#ailtara

[calebdumes]

Prompt: Kanan and Hera have an argument.

thanks for the prompt anon! I hope you don't mind, I added a heaping portion of angst to go with this!

fandom: star wars rebels

relationship: kanan jarrus/hera syndulla

word count: 1.2k

rating: t

~

“No.” Kanan said, folding his arms over his chest, his chin jutting out defiantly. Hera felt her chest tighten with irritation but bit down on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from responding with something she might regret. She didn’t have to be a Jedi to know how angry Kanan was, she could practically feel it roll off of him in hot, sticky waves that make her skin itch and the tips of her lekku curl inwards. 

The rest of her crew scattered around the lounge seemed unaware of his building fury so she used their blissful ignorance to center herself. There was no need for her to throw her own emotions into the mix when Kanan was like this. Hera breathed deeply through her nose and set her shoulders. 

Kanan may have made up his mind but Hera wasn’t the type to give up so easily.

She could be stubborn too. 

“Kanan,” she said in a calm, even tone, hoping that her gentle approach would soften the ice that had settled in his gaze.  “He has to sleep somewhere.”

“Not here.” 

“It’s not like you even use your cabin anyways.” Sabine pipped up unhelpfully from the acceleration couch. “We all know you sleep with Hera.”

Hera winced internally. Maybe having this discussion out in the open wasn’t the best idea she had. 

“Or,” Ezra interjected. “I could take your cabin and he could bunk with Zeb.”

“If anybody is getting Kanan’s cabin, it’s gonna be me.” Zeb growled. 

“No one is getting my cabin.” Kanan snapped. “That’s the point.”

“Kanan, please.” Hera sighed, some of her frustrations slipping out. “Be reasonable.”

“This is me being reasonable.” he hissed. 

The atmosphere in the lounge shifted in an instant, reacting to the venom in Kanan’s voice. Wide eyes were locked on this towering form, the chilling air of confusion and disbelief filling the sudden silence. Hera stood, stunned by the harshness in his words before she snapped back to herself, anger heating her blood.

She latched onto his arm and pulled him from the room, dragging him down the short hallway to her cabin. She wasted no time pushing him inside when the doors began to part, following him in and slapping the locking mechanism, sealing them in. Kanan’s brows pulled together in a scowl, his jaw muscles working furiously as he stared her down. 

“Unlock the door,” he said. 

“No.” Hera responded, planting her hands on her hips. “Not until you stop acting like a kriffing asshole.”

“Hera, unlock the door.” Kanan repeated, his voice low and threatening. Hera’s lekku tightened at the warning but she pressed on. This had gone on long enough. She could understand that Kanan was upset but she needed him to see how ridiculous he was being. He was letting himself get all worked up over nothing and he needed to let it go. 

“It’s just for a few nights until Ahsoka gets back.” she replied, digging her heels in.

“Then he can stay on the Liberator.”

“You know we can’t dock with the Liberator while it’s in orbit.”

“Then Sato can send a shuttle to pick him up.” Kanan snapped. “Or he can rent out a room in the spaceport, I don’t kriffing care but he’s not staying here. That’s final.”

“That’s final?” she arched a brow. “Last time I checked, this was my ship. I’m the one who gets to make the call on who stays and who goes. I don’t see the issue in letting him spend a few nights here.”

“Of course you don’t.” Kanan huffed. He turned on his heel and began pulling clothes out from the storage compartment, tossing them onto the bed with force. 

“What is that supposed to mean? What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving.” Kanan replied flatly. The words hit Hera like a wall of ice, old fears racing to the surface of her mind, her heart racing in her chest.

“You’re what?” she whispered. 

“If he’s staying here then I’m leaving. I’ll find somewhere else to bunk down until Ahsoka gets back. I’m not staying here.”  he said, shoving clothes into a bag.   

“You can’t be serious!” she cried. “Kanan, it’s just for a few nights! What is the big deal?”

“He’s a clone!” Kanan yelled, spinning around to face her with a wild look in his eyes. “That’s what the big deal is!” 

Hera blinked. “But everything on Seelos, I thought…”

“What? You thought I’d suddenly be okay with clones just because they helped us out in a pinch?”

