As much as he dislikes it, you keep in check (or as in check you can keep Anakin Skywalker) and for that he respects what you do.

He’s a jealous man by nature. He’s possessive and protective. You’re never alone, no, Anakin is always there with you whenever you go into an unfamiliar place or planet. No one will ever get the chance to take you from him and no one will ever put you in danger without meeting the wrath of the Chosen One.

Meditating is made easier for him when you’re with him. It’s hard not be calm with you. He loves it when you look so focused and meditated because then he has an open opportunity to mess with you by tugging your nose gently or whispering things like gossip or jokes to you.

Fiery bf and enjoys the fact that you both get to destroy clankers together :)

> Din Djarin 🗡

He doesn’t understand much about the Jedi but he tries for you!! Like, yeah babe go fight people with your large lightsaber :)

He’s so taken back everytime you use the Force. He’s never really seen anyone besides Luke, Grogu and Ahsoka use it, so he’s always thought of it as more of a mystical thing. Kinda like a mythical power only the most powerful and experienced could use or the most naturally gifted could use. Not really a thing someone so close to him could do. He thinks it’s so incredible you can use it. He admires you.

He keeps your lightsaber maintained and SPOTLESS. His shiny Mandalorian armor speaks for itself. And he’d be extremely careful with your lightsaber because he views it as part of you like how he sees his armor as a part of himself. You appreciate how much he takes care of it.

Din understands that you and Grogu share that special bond that only two Force users have. He never gets jealous of that bond between you two because it’s not for him to say or do anything on something Jedi. He respects your Jedi ways as you respect his Mandalorian ways :).

He’s simply just a wonderful boyfriend.

He would want you to explain things about Jedi and things Jedi do that he doesn’t understand. He gets confused with your prophetic dreams and when you explain, you can’t explain what happens. You swear you can see the curiosity and the intrigue in his Mandalorian helmet.

Doesn’t know how to feel when you tell him some Jedi can read emotions and thoughts. Does that mean you know how much he truly loves you? Will you tell his friends and make him get teased? He can’t have Grogu giggling like a little gremlin because you told the baby yoda how much Din thinks about you.

Don’t tease ur poor boy, he stutters and that does not look super cool and super fly for a super tough Mandalorian.

> Han Solo 🥂

“Hey babe can you uh, use the Force or whatever to gimme my screwdriver?”

Han teases you absolutely. Which, how is that possible? You’re a Jedi! Literally a Force user! He probably asks you ridiculous questions like “what Jedi ghosts do you talk to and which ones your favorite? Do any of them like beer?”

And while yes, Han does tease and make you roll your eyes at his dumb questions and comments, you have to also understand how much Han respects and admires your strength. When you enter combat and Force choke a man for hurting Han? He’s simply in awe at your power.

YOU call HIM babygirl

Even though you’re a strong person, Han still does everything he can to protect you. He may not be a great Jedi Master who could stop everyone with simply Jedi mind trick but he’s very confident in his blaster skills. No matter what, Han will always be your first and last line of defense.

During boring rides in the Falcon, he’d ask you to do some weird/entertaining Jedi trick, like make Chewie’s lunch float or make Han work extra hard fixing some part of the Falcon with Jedi mind persuasion.

He once called you the light to his saber and you almost, almost left him in some star system. And Chewie was contemplating leaving you two both.

Okay but Han is incredibly protective of you. No Inquisitor, no Vader, no Emperor and definitely no Empire will ever put their hands on you. You and Chewie mean everything to him. Han loves you and he’d defy the odds to keep the Empire’s slimy paws off of you.

When you two come across Luke you’re ecstatic to meet him! You bond very easily with Luke about both being Force sensitive and having lightsabers. Han at first feels a little sidelined & jealous but he puts his feelings aside to let you bond with someone like you—something you’ve lacked. Besides, he’s gonna be the one holding you in your shared room. Not Luke.

Loving supportive bf :)

> Luke Skywalker 🧃

You met Luke right after the fall of the Empire so for him to meet another Jedi, it was such a magical and chaotic moment. He was out of it for a while with how you were everything he ever thought about.

You were charmed by his boyish charm. The way he’d talk to you about Obi Wan, the way he’d hear your story out, it was so nice to finally meet another Jedi like yourself! It was an instant bond—a love at first sight moment that happened. And ever since that faithful meeting, it’s been smooth sailing.

Helping Luke make his Jedi school, helping Luke deal with his phantom pain due to the loss of his hand, comforting him after horrible and vivid nightmares of Vader and Sidious, you were there for him. You were the ground he could come back to after getting so caught up in the skies. Rebuilding the Jedi was no easy task and he was so happy to have another Jedi there.

Luke is there for you, too. His love filled that empty spot in you and you feel so complete now. Luke promises you that one day, there will be Jedi taking care of all systems in the galaxy. He will be there to guide them and he will be there to rebuild a Jedi Order for you. You two won’t be alone anymore.

His school attracts multiple students. Of all kind. They are asked to shed themselves of biases and of ideologies for the sake of the new Jedi Order. You are there as the second command; helping the new younglings and even now your own Padawan grow in this new world without the oppressive grip of the Empire.

You and your beloved watch the Jedi slowly come back into the world to simply do good for everyone once more. You loved that you could witness it all, that Luke really kept his promise. You don’t think you’ll ever settle down. Not when Luke is right next to you.

