Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As the afterglow slowly sinks into his bones, everything smelling of sex and lube and blaster oil as the sweat dries across his skin, Werlaara rolls the words around on his tongue, imagining and wondering and testing the weight of them before they release.

"I think I could see myself as your riduur," he says to the ceiling.

Dhav rolls onto his side, green eyes soft, pale skin a sharp contrast against the black sheets.

"Really?"

"Really. Could you?"

"Yeah," Dhav huffs, smiling that handsome smile Werlaara can't imagine on any other face. His fingers trace down Werlaara's shoulder and bicep, angling to the side to follow one of his newer scars for a moment, and Werlaara sighs, settling deeper into the bed as he lets it go. He's watching Werlaara's face, though, not the path of his fingers, so Werlaara turns his head to the side and gives him a smile in return.

"Stop it," Dhav mutters, his smile stretching wider. "Let my dick recover."

“If I can get you hard with a smile,” Werlaara begins, and cuts himself off laughing when Dhav shoves his shoulder. He reaches over to grab a wipe from the nook set into the wall with ring, pinky, and thumb, hands it to Dhav, then takes another to switch over to his other hand while Dhav murmurs his thanks. Cum is splattered across the hair of his stomach, his ass aches pleasantly, and the insides of his thighs are slick with lube and Dhav — a treat, make no mistake about it, but a messy one regardless. Dhav came out of it considerably cleaner but even he’s wiping with a vengeance, hip bones and cock and the fronts of his thighs all falling prey to the gentle smell of clean.

“Hey,” Dhav says, tossing his wipe over Werlaara to fall just past the bed for dealing with later. “Let me help.”

Wordlessly, easily, Werlaara finishes with his treasure trail and rolls onto his stomach. For a moment there’s a heavy weight atop him, Dhav stretching past to grab a second wipe, and then something cool begins sliding back and forth along his inner thighs, meticulous and skilled. They’ve done the same dance too many times to count, easy to settle into in its familiarity.

“When did you first think that?” Dhav asks, nudging his inner knee, and Werlaara spreads his legs wider to accommodate, pillowing his head on his forearms.

“Middle of sex,” Werlaara says, “when you went to grab a water bottle — but it wasn’t a fully formed thought until we finished.”

“I like it.”

“I hoped you would. There’s so much that—”

In the silence, Dhav continues to clean him up, his free hand resting at the small of his back as a point of warm, familiar contact. His thighs feel fresh, no longer sticky, and Dhav moves on to his hole without hesitation, letting him take his time to formulate what he wants to say.

“It feels monumental.” Werlaara closes his eyes, consciously relaxing his glutes to make it easier on him. “Too big for me.”

“Nothing’s too big for you.” It’s a joke, an innuendo, but the way he says it Werlaara can tell he means it in more ways than just that. “Gar Mandokarla. Don’t forget it, Werlaara.”

“I won’t.” The silence stretches to the point where he can feel Dhav’s look digging into the knobs of his upper spine, and he huffs, half rolling his eyes behind the lids. “I’ll try not to.”

“Jate. Have you talked to Joteh before?”

“The old Twi’lek that runs Buy’ce Gal?”

“Yup. Really talked to her, I mean.”

“Why?”

The hand against his back smooths its way up his spine, the soft sound of a wipe hitting the floor followed closely by Dhav stealing the one Werlaara forgot he was holding to give the same fate, and soon enough two strong hands begin to knead at the muscles of his neck and shoulders, coaxing a low moan from parted lips.

“Because she’s had three riduure over the years, and was only in love with one of them. Damn, that sounded nice.”

“You feel nice.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

Werlaara swipes at him with his good hand, unwilling to open his eyes but still determined to get back at him for the joke — Dhav just laughs, the mattress creaking as he shifts out of the way, unbothered as ever. Werlaara immediately mourns the loss of his hands.

“Like I was saying,” Dhav says, and Werlaara grunts as his hands reappear much further south, massaging his ass in a way that makes his spent dick twitch hopefully but not much more than that, “you aren’t the only one. Not by a long shot, not even just on Coruscant. There’s always gonna be someone who gets it, even if I don’t personally.”

“I know,” Werlaara says quietly. “Vor entye.”

“N’entye,” Dhav says just as softly, and straddles the backs of his thighs before warm weight presses down on his back a second time, aligned together like they don’t have more than enough space here to lay side by side, and Dhav’s hands come up to join with his own. Their fingers lace where they can, mismatched on the right where Werlaara’s prosthetic fingers are put away for the night, and Dhav squeezes like he always does, his cheek resting near the top of Werlaara’s spine. Werlaara squeezes back.