“No! I just thought that maybe…”

“I’m not like you, Hera.” Kanan continued on, his chest heaving. “The clones didn’t swoop in and save my planet. They murdered my master in front of me. They tried to kill me. So forgive me if I’m not so trusting of our new guest.”

Hera’s eyes slipped closed. Of course. She restrained the urge to smack her forehead. She should have known it would take more than one mission to rebuild Kanan’s trust in the clones. She should have known this was the reason behind his attitude. Hera bit the inside of her cheek again and mentally kicked herself. 

It was different for her. When looked at Rex’s face she saw Howzer. She saw countless soldiers that had risked their lives to free her planet from the separatists control. When Kanan looked at Rex, he was haunted by the memory of the Purge, his friends turned against him, his family slaughtered. Of course he wouldn’t be comfortable with a clone living on the ship. She could hardly blame him.

Still, she couldn’t push past her guilt.

She should have known. 

When she opened her eyes she saw Kanan, really saw him. Under his dark expression she could see the shadows clinging to the corners of his eyes, the fragile state of his shoulders, tensed and ready for a fight, seconds away from shattering. He was barely holding himself together. And she had, once again, allowed herself to get caught up in the excitement of growing the rebellion to notice. So blinded by her eagerness to fly that she didn’t account for the weather. 

Hera’s hand dropped from her hips, falling limply by her sides. “I’m sorry, love.” she said, taking a slow step towards him. Kanan tensed but didn’t move away. She placed her hands on his shoulders, carefully working her fingers into the tense muscles before sliding one hand behind his neck. Gently she pulled him down, until his head was resting on her shoulder, his body trembling in her arms. “I’m sorry.”

Kanan shook, his breathing sharp and ragged as Hera swayed back and forth. She hummed a gentle lullaby while her fingers slowly undid the straps of his shoulder armor, letting the heavy material fall to the floor. When Kanan’s breathing slowed, Hera led them over to her bed, tossing his bag aside and laid down beside him.

“I just,” Kanan said in a broken whisper that made Hera’s heart ache. “I’m trying. I just need time.”

Hera kissed his forehead and pulled him in close as if she could protect him from the nightmares of the past. “I know love.” she told him. “I’m sorry I pushed so hard. I’ll have Zeb relay a message to Rex about finding a room at the spaceport.”

“‘M sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize, love. It’s not your fault.” Hera squeezed her eyes close, fighting back a wave of tears. “You just need time.”

She felt Kanan shutter, his choked off whimper muffled by her chest. 

“Take all the time you need.” 

[pretchatta]

🌹🌹🌹

from 'breaking our chains':

Resplendent in fine silks and glittering jewels, she reclined on an enormous throne, surrounded by attendants.

from another modern au:

Okadiah sighed. “Go home, lad.”

and this... this is yet another soulmate au, because apparently you can never have enough of those:

To explain, he pulls at the neck of his shirt to reveal the words on his shoulder and chest. Hera stares at them in shock.

[mia-cooper]

29! (I'm done harassing you, I swear)

Babe, you only bother me the way I love to be bothered, know what I mean?

29 - If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?

Damn,seriously? I really want to say a prequel to @jhelenoftrek’s Longing BackwardBends, but at the same time I really want her to write it.

As for asequel… I wish janezy was still around to finish what she started in Waking Up.

[rikerssexblouse]

ailtara replied to your post: So I’ve got a little time to watch some Discovery...

I feel this on a spiritual level.

Right?! I just want to see my awesome ladies being awesome together!

[jhelenoftrek]

Ficlet - Venom

This little piece of horror is the result of a fabulous prompt by @ailtara, queen of all things angst-and-tragic.  (warnings for implied character death/nature-torture, ambiguous ending, but hey, there’s no sex!)

The venom, as it fills her veins, makes her warm and tastes sweet.

It is a thick blanket placed over her legs, a welcome contrast to the brisk, evening air.  

Comforting.

It is a drop of honey on her tongue, replacing the bitter remnants of coffee.

Delicious.

She relishes in the increasing euphoria that accompanies every breath.  Her lungs are filled with rich, natural oxygen, threatening to burst. Her head is light, thoughts and limbs, like clouds, drift above her and out into the night.

Night.

Starless night.

But there were stars.

There should be stars.