Many nights of telling tall tales of adventure, battles and the Rebellion’s triumph over the Empire to the many younglings and the many Jedi sitting down, eagerly hearing how Master Luke was able to overcome great hardships.

:) you two grow old and watch as your successes pay off with many wonderful and powerful Jedi growing from your once little academy.

> Captain Rex 🌜

Rex calls you soldier (romantically) even when it’s suppose to be ‘Jedi Knight’ or ‘Commander’. You’re not sure why, but you accept it. It’s cute and it feels like your own nickname from him.

He thinks you’re a strong and capable Jedi. He will gladly lead his men into battle if you’re next to him leading the charge with him. The confidence you two have in battle and in combat amazes even Anakin.

There’s a reason General Skywalker’s fleet is so successful. Spoilers: it’s you and Rex ;).

Although you feel really bad for not following Jedi Code, you can’t really complain because the kisses and the strong embraces Rex gives you are worth more to you than any rank or any rule the Jedi have. It’s not really a struggle for you, more like an afterthought.

You are loved by his men. You love to encourage the clones and to tell them all how great they’ll be in battle. Besides Anakin, you’re probably his men’s favorite Jedi. Everytime you walk in, you’re greeted with many hello’s and cheerful smiles. And you enjoy how happy Rex seems to have his men appreciate and care for you.

Pressing kisses to his clone helmet before long battles and before going into missions alone.

Writing little love notes so tiny they can only fit in Rex’s pocket so he could constantly glance at them and have something to fight for.

Echo totally knows. But you’re so lucky ‘No Snitch Skywalker’ taught his men not to be snitches. So Echo just teases you two lovebirds before you two start fighting droids in the frontlines. There was a time where Rex destroyed two droids for overstepping an imaginary line that he considered too close to you. That confirmed Echo’s suspicion of his Captain being involved romantically with you; no clone fights that hard without a reason. Without an emotion playing a part.

10/10 bf :)

> Asajj Ventress 🌹

It’s literally a love game for her. Very playful and very sensual. She probably toys with you more than she does with Obi Wan or Anakin combined.

Catwoman and Batman type of dynamic. She always sneaks away from you before you can truly catch her. But, it’s not like you mind it. You’d never admit it to her, but you love the cat and mouse game you two play together. Ventress thinks you’re just the cutest Jedi.

When she’s betrayed by Dooku, you do everything in your Jedi power to find out if she’s okay. You were so worried until a slender and pale figure stood outside in your balcony. She stood there with an uneasy smile and uncharacteristically soft eyes. Your embrace felt like a home she didn’t really know. And your shared kiss was full of relief and passion.

Despite the games and the running away and the chasing, that soft underbelly of your relationship is everything when it rears its head. The soft moments that Ventress shows; the vulnerability she gives you after a hard few months in her life. It all feels so rewarding after the struggle of gaining her trust and love.

Nobody but you two know about one another. The soft touches in the rough and ugly green streets of lower Coruscant is something only you two share. The sketchy meetings in the sketchiest of alleys just to embrace and catch up. The ‘missions’ you take to see her again.

Ventress is very protective and sorta jealous but not as bad as Anakin. She only calls herself silly and slides those jealous feelings to side so she can really embrace you like a lover. Nobody ever hurts you or even puts a weapon up to you if she can help it. You’re hers and after what she’s gone through and what people have taken from her, she’s got nothing to fear.

She teases you as a ‘bad Jedi’ for violating the code for someone as ‘despicable’ as her. But really, you don’t see it that way. You see it as you finding your other half—just on the wrong team at first!

#star wars x reader #obi wan kenobi x reader #anakin skywalker x reader #din djarin x reader #luke skywalker x reader #han solo x reader #captain rex x reader #star wars #obi wan and anakin #asajj ventress #asajj ventress x reader #jedi order

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sleepyconfusedpotato · 2 years

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Task Force 141 Mostly Random and Domestic Head Cannons

Here are few questionable head cannons of the boys that nobody asked for that I came up with on a whim cuz I can't sleep.

💰 Captain Price 💰

Price can play saxophone and trumpet. More towards the saxophone. He has a collection of Kenny G album vinnyl disks that he'd play in his house.

He has a calico cat named Greg.

Collects watches as a hobby, from the antiques to the modern ones.

Supports Liverpool and sometimes would catch their matches on TV. Not a crazy fan like Ghost and Gaz though.

King of Poker. Nobody in the task force can beat him.

🇬🇧 Kyle "Gaz" Garrick 🇬🇧

That one British dude who likes coffee more than tea.

Fan of Arsenal. Actual Gooner who has posters and mugs with Arsenal logo printed on them.

Earlier of his teenage days, Gaz randomly wanted to learn beatbox. He got good at it and would often show it off to his friends. Over time, he lost interest in it and forgot about it. If you ask him to do some beatboxing he can still do it, but you gotta wait for it for the muscle memory to come back.

Arguably the most fashionable man in 141. When off-duty he'd show up with drip. His effortless swag goes along with any clothes.

🧼 Soap 🧼

Learned music theory and actually was a member of his high school vocal group and church choir, Soap has a beautiful barritone voice that can belt out "Why Do The Nations So Furiously Rage" by Handel and "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose."

INVESTED in Eurovision. Would watch every country's song and critiques each one. Could go MAD about it.

Definitely the dude who sings in showers.

