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See, this was why Obi-Wan had so much trouble sleeping. It was those blasted Force visions. Master Qui-Gon might pat Obi-Wan on the shoulder, but on a fundamental level he didn’t get visions from the Unifying Force and could be unwittingly dismissive. The other person present was Satine, the young Duchess of Mandalore, the very person he was protecting, but she was a Force null. Besides, it would be unprofessional to saddle her with the emotional labor of comforting him. She was a cut-and-dried Mandalorian, anyway, although she could be quite passionate when Master Qui-Gon wasn’t watching.
He closed his eyes again, for another attempt at sleep. Do or do not, there is no try, the creaky, oddly smirky voice of Master Yoda rang in his ears. Obi-Wan had spent his teenage years learning the hard way that simple and easy were not entirely synonymous.
A mature warrior in the prime of her life stood before a small but clearly deep pool, her flame-haired head bowed in reverence at the sacred site. She was in full beskar’gam, her buy’ce tucked under one arm. Obi-Wan couldn’t see her face, but there was something intensely familiar about her, as if he had always known her, like she was in fact him.
After a long moment, she lifted her face and turned to go, her silent prayer finished, and sure enough Obi-Wan recognized her face as being a feminine version of his own, in terms of the line of her jaw, the width of her nose, the placement of her eyes. Her eyes were a pure green, not the same blue-green-grey color-shifting hue as his own. This Mandalorian woman had symbols and marks painted on her armor that suggested Clan Kryze. As he watched her leave the holy cave, Obi-Wan was walloped with the sense that this woman was himself from another timeline, or—his daughter or mother or sister. He barely knew the name of his own birth planet; was he actually Mandalorian by birth himself?
The verd was most of the way out of the cave, in the shadow by the exit, when another person entered the cave from another entrance. This was a man with no markings on his armor. He came closer to the water, then began stripping off his beskar’gam, until he was completely naked except for his buy’ce. He looked around again before removing this as well. Obi-Wan could see the man’s olive skin and dark curls, his soulful dark eyes, his warrior’s physique, everything. The man stepped into the water, submerged himself to the neck, and closed his eyes.
At this point the woman from earlier also emerged, then gathered up the man’s clothes and armor, especially his helmet, and left the cave, only to return a few minutes later. She came to the edge of the water and stood, arms akimbo, watching the man.
He opened his eyes and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw her, moving his hands to try to cover his face. “I—if I’m seen without my helmet, I’m not a Mandalorian anymore, and I came here to be cleansed of my transgressions against the Code.” The man was leaking panic.
“That’s ridiculous.” The woman moved closer. “I’m not wearing my helmet but I’m still a Mandalorian, still the Mand’alor.” She patted the hilt of a saber clipped to her belt.
“My Mand’alor.” The man shrank in on himself, confused.
“How about if I join you in the water?” The woman began removing her armor as well, not waiting for a reply. The man kept his face down as she stripped down to her lifeday suit, but was stealing glances.
Once the woman was completely naked, she stepped into the water and moved as close to the man as she could get. “I’ve had my eye on you for a while. You’re a good warrior, have integrity. You’re also prone to water accidents. I like you and want to ensure your survival. So I’m joining you.”
He remained speechless for a long moment before letting his shoulders drop. “I—I didn’t dare say it out loud, but I like you, too. Not just as my Mand’alor. It’s a pity you’re dar’manda because you regularly take your helmet off. I suppose I’m dar’manda now, too.”
“Isn’t there a caveat about taking helmets off in front of intimate partners? If so, I can help.” The way she flirted was very much the way Duchess Satine did. Mandalorian women could be quite blunt.
“I don’t think so, but who am I to turn down my Mand’alor?” The man’s voice was full of smirk as he leaked giddy anticipation, even joy. He wanted this.
The woman came even closer, going so far as to wrap her arms around the man, touch her forehead to his, and go in for a Republic kiss, mouth-to-mouth. “I have half a mind to keep your clothes and armor hidden forever, to trap you here as my lover. A gross misuse of the power and authority vested in me.”