“I don’t… know what it feels like to be in love,” Werlaara murmurs, as if to avoid being overheard even in the depths of hyperspace, even alone with Dhav in his ship. “But I feel like I could be with you.”

“You already know how I feel,” Dhav says. He squeezes again and again, little things that Werlaara thinks are keeping time with his heartbeat, and Werlaara lets him, feeling his muscles relax as the weight drags him deeper into the sheets. “Just let me know, and we’ll figure it out. Together. This is perfect, but that would be too.”

“It would be,” Werlaara agrees, and squeezes back.

Chapter Text

Werlaara wakes slowly, the lights dim and orange-tinted like the sunrise. He’s warm, comfortable, and he can hear the quiet clatter of pans and the churning rumble of the caf machine from through the door, Dhav already up and about. He wonders what time it is, and a glance at the chrono built into the wall tells him he slept longer than he expected — much longer.

Slowly, he gets up. Unlike most, this ship manages not to run cold, though the floor is a little chilly against his toes when he stands up. Opening the door to the main room of the ship reveals the smells of mouth watering food and the strong caf they took back with them last time they entered Mandalorian Space, spiced and hearty.

“Morning,” Werlaara rasps, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the scarred swells that mark the past locations of his index and middle fingers. At the small kitchenette, Dhav is frying something — he glances over with a smile, runs a thorough sweep of his eyes over Werlaara’s bare form from top to bottom and then once more for good measure, and returns his focus to whatever he’s cooking. It smells like nerf, and he knows they had some left in the freezer, but he isn’t sure what else is going with it.

“Jate’ca,” Dhav replies, stirring with a spatula. He’s in his kute but, aside from the pieces of armor already attached to the flightvest, otherwise soft and bare. His socks are blue — Werlaara is pretty sure they’re actually his. “I was gonna wake you up once I finished — I didn’t realize I fucked you that well.”

“Half getting well-fucked, half barely sleeping for the last three days,” Werlaara says, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I want to talk about last night again.”

“Which part?”

“The end. I want to do it. Now, or at least before we reach Kalevala.”

Dhav immediately puts the burner on low and sets the spatula aside, something like hope and relief and adoration in his eyes that almost makes them greener. “Well, that gives us five hours.”

“Shit,” Werlaara swears, and attempts to run his left hand through his hair, snagging within the first few inches on tangled curls — he immediately winces and pulls his hand back, and makes a mental note to detangle it in the next three. “I didn’t realize we were that close.”

Firm hands curl around his upper arms, comforting and grounding in equal measure, Dhav’s skin warm against his own, and he takes a second to breathe, closing his eyes as he leans into the offered mirshmure’cya.

“Nervous?”

“Always.”

“Scared?”

“Not as much as I would be without you,” Werlaara admits.

“And Savi,” Dhav adds, smiling so wide Werlaara can hear it with his eyes closed, his hands squeezing a little tighter before one arm comes up to loop around his neck at the elbow, keep him close and secure. “And Koyu, and Maho, and—”

“I think I get the picture,” Werlaara snorts. He curls his arms around Dhav’s waist and shifts just an inch to the side to rest his forehead on his shoulder instead, sighing noisily. “I don’t feel ready, even after everything I’ve done to make sure I am.”

“I don’t think you ever will, Wer’ika. What impresses me the most about you is that you’re determined to do it anyway, no matter what. Are you telling your buir before we land, or after?”

“I was planning on getting it done right before I land us. Why?”

“So I can make sure we have time for food, armor and weapons checks, a shower, and a quick fuck before we go. And a riduurok, too — can’t forget that one.”

“Not necessarily in that order, though,” Werlaara says. He’s grinning, can’t help it, and he nuzzles his face a little further into Dhav’s shoulder, inhaling the close contact like it’s oxygen. He smells of jetpack fumes and of veshok, and of sweat from the night before.

“Not necessarily in that order,” Dhav agrees with a laugh. “How about food, fuck, shower, checks? You’ll probably get done faster than me, anyway, given you’ve cleaned your blasters about seven times since we entered hyperspace. Easy enough to fit your call in while I’m finishing up.”

Finally, Werlaara looks up. They’re nearly nose to nose, and the close proximity makes both of them snicker of a moment, Dhav crossing his eyes so quickly it’s almost like Werlaara imagined it.