Adrenaline pounds at the wall that has been built around her bliss.  With each hammer of her heart, her muscles fortify to lift heavy eyelids.

Stars. There they are.

She relaxes for a moment.

Just a moment.

Then panic sets in.

The blanket is heavy now, it’s lead fibers unraveled to tie her legs to the ground, chest and upper arms in the same battened state.  But her fingers, they are moving; illuminated only by moonlight she can see them since she’s managed to loll her head to the side.  Wetness spills from her numb lips in strings of saliva and slides down her neck.

Not far off she sees the flicker of firelight and figures.  

She doesn’t notice the lack of sound until use of her ears is suddenly, shockingly returned.  Her hyper-attuned sense is startling and if able she would have thrown her hands over them to block the cacophony.

Laughter, she realizes when the ringing dissipates.  

They’re laughing and talking.  

We had a cookout.  A campout.

Shore leave.  Overhaul.

Voyager.

She manages enough resolve to scrape her ear along the ground, cranes her neck, and behind her she can see the glow of lights filter through the windows of the ship.

It’s so close.

But the crew gathered around the fire are closer and without much effort she can make out every word.

“…and then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the Turbolift took me back to Deck four!”

Laughter.  More laughter.  Tom is telling a story.

I have to get their attention.

Her fingers are still moving.  If she concentrates very hard she can bend at the knuckles and slightly at the wrist. The signals to her muscles are delayed, motor-neurons failing with each passing second.  But she has one advantage, one hand is on her stomach from when she had been sleeping.  She can just make out the shadow of her fist over the top of her heaving chest.

Fingers pulling, dragging the appendage they are attached to.  Upward over grey cloth.  Upward, they creep toward her combadge.

She feels the cold metal under her fingertips at last.  Using the gift of a twitch she taps it just hard enough.

The chirp reverberates through her ears.

Chakotay

But the name never makes it to her tongue.

Someone, anyone.

Help

The words die in her throat.

Left abandoned, the comlink closes.  

The warmth of toxic liquor that was so comforting just moments ago begins to burn.  A deep ache settles in her muscles, her feet sting and her toes are aflame.  The sensation creeps up her ankle and into her calf, stabbing at every nerve along the way.  Rising as a steady wave, the pain shoots into her kneecaps and it is at this point she would scream.  

If only she could.

“…okay, okay.  Your turn, Kes.  Most embarrassing thing that’s happened since we’ve been on Voyager.”

Kes

Kes, she focuses.  You can hear me, can’t you?  

Concentrate, Kes.

Please?

Joy is carried on the night breeze.  It is nothing less than cruel that the last sounds she will hear are those of her comrades laughing.

These stories will haunt them later.

After they’ve found her.

The burning hot flame has moved upwards to squeeze at her gut and now tightens around her chest. It is a vine, a rope, a corset, a load of bricks – she doesn’t know why she feels the need to define it – and it further constricts her rapid breath which now comes in soundless gasps.

The only relief is that she can no longer feel the bottom half of her body.

Lost to the darkness.

I’m being eaten alive.

The calm that she has been trying so hard to maintain breaks like glass and her thoughts become a torrent of anxiety unable to be physically expressed.

I’m dying.

And now all she can pray is that her life will end quickly.

Eyes peeled and unable to be closed, she focuses on the movements and voices of her friends.

“…you’re a spoilsport, Chakotay.”

B’Elanna

“I’ll take a raincheck, I’m tired.  Keep it down over here, some of us still have duty in the morning.”

The syrup in her mouth has turned sickeningly saccharine and then, with a guttural cough she cannot suppress, it morphs into the flavor of metal.

Blood

The noose is now tied tighter upwards still, strong hands around her neck and she gasps, starving for air.  She will blackout soon, she hopes, no longer afraid.

“Goodnight,” calls the chorus of voices.

Chakotay

He’s leaving.

And then she remembers something that does scare her.  Terrifies her.

Something bit me.

It could bite them too.

Footsteps approach. Crunching leaves, swishing grass.

He’s coming, finally.  Maybe it’s not too late…

“Goodnight, Kathryn,” she hears him whisper.

Her widened eyes, distorted in the shine of his boots, are the last image she sees.

Prompt was: Make the character’s death slow and painful, but make them unable to call out for help even though they can literally see the other characters nearby.  Check.

