#as far as i am concerned there are eight planets that matter

[casbitchh]

i have an idea for a proposal about exoplanets. this is terrible, i hate exoplanets

[creativeashproductions]

Curiosity // Luke Patterson

Summary: After filling up another journal designed his songbook Luke is left empty handed. With the offer to a shelf of blanket journals is given he’s immediately choosing. But Luke’s curiosity leads him to a discovery. In other words Luke finds Perfect Harmony in Reader’s bedroom.

Requested: Yes by @averyharrypotterlife​ 

Warnings: None.

Words: 1.7 (including lyrics)

A/N: Thank you from the bottom of my heart for the 5000+ followers whether it was years ago and you didn’t unfollow or in the future. Thank you for enjoying and interacting in something I’ve always loved: writing.

TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX PLEASE!

Masterlist

Luke’s always been a curious person going as far back as his early childhood. The most consistent evidence being during the Christmas holidays. Until he was ten, yes, he’s aware that his friends stopped believing in Santa way earlier. The young lad would stay up hidden in the living room waiting to catch Santa. Without fail, Luke would wake up in his outer space planet sheets having fallen asleep in his mission.

When he was twelve years old, he was left at his aunt and uncle’s house for the weekend due to a work-related thing. His older cousin was eighteen at the time and at college, so Luke stayed in his bedroom. Luke couldn’t help but snoop through Bryan’s personal items, and in a drawer with a false bottom, he discovered magazines.

Luke had a lot of fun that weekend diligently going through the magazines his mother would skin his hide even knowing about them. He may have had to use the excuse of having a cold for the entire box of Kleenex missing. No one was the wiser on that weekend.

Now when Luke was fourteen years old, he had snuck into the Rated R film Candyman with Alex and Reggie. Luke’s parents had been strict in their rules and definitely had shot down the question of seeing the film. The three didn’t sleep with the lights out for a month after that, and the truth came out when no lie was sufficient to their concerned parents.

Luke Patterson didn’t care about boundaries. Why ask for permission when you can just ask for forgiveness? It worked with going through Julie’s dream box, but all personal items got hidden from the ghostly guitarist.

“No!” Luke exclaimed flipping through his song journal once more in hopes of a blank page. The frustration in his body snapping the pencil he had been using.

“You good?” You questioned glancing up from the essay you graded as a teacher’s assistant for an AP course. Luke’s frustrated brown met yours with a cute pout on his lips.

“I’ve filled my journal up. I hate using loose-leaf, but no money means no buying things.” Luke roughly scrubbed one hand on his face.

“You could always just forever borrow one from the- “Luke quickly shot that down with a look of absolute horror, “Okay…so stealing a no.”

“I did listen to my parents on certain aspects. I would never steal anything, other than the food when we didn’t have enough cash.” Luke’s brown hue had softened back into the hazel that caused flutters in your heart, “I have no respect for thieves.”

You nodded before scribbling a suggestion on the paper in dark red, “I have a shelf in my room dedicated solely to blank journals. If you want to, you can take one free of charge.”

With a quick smile, Luke disappeared from the room to your personal domain he sometimes hung out with you in. You had no misgivings on the teen finding solace in your room and gave him free rein; your prized possessions hidden very well.

Luke appeared in the soft blue and lilac bedroom with the queen white iron wrought style bed in the middle. A white desk in the corner with a multitude of bookcases and shelves in the room. The desk chair neatly pushed into the desk as well he went straight to the shelf.

Journals of all colours and styles with a label on the shelf noting them as empty. It was packed with dozens, but it was the midnight blue one that called to the boy. In his reach, he bumped an emerald green one off the edge. It opened having hit the edge of the desk.

As he leaned down, he noticed notations in the margins, now remember how Luke is a curious guy? He only hesitated a second before he was reading the pages of words in your signature script.

The guilt flared for a second before he justified it as being on the shelf you declared free game. So Luke settled sitting criss-cross against the side of your bed reading the words so eloquently written. Even notes allowed Luke to hear the melody in his mind.

Assignment: Write a piece of literature from two points of views. Genre doesn’t matter as long as it is a minimum of one page and not exceed eight.

Step into my world

Bittersweet love story ’bout a girl

Shook me to the core

Voice like an angel

I’ve never heard before

The words took his breath away, recalling a moment he gushed to Alex on how he had caught you singing. He had described your voice as being angelic, and it took him by complete surprise. He remembered Julie, and you entered the room shortly after with a nervous feeling if you had heard. Now Luke had his answer. His phantom heart pounded in anticipation for the reply to this first point of view.

Here in front of me

They’re shining so much brighter

Than I have ever seen

Life can be so mean

But when he goes, I know he doesn’t leave

The smile threatened to split his face with the elation as he continued reading with a subconscious hum. His fingers tapping the sides of the paper as his hazel irises tinged green ate up the words.

The truth is finally breaking through

Two worlds collide when I’m with you

Our voices rise and soar so high

We come to life when we’re

In perfect harmony

Whoa-oa-oa, whoa-oa-oa

Perfect harmony

Whoa-oa-oa, whoa-oa-oa

Perfect harmony

The world faded as Luke distinctly heard your angelic voice singing the parts he could easily recognize as perfect for you. There was something so powerful in this incredibly personal song only intended for your eyes and your teachers.

The next handful of lines left him breathless and astonished as he visualized not sitting across from each other. But engaging in another art form that can be so incredibly intimate for people; he imagined singing this while holding you in his arms.

You set me free

You and me together is more than chemistry

Love me as I am

I’ll hold your music here inside my hands

We say we’re friends, we play pretend

You’re more to me, we’re everything

Our voices rise and soar so high

 We come to life when we’re

 In perfect harmony

 Whoa-oa-oa, whoa-oa-oa

 Perfect harmony

 Whoa-oa-oa, whoa-oa-oa

 Perfect harmony

Luke went from humming to softly singing to the heartfelt tune with a flutter of butterflies deep in his stomach. When Julie saw Unsaid Emily, he had denied it as an experiment, and it was the truth. Luke wrote rock anthems and rock-pop with his living friend. He never dabbled into romantic ones.

He’d never read something so poetically beautiful it felt him weeping at the sheer amount of feelings.

I feel your rhythm in my heart

Yeah yeah yeah

You are my brightest burning star

Whoah whoah oh

I never knew a love so real (so real)

We’re heaven on earth

Melody and words

When we’re together we’re

In perfect harmony

Whoa-oa-oa, whoa-oa-oa

Perfect harmony

Whoa-oa-oa, whoa-oa-oa

We say we’re friends (we play pretend)

You’re more to me (we create)

Perfect harmony

His eyes found the last line of the song setting him back in a dead silence returning to the start to reread it. On his third read, he found the notes from your teacher on a separate page.