Fan of Take That. He dreamed of singing Million Love Songs to his one true love.

Idk why but I feel like Soap is that guy who can solve rubik's cube.

💀 Ghost 💀

Actual fan of Machester City. Would fight other clubs' fans if they're losing on TV and would 100% stomp on them.

Proficient bass guitar player. Can definitely slap.

Ghost can sew. In fact, he costumizes all his skeleton attributes himself. From numbers of masks to gloves, he made it all himself.

Watches Anime. He watches the classic shounen animes like Naruto, One Piece, and Dragon Ball. He likes the actions and the thrill of it.

CLEAN FREAK. Contrary to his rugged look and personality he always keep his belongings clean and neat.

🦵 Alex Echo 3-1 🦿

Another one of idk why but I feel like Alex's real name is Alexander Hamilton. His parents were either a historian or a musical enthusiast, no in between.

Watches NFL. Idolizes Tom Brady as the god-quarterback. In fact he ALMOST got drafted into NFL but got into the millitary instead.

Plays Tekken on a daily basis and unexpectedly mains Yoshimitsu for his eccentric design and moves.

Alex got a full-sleeve tattoo on both arms to cover the cigarette stick burns he got during his millitary days.

Skilled in playing the guitar. His fingerstyles are GODLY.

Alex sometimes sketch a few doodles on his journal.

🦗 Roach 🦗

Owns a grey Great Dane named Ms. Bella Donna, who's apparently oblivious of her size and a total lap dog. She'd leap at Roach when he gets home after deployment.

A fan of the Star Wars franchise. Major fan of Darth Vader and would quote him every chance he got. Collects figurines of Vader and Maul and even plays Star Wars : Battlefront.

True to his name, Roach isn't afraid of cockroaches, or any animal, really. Gary is the Task Force 141's #1 animal control man.

Roach can play the drum. He had a drum kit given to him by his parents as a kid and started doing them as a hobby.

-----

There it goes! This is the result of my domestic-HC-cravings which I decided to indulge myself. Feel free to add more LOL ◉‿◉

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acourtofsnakes · 1 year

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Desolation - Freefall, Chapter 4 || The Bad Batch x Jedi!Reader

Summary: Can you always trust a Force vision? Knowing what Anakin saw of his mother, you've always believed in them. But the things you see... They might just be the end of you.

Warnings: 18+, TBB Season 2 finale spoilers, extensive injuries, descriptions of drugs, blood, falls, canon violence and weapons, swearing, nicknamed reader (Ghost)

A/N: A good chunk of this chapter will describe in detail the events of the finale. I wrote this chapter shortly after watching it and needed to get that emotion out somewhere. I am more than happy to send an edited version without those scenes, just shoot me a message✨

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist

Now

During your time with the boys, you had never felt a hand of violence. Never seen anger in their eyes, never seen them look upon you in disgust or confusion. You had never watched their expression glaze over when you went on an infodump about something, and they never rolled their eyes when you struggled to explain the howling storm inside your head and chest.

Even after everything, Crosshair never laid a hand in you with the intention to hurt. Ever.

There may have been fury in his eyes sometimes but there was never violence toward you.

Not from any of them.

Not like now.

Your body screamed, howled with agony every time your heart struggled to beat, to push blood around your shattered form.

Every breath was a mixture of fires hotter than Mustafar, ice colder than Hoth and lightning fiercer than Kamino. As if someone was pouring jet fuel into your lungs and setting it ablaze.

You didn’t feel the cold anymore though, so that was something.

Everything was a drug fuelled haze, the very life, the Force, in you choked and restrained, leaving you shaking, numb, cut off from the world and the living energy of everything.

It was like being in a pit in the darkest, deepest corner of the Galaxy.

Of course, there were days where you were in somewhere just like that.

Not a pi though, but a box.

A coffin, almost. They’d found it in the rubble of the Clone War, copied its designs and commissioned a handful to be made for moments like this.

If it could hold Darth Maul, it could hold you.

That’s what they said.

You’d never be able to break out of that, regardless of your power being up by what Anakin’s used to be.

Don’t worry about her, she’s too weak to be a threat. Not anymore.

Were you still a threat?

You didn’t know now.

You flexed your fingers as much as you could, feeling the dried blood crack on your skin, thick and itchy.

They hadn’t bothered to clean you off before they hauled you in here, the screams of their brethren still echoing from your loss of control, the moment where you snapped and let that beast rage free.

I let it out, Crosshair.

But you weren’t there to see it.

None of you were.

The liquid they pumped into you felt heavy in your veins, sick, wrong. It dragged through your body, leaving it icy cold and numb. The force presence in your soul was limp, whimpering in agony from the effects of the cage, so ravaged that it couldn’t even alert you to the fact this drug was poison of the worst kind, chugging slowly towards your brain.

It was slow enough that you felt it, felt the way it left nothing behind, dragging the life from your body so delicately, so painfully that it was as if you felt every single limb go dead and weak.

You were effectively paralysed, lungs feeling like duracrete was being poured into them, each breath like shallow fire.

It slowed down your heart, so slowly you swore you could hear each tendon and muscle pushing blood that was too thick and too cold into unresponsive veins.

Then it reached your mind.