[lodessa]

8. Why do you choose to write?

I’m basically always writing/narrating/imagining scenarios in my head, so actually writing is a way to actually try to communicate a fraction of what goes on in my head.

[pixiedane]

ailtara replied to your post: Cheers for Chakotay/Samantha; I always thought they’d be such a down-to-earth couple and he’d be a great step-dad for Naomi.

Yes! They’re down-to-earth and surrounded by a bunch of people with their heads in the clouds. They’d be sort of adorably domestic I think, and just happy. Which is certainly what Naomi deserves. 

[emmikamikatze]

Fuck, marry, kill, get drunk with: Kate Mulgrew, Kathryn Janeway, Mrs. Columbo, Mary Ryan. :)

Marry Kate Mulgrew to have all of them.

Fuck Mary Ryan.

Get drunk with Kathryn Janeway.

Kill Mrs Columbo before she has Jenny!

[captaincrusher]

Which series resonates with you the most and why?

Ds9, I think.

Ds9 is just more... complicated. And life is complicated. I appreciate Ds9 showing the complexity of good and bad and oppression and war.

The show started with the Cardassians being the bad, the oppressive overlords, while we rooted for a terrorist (Kira). And ended with the Cardassians being the terrorists, the freedom fighters. It was a 7 year arc on the structure of power and how that isn’t constant or simple.

Kira went from hating collaborators in “The Collaborator” to realizing she was one in “Rocks and shoals”. That is some complex story telling right there.

[autisticandroids]

ailtara replied to your post “reflectedeve replied to your post “reflectedeve replied to your post...”

They make nipple protectors! I think they're called nipple shields? I don't know how comfortable/awkward they are, but my aunt used one when she was breastfeeding my extra-chompy nephew.

oh man really? interesting

[calebdumes]

forcing myself out of my creative rut by writing from the pov of a new character (also i’ve had this idea since star wars day and given what coming up this month, it makes sense tbd)

fandom: star wars rebels

relationship: kanan jarrus/hera syndulla

rating: g

word count: 1.4k

~

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to traverse the blinding heat of the desert to wander the congested streets of Ancorhead but he found himself in the spaceport city all the same. Rugged off worlders and weary townsfolk passed by him as he walked with no real destination, the twin suns of Tatoonie blazing brightly in the cloudless sky overhead. 

His feet took him to a small cantina, not far from the bustling spaceport. The tea was sour and tepid but his seat on the outdoor patio gave him a full view of the dusty city and the millions of lives that called the desolate planet home. He often wondered what it would have been like to grow up on a planet like this, nothing but sand in every direction. He suspected his life would have been very different; slow, borderline monotonous but simple, carefree in a way that was so foreign to him that it seemed like an impossible ideal. Tatoonie was a steady, solid planet where nothing ever happened. 

Then again, it was this very planet where everything had changed.

Obi Wan Kenobi looked down at this tea, letting his thoughts blended into the murky brown liquid. How many hours he had wasted, thinking of a different life, one that didn’t revolve around this particular planet? Too many to count, it seemed and he saw many more wasted days in his future but what was a Jedi to do in a galaxy that had no want for one?

The familiar ache in his chest throbbed, his throat growing tight with emotion. Obi Wan closed his eyes against the bright landscape and took a deep breath, letting the pain he felt dim as he opened himself up to the comfort of the living Force. 

Then, he felt it. 

It was like a whisper brushing up against his mind, subtle and unmistakable. 

There was a Force wielder on Tatoonie.

No - not just any Force wielder, it was a Force wielder he recognized.

Obi Wan’s first instinct was to run. His objective was to remain hidden, lest his true intentions be discovered. But an abrupt exit, even on such a place as this, would only draw more attention to himself, so he reached for his tea and brought it to his lips, focusing on the bitter liquid as it spilled down his suddenly parched throat. 

He let his conscience spread outwards, searching for the being that had sparked the awakening in the Force. He was careful not to draw too heavily on the Force as he looked, he had heard the stories of the Empire’s agents that hunted beings like him. It was only a small fraction of what he was capable of but it was more than enough to find what he was seeking. 