Y/N, in my years of teaching, I’ve never read something with such meaning behind it. The longing, passion, respect and love you artfully encapsulated is rare. To have written, this means you’ve felt this. No corrects needed, and I felt compelled to not mark on the piece. Thank you for being vulnerable with me, for letting me step inside your mind and please never let this emotion fade.

Your grade is A+.

Luke’s lips pulled apart at the genuine words your teacher had written because it indeed was a word of art. Carefully Luke returned the notebook back to the shelf to retrieve the blue one that caught his attention. AS he turned, he found you leaning against the door frame with a soft smile.

“I am so sor-“

“No.” You replied, walking into the room, “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I told you any notebook on that shelf. I can’t get mad, and I’ve seen you can’t leave something half-read.”

“Probably why my book reports were insanely well done in school.” Luke joked as you stepped in his personal space. The tension faded from his shoulders as he took in your features, “You got a perfect grade.”

“I did.” You simply spoke, staring up into his eyes, “You helped me with it.”

“How?”

“You told Alex what you felt about my voice. You looked nervous when I walked in, so I let it go. It wasn’t the time to bring it up. It’s called Perfect Harmony.” You told the ghost gently grazing your fingertips on his hand. The feeling sends shudders down his spine.

“I guess it just wasn’t the right time. With the band and-“

“-the whole soul owning thing. Too much but now that you’ve read that…what do you feel?” You hesitantly asked because reading it and discovering how someone feels is another to if the feelings are reciprocated back.

“That I was always meant to live in 2020. That I was meant to love you with every atom in my very being.” Luke murmured before he crashed his lips onto your own in a searing kiss that had your toe-curling.

The midnight blue journal dropped to the floor as his large calloused hands cupped your face to feel the warmth. The very journal would be filled with songs all about this person, Luke adored not matter his state as a ghost. Two worlds collided just as two souls came together in perfect harmony.

So, wrapped up in each other Luke didn’t notice something magical encased in the warm love. In the bedroom, the two teens were kissing in had two distinct heartbeats with a glow emanating from Luke Patterson.

Tag List (PLEASE SEND AN INBOX TO BE ADDED! I CANNOT GUARANTEE YOU WILL BE ON THE LIST VIA POST COMMENTS!)

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[frauleinfunf]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ♥️

Thank you!!!!!!

This should be interesting since the bulk of my fic writing is in a Google doc that shall never see the light of day and it's concept would take too long to explain, but I can still come up with 5. (also hope ur ready for 3 out of 5 to be owl house bc my brainrot is too strong)

three may keep a secret (if two are dead) - I can't help myself putting this at the top. I had way too much fun writing the Collector and I just find Belos to be such a fascinating villain to explore. Hermit kills brother and spends 400 years trying to kill all witches and also somehow becomes emperor of witches? Man's got centuries of damage and I am here for it

my faith in this world is a bottle of nothing - Though I've come to accept what canon has given us with Chic, I still think the backstory I came up with was better. And tbh there's no reason the two can't coexist. Chic has a long history of abuse and eventually snaps, meets Charles who has also snapped from years of abuse, and they become a happy murder couple. Name a more romantic story, I'll wait.

half sick of shadows - Another backstory fic utterly destroyed by canon, but at least this canon writes my boy well. Though we now know Hunter's a magic clone of Belos' brother and thus never had a family, I still like what I was able to do with his character here. I liked being able to explore the beginnings of the abuse he suffered from Belos, and the way it impacted how he tries to present himself as the Golden Guard. I liked looking into Belos going so far as to pick the least supportive adults possible for Hunter to interact with and to get rid of any that show the slightest concern for his well being. Maybe after the show's done I'll put these ideas in a more canon compliant fic.

a hardly used lemon - So this is in a Google Doc (not the same one mentioned above) bc if my fiction workshop professor from 2017 asks it's not fanfic, but it is, it's fanfic I tricked my whole class into reading. More specifically, it's a backstory fic for Wheeler from Captain Planet, based around the ideas I've had for a reboot. This was written before any of the other fics here, and through workshopping it for months I feel I really grew as a writer and even developed some personal flair. Basically it's the blueprint for everything else here.

it's a hard knock life - didn't post it on AO3 (or title it till now) bc it's a word vomit I made right after hollow mind, but I still like it. It's a much more canon compliant backstory for Hunter but like half sick of shadows, I liked being able to tacitly explore his and Belos' relationship by going back to the very beginning. Belos might not show up till the very end, but I feel like really emphasizing that Hunter had no one before Belos "found him" really helps in understanding his codependency. I also liked exploring how vulnerable Hunter's status in the society of the Boiling Isles was as a powerless witchling with no family, basically our equivalent of a disabled child in the foster care system. I also like to make myself sad thinking about Hunter spending the first eight years of his life believing whatever family he had abandoned him and then all of a sudden finding out he's the long lost nephew of the Emperor and just waiting to lose it all bc it's too good to be true and trying so hard to prove himself worthy of being related to the Emperor and years later finding out he's just someone's clone and it never mattered how hard he tried Belos was eventually gonna kill him like the other Golden Guards and I should stop now huh

[imabeautifulbutterfly]

Moving On - Mini Series - Part 3

Summary: Jirli proves herself

A/N: Hello my lovelies, 

I’m so excited that you have followed this mini series, there are only two more parts, and I can’t wait for you all to read how it ends.  I hope I am doing justice to all the characters.  

Italics = reader's other voice

Italics and bold = telepathic communications

Bold = Commander Wolfee’s POV

Italics and Indented = Reader’s enhanced hearing.

Warnings: Canon typical violence, I think that’s about it for warnings.  If I miss any please let me know.  

Words: 3,297 shorter part

Thank you everyone for following along and showing love.  As always, feel free to drop some love, a comment or even a reblog, it’s always welcome.

AO3 Link

Previous -> Masterlist -> Next

THE FIRST MILE

“Master, we’re all ready over here at the canyon”

“Very good Jirli, may the Force be with you” Master Plo responded.

“May the Force be with us all,” I looked over to Commander Cody, “what do you think Cody?”

“I think we’re as ready as we’re going to be Commander”

“You know you can just call me Jirli, everyone does”

“Yes, Commander Jirli” Cody said with a smirk

“Clearly, you have developed General Kenobi’s sense of sass”

“Whatever do you mean?” I just chuckled at his smirk, I looked over the squad I'd been assigned a mix of the 212th and the 104th, all good men, ready to fight to the bitter end.  Despite their experience, I could feel their anxiety through the force, “Cody, let’s gather the men before we get into our positions.”

“Men, form up!”

Within an instant, all eight men stood before me and the Commander, “Before we get into positions, there’s something I want to say, the last time I was on a mission, it didn’t go well for me, as many of you probably know.  After all, gossip is never in short supply in the GAR”, they all chuckled in agreement, I could feel their tension lessening.  “Although I haven’t worked with any of you before, I have worked with your brothers.  My squad was my family, they meant everything to me, therefore by extension you, all of you, are my family.  Which means I will defend each and every one of you till my dying breath. Understood?”