The man let out a sad chuckle. “If you won’t let me go until I let you have your way with me, until I agree to be your consort, you won’t get much thrill of the chase. Not unless the mythosaur that I was told lives down here tries to eat me.”
“Because you’re a scrumptious morsel.” The woman squeezed him again. “Din Djarin. Will you marry me, be my consort, share all, together or apart, raise warriors with me?” The woman went in for the kill.
“I thought you’d never ask. Yes, of course.” The man snuggled into her, his hands roaming over the underwater part of her body.
“Let’s fuck right now, right here, let the waters bless our union.” The woman also let her hands explore the man. “I have the Darksaber. You have a fine saber of your own. I want to spar, so to speak.”
“Elek, my Mand’alor.”
She was chuckling until her chuckles turned to moans. “I feel it. Wow, you can really move that thing in interesting ways, like a deep-sea monster moves its tentacles—oh. Dank farrik!”
Obi-Wan forced his eyes open with a growl. Karking Mandalorians and their tendency to make both love and war at terrifying intensity. Satine was a pacifist, thank the Force, but she would be like this if she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that her advances would be welcome, would flirt even more in that blunt Mandalorian way. She already yanked Obi-Wan by his padawan braid a few times, scowled as she failed to stop broadcasting into the Force around her the mental images of what she wanted to do to Obi-Wan. She was a Mandalorian. She couldn’t help it. Obi-Wan was frankly glad that she couldn’t.
“Something wrong?” There was her groggy voice now. Master Qui-Gon sat in a tree just out of earshot from their tent—Jedi earshot, that is—and had turned a blind eye to the teenagers sharing a sleeping bag. Right now, Obi-Wan had his arms wrapped around Satine for her protection, yes.
“Just a dream. About a pair of armored Mandalorians in the water of a sacred pool. They seemed to think they were dar’manda because they let each other see their unhelmeted faces.” Obi-Wan was NOT going to give the girl in his arms a play-by-play account of the couple from his vision actually fucking underwater, or encountering any kind of creature with tentacles. He didn’t need to give Satine any more ideas in that direction.
“That sounds like the Living Waters, under the Civic Center in Sundari. Generations of Kryzes had ceremonies there, and all the most noble lineages of the important Houses. I had a ceremony there when I was almost thirteen. They told me there was a mythosaur in the water when I was little, but by the time I was thirteen I understood that it was just a metaphor for the dragon-like soul of Mandalore. Mythosaurs don’t actually exist, but the lore about them survives because it brings us together. At least, it was supposed to, but it doesn’t, none of the old traditions do, so Papa thought we needed to cast them aside.”
“If there really is a creature there, it’ll probably swim straight for me, if I ever go to the Living Waters. Pathetic lifeforms are attracted to me, even without Master Qui-Gon adopting them. But I’m surprised you don’t believe in the mythosaur. You do believe in the Force, after all.”
“Because I’ve seen you use the Force. The Living Waters themselves exist, in an ancient mine that’s really an archeological site, and they’re part of ancient myths in our culture. It’s the same with that extremist interpretation of the armor part of the Resol’nare.” Satine sniffed.
“Our culture? You’re including me? I’m flattered.” Obi-Wan segued into a smirk.
“Of course. You said you were born on Stewjon. Stewjon is on the edges of the Mandalorian system. A backwater, to be sure, but Mandalorian. You mean you didn’t know you were Mandalorian?”
“No, I did not.” Obi-Wan sniffed this time. “In my dream, the woman was wearing Kryze symbols on her armor. Was any ancestor of yours a red-headed woman who was also Mand’alor, had the Darksaber?” Obi-Wan needed to know if his vision represented the past or the future.
“No, no Kryze has ever been Mand’alor. Some of us are redheaded, though. My father was. He had he same color hair as you do.” Satine snuggled closer. She opened and closed her mouth, suppressing a remark about sabers designed for making love not war. “If I have a daughter, she might have red hair like you.” Because she’d be your daughter, went unsaid.
Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut. The Kryze Mand’alor from his vision might very well be his future daughter by the Duchess. His daughter. Never mind that he wasn’t supposed to have one. If it was the will of the Force, who was a humble padawan to argue?
“In any case, it’s a dream. Maybe Force osik, as you put it, but still a dream. It doesn’t have to come true. We should get back to sleep.” Obi-Wan chided himself internally for even thinking about having an adult daughter who fucked her fiancé in sacred waters, who playfully held the man hostage by confiscating his clothes like the characters in fairy tales who forced magical beings into marriage by stealing their enchanted garments. He would teach his daughter better manners than that. Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself back to sleep.
Obi-Wan fought back tears. It was unseemly for a grown man, a Mando’ad who had once been a Jedi, to cry, but this situation warranted it. He was trapped in a holding cell, a Force-suppression collar around his neck, partitioned off from other prisoners. Many of them seemed to be Mandalorians as well, especially a man with swarthy skin, black curls, painted armor, an angry scowl on his face. There was a young Wookiee in the cell with this man as well.
It was hard to remember how he had ended up here. Perhaps Obi-Wan had gotten drunk, or someone had deliberately targeted him as the Duke Consort, trying to humiliate the pacifist duchess. Obi-Wan had a vague sense of familiarity with this situation; this wasn’t his first time to be captured by slavers. As long as his wife and their twins were safe, that was all that mattered.
The door to the room opened and a mean-looking man entered, flanked by a woman wearing a slave collar and sadistic smirk. She carried a box of some horrible implements of some kind that Obi-Wan didn’t want to think about. Obi-Wan just knew. A bunny droid followed at a respectful distance.
“Let’s see what we have here. A Wookiee would sell well on Kessel. This specimen is very young, almost still a juvenile, but fit and strong. Perfect for the mines.” The man was right in front of the cages now. “Two male Mandalorians, one True one New.” He reached through the bars to grab the armored man’s face, intending to check his teeth, then yelped in the next moment as the Mandalorian bit the slaver’s finger.
“Has quite a temper. Good for bounty hunting or gladiator games. The markings on the armor are—” the woman was peering through her one good eye—Obi-Wan didn’t want to think about what had happened to the other one—“Clan Fett. Good, he doesn’t have many surviving relatives left to cause trouble.”
The male slaver nodded sagely before letting his lips part into a sneer, showing off golden-tipped fangs. Those were popular among underworld types on some worlds, even among non-Twi’leks who didn’t naturally have pointy teeth.
“And the other one. New Mandalorian, pretty face, looks young until you get really close to him, wiry build that could be suitable for a variety of uses, Force-suppression collar indicating Jedi powers.” The woman licked her lips as she pressed her face to the bars.
“I know what you’re thinking. Not a brothel, but a royal harem, a high-class joint. Tell me, slave, can you sing or dance like a proper courtesan should?” the man already had his arms pushed through the bars, was already trying to remove Obi-Wan’s clothing.
“I can sing.” Obi-Wan kept his gaze averted. A pleasure slave with extra talents sold for more credits, becoming a valuable investment that sellers and buyers treated with more care.
Obi-Wan thought back on the day he first met Anakin, the day Master Qui-Gon declared in front of the Council that he would take Anakin as his padawan, dismissing Obi-Wan entirely. Obi-Wan knew, looking at Anakin, what was at stake for the little slave boy from Hutt Space. Anakin was terrified that he might be sent back into slavery if the Council decided that Master Qui-Gon couldn’t take on a new padawan when he already had one. Sure, Master Qui-Gon could recommend Obi-Wan for his Trials, but Anakin would still see it as a master selling an old slave to make way for a new one. No, it was imperative that he thought Obi-Wan himself happy to step aside, for his own reasons.