“And where does the riduurok fit in there?” he asks.

“Wherever you want. You weren’t this certain last night, were you?”

“Not really, no.”

“What changed?”

“Sleeping on something does wonders,” Werlaara says, arching his unscarred brow and biting back a laugh. “Even if you’re being slept on yourself.”

“You’re comfortable,” Dhav defends, taking a quick glance back to the stovetop before returning his attention to Werlaara — selfishly, he wishes it could stay this way much longer than he knows is possible. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Roll over?”

“Never.”

“Shebs,” Werlaara snorts, rolling his eyes, and lets go to turn towards the caf machine’s enticing scent. A sharp sound rings out a moment later and Werlaara lurches, startled, his ass stinging and his cock twitching ever so slightly at the hit. Dhav’s expression is smug and delighted hen he looks back at him, and when Werlaara feels for the mark Dhav beats him to it, grabbing the globe of his ass and massaging it in a way Werlaara is intimately familiar with.

“What was that for?” Werlaara asks, which he hopes translates to and how do I do it again?

“You reminded me that your shebs was on display,” he says with a shrug.

“Dhav, my everything is on display.”

Dhav’s gaze veers low, pleased and knowing, and he rubs at his ass a little more, squeezing cheekily. “Don’t I know it. But I wasn’t about to slap your ven’ika without some advance warning, for both our sakes. Maybe later, after everything is over and done with.”

Between the lingering sting and the enticing promise it takes more effort than it should to release a steady breath, but Werlaara manages.

“Definitely later.”

Chapter Text

When it comes to his hair Werlaara is what Blank once called, in complete and utter exasperation, really just way too fucking stubborn about it. He couldn’t really argue the claim at the time, hair getting slowly but skillfully detangled by Hunter while he winced and groaned through the entire excruciating process, and even years later he still can’t — he loves his hair, even if it’s a pain in the motherfucking ass to take care of.

At least, that’s what Blank called it. Werlaara didn’t even try to argue with that one. It’s safe to say that, regardless of the amount of khi’vodyc teasing he was drenched in at the time, they do both hold true to some extent. His hair is long now, much longer than he ever managed to get it during the war, and while the feeling of curls brushing his mid back delights him, that much hair also isn’t an easy thing to deal with even after years of practice. His missing fingers don’t help, either — not when detangling it with his fingers is sometimes the only way to get the stubborn bits sorted out.

Werlaara is halfway to calling it quits with just that when Dhav pokes his head into the refresher, a smile clear on his face even through the steamy air.

"Mind if I come steal your water?"

"Please," Werlaara says, tilting his head in invitation, his own lips curling on instinct. He fumbles with the current stubborn knot, brows furrowed in concentration, and reaches for a little more conditioner. "Just don't get body wash in my hair again."

"I thought I already apologized for that," Dhav snorts, quickly closing the door behind him to trap the heat in. "Thoroughly."

"I figured another reminder couldn't hurt." Werlaara raises his scarred eyebrow, the one with the outer half burnt right off by a stray shot well over six years ago, watching Dhav shuck his kute with the skill that speaks of long and constant practice, and scoots forward to drop from the bench to the floor and cross his legs beneath himself. When Dhav gives him a shamelessly unapologetic face in return, playful and a little cheeky, he just turns to face forward again, rolling his eyes. "Can you help me with my hair first?"

"Sure thing." Dhav slips into the shower behind him, settling on the bench and bracketing Werlaara between his knees, and Werlaara leans back, tilting his head to settle it on his inner thigh for a moment. Dhav’s hands card through the first few inches of his hair with a comfortable familiarity, scratching blunt fingernails against his scalp as his smile softens, and Dhav laughs a little when Werlaara lets out a pleased hum, bumping one of his shoulders with his knee.

“Still a tooka, Wer’ika,” Dhav says fondly, blaster-calloused hands brushing Werlaara’s shoulders as he gathers his curls between them. “Sit up, I can’t get to it all like this.”

Werlaara sits up as told. There will be time for further closeness later, after they finish what they started years ago with that first little group of Kyr’tsad members that didn’t disappear quite thoroughly enough after they killed three Mando'ade in broad daylight — including one who had only just finished her Verd’goten. While there’s always the chance that things will take a turn for the worse, that one of the verde Werlaara leads — or he himself — won’t return, he has faith that they will. Pre Viszla’s dar’mandyc hold on the dha’kad has far surpassed the limits of his patience.