Everyone nodded, I could see some were a little shocked at my statement, “If anyone is injured, if anyone gets so much as a scratch, I want to know about it.  Understood?”

“Yes, Sir” came one resounding voice.

“No one gets left behind!”

“Yes, Sir” came two more

“No one is dying on this battlefield!”

“Yes, Sir!” most of the men shouted.

“Do you know what we are?  We are stones.  Each one a boulder of strength.  Get enough boulders together and they become an impenetrable mountain.  Today WE are that mountain!”

“YES, SIR!” Everyone cheered.

“Get to your positions and may the Force be with us.”

They all hollered and cheered, as they headed to their positions, all eight men were taking the high ground, only Cody and myself were going to be near the cannon's exit, hidden in the crag that was off to the side.  The only one visible to the droids would be me, and only when I stepped out of the crag, once the droids were close enough.  

“Very moving speech Commander”

“Alright there sass mouth, you don’t have to lay it on that thick. I’m not the best when it comes to speeches.”

Cody reached for my shoulder and turned me to face him “I wasn’t being sarcastic, Jirli.  I was being honest, I will fight by your side, whenever and wherever, vod’ika.”  I couldn’t help the smile that appeared on my face, I didn’t even have a response really, I simply nodded his acceptance.

My comm beeped, “Jirli?”

“Yes, Anakin?”

“It seems your plan is working, the droids are turning towards the canyon, they've lost about 20 droids so far, they’ll be on your position in less than ten minutes.”

“Thanks Anakin, be careful”

“You too.”

“Alright men'' Cody comm-ed the team, “we just received word, the droids are coming, they’ll be here in ten minutes, stay frosty gentlemen”, all the men pinged back their acknowledgement.

“Stay frosty?” I asked tilting my head

“What? No good?”

“Nah, I like it,” I smiled back at Cody.

Ten minutes felt like hours, but eventually we saw the tops of the droids coming over the ridge, heading towards the entrance of the canyon.  At this point all the teams would be converging on our location, it was just a matter of how long I could keep the droids distracted, giving the teams time to get situated.  We had estimated it would take about 25 minutes for the other teams to converge on us.  Cody was crouched beside, his hand on the detonator, his breathing was steady, calm.  His presence was soothing, clearly being around Master Kenobi had helped him keep his feelings in check, I had no doubt he would only press the detonator once I gave him the signal.  The droids were less than five feet away from where Cody and I were positioned.  I grabbed his forearm, squeezed it once, and walked out of where I was hiding.  

I stood in the path of the droids, my robe was blowing in the wind, the hood covering my face, here’s hoping these droids wouldn’t just shoot first and ask questions later.  

Breathe.  I closed my eyes and felt the force around me, guiding me, calming me.

“HALT!” The droid's voice echoed through the canyon walls.

“Explain.  Why have we stopped?”  The tactical droid inquired via the holo comm.

“There is a person standing in the way” the lead droid answered

“You can go no further!” I demanded in my most commanding voice

“They say we can go no further” reported the droid

“I suggest you go back and leave this planet!”

“They want us to leave the planet” echoed the droid

“We have orders, proceed” came the command from the tactical droid.

“I said, you CANNOT go any further!” My voice echoed through the canyon walls

“They aren’t moving” informed the droid

“Eliminate them” was the order issued

“Attack me and you will cause your own destruction”, I reached for my lightsaber under the robes, but I didn't ignite it.

“Commander, they have something in their hand”

“What do they have?” Asked the commanding droid

“A cylinder of some kind”

“Cylinder?”

“Not just any cylinder” I answered the unseen droid at the back of the battalion, I ignited my lightsaber, the white light of my lightsaber shining and humming.

“JEDI!!”

I raised my saber into a fighting stance, and within seconds, the bombs went off, a dust cloud emerged.  Using the dust as cover, I went in between the droids, cutting down all that stood before me, with each slice, I saw the faces of my dying squad over and over again.  The only thing that could be seen amongst the dust was the light of my saber swinging, most of the droids were destroyed from the bombs.  Every so often I heard a blaster bolt being shot from above, once the dust settled, the only thing remaining standing was the tactical droid’s tanker, which didn’t last long either as Master Plo and Commander Wolffe, came up from behind and destroyed the tanker within a matter of seconds.

I stood before both men, while both looked over my shoulder at the carnage I had left in my wake.  Cody came up from behind me, “Couldn’t have left us a few tinnies to thrash?”

“Sorry Cody” I laughed, placing my hand on his right shoulder, ��next time, I’ll make sure to leave you a few more”.

“Wait, you did all of that?” Commander Wolffe asked

“What?  Did you think I was all looks and no skill?” I teased

“Little one, are you okay?” Inquired my master

“Never better, Master.  It was very …” I looked back at the destruction, a grin forming on my face, “… cathartic.”  The smile on my face beamed as I looked upon my old Master.  This is exactly what I needed, an opportunity to get back some sense of justice for my squad, my family, my love.

“Jirli!” came Anakin’s voice from behind Commander Wolffe, when he saw me standing before the tanker, my Master and the two commanders, I noticed his relief, his shoulders and face relaxed, I also felt it in the force.  Without thinking, he rushed over and hugged me, it was a bone crushing hug, but it was comforting, as only a brotherly hug could be.

“Okay Anakin, I think you’re breaking a rib now” I managed to squeeze out, Anakin laughed into my shoulder, “Well then, don’t scare me like that again”, he grabbed my upper arms, pushing me far enough away to look at me, “Are you okay? Any injuries?”

“None” I beamed back, I turned my attention back to Cody, “Cody, what about the Stones any injuries?”

“Only one” came his solemn voice, “Who?” concern laced my voice, moving out of Anakin’s hold and stepping closer to the Commander, I grabbed his forearm.

Seeing the Commander touch Cody’s shoulder and then grabbing his arm made me uneasy.  I didn’t understand why her touching him made it feel as though a weight had been put on my heart.  I couldn’t help but clench my fists by my side.

“Boil, he … “ began Cody, looking away from my eyes for a second, I saw him take a deep breath, oh no.  No. No.  Looks like you may be responsible for one more.  Shut up!

He turned to face me, and a small smirk began to appear, now I was confused, “He says he got a scratch on his right hand when he was climbing to his position.  Wondered if you could look it over?”  I couldn’t help but laugh, Cody’s eyes were warm and jovial, “You really are sassy! I think you need time away from General Kenobi."

"Is that an invitation?"

I just shook my head.  If Commander Wolffe doesn't do it for you, there's always Cody.  Yeah, not gonna happen.

"Tell Boil, he's better off seeing the medic.  In fact, let him know I'll check in with the medic to make sure he did get it taken care of, we wouldn’t want the scratch to get infected, now would we?” I winked at Cody.