His eyes dragged over to a food stall on the opposite side of the wide street. Two beings stood propped up against the furrocrete walls of a building, a young, green skinned Twi’lek woman and a young Human male, both somewhere in their early twenties. While more than one eye fell on the Twi’lek woman, Obi Wan’s attention zeroed in on the man. 

He was the Force wielder. 

Careful not to reveal himself, Obi Wan studied the Force signature of the man while using his physical senses to discover more about him. He was tall and lean with dark chestnut hair tied back into a tail at the base of his skull. Like nearly everyone on Tatoonie he was armed with a blaster and while he seemed to be deep in conversation with the Twi’lek woman, Obi Wan could tell from the tense line of his broad shoulders that he was completely aware of his surroundings. 

His Force signature was much harder to read. It was clouded, hard for Obi Wan to decipher, a twisting maze of traps and durasteel walls. It was a mark of someone who knew the dangers of being a Force user in the age of the Empire. It also spoke of his strength. He was trained enough to know how to hide in plain sight but not enough to remain completely hidden.

Obi Wan pressed harder, diving past the initial defense the man had constructed around himself and couldn’t suppress the gasp of surprise when recognition took hold. 

It couldn’t be…

But it was. The Force never lied. 

It was Depa Billaba’s inquisitive padawan, Caleb Dume.

Obi Wan let go of his hold on the Force and sat back in his chair, at a loss.

Caleb was certainly much taller than he had been when Obi Wan last saw him, a small little boy with more questions than sense and a voracious hunger for knowledge. Depa had had her hands full with him, his boundless curiosity had led to more than one reckless situation that rivaled the messes his own padawan tended to land in. But looking at him now, Obi Wan could see that wild streak had been tempered, his curiosity hardened into caution that spoke of a life of hardship and survival. 

But it hadn’t warped him into something worse. Obi Wan could sense his pain, a dark hole deep in his soul but it was contained. Instead of constant fear, Obi Wan could feel the comforting heat of life surrounding him, it was different from when he was a boy but familiar all the same. Caleb was alive and happy and…in love. 

Obi Wan didn’t need the Force to see it. Even from across the street he could see how Caleb leaned in towards the young Twi’lek. How his eyes never left her face as she spoke. His expression was soft and he burned with such adoration that Obi Wan was surprised he didn’t sense it sooner. 

Whoever that young woman was, Caleb was deeply in love with her. 

There was a sour taste on the back of Obi Wan’s tongue that had nothing to do with the tea. He had seen this before and he had seen where it led. But unlike the tight possessiveness that had leached from Anakin, Obi Wan felt nothing but pure light. Caleb’s love for this woman was unconditional but even still, it couldn’t beat back the cold fingers of fear that creeped up Obi Wan’s spine. 

Do you trust him so little? A long forgotten voice echoed faintly in his mind. 

It wasn’t about trust, he wanted to say. He had trusted Anakin with his life and look at what had happened in return. A Jedi’s purpose was to love but from his point of view, this type of love would only end in heartbreak.

In the heart of a Jedi, lies their strength. The voice replied softly, fading back into his memories. 

Obi Wan glanced over at the two again, the playful smile on Caleb’s lips making the woman’s cheeks flush with color. There was no darkness hiding in the corners of their minds. Despite the pain and horrors Caleb had suffered he was still a beacon of the light, a Jedi, even in hiding. 

He wasn’t Anakin.

Caleb kissed the side of the Twi’lek’s cheek, the tips of her lekku curling pleasantly. She wrapped a gloved hand around his and pulled him away from the wall. They walked together towards the spaceport, huddled close as if existing in their own personal universe.

Obi Wan closed his eyes, fighting back the urge to follow after them. It had been so long, so long, since he had seen another Jedi. He had spent too many nights lying awake and thinking he was the only survivor, he was willing to bet Caleb had as well. He longed for the connection all Jedi felt, the familiarity that came with being with ones people. He walked to talk to Caleb, to learn what Depa’s curious padawan was doing, how he survived, if he had come across any other surviving Jedi. He wanted Caleb to feel the sense of warmth he was feeling now, knowing that he wasn’t the only Jedi left in this harsh galaxy.

But he couldn’t risk it, no matter how badly he wanted to. He was placed on Tatoonie for a reason and he could not put that in jeopardy. He could only watch as they disappeared into the spaceport.

Still, Caleb’s presence filled Obi Wan with hope. If he survived, then others could have too. 