It paused, as if assessing where to begin but then it tore through your mental shields, destroying you so potently from within that you were out cold in less than a second, flung into a heavy oblivion that weighed in from all sides, stuffing down your throat and ears, strangling you within your own body, leaving you defenceless and subservient as that crackling, thundering fight dragged out of you in an instant.

You were crushed in that awful place for what felt like forever yet no time at all, for then you were dumped into the middle of a storm, the sky roaring in fury, crashing, echoing like it was trying to come apart as harsh lightning forked across the sky with enough power to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

Then you were knocked sideways between one blink and the next, suddenly on a traincart hundreds and hundreds of feet in the air. It was rocking heavily side to side, that sickening screech of metal protesting as it barely hung on.

Bright, searing bolts shot past on all sides, whizzing through the air from the TIE fighters advancing in relentless waves.

It was clear that luck was not on the boy's side, even though you flung your hands out to try and deflect the bolts. But nothing happened. Nothing.

“Hunter!!! Hunter, we need to get this cart moving, they’re going to swarm us.” You looked around frantically for something, anything to help… Yet Hunter didn’t respond. He just kept firing, like he hadn’t heard you.

That was weird.

You frowned at the side of his face, drawing your sabers and you lifted them to try and deflect this way - but the shots went straight through.

It’s like… Like you weren’t here.

Present yet invisible.

Confusion clouded your mind until a memory surfaced from the fog, one of Anakin, frantically pacing in front of you, sandy hair in wild disarray as he recounted the dreams he had been having of his mother, how he was there with her but could do nothing.

Visions, brought forward through the force, sometimes seconds in advance, sometimes right in that moment.

Which meant whilst you were here, bound and gagged in a beskar box, your boys were fighting for their lives.

And you could do nothing to help.

There were no words for the terror you were feeling, side by side with Hunter as he fought for his life, shooting down TIE fighters with nothing but his blasters, but for every single fighter that fell from the sky, another took its place, battering the cart with relentless shots.

“Hurry up, Tech!!!” Wrecker’s strained voice rumbled from somewhere behind you, and you spun round to see Omega and Wrecker hovering at the end of the card, Wrecker’s hands wrapped around the very framework of the adjoining one and his muscles rippling as he fought to keep it stable.

But then that meant…

Your heart dropped somewhere to the ground below, and you raced across the cart, the debris causing you no trouble as you simply passed through it like a phantom. Thankfully, that would mean your weight couldn’t shift anything, because…

Because what you saw over Wrecker’s shoulder was enough to churn your stomach and rip away every single breath and coherent thought you had.

Tech was dangling below the destroyed cart, his grappling line looped around the frame as he pulled himself up as quick as he could, one hand over the other, up up up but it felt like he was gaining no ground, still stuck in the same place as another wave of attacks rattled the entire structure. Metal screeched and rumbled, the sound tearing through your limbs because there was only one way this thing was going to end.

Omega sobbed, dancing on her feet behind Wrecker, her bow drawn in readiness but the tears building in her eyes were going to make any target a blurry mess. You would know, you felt the same. “Come on, Tech, just a little more, you have to hurry!!” The fear in her words was so potent, so raw that it caused a sob to wrack in your chest and you looked down at Tech, wishing you could be there, could be truly beside these boys so you could help.

You could have had him up now, safe, all of them safe.

“I can’t keep them back for much longer, there’s too many of them!!” For the first time in the entire time you knew him, there was panic in Hunter’s words, a franticness that was so different to his usual composure.

It was like that moment in a bad dream, the second right before you fell, that one moment where primal instinct told you that you couldn’t make it. That nothing you did would get you out of this.

Tech looked over his shoulder at the rising attacks, the whir and hum of more fighters approaching, the onslaught of enemy fire becoming something that would be impossible to fight, even if you had been there with sabers in hand, “Wrecker, you must take Omega and Hunter and leave me, get back to Echo. Now!”

No, no no no no no - you knew that tone. You’d heard that tone from so many of your friends, so many of your loved ones over the years. And it always ended in agony.

“No.” Wrecker’s snarl was more animal than human, violent almost in its outright intense refusal. “Don’t you dare. That’s an order, Tech.”

Omega was choking on sobs now, trying to get past Wrecker but he was managing to block her as well as hold onto the bars, “Tech no, please!! Please don’t do this, you can get up, you can do it!” She threw her bow to the side, ducking underneath Wrecker’s arm and she flung her own out into open space, “Here! Take my hand, take it!! I can pull you up - please Tech!” Her body was hanging far too close over the edge, and Wrecker shifted, his boot coming across to in front of her knees, bracing her but he made no moves to stop her - he couldn’t.

Tech slowly looked up, his honey eyes heavy and weighted. Knowing. “When have we ever followed orders, Wrecker?” He sounded weary, as if… As if he’d already accepted what was to happen. He lifted his hand, his blaster nestled between his fingers and he took aim at the bolts holding the cart to the line, his aim as sure as Crosshair’s, as calculated and perfect. “Bring Ghost home safe.”

And then if in slow motion, his finger squeezed down on the trigger, the blaster bolt cutting through the air, through your heart.

Time sped up again and your silent scream tore through your body, helpless to be heard or to help, yet echoed by Wrecker’s roar of anguish as the structure slipped through his palms, cutting deep.

Omega’s mirroring scream as both Tech and the cart fell, his eyes drifting to the space where you were, widening for a second as if he could see you there.