“Yes, Commander” Cody saluted while trying to keep his face stoic and failing, as the blush appeared on his face, Cody walked off in search of Boil.

Master Kenobi walked over, “The Stones?”

“Oh, I nicknamed my squad”

“You mean, my squad”

“Relax Master, I’m not keeping them, not yet anyways.  I may be back for them later.  I really enjoyed working with them.”

“So do I, young one.  Just so you know I’m not going to give up my men to anyone, not without a fight”.

I couldn’t help the grin that was on my face “Master, attachment is not the Jedi way” I teased.  Anakin started to laugh, when Master Kenobi shot him a look, turning his laugh into a cough.  Anakin looked at me and winked.  I knew I was pushing it, but we did just have a successful campaign, time to revel in it.  

“Are you really lecturing me on attachment, Jirli?”

I could see the crinkle in his eye, Curl and I were the worst kept secret, it only made sense the Master Kenobi would have known. I didn’t respond, simply looked to the ground, while I smirked.  It felt good to laugh and remember Curl with fondness not tragedy.

“I think it’s time we head back to our respective ships” Anakin suggested.

“Agreed” Master Kenobi said, “Jirli, good job on the execution of your plan.  You might be happy to note there were no casualties.”  I looked from Master Kenobi, to Anakin, to Master Plo, they all nodded, reinforcing Master Kenobi’s statement.  No major injuries.  No casualties.  I couldn’t help but well up with tears at the joy of that.  

“Before we leave, we need to clean up the bombs that didn’t explode” Master Plo advised.

Although all eyes were on my Master, I could feel one set of eyes focused on me.  I glanced over to see Commander Wolffe’s eyes burrowing into my stature.  I couldn’t help the uneasiness that washed over me from the intensity, I shifted slightly to hide behind Anakin.  Why did this man’s gaze unnerve me?  Maybe because you like it.  I wondered when you were going to pop up again. Surprised you were able to keep quiet during the fighting.  I know better than to distract you during an actual mission.  Thank goodness for that, but you’re wrong.  Am I?  I don’t like being scrutinized.  I think you like having someone look at you, the way he is.  Very different from the way Curl used to look at you.  I’m not interested.  Whatever you say.

“Excuse me gentlemen, I promised I would look in on Boil”, I walked away from the intense eyes that were burning a hole into me.

She took on the remaining droids?  She gave her temporary squad a name? She wanted to know if anyone was injured?  I  have to admit her plan was successful,  it didn't even cost us one life.  I  could see from his expression, Cody was ready to follow her anywhere.  Sinker is ready to defend and follow her.  Curl certainly was ready to devote his whole life to her, in fact he did.  Had I cheapened his sacrifice?  Was I wrong about the Commander?

“Commander Wolffe?” I looked up to see, everyone had moved away except General Skywalker.

“General Skywalker”

“Everything alright, Wolffe?”

“Yes, sir, why do you ask?”

“First, you're still standing here, instead of heading towards your shuttle.  Secondly, you haven’t stopped staring at Commander Stonn since I arrived, in fact, you still followed her with your gaze as she walked over to the medics.  Is there an issue with the Commander?”

Was I really just staring at her the whole time? Snap out of it di’kut.  I forced my eyes to look at General Skywalker "No, sir.  There’s no issue with the Commander.”  

Come up with a plausible excuse for staring, come on fool.

“I was just trying to reconcile how a tiny woman like the Commander took on an entire battalion or what was left.  I can’t imagine what that looked like, it probably was something to behold.”

The General let out a chuckle, “You have no idea, she’s …” the General stopped, a smile appearing on his face as he looked towards the Commander, “She's special, Wolffe.  More than you can know"

"Sir?"

"She has an ability with the force that many can’t understand, in fact, it scares them because of her natural talent.  For example, she learned all the lightsaber forms.  Pfft, not just learned them, but mastered them, as well.  She’s the only Padawan to have ever sparred with Master Yoda, Master Windu, Master Plo, and Master Kenobi.  When we were training at the temple, whenever she had to spar with any of the Masters, it became a spectacle at the temple.  Everyone gathered to watch.”

“How did she do?”

“She held her own with each of the Masters, they all respected her because of her ability. Which in itself is impressive, however, things changed when Master Yoda called her out before they began their session.  After that everyone … I think in some ways people were jealous, in others I think they were frightened of her.  Especially, since the sparring session with Master Yoda was her final test before she became a Jedi Knight.”

“What do you mean sir?”

“He told her, in front of the entire temple for her final session, she couldn’t hold back.  I remember she looked at him, there was no emotion on her face.  After a while, a smile formed on her face, she said ‘how did you know?’, Master Yoda simply said, ‘when almost 900 years you are able to tell someone holding back, hmmm.’  At that moment, the entire temple realized she could have easily bested any of the Masters, but she didn't.

Her and Master Yoda's sparring match lasted over an hour, eventually it was rendered a tie.  Both barely broke a sweat.  When the session had ended, Master Yoda simply smiled at her.  The crowd was quite, it was eerie but she only smiled back at Master Yoda and chuckle ‘You held back’.  ‘Only a little’ was his response.  Seeing her match Master Yoda stroke for stroke was something I will never forget, it was beautiful.  However, after she became a Knight many were frightened of what she could do, simply because she’s a Grey Jedi with a deep connection to the Force.”

“What’s that?”

“A grey Jedi, is a force-wielder who can use both the light and dark side of the force.  Jirli devoted a great amount of time to her studies, trying to understand what it meant for her to be a Grey Jedi.  She's one of the few Jedis I have known, who have developed perfect balance with the force.  Unlike other Jedis, she’s able to form attachments without it affecting her, even her attachment with Master Plo has helped her not hinder her.  When she lost Curl and her squad, I thought it might unbalance her, and we might lose her too, but she proved me wrong.  As she always does.”  The adoration in the General’s eyes was unmistakable.

“You love her”

General Skywalker turned to face me, “Yes, she’s my sister.  I adopted her as my sister when we met at the temple, all those years ago.  Ever since that day she’s been my best friend and closest confidant.  She understands me better than anyone else in my life.”

“It seems she has a gift for acquiring a multitude of brothers.  Anyone that gets to know her is automatically ready to follow and fight by her side” maybe she’s using some kind of Jedi mind trick.

“When you get to know her, Commander, you can’t help but love her.  Jirli fights with her whole being, she’s not afraid to stand up for those she loves.  When it comes to protecting people, she will gladly lay her life down.  It really is a shame you didn’t get to see her take on the battalion.”

“Maybe one of the other clones was able to record it?”

“Record what?” General Kenobi asked, walking up to the General and I.

“Jirli taking on the battalion” answered General Skywalker

“Oh, her ‘Stone Squad’ recorded it, I just heard a few of them talking about it”.