“Gilamar the elder commed right after you left,” Dhav says, filling the silence with the same ease as always. “He's waiting for us, and it sounds like he managed a larger force than we were expecting.”

“Did Mij give a number?”

“Fifty, give or take a few.”

“Shabla Manda.”

“I know,” Dhav laughs. “Weren’t you saying you would be happy with twenty?”

“With ten.”

“Sounds like people have a lot of faith in you.”

“Belief in the cause, at least.”

Dhav’s hand closes around his curls near the root and yanks, startling a choked sound out of Werlaara as his head is wrenched back. His scalp stings a little, surprising but pleasant, and the little twinkle in Dhav’s eyes as he looks down to meet his gaze immediately gives away his awareness of such — but that isn’t the point this time, and they both know it.

“Belief in the cause,” Dhav says firmly, “and in you. I know you’re more confident than that, Werlaara. Today isn’t the day to be humble.”

“I’m trying — haat, ijaat, haa’it.”

“I know. That’s all you need to do, Wer’ika.”

Werlaara smiles up at him, soft and grateful, and Dhav smiles back, the hand in his hair loosening and coming around to stroke his cheek. Redirection has been a common trend these past few days, creeping anxiety messing with the confidence he usually feels down to his bones. Dhav has been with him long enough to notice the change without a single word from Werlaara about it, and to catch him in the act more often than not. He’s grateful, endlessly, and he also can’t wait for the need to dissipate.

Facing forward again, Werlaara waits for Dhav to finish up, that aching wave of adoration swelling in his chest as he listens to his breathing and feels the rasp and snag of careful fingers through his soaked hair. One minute, two, three, and then—

“Done,” Dhav says, and the wave crests, threatening to spill over. It’s done so before but not in exactly the same way, and though he isn’t fully sure what this one means he doesn’t need to — Dhav has made that more than clear enough over the long years they’ve fought and lived and laughed together.

Once Dhav had finished tucking his detangled curls into a thick bun, easy to undo yet hard to tangle up on itself, Werlaara turns to face him, sitting on his feet, knees against the shower floor.

“Ni kar’taylir darasuum gar,” he says, resting his hands against Dhav’s hip and his arms atop his thighs, and then rises onto his knees to press their foreheads together and close his eyes, shivering slightly as a droplet follows a slow path down his spine.

“I love you too,” Dhav says, and Werlaara smiles because he can hear the smile when he says it, picture, even with eyes closed, the twinkle of exposed teeth. The dimple digging into his right cheek. The shape of his lips around the familiar words.

Werlaara will never say it in Basic. It means something different and they both know it — but this is what they want, and for their thoughts to be perfectly identical would be a weight, not a joy. Never a joy.

“Mhi solus tome,” Werlaara murmurs, and drinks in Dhav’s answering, surprised laughter with a grin of his own, delight flooding the room. Dhav’s hands cup the sides of his face, smooth down his broad shoulders, return to their previous positions and hold him close.

“Mhi solus tome,” Dhav agrees, accent lighter, consonants familiar, and it makes Werlaara’s chest ache something fierce to hear the words said this way. “Mhi solus dar’tome.”

Werlaara whispers that promise in return — there’s the chance, however slim it may be, that they’re forced apart for good in the next 24 hours. That one of them marches on and one of them stays. Werlaara can only hope the stars are on their side. He can only hope that his plan works, and that he can hold Dhav again and return home to his aliit.

“Mhi me'dinui an,” he says, echoed by Dhav a moment later, and thinks about his ship, their ship, the memories scratched into the walls and buried in the sheets. The Whisper has been their home together more often than not these past few months, to the point where Werlaara can no longer imagine its existence without Dhav humming in the next room.

“Mhi ba'juri verde,” Dhav finishes, quiet and soft and brimming with joy, and they breathe together, breathe as one, the warm spray against Werlaara’s feet a simple, soothing melody.

“Naak counts,” Werlaara murmurs after a while, and Dhav snorts loudly, nearly knocking their foreheads together when he twitches with laughter.

“Of course she does,” he says, and Werlaara cracks his eyes open to look at his riduur’s gleaming smile. “Little nieces are the whole point of that line, Wer’ika.”

“My mistake,” he says. “Just making sure we’re on the same page here.”

“As long as Triple allows it,” Dhav says, “I’ll help you teach her whatever you want.”

Werlaara can get behind that.