Before you could do anything, you were flung sideways, everything going black before it exploded into colour again, damp clouds flashing past your vision, the sickening sense of every organ, every drop of blood being propelled the opposite way as your body hurtled toward the ground with unstoppable force.

You were in Tech’s body.

It was only when the clouds, smoke and debris blocked his vision that he allowed himself a cry of fear, instantly snatched away by the wind, his breath coming in short, sharp pants.

Through the haze of terror in his brain, he frantically tried to think of a way out of this, think of something he could do, something he could use to stop his fall and get back to his brothers - but he came up empty. There was nothing. He couldn’t do anything.

He could only watch the display through his visor, the number of feet dropping so quickly that the symbols were a blur as the ground came racing up toward him.

At least he managed to save his brothers, give them the chance they needed to escape, to get to you and save you.

Bring you home, finally.

A sense of peace washed over him, washed over you, the pair of you spinning through the air, down, down, down.

When his descent dropped into triple figures, he closed his eyes. A single breath, drawn in, filling his lungs, his last image not that of the debris rushing down to meet him, but of his family.

All of his brothers, together, laughing with Omega.

Of you, in the middle, laughing with your head tipped back and not an inch of a stormcloud weighing down on any of you.

Double figures.

Then single.

Then… Nothing.

He was gone.

Yet, if you thought this vision would end there, you were so very wrong.

Now, you were in Hunter’s body, silence raging in his head above the chaos of battle around him, because he could no longer hear his brother’s rapid heartbeat.

He heard the impact, the thud of bone on duracrete, the screech of metal - a cacophony of sounds that would hound him for the rest of his days.

He couldn’t think.

Couldn’t do anything.

Tech was gone, he was dead, and he could do nothing to stop it.

He had failed his brothers, and he had failed you.

He wasn’t a leader, and he never would be.

A leader wouldn’t let their family die.

Seconds flew past, maybe hours and you were suddenly with Hunter, Omega, Echo and Wrecker, into the parlour.

The very still, very quiet parlour.

Empty.

Desolate.

Like a literal ghost, you travelled through the Force alongside Hunter, as he knocked on the door to a back room and entered.

Omega was sitting up in the cot inside, hugging Lula to her chest, tears still tracking silently down her bruised cheeks.

Whatever had happened in the latest vision jump had caused her injuries as well, scrapes on her arms too. Something else that ripped guilt through him, and you.

“Tell me this is all a dream, Hunter.” Omega’s voice was so torn, so broken as she looked at Lula’s face, hands squishing her plush body, “Tell me none of this is real and I’ll wake up and everyone will still be here.”

Hunter swallowed, his eyes squeezing shut for a second, pain evident in every line of his body, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s time we stop fighting and… rest.” Even now, the words felt foreign in his mouth, “The time we had on Pabu, it was what we all needed, I think.” He looked down at his hands, hanging loosely between his spread thighs, “We’re going to clear things up officially with Cid, then head there. To stay. Be a.. Be a family.”

Omega’s lower lip trembled again, a sob breaking free and her little body bowed forward over her knees, crushing Lula to her chest, “A family? Half of our family is gone, Hunter.” Her words were almost indistinguishable through her sobs, pain that a child should never feel, even though technically, she was older than them.

But without the accelerated ageing, she was still a child. And despite how well she kept up, she wasn’t a soldier.

Hunter’s face collapsed, his back straightening as he watched her crumble, his own eyes glassy and he whispered, near silently, “I really wish you were here, Ghost.” He shuffled over on the bed, winding an arm around Omega’s shoulders, and then coaxing her into his chest.

You were almost expecting it this time, being going through the Force, but it was only a few metres now.

The main parlour, only an hour later by the looks of the dusty chrono on the wall.

Wrecker looked up from his slumped over position at the bar, their usual table too painful and too full of memories, “She okay?” His voice was devoid of its usual fervour, his usual energy sapped from him.

From your space across the parlour, you could see the anguish etched on his face.

He was the strong one of the team, the literal muscle that always forced their way through any situation where delicacy didn’t work.

He was the one holding the train cart.

He should have been strong enough.

He should have saved Tech.

Hunter shook his head, pausing in the middle of the parlour, at a loss at where to put himself, “No. Not at all.” He sighed, head ducking down to stare at the floor, his hands curling into fists, “I don’t know how to make this right, Wrecker. We were supposed to save Ghost. We were supposed to get Crosshair back. We weren’t supposed to…”

Wrecker turned on his stool, facing Hunter and by theory, you. “This wasn’t your fault, Hunter. This…” He sighed, slumping even more, “It just went wrong.”

Hunter opened his mouth, but he froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up again with sluggish warning.

But, yet again, for what seemed to be the hundredth time lately… he was too slow.

The parlour was filled with the unwelcome sound of swift feet marching in, controlled and precise footsteps, the clatter of armour plates against one another.

The doorways were suddenly choked with the imposing presence of the Commando’s, their visors glowing the dim white-blue that was a painful reminder of your sabers.

Wrecker was off his stool in an instant, his rage and pain fuelling him as he leapt for the closest handful despite the brace around his neck.

“Wrecker!!!” Hunter lunged for his brother, yanking his blade free but more Commandos came flooding in, cutting them off from each other.

He too engaged with the closest enemy, delivering a swift blow to the Commando’s arm, causing him to drop his weapon and allowing Hunter to plunge his blade between the armour on his chest and helmet.