“They did?” I asked way too hopeful, General Kenobi laughed at my enthusiasm, “Yes, Commander.  Talk to Cody, I think he has access to all the footage.  Come on Anakin, we are needed back on our ships.”

“Coming Master.  Commander.” General Skywalker, nodded to me a good bye, I reciprocated the nod and comm-ed Cody as soon as I was alone.

“Wolffe?”

“Hey vod, I heard some of your guys may have recorded the attack between Commander Stonn and the droid army, is that correct?”

"Ha, some, try all of them"

"Really?"

“Wanting to see what your Commander can do?”

“Just curious and she’s not MY Commander.”

“Whatever you say, vod.  But you might want to tell your face to stop looking at her like she hung the stars.”

“I do not!”  Was my face that obvious?

“I just sent you all the recordings.  Don’t worry, I don’t think she can read your looks yet.  In fact, I’m pretty sure she thinks you hate her.”

“Well she’s not entirely wrong there.  I don’t trust her, not yet, but I think these recordings will definitely help.”

“She’s an amazing warrior, vod.  Give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“I’ll try”

“Hey vod?”

“Yeah, Cody”

“Regardless of what you say, you do have a crush on her.  You can lie to yourself, but not to me.  I know you too well.  Can’t blame you really, most of my men have a crush on her too.”  

My hand clenched by my side, why was I getting possessive, she’s not mine.

“I … she’s … Listen vod, she can be interested in whoever she wants, she's not mine.”

“Really?”

“Yes”

“So does that mean I can ask her out?”

“WHAT!”

“Ha, ha, just kidding vod.  I know how possessive a wolf can be.”

“Take care of yourself, Cody.”

“You too, Wolffe”

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@liadamerondjarin​ @lady-ren​

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in support of Texas relief, @padxleckiss donated $50, and requested always-a-girl!Deanna/Sam, lingerie, comeplay. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

In the week after they get back from St. Louis, dealing with James and the witches and the familiars and everything that got dragged up along with them, Deanna throws herself into the bunker. Sam thought she was nesting before; turns out he didn't really know what that looked like, from his sister.

There's cleaning. There's rearranging. She turns the kitchen upside down and finds another farmer's market over in Smith Center that even in late February Kansas weather has produce that she fairly squeals over, when she's dumping her egg-crate of loot out onto the island. "How are you getting tomatoes this time of year?" Sam asks, and she makes a raspberry noise and says, "What? Greenhouses, or something, Sammy, don't bitch when I'm bringing home gold." While Sam's still digging out in the library, still trying to make sense of the diamond-mine of lore and records and history that they've fallen face-first into, Deanna makes mysterious trips to Wichita, to Topeka, to department stores, to—who knows where else, because Sam isn't invited, because he, apparently, "doesn't know how to shop." Sam didn't know Deanna did, considering that their whole lives she's lived on thrift-store finds and leftovers same as him, but apparently his sister has yet more depths Sam didn't realize he wasn't privy to until they were suddenly revealed.

She comes home late after another trip—swinging past Kevin on the houseboat, but clearly an excuse from the shopping bag swinging on the end of her finger—and Sam's tired from a long day sitting in the library and trying to manage this nagging cough without worrying about it, but she bounces up the steps and there's a shine to her that hasn't been there since—since Sam doesn't remember, how long—and he smiles at her, despite everything. "Good drive?" he says.

"Update, Kevin has advanced in his diet enough to alternate between hot dogs and Hot Pockets," Deanna says, and wraps an arm over his chest from behind and kisses his cheek, easily affectionate like they also haven't been in too long. He swallows, tasting iron, and catches her wrist to keep her there. She hmms, reading his laptop over his shoulder like she always does. Her hair swings down, too, falling over her shoulder, smelling like road and like the faintest trace of her crappy strawberry conditioner. More absently: "Not even the good kind. He's getting, like, off-brand meatball and four cheese."

"Did you cook?" Sam says, and she goes pff against his cheek—tickles, and he flinches away, grinning despite himself—and she says, standing, "I am not Kevin's mommy, Sam, what do you take me for?" When he cranes his head back to give her a face she presses her lips together, rolling her eyes, and says, "I mean, yes, I made lasagna, okay? Kid can't live on weird mystery meat alone. It's got tomato sauce, that counts as a vegetable." She snorts then, tugging her wrist out of his loose grip, and Sam flattens his hand against his chest instead, wanting her back already. "You shoulda heard the noise he made when he got the first bite, too. If he never lost his virginity before, that thing blasted his cherry."

"Dee," Sam groans—Kevin's been through shit but he's still a kid, as far as Sam's concerned—and she says ha, unrepentant.

"You eaten?" she says. Bag on the other table, the one she's staked out as hers, which he isn't allowed to spread 'moldy records' on, apparently. She squats at the brand new mini-fridge, rummaging, though when Sam's silent she gives him a sidelong look. "Samwise? Dinner? Supper?"

"That would make you Frodo," he says, and she rolls her eyes again, coming up with two beers. She cracks them on the edge of the fridge—there's already a scraped-spot coming up—and comes up to him holding his just out of reach, her eyebrows high. Sam sighs. "Yes. Like, two hours ago. The mothering routine is weird, you know."

"Oh, something about us is weird, huh?" Deanna says, smile pulling at her mouth, and when she holds out the beer for him to take she keeps her fingers on the bottle and pulls herself in when he takes it, sliding inside the v of his legs, pressing her thigh against his. He tips his head back and she leans in, making a fake sweet moue of concern. "Tell me about it, baby."

"Dude," he says, protesting only vaguely, and she grins outright, pushing his shoulder and turning away.

"Yeah, whatever," she says. She scoops her bag off the other table and half-salutes with her beer. "I've got a date with the shower room and some new sheets. You going to come to bed tonight, or is this whole lore fetish permanent?"

Asked casual, her eyes on her shopping bag as she presumably admires whatever purchases. Sam swallows down a cough. "Give me a few hours," he says.

Deanna glances at him, not smiling at all for a moment, before that little exasperated dimple peeks up in her cheek. "Fe-tish," she coos, half-singing, and he rolls his eyes for her to see so she'll grin, brief, before she disappears again, her boots clomping loud down the concrete hall, so he still knows where she is even if he can't see her. Sam holds the beer in both hands, running his thumb along the edge of the label, listening. The bunker feels different, when she's in it. The world feels different, when she's in it.

It's been… how has it been. Complicated. That's the best way, maybe, to describe it in brief and still be truthful. His sister is one of the most complicated people on the planet, though she'd protest that description. Sam's personal opinion is that she's one of the most complicated people in history, and considering their relative position in history it's probably not a stretch to figure that, on an objective scale, she's at least ranked.