“Masters, if I may speak out of turn. I must confess to having broken the Code, to having done things unbefitting a Jedi. Master Qui-Gon worked with me to process some of it and assures me I can be forgiven as long as I can let go of the attachment, but I cannot, even after several years. As I meditate on my transgressions, I feel the Force telling me that my place is not with the Jedi as a knight, but on Mandalore. I wish to leave the Order, to forge a marriage alliance.”
The Council had all been flustered by this, but little Anakin had smiled. It was all right for him to accept Master Qui-Gon’s offer, then, he wouldn’t be displacing the warm-hearted young man.
Obi-Wan had flashed little Anakin a small hand gesture that none of the other Jedi in the room recognized, a signal that freedmen used to reassure each other. You’re safe, not going back into slavery. Anakin’s twin-sun grin was worth all the credits in the Republic.
There hadn’t been time to give Anakin details of all of Obi-Wan’s experiences with slavery; the story of the undersea mines on Bandomeer was still too traumatic to retell, and stories of being earmarked for sale as a pleasure slave were inappropriate. Now, Obi-Wan was simply amassing new stories that he couldn’t share.
The woman reached through the bars to feel Obi-Wan’s member, then smirked. She liked what she found, apparently.
“This is a fine specimen. He will fetch a high price. I’d love to take him for a test drive, but that’s probably not necessary.”
Obi-Wan could feel the Fett man cringing in the neighboring cage. Sale as a male pleasure slave was one of the worst possible fates that could befall a Mandalorian verd. Even just the trashy, skimpy costumes alone were horrifying, never mind being poked and prodded and paraded around nearly naked at auctions.
“A sweet pet needs a collar and a leash.” The woman opened the box while the man let them into Obi-Wan’s cage to strip him of his Ducal suit that admittedly played up his assets anyway. Clingy velveteen in a tight, figure-hugging cut left very little to the imagination.
“He’s too pretty to brand—oh, never mind, he’s already been branded before. Hmm, Offworld Mining, and a few others from various slave markets in the Outer Rim.” The woman motioned to the bunny droid, which extended an appendage. A brand. Obi-Wan closed his eyes and braced himself as the metal brand heated up and made contact with his skin, updating his ownership history. At least this time the bacta was forthcoming.
The woman attached a leash to his Force-suppressing collar and pulled a glittery gold mesh loose vest over his head, obscuring the whip scars on his back but still showing plenty of skin. “We show those legs off, yes. And of course a cock cage, the key to which will be given only to the buyer.”
“We are now approaching Skorrupon. Prepare for landing.” The mechanical voice of a droid intoned. Skorrupon was a relentlessly-commercial world, known for the fish market, sometimes used as a cover for Phindian pirates going about their sordid business. Obi-Wan had not been aware of a slave market there, but it wouldn’t be a surprise.
When they landed, the prisoners were separated out into categories, as expected. The Wookiee bayed in indignation at the rough handling, but the other Mando’ad merely grumbled under his breath. Something about making these slavers pay, most likely, although Fett himself didn’t seem terribly confident about it.
Obi-Wan remembered that he had a tracking device embedded within his wedding ring, just for contingencies like this. Satine needed help in keeping track of her husband when he got lost or kidnapped.
When Obi-Wan was ushered into his new cage in the backstage area of the makeshift market, he saw that there were no other pleasure slaves in his category, just a few girls who bore the logos of various brothels on their skin. No other private-use courtesans.
The same slave woman who had branded him on the ship was now giving instructions to market staff. “Check how his new brand is healing, renew the bacta if necessary. Remember, his price depends on his beauty and his skills as a singer. Here’s the key to his cock cage, to give to the buyer at handover. Feel free to cut or shave his hair and beard, but keep his original clothing, because it raises his value. He was good enough for a New Mandalorian noblewoman’s bed, and his New Mandalorian costume proves that.”
Obi-Wan could only hope that Satine could get here quickly, or that whoever bought him would return him to his wife like a lost pet tooka.