Yet again, you were helpless, watching the battered remnants of your family fight for the lives mere hours after they’d been ripped apart looking for you.

You had no idea where Echo had gotten to, or if Omega was okay, pinned helpless in this vision like a butterfly.

Wreckers grunts and growls echoed under the blast of weapons, the crashing of furniture as bodies and blasts flew into it.

But the boys were broken, inside and out.

They were injured.

Their usual deadly precision was tipping closer to a frantic desperation, clawing at escape and defence rather than their unbreakable offensive manoeuvres.

Everything blurred to sound and colour before Wrecker’s roar of agony shattered the cacophony, his body being pulled to the ground by the stinging clash of a dozen stuns, forcing him to his knees whilst restraints were slapped on him.

Hunter’s head whipped toward him, his growl of anguish swallowed as he too was taken down with a vicious punch to the head, leaving him reeling and collapsing to one knee.

“Stop fighting, Sergeant. Or your brother joins the rest of them.” The Commando holding Wrecker jammed a blaster into the side of his head, safety flicked off and finger hovering over the trigger.

But the thing is, Wrecker didn’t even try and fight. At full strength, he could have easily overpowered them… But he just stayed there. Back slumped over, head hanging as low as his brace would allow him. There was no fight left in his body, no spark.

He’d given up.

Hunter snarled at the Commando, fighting against the hands working to pull his arms behind his back, hair falling in his wild eyes, teeth bared.

He was an injured animal on the back foot, desperately trying to protect his broken pack, to tear apart the enemy and hold onto whatever semblance of safety they had left.

You were forced to watch as Hunter was restrained, a hand gripping the back of his head, forcing it down toward the ground. His eyes flickered as another set of footsteps appeared behind you, revulsion written clear on Hunter’s face.

Yet that wasn’t what scared you.

What terrified you the most was what you felt in his signature.

Guilt and pain so potent it nearly choked you, fury that could rival the fires of your own, bitter desperation, but underneath all that?

The faintest trace of hopelessness and fear.

Before you could try and help to no avail, the edges of your vision started to blur and you felt the overarching suffocation of that previous darkness.

The vision was coming to an end, muffling your ears so all you caught were the faint snippets of words.

“A shame about your brothers.”

“-Could do nothing to help them.”

Omega’s scream of fear, so young, so helpless.

“-Broken promises.”

“-found your brother outside.” “-killed him, of course. I have no use for clones who aren’t whole and CT-one-four-oh-nine should have died a long time ago.”

Oh stars, no, Echo. He was… No no no no.

Hunter and Wrecker’s combined roars of anguish.

The hissing spark of them being stunned.

With a scream that echoed in your own mind, you tried to swim back through that oppressive shroud, needing to hear, needing to know -

“-We caught him helping you. Warning you.”

“…such behaviour cannot be condoned, of course. He might have been useful but he was a traitor. First to you, then to the Empire.”

“A waste of a good soldier and sniper, but necessary.”

Crosshair was gone too.

It was too much, too much to bear.

The vision was nearly fading, your family falling apart one by one, and right before your head broke the surface, you heard blaster shots.

Three of them, the impression of their fire like muted lightning in oblivion.

Three shots, for three remaining members of your family.

Then silence.

There was no relief when reality came flooding back by way of the cage.

The agony was too raw, too potent, too fucking suffocating. It wrapped beskar hands around your throat and restricted, it ripped your heart and lungs from your chest.

It tore through you with a pain unlike anything you’d ever felt before. You’d lost your family. You’d lost your friends after the Order, and that almost broke you. But you didn’t see that. You were with the boys. Your boys. Family.

And you just watched them die.

You just watched them die and you weren’t there to save them. You could have. You could have stopped Tech falling. You could have stopped Hunter from losing control for the first time and Wrecker being used as bait. Crosshair wouldn’t be dead trying to protect them and Echo wouldn’t have been shot outside, alone. And Omega…

You were supposed to save each other, that's what you did, you looked after one another and fought anyone who tried to change that.

The hands pulling you from the cage felt simultaneously like fire, burning your skin, your bones, making you want to rip them off yet you also couldn’t feel them.

You couldn’t feel anything except this pain, this agony and fury and rage that you couldn’t save them, building up and up and up.

The pressure in the room filled too, the air becoming charged, zapping and pinging against people's skin but they passed it off as an off-charge from the cage.

Fools.

Their clipped words to put you back in your cell, restrain you until you gained consciousness fell against your body and to the ground uselessly.

Falling.

When do we ever follow orders?

He was right.

Something snapped. That energy, the link to the rest of the world came roaring back to life, almost knocking you back.

With a hoarse scream that was more tortured animal, more tortured beast of vengeance than human, you exploded.

Force-fuelled lightning crackled out from your fingertips, from your feet, your eyes, everywhere. It burst from you like you were the centre of a galaxy-shattering storm, filling the room with its blinding white glow, shorting out the electronics.

The sparking, forked tips found their purchase in the scientists surrounding you, burrowing under armour and helmets to bare skin, to vital organs and frying them from the inside out.

You fell to your knees, fingers scrabbling on the ground as you vowed an unbreakable promise to the galaxy, to the Maker, that you would make every single person suffer, find every single one who’d ever hurt your family, your boys, and you’d rip them to shreds.

Then you’d join your family.