The last eight months or so—that was complicated, too, although in some ways it was very, very simple. Sam had been with another woman for almost a year and Deanna had been with another man and regardless of extenuating circumstances—death, or presumed death, or loneliness so complete that it gave Sam nightmares, even now, these bleak dreams of an empty world where he calls out and his voice doesn't echo, a deaf-and-mute misery where all he sees is absence—that was it, pretty much. Since then, they've forgiven each other. They broke off other concerns and when Sam walked back into that cabin in Whitefish Deanna was standing at the window with her arms wrapped over her stomach, looking out at something Sam couldn't see. She cut her eyes over when Sam closed the door and Sam shrugged and her lips folded between her teeth and, for a second Sam's always going to remember, she closed her eyes very tight, the faint crow's feet beside them going white with tension. Then she went to the cupboard and got down two cans of chili, and Sam found the can opener, and she uncapped the beers. They ate silently, watching a rerun of a wrestling match with six inches of space between them on the couch, but they were together, and that was more, almost, that night, than Sam could handle. It wasn't until the ridiculous adventure with Charlie—until after—when he woke up in the middle of the night already reaching for his gun with her hand small on his wrist and red-and-white makeup still smeared at her temples, her hair still caught up in the ridiculous Viking braids Charlie had given her��with her leaning in, in the too-big t-shirt she'd stolen from him to sleep in when she first came back from Purgatory and, he quickly realized, nothing else—when she said, soft in the dark, Sammy, asking—and he touched the bare shine of her knee gleaming in the moonlight and saw how her eyes closed again, very tight again, and he sat up and put his thumb to the clenched tense skin beside her eye and put his lips to her cheekbone, on the opposite side, and felt all the way through his body the breath she let out, like a tension she'd held close for a year or more was unraveling, all at once.

His sister. He knows what that means, about them. It's worse, of course, because she's his sister who raised him, who taught him how to shoot and bandaged his skinned knees and who beat the shit out of the first girl who ever stood him up for a school dance, when he was fourteen, and Sam had tried to intervene but Deanna had whirled on him, furious, and said no one gets to treat you like that, you get me? No one. Sam remembered that moment on the Greyhound, pressing his forehead against the window and watching the pale grey Arizona desert go past in the moonlight, California beckoning and Deanna's face, turned away while Dad shouted, pinned miserably behind his eyes. His sister, rowdy and caring and bullish and sweet. The town whore, boys had claimed when Sam was a teenager, and he'd gotten in his own fights, for that, fights that had led to Deanna pressing wadded TP against his lip and holding frozen peas against his eye, shaking her head, saying, Sammy, I know I taught you to box better than this. You fixing matches and making bank on the side, or what? His sister, who stood smirking in his kitchen in Palo Alto, her eyes not cutting to the girl at Sam's side even once—who said to him, voice sore, we made a good team, back there—who said to him, when Sam was out of his skin with worry after moving matter with his mind when the vision of her dead had filled it, nothing bad's gonna happen to you, not as long as I'm around, and smiled at him with her eyes clear, like it was nothing but true—who wept, cracked-open miserable, when she was sure that their dad had sold his soul for her—when she said to Sam that she wasn't worth it, and she didn't know why he had—that she was sorry, that she'd lost their father for both of them—his sister, who he folded into his chest, cupping his hand around the wavy-thick weight of her hair, noticing in a way for the first time how small she was, compared to him, and how she quivered, shaking in agony, caught against him, and how when he tipped her chin up on that mountain pull-out in the late afternoon sunshine the tears gleamed on her cheeks and her face was wrecked, her eyes red and her nose shined with snot and her mouth screwed up, bitten red and chapped, but full when Sam dipped and kissed her—plush, and startled-open, when Sam kissed her—giving, and tasting of salt, and desperate, and furious, and yielding, and precious-sweet, delicate, shocked, when Sam kissed her. She blinked, when he pulled away, stunned silent. Her eyelashes clumped and dark, and her eyeliner smeary, and her mouth red, red, red. Sam touched her lower lip with his thumb and she took in a huge deep breath that stuttered on its way in, staring at him big-eyed, and then she gripped his hair in both fists and tugged him back down and kissed him again, vicious, and that—well, that was it. His sister, and him. All the years between then and now, and that's still what it boils down to. Sam and Deanna. No matter what, the and is still the most important word.

He comes to bed. Midnight. A little after. They have separate rooms but Deanna's is nicer, despite the guns racked on the walls, and the weird obsidian axe that Sam doesn't ask about in pride of place, above the headboard. She's made the room her own—girly, sort of, despite the weaponry, although Sam doesn't describe it that way out loud—a new-built rack of her FBI-pretext suits and her few dresses on the other side of the wardrobe, and a throw blanket and fluffy pillow she has completely failed to explain or acknowledge on the uncomfortable loveseat, and candles on the shelf above the bed that she clearly had burning for a while before she went to sleep, because the room smells faintly of orange blossom when Sam's pulling off his boots, leaving his jeans on the chair in the corner. When he slides into bed behind her into the apparently-new sheets she makes a faint questioning sound, her head turning. He shushes her very quietly, sliding his hand over the wide curve of her hip, over the blanket. The memory foam sinks beneath him, too soft, but the bed already smells like her and so it's comfortable, anyway. He presses his lips against her bare neck, the soft baby-hairs there silky, her hair pulled messily up for bedtime as always, and she sighs, in her sleep, and curls in closer to her pillow. Sam smiles at the back of her head, wishing—well, whatever he wishes doesn't matter. He tucks in, knees pulling up into the curve of her knees so that he'll fit in the bed, and closes his eyes, and figures that, whatever he dreams, at least when he wakes up he'll be here, in what passes for home, with his sister.

*

As a matter of course Sam wakes up first. Unless there's a job-related deadline or nightmares dragging her awake, Deanna would happily sleep straight through the morning, and with no check-out times nagging at them in the bunker she's often wandered out into the library wrapped in one of those too-big robes at ten a.m., her hair wrecked and her slept-in makeup smudged and her mouth surly, demanding to know if Sam's made coffee. He has always made coffee.

This morning, though. Sam's alarm goes off at seven as usual, and he groans and smacks his phone, as usual, barely awake but knowing that he doesn't want to hear Deanna's bitching if it wakes her up, too—but there's no too-warm plush weight plastered up against him, and no murmured threats of shooting the phone if he doesn't change his alarm sound, and when he drags his hand through his hair and sits up and his brain actually comes online—the bed's empty, and the room's quiet, and he sits there blinking, surprised, not really knowing what to make of it.