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

Caleb was alive. 

Obi Wan was not alone.

[mia-cooper]

‘tis the season: story #7

what am I talking about?

On my birthday this year I received the most amazing gift from @ailtara - a lengthy, thoughtful and utterly flattering analysis of my fic The Bitter End. I still go back and read it monthly, or whenever I’m having trouble writing, because it’s the greatest compliment and encouragement there is to have a reader tell you in detail what they liked (or didn’t like) about your work.

I didn’t manage to give back in time for @ailtara‘s birthday, so here’s a holiday season gift instead to say thank you. It’s a sequel of sorts to The Bitter End, and it fulfills a prompt @jhelenoftrek sneakily got out of you awhile ago, with Admiral Janeway telling Chakotay what happened in the unaltered Endgame timeline.

So here it is, for the one who loves to stomp in the puddles of their dreams:

Crumbling Castles (rated M) on AO3 | ffnet

Other gift fics are posted on AO3 at the Christmas Baubles 2017 collection.

[rikerssexblouse]

ailtara replied to your post: Okay, so Frakes let it slip that there would be a...

MIRROR GEORGIOU AND MIRROR (EVIL??!?) CAPTAIN TILLY SIGN ME THE EFF UP

I KNOW RIGHT?!

[the-goofball]

[jhelenoftrek]

Drab-let Series (Guess it, pick next) - “The Reality of Breath”

This one is from/for @ailtara.  407 words.  I’m not sure it’s exactly what she was looking for, but it’s a start to build from. I’ll likely continue this story, because I will never have enough words for this episode.  

For now, first person to identify the ep gets to pick the next. And if you can’t tell, then I’m either horrible at this, or you’ve never actually seen Voyager.

He can taste the champagne on her lips.  Intoxicating wisps of alcohol spill from her breath.  

Her cheek in his palm is warm and soft.  Her arms wrap around him, dragging him closer with each prolonged second until he is unsure where he ends and she begins.  

He is basking in their every movement, relishing the feel of her supple skin as he presses his hand along her thigh.  He memorizes every sigh that escapes her love-drunk tongue.

Until.

Everything changes.  The lake grows dark, the boat ends its rhythmic swaying.  The ground is hard beneath his knees.  

Her lips are still.  

He rushes, not to savor and enjoy them, but to breathe life back into them.  His hands are gripping greedily, not to explore, but to claim her as his and chase away death.  He is pressing on her now, moving life-blood around already failed systems, forcing his own stale breath from her lungs.  He shakes her and holds her and cries out for only the wind to hear.

And then.

He is awake, hands clenched around fistfuls of sheets.  He closes his eyes, leans back on his elbows and tries to ignore the hollow wail of anguish ringing in his ears.

But he does not succeed.

The chronometer by his bedside assures him it is sufficiently late.  She will be asleep by now, certainly.  And it’s too early to wake her.  But he has to know which reality he is living in.  

As he dresses he makes peace with this inappropriate, but extremely necessary, thing he is about to do.

He passes no one enroute to her quarters.  Elicits no attention while he overrides her door lock.  Is silent as he steals into her bedroom.  

He watches as the covers rise and fall.  She is just the right amount of peaceful.

Turning to leave, he sees the rose in a glass vase by her bedside.  He remembers how soft and supple it was when he picked it for her. He takes one single petal from the blossom.  

Back in the appropriateness of his quarters he regards the stolen treasure.  It is delicate peach at the edge bleeding down to deep rose and every shade in between that he knows she blushed to.  The same, fleshy softness is weightless in his palm.  A similar, sweet smell is light in the air.

He rests.

Until it is time for her to breathe life into him once again.

Another note:  Like many of these drab-lets, this one started out way over word count and I couldn’t imagine cutting it down.  But I’m telling you, fellow writer friends, crafting a story to a specific number is SUCH an insanely awesome lesson.  Please try it with me sometime.

[lodessa]

1. Describe yourself how you would describe a character you’re introducing

There was (it seemed) more hair than woman, and it took a moment for me to move past the massive wheat colored curls and on to the rest of her.   She spoke with an apologetic hesitance that was at odds with the speed with which she ran through sentences, a mixture of self deprecating casualness and academic precision in her word choice.