Tears streaked your face in an endless torrent, chest caving open and you were still sparking and exploding like a star, so you were helpless to notice the gas filling the room, the polished boots suddenly inches from your face.

You didn’t even feel the disturbance in the force, the vile poison spreading through the room and making the life energy itself recoil.

“Well, this is just fascinating, isn’t it?”

That voice. That voice saying his words.

That quiet, silken, sick voice that stole along the corridors of this facility, more monster than anything.

Everything was growing hazy and dark, your senses screaming at you that there was something wrong with the air, something tainted and foul but it was lost to the pool of darkness, sinking to the bottom like rocks.

His boot moved to tuck under your chin, forcing your head to lift from the ground and for your tear-filled eyes to meet his unnaturally blue ones, one half of his face in shadow.

Hemlock smirked at you, face full of violent delight even as his workers smouldered and smoked around him, and you snarled at him, ““I had a feeling that would work. Now, let’s get to it, shall we?”

He removed his foot as quickly as he’d lifted your head, causing your chin to smash into the floor and your teeth to sink into your lip.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t breath, couldn’t think.

It was almost a relief to succumb to the gas in the air and drown in the dark again.

Hunter jerked awake, that sense of other pulling him from slumber, telling him to get up, that there was danger.

He lifted his head from the bunk, finding his hand curled around his blade already, yet the Marauder was silent. As always.

They were in the middle of hyperspace, so the chances of danger were few and far between - but you never know.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up and he paused for a second, just to listen.

Nothing. Just the sounds of his brother's breathing. And Wrecker’s snoring.

Yet he couldn’t shake it, the ripple down his back, the tightness to his skin.

It was a cold breath along the back of his neck, a flutter in the air around him, something deeper than a gut feeling.

His fingers tapped along the hilt of his blade before he sheathed it, the faint sing of metal providing a small pocket of calm but he was too agitated, too wound up.

Waiting.

Something was inherently wrong, but it was nothing here, nothing he could see or touch. But it was there.

He rose from the bed, moving through the ship on silent footsteps, keen eyes roaming the dark recesses and shadows, checking everywhere even though he knew.

He knew deep down what this was, what had pulled him from his slumber.

As he passed out of the bunk area, his gaze snagged on the fact there was an empty bed - another empty bed.

Hunter moved through to the front of the ship, the glimmering lights of hyperspace casting a cobalt glow over everything, softening the instruments and chairs, the metal hull. He’d often wake up in the middle of the night and find you here, cross legged on the floor, just watching out the windows as the galaxy flew past. Sometimes you were looking for Purrgils, other times you were lost to memories that he didn’t want to break you out of, so he would just sit by you, his foot resting against your leg to let you know he was still here.

Right now though, it wasn’t you seated in the empty cockpit, it was Echo.

He was leaning forward, elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands, apparently lost to memories too. His foot tapped absently on the floor, and it was that agitated movement that told Hunter that he wasn’t the only one who felt this disturbance.

“You felt it too.” Hunter sat down in the pilot’s chair, spinning it round to face Echo, his agitation clear as day and humming in the air.

Echo lifted his eyes to Hunter, then his head, his pale golden eyes shadowed, swallowed up by memories that Hunter couldn’t fix. You were the only one who had that ability, you and Rex alone. “Back when I was an Arc Trooper, with Ghost… She’d have these moments.” He hesitated, as if he didn’t feel right sharing this information. But he wasn’t blind, he saw the connection you had with Hunter, knew that he was probably somewhat aware, “Moments where… where everything built up inside her. She used to say it felt like pressure, like something waiting to snap.”

His eyes were glazed still, moving to stare unseeingly at some point in the corner.

Hunter half mirrored Echo’s position, leaning over, forearms on his thighs and his hands dangling between as he willed his body to be still, despite that humming agitation, “Like she has now?” He refused to talk in the past tense when referring to you.

Echo nodded faintly, his hand curling into a fist and then relaxing, “Being a Jedi Commander, she had to muffle it, learn to not let it control her and to let it go. She would try mediation, but we could see it in her eyes when it was threatening to swallow her.” He barely blinked, entire body rigid, “Rex would try and help her the way he helped General Skywalker sometimes, but it wasn’t enough. Something else was battling her, the rage from losing her family, the fact she never quite fit in…” Now he moved, ducking his head to stare at his scomp with a tense jaw.

Hunter watched his friend, his brother, almost seeing the memories hovering around him, the battle going on in his mind but he stayed quiet, letting Echo take his time and talk. He’d learnt that from Rex. Sometimes being a leader meant knowing when to back off.

His brother sighed softly, brows lowered heavy over his eyes, “I was with her the first time it happened. It was after a hard mission, we lost a lot of men and a couple of Jedi too. That, combined with…” He hesitated, still loyal to his Jedi Commander, even now, “Combined with something.. It triggered her and she just exploded.” He twisted his scomp side to side absently, “It was like being in the middle of an electrical storm. There was lightning everywhere, from her hands, her body… It blew across the field and turned half the rubble to ash almost instantly.”

Hunter sat up a little straighter, because they’d all seen the hints of that force lightning, seen you wield it in the most dire situations.

To him, it was an asset. A weapon you could utilise, something part of you, something… beautiful, actually.

Yet it had been so ingrained into you that force lightning was wrong, it was a mark of the Sith, that you almost always fell victim to guilt, frustration and endless darkness afterwards.