Smell of coffee, when he opens the door, and bacon-smell snaking underneath it. When he gets to the kitchen, still trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes, Deanna's in her sleep-shirt (still Sam's, the shoulders way too big and the v-neck gaping), and tugged-on shorts, and bare feet, and her hair in a honey-brown messy pile on top of her head, and she's in a whirl of breakfast, pancakes on the griddle and a pan of bacon going and something being whisked with extreme prejudice in one of the big steel bowls, more suited to feeding thirty than just the two of them. She jerks when she notices him, like she's been caught at something, but then her eyes go to his hair and she starts to smile, wide mouth pulling into what Sam thinks of as her Joker grin. "Don't start," he says, and she says, too innocent, "Start what? I think it's very brave that you're joining a Flock of Seagulls cover band," and he drops his head back and sighs and ignores her snort-laugh, but he also drags his hands through his hair a little more strenuously while she says, "Whatever, Pigpen, take a seat. Grub's up in five."

He gets coffee, first. Strong, but good—like, really, really good, for some reason that he doesn't quite get—it's the same machine, same crappy tub of pre-ground stuff they get from the little market in town—but then Deanna's always been better at this kind of thing than she let on, and he savors the first few sips, breathing caffeine. She ignores him, moving confidently around—the whisking it turns out was eggs, which she pours onto the griddle too and starts working like she's a line cook—and he watches her, content for a second to let that be the only thing he's thinking about. She was a line cook, once, he remembers. When he was in high school, and she'd quit school by then, and the credit cards hadn't come through. She got a job for a few weeks at that diner, in Joplin. "What was that place you worked?" Sam says, while she's flipping pancakes. She frowns at him over her shoulder. "They gave me free grilled cheese for dinner, that month."

The frown clears. "The Show Me Diner," she says, turning back to the griddle. "Manager always joked I should show him my tits." Sam pauses, cup halfway to his mouth. He never heard that part. Deanna laughs, scraping at the griddle with the metal spatula. "Man, that kitchen was gross. Great fries, though."

"The grilled cheese was good," Sam says, after a second, and she says, "Damn right it was, I was the one making it," and then she's ducking under the island and grabbing plates, and then in the next second there's breakfast—fresh and hot and delivered with a fork clattering down into his eggs and his sister plopping down on the other side of the table, tucking her foot under her other knee and gesturing with the other fork: "Eat, drink, be merry. Happy birthday, Sammy."

Sam frowns. "Uh," he says, and makes a show of looking at his watch. "Unless I slept way too late—"

She rolls her eyes, cramming pancake into her mouth. "Shut up," she advises, garbled, and he wrinkles his nose at the chewing but looks down at his plate. It does look good. Bacon's burned, exactly the way they both like it. He picks up a piece, lets it shatter on his tongue, but he gives her a look, too, and she rolls her eyes again—a little too obvious, playacted, which makes him pay more attention—and makes a show of swallowing. "I know, duh. But, hell. I wasn't here for the last one. And, you know, I didn't really get a chance to make it up to you. Before."

She cuts another bite of pancake, studiously piling it and syrup and egg and bacon-shards into one monstrous bite, while Sam's processing that. "We didn't do anything for yours, either," Sam says, after a few seconds. Jesus, his birthday? He was in Kermit, then, only barely coming to terms with how he was going to have a hole in his chest for the rest of his life. On Deanna's birthday—god, that was only last month—they were moving into the bunker, he thinks, and they were okay but that hole in his chest somehow still smarted, and Sam doesn't even remember if they did the bare minimum of pizza and beer.

"We can do a Seagal marathon sometime," she says, shrugging one shoulder, and smiling at her plate when he groans. "I'm taking the opportunity, dude. We've got a house, we've got steady cash, the world isn't currently ending, so. I'm in charge. Birthday queen. You've gotta do what I say."

"How is this my birthday, again?" Sam says, and she says, "Shut up," lightly, and then taps his plate with her fork and says, "Eat up, beanpole," and so he shuts up, and eats. Why not. It's good. Of course it is; she made it.

There isn't, it turns out, all that much of a plan. He washes their plates but then she shoos him out of the kitchen again, tells him to run a marathon or bench press a car or something, and so he goes for a jog, as ordered. Not much of one—full stomach, and the cough, which forces him to stop and lean against a fence-post and spit, laced with red. He licks his lips, swallows, and keeps running, and when he's back Deanna's still in her pjs, doing something in the library, and she gives him unimpressed eyebrows and says, "You look like you reek, Lance. Shower time." So, fine, shower time.

When he's done, he finds clothes in his room laid out for him. Basically pajamas: soft loungey sweatpants in a dark grey that are clearly brand new, and a thin soft black shirt to go with them. "Merry un-birthday," he hears, and when he turns Deanna's leaning in his doorway, clearly enjoying him in his towel. "You like?"

"Uh, I guess," Sam says, fingering the material. Their birthday presents to each other are usually along the line of a six-pack or embarrassing porn or, memorably, twenty-nine boxes of Ho-Hos when he turned twenty-nine. Three guesses who ate more of them. He picks up the sweatpants, giving her a quizzical look, but she only lifts one shoulder and raises her eyebrows, waiting, and he huffs and then, fine, drops the towel. It is sort of—something—how immediately her eyes drop to his dick, and he bites back a smile and tugs on the sweatpants with a minimum of show. They are soft, thin but warm in the bunker's cool air, and the shirt stretches only a little over his shoulders. He pushes the sleeves up to his elbows and turns, modeling. "You like?" he repeats.

"You'd still get thrown out of bed for eating crackers," Deanna says, eyes tracing his body. "But you'll do."

He comes to her, sliding a hand over her waist, and she doesn't move except to tip her head back, eyes steady on his. Watchful and more still, now, like she wasn't before Purgatory. The kiss is unhurried. He parts her lips with gentle pressure and she sighs, letting him in, her head tilting back. Her mouth, perfect. He slips his hand down to her hip, squeezing the wide curve of it through the t-shirt and the ancient denim cut-offs, and she unfolds her arms and wraps a hand around his wrist, stopping him from going further. When he pulls back her cheeks are a little flushed but she blinks at him, shakes her head. "Not yet," she says, and he frowns, confused. Like they haven't messed around in the middle of the day before? She bites her bottom lip, attempting to look coy. "I mean. There's… stuff to do, first."

Sam narrows his eyes and she switches from attempted coy to attempted innocence. "Dee," he says, and her eyes go round, guileless as a cartoon princess. He drags his thumb over the soft of her belly, his hand still trapped by her light grip but enough room for him to find the waistband of the shorts through the t-shirt, rub there. Her eyelashes flicker, but she remains steadfast. "Stuff to do," he says, finally. "Like what?"

"Oh," she says, waving her other hand. "You know. Important stuff."

Okay, so she's clearly got some plan. He glances down at himself, dressed for… nothing, as far as he can tell. If it's going to be an elaborate and terrible roleplay fantasy, as least she isn't making him be a cop or a doctor or something. "And what am I supposed to do?" he asks, conceding. "While you do important stuff."

She starts to grin but bites it back, in that way where her dimple peeks out. "I think you should hang out in the library," she says, half serious.

"The library," Sam says.