Once the auction was underway, Obi-Wan felt a familiar presence, although muted because of the collar Obi-Wan wore. There was only one person whose Force signature would be recognizable in these conditions: Anakin. Now a teenage padawan, Anakin might well be here on Skorrupon to investigate this very market, if he had gotten Master Qui-Gon wrapped up in his (promised) crusade to use his Jedi status to fight slavery. Certainly that would be a productive use of Master Qui-Gon’s maverick impulses.
“And now, for the jewel in the crown, for the discerning lady or lord of taste! A fine specimen of human male, rare red hair, Mandalorian of Jedi quality! Good-looking, beautiful singing voice, truly impressive cock locked away in a cage for security. The key will be yours! Do I hear any offers?” The man from the ship appeared to be the auctioneer.
Obi-Wan scanned the crowd of buyers. He didn’t see Anakin, but he could feel him. More than likely Master Qui-Gon was nearby—oh. Obi-Wan did recognize a tall man with a forbidding face, slicked salt and pepper hair, swishy cape. What was Master Dooku doing here? Surely he wasn’t here to buy slaves. Perhaps he was cataloguing Republic abuses, since this was a pet project of his.
“Sing, slave. Something sappy and romantic.” The auctioneer barked.
Obi-Wan cleared his throat and began. “The nights that I don’t sleep are all your fault. Whenever we part, I feel my face grow hot. It’s all because of you. I’m sure of it. My first kiss, first kiss with you, what a feeling—all my love! It’s enough to make a Mando’ad cry, being in love with you.”
The crowd seemed to know the song. One woman in particular seemed to be deeply affected, as she moved through the crowd to get closer. She wasn’t there at the start of the auction. A Zeltron woman with long, purple straight hair.
She continued to come closer, joining Master Dooku and a gangly teenage boy who evidently must be Anakin. When had he grown so tall?
“Very nice. Does he come with a spare costume for a New Mandalorian roleplay? I want to make him surrender to me, like that peacenik duchess would.”
“As a matter of fact, he does! Here is his genuine New Mandalorian suit, the finery of a top-quality, beautiful, well-loved kept man!”
Kept man? Obi-Wan frowned for a split second. Satine was his wife, not his owner. Was this what the galaxy thought of him?
“Peggats or Republic credits?” The woman asked, then glanced at Master Dooku, as if expecting him to pay.
“Peggats.” The auctioneer smirked harder. Republic credits meant Republic taxes and ombudsmen. Peggats were so much better.
“Three hundred peggats.” The Zeltron woman offered.
“Three hundred ten,” a man Obi-Wan didn’t like the look of countered. It wasn’t that Obi-Wan couldn’t become attached to a male lover, but the clue was in the word “lover,” with its assumption of the presence of love.
“Three hundred fifty.”
“Three hundred sixty.”
“Four hundred.” The Zeltron woman crossed her arms. The auction grounds were silent for a long moment, until the auctioneer clapped his hands. Obi-Wan had been sold to this woman.
He watched as the Zeltron woman received the keys to the cock cage and Obi-Wan’s original clothing, while Master Dooku seemed to be talking into a comm.
“You’re coming on my ship, and then I’m going to test out my new purchase.” The woman tugged on Obi-Wan’s leash, leading him away from her Jedi companions. Perhaps they were going to raid the slave market. If Obi-Wan didn’t have a Force-suppression collar, he could have felt how many Jedi were present as infiltrators.
It wasn’t until he was up the gangplank of a suspiciously-nondescript ship that Obi-Wan let his shoulders drop. Rich people got away with all manner of things, even in the Republic.
“I—I have a wife.”
“I know. Do you think anyone at that market cared? Now, into the small mess room. You clearly need to be fed, and I can get some erotic enjoyment out of that. I did some seafood shopping at the fish market.” She was smirking, and Obi-Wan suppressed a grin as her identity was confirmed in his mind.
“Do you know my wife? The most beautiful, the most intelligent, the kindest woman in the galaxy?”
“Hmm, extravagant praise. Know her? Of course I do. She’s me.” The Zeltron woman pulled off her wig and the mesh wig cap under it, revealing short blonde curls.