Echo was still talking, “It didn’t hurt me though.. She never hurt me.” He touched a hand to his chest, palm splaying out over it, “But I felt it. I felt a glimmer of her pain in my own chest.” Now he looked at Hunter, his expression one Hunter had never seen before on his brother but he recognised, “And I felt it again tonight. And I know you felt something too.”

He looked at Echo quietly for a second, denial coating his tongue like acid, then he swallowed, his own fists curling up on his thighs, “We don’t know that, we don’t know that there’s something wrong.”

There couldn’t be. Because if they’d both felt it, if Hunter’s senses had felt it from wherever you were… You weren’t just in pain or in danger.

You were in utter turmoil.

Echo opened his mouth to argue, but he was cut off by the scuff of boots, and Tech’s voice, “Neither of you are wrong, Hunter.” He walked into the cockpit, doing a double take at Hunter in his spot. His fingers twitched on his datapad, gloves flexing but he kept walking anyway, pressing a few buttons in the instrument panel, “My scanners picked up a significant disturbance in the force at the same time you both felt something.”

Hunter blinked a few times, looking up at the side of Tech’s head, “You’ve been monitoring the force? How is that even possible?” He paused, “Why didn’t you tell us?” This last question was more a demand, his voice hardening but he couldn’t help it. This was important, something they all should have known.

Tech glanced at him over his shoulder, his own honey eyes unusually hard, as was the tone in his voice, “Rex.” He stated it so bluntly in response to the first question that it left no room for argument, “To answer your second question, you are all aware that I have been monitoring a number of data points to look for Ghost. I did not realise I would need to give you an extensive list.” That bite, the cold tone of his voice told Hunter everything, that they were all dancing on a knife’s edge at what this data meant.

A shrill beeping cut him off mid-sentence, cutting through the air of the ship like a wounded animal.

There were footsteps at the door, and then Wrecker’s voice as he reached up to cover his ears, “Aahh!! Make it stop!!” He glared at Tech’s datapad, the source of the sound. “What is that?!”

Tech frowned for a split second then looked down at the pad, “That would be another alert that I set up to monitor comms chatter.” He tapped a few things, then that frowned returned, “Interesting.”

The tone of Tech’s voice immediately set Hunter on edge even more, something tiptoeing down his spine, waiting. “Tech.” He tried to keep the irritation and impatience out of his voice, because it wasn’t his brother's fault but he knew something was about to happen, and he’d already made Tech snap at him once.

“It appears we have been sent a comms message from the Ojoster sector. A planet called Weyland.” He adjusted his goggles, tapping the screen, “I have begun a decoding program on the message.”

Echo was frowning, looking at Tech but unseeingly, like he was trying to work something out, muttering the name over again.

Hunter cocked his head, leaning further across his chair again, arms crossed over his chest, “Echo? What is it?” He observed his brother carefully, “You know that name, don’t you? That planet?”

He shook his head slightly, “I don’t know. It sounds familiar, maybe, but only in a passing comment. I’m sure…” He trailed off, then lifted his head to look at Hunter, something in his eyes.

There was that feeling again, a whisper in the back of his mind, that voice that taunted Hunter with the knowledge he couldn’t grasp yet. “Tech, any chance you can hurry that message up?” Each second was feeling like an eternity, an anxious energy humming through his body, making him want to pace, to run, shoot something, find you.

Hunter quelled this uncharacteristic franticness, allowing himself a deep, slow breath.

Rex wouldn’t lose his head over this. He would be calm, efficient. He would gather all of the information and then make his plan.

Except, as his eyes drifted to Echo again, he remembered a time when Rex was anything but that steady presence of calm. He was almost wild compared to his usual demeanour, desperate even.

Because he knew something wasn’t right and his brother was hurt.

Just before Hunter thought he might explode out of his skin, Tech straightened, “Here. It’s ready.” He pressed play on the datapad, and Hunter was sure no one missed the way his fingers trembled as they all leant in.

There was a burst of static, an echo, before a voice came over - a droids flat tone, “The storm is coming. I repeat, the storm is coming.”

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

The comms message plinked and then played from the beginning again those words echoing around the ship and their very souls.

That message was a distress code, a code given to you when you were separated. The Batch had a code for themselves, but this was yours.

Except that wasn’t what the issue was.

“Hunter…” Echo was even paler than usual, his golden honey eyes heavy, knowing.

You had never, ever used your distress code. Not even when you were facing down an entire army, not even when your ship was tumbling through space with no engines, no fuel, no brakes.

Not even when you’d been taken from them in an explosion that Hunter still heard in every hour of his waking and sleeping mind.

So it could only mean one thing.

“It’s a trap.” Even Wrecker’s voice had dropped a level, a similar expression of sickness but growing anger, fury even, that you’d been taken in the first place.

Something rose in Hunter’s chest, a roaring beast of rage, terror, guilt, but above all, fierce protection. That heat seeped through his blood, clearing his head and he yanked his helmet back on with a roll of his shoulders, “Of course it’s a trap. Which means Ghost needs our help more than ever.” He rose from the pilot's chair, a sergeant commanding his army, “Tech, change course from Moraband to Weyland. I want the fastest route there, now. Someone contact Rex and see if he can meet us there.” He turned to face the lights of hyperspace, letting out a breath as he finally realised what those senses were screaming at him, and they finally had a course for you.

We’re coming, Ghost.

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