“You found me.” Obi-Wan knelt down in front of Satine. “My Mand’alor.”
“Up, pup, time for a feeding.” Satine tugged on his leash in a playful manner. “And maybe I’ll hide your clothes so that you have no choice but to let me do whatever I want to you, like eat you up like a mythosaur would.”
“How terrifying.”
When they were seated at the small table, Satine speared an octopus tentacle with her escargot fork and gingerly inserted the tip in her mouth, making exaggerated sucking noises and pretending to gag on the sheer girth she was taking into her throat. That would be his girth, if she asked for it.
Once she was quite finished with the tentacle, she smirked and speared some broiled crustacean, which she inserted into Obi-Wan’s mouth, treating him like a baby bird being fed by its mother. She loved to feed him, yes.
After their meal she got up, still holding his leash, and gently led him to the fresher. “I’ll unlock you and then we can make a nice mess in there, you can impress me with your magic saber. Much more substantial as a meal than calamari from Skorrupon. Maybe I should buy you on the slave market more often.”
She reached for the latch on his Force-suppression collar and waited as he slowly loosened it, letting the Force come back to him the way a person might do for a limb that had gone asleep. Meanwhile, she focused her attention on unlocking the cock cage, then stroking the prize with her fingers.
Satine got down on her knees and pretended to chomp on his member, pretended to be a hungry mythosaur. She took his full length into her mouth, down her throat, and made gurgling noises. Right before he was about to come, she abruptly pulled away, an evil smirk on her face. “Hold it.”
He had his eyes closed in agony as she wiped him down with a wet towel, which only increased his torment in being stroked, before he felt her breasts smushed into his chest. Obi-Wan and Satine were roughly the same height. He kept his eyes closed as he smelled the pooja flower fragrance of the lube Satine used, as he listened to her growl and purr in anticipation. Her hands closed in on his member and guided it to where she wanted it. “Now you fuck the hungry monster.” Satine whispered as his length slid into her.
Obi-Wan groaned as he forced his eyes open again. The future was always in motion, sure, but what he had just seen was too weird and unsettling. Not the part in which he was married to Satine, but the parts involving slavery, especially the slave boy Master Qui-Gon might someday acquire. The Unifying Force was telling him something about a slave boy from Hutt Space.
“’Nother nightmare, Ben?” Satine asked, stirring awake in the sleeping bag with him. “Can I help?”
“Not entirely a nightmare. A possible future, in which I left the Order to marry you, with mixed results.”
Satine chuckled at that. “I like the idea of you marrying me. Did I have to steal your clothes or blackmail you?”
“I don’t think so. I probably didn’t need that much persuading.”
“In that case.” Satine sat up, properly awake now. “As long as you’re sure you want it, and not just acquiescing to whatever I want because I’m a duchess. I scored this little item at the apothecary today.” She dug a battered flimsi box out of a pocket and handed it to Obi-Wan. There was a tube of gel inside.
“I don’t have to explain what this is. Only if you want to. I wanted to be prepared in case both of us wanted it.” Satine's heart was pounding. She had never been more sure of something in her life, but it wasn't a decision she could make alone.
“This—this is lube.” Obi-Wan blushed, but it was dark and Satine couldn’t see. He just knew it would have added pooja flower fragrance.
“I heard it can hurt the first time, and that lube helps. Do you want to, as much as I do? I know you enjoy kissing and necking. We can start with fingers if you’re not comfortable with going in with you-know-what.”
“Yes. I do want to. And yes, I’m aching to go beyond fingers.” He was an intrepid Mando'ad, apparently, and he would apply that to making love not war.
“I bet you’re a mythosaur in bed.” She was giggling now as she prepped for their first time. Always in motion is the future, let your focus determine your reality, focus on the moment, let the Living Force guide you, and all that. He decided against bringing up the issue of contraception. If that mighty verd from his first vision tonight was their daughter, Obi-Wan wanted a future with her in it. The rest would have to sort itself out.