Deanna nods, the dimple deepening. "For like… an hour, probably." She tips her head, eyes cutting to the side. "Um, maybe longer. But I'm sure there's a book in there that'll entertain you, gigantic nerd that you are."

"Thoughtful," Sam says, and her grin blooms wide, her eyes crinkling in that way they do when she's really happy, and it catches in Sam's chest, like it always does. He dips and kisses her again, quick, just because he needs to, and she puts a hand to his jaw and lifts into it, eager, before she dips away, licks her lips, lifts a finger. Sam sighs. "An hour."

"Ish," she corrects, but she slides a hand down his chest to his stomach, presses in. "It'll be worth the wait," she says, warm and promising, in that way she has where she can flip from just the biggest dork in the world to the sexiest woman he's ever known, even in ratty pajamas and still all mussed from sleep, and he doesn't need more than just—her, just her, ever, and she should know that, but—he nods, and her eyes drop to his mouth and she looks tempted, but then she nods too, and disappears down the hall, bare feet noiseless on the concrete, and he closes his eyes and tells the warm wanting feeling in his gut that it has to wait, unfortunately, and he goes to the library, and he finds a book.

He doesn't actually know how long passes. He stands over the archiving work that he still needs to do but—god, he's not going to be able to concentrate on that, with this tugging in his belly that says he's got something better coming down the pipe. He goes over to one of the alcoves, instead, picks one of the leather armchairs, picks a book off the shelf. History—the Spanish incursion into Tenochtitlan—and it's dry and old-fashioned and he scans page after page, half-focused, barely taking in details about the supernatural elements of Aztec ritual when he's thinking about…

It took him until he left to realize that he judged all women against his sister. His first official college hookup, after a freshman mixer, was a perfectly nice girl whose name he can't quite remember, but he remembers to this day how he thought: shorter than Deanna. Blonder than Deanna. No freckles, not like Deanna. When she tugged him into her dorm room, both of them more than tipsy on jello shots and cheap beer, she tugged off her tank top and dragged his hands up to her breasts and he'd thought, in a way he didn't examine at all until much later, that they were bigger than Deanna's, and her ass filling his hands was—was probably smaller, although Sam didn't have the evidence then to know it, and when he rolled off of her afterward she curled up against his arm and promptly fell asleep and he looked at her muzzily confused and thought, distantly, that Deanna didn't do that, with guys, that the few times she'd brought someone home to their motel room when she thought Sam was either out or sleeping she'd fucked the guy and gotten whatever satisfaction she got and then showed him the door, and they were done, except for how sometimes Sam would squint carefully through shut eyes at how she stood with her back to the door for a few minutes, her eyes closed and her head tipped back and her body barely hidden in a big t-shirt or a towel, and he didn't know what she was thinking, then. She certainly didn't just roll over and drool on the guy's shoulder, until he had to awkwardly extricate himself, and fret over leaving a number, and then ultimately decide to just go. Bethany, Sam remembers, suddenly. It was Bethany, who was not Deanna.

He's stretched out in the chair, book open but mostly-abandoned on the arm of it, staring unseeing out at the library. Deanna, five foot seven in her bare feet, her lips a plush pretty curve and her tits a good handful and her ass, god, her ass, that she fretted over when they were younger and made him say that it wasn't fat—but it is, god, this fat perfect swell, impossibly hot along with her wide hips and her thighs gorgeous below and her body just—made for his, he thinks, sometimes. Even if of course that's impossible because they shouldn't be—it shouldn't be how it is, between them. Impossible or not, though—

"Ahem," he hears. He looks up.

Deanna's standing there, one hand on his research table, the other holding closed her grey dead man's robe. Sam blinks, taking her in. Her hair's up but she's clearly taken some time to style it—not quite the FBI-agent bun she's perfected, but looser, and the layers near her face tucked faux-messily behind her ears. Make-up, her eyes framed with liner and thickly sooty, but nothing on to hide the freckles, and her lips shining like they're freshly licked with that clearish-pink gloss she likes. Nothing too odd, or different. She takes another step, that clicks, and he glances down to find that she's wearing heels—not ones he recognizes, very high and impractical and shiny black, not her usual at all—and above the heels—

"I'm in charge, remember?" Deanna says, dragging his eyes back up to her face. "You've got to do what I say." He nods, feeling his face already getting hot, and he sits forward but she holds up a hand. "Stay sitting," she says, firm, "and don't touch, okay, not until you're told," and with that, she unclasps her other hand from the front of the robe, and lets it slide off her shoulders, and Sam takes in a breath and doesn't know if he ever lets it out.

The heels are the least of it. It's hard to take in all at once. His eyes leap from detail to detail. Deep maroon, in the silky material of the bustier, the bra-cups curved in and arrowing down to satiny buttons that close it at the front. It covers her ribs, surprisingly modest. Modest, too, the matching maroon panties done in a full cut, except that they're also sheer lace, and he can see the shadow of her trimmed hair through them, barely visible through the pattern. What's making his mouth dry, though, beyond the fact of her presented like this, is: a wide black garter belt, sitting high on her hips, leaving just an inch or two of bare white belly below the bustier—the arch of it high enough that the soft dimple of her navel's visible, above the waist of the panties—thick ribbons, for the garter, that curve sweet over her hips and down her pale thighs—and half-sheer thigh-high stockings, black lace thick at the tops, going all the way down her long legs to the heels, shining in the puddle of the discarded robe.

One heel turns in, her knee bending a little. Sam's dick pulses, caught in the sweatpants. This isn't—she doesn't bother, never has, and he never even thought to ask—in his life, he wouldn't have asked—

"Surprise," she says, spreading her hands to the side like a dancer, and Sam says, "Holy shit, Deanna."

Her tongue flicks to wet the center of her top lip. Nervous, almost, but what in god's name would she have to be nervous about? "Figured I could dress up," she says, shrugging—god, the way that makes her tits move—"and you know, it's your birthday, or uh—your unbirthday, right? So—"

"Are you sure I can't get up?" Sam interrupts. She blinks at him. "I really want to get up."

"So—" she says, fingers curling, and Sam says, "God, come here," with his voice rough in this way he didn't intend it to be, but she blinks again and then smiles, slow, her tongue pressing against the back of her teeth, and she steps forward, hips swaying, coming close enough to touch. He starts to reach but she puts her fingers to his collarbone and stops him, pressing him to the back of the armchair, and then she stands between his spread knees, leaning over him a little, so he can smell—the chemical peach of her bodywash, and the faint vanilla of the lotion she prefers, and beneath that—christ—he can smell her, her body clearly ready from whatever she was thinking as she put all this on, and he has to grip the arms of the chair very tightly not to get his hand on her pussy and find out just how ready she is.

Deanna trails a finger down his sternum, looking down at him with her lower lip caught in her teeth. "Didn't think this was going to be this much of a hit," she says, quiet, and Sam huffs. He's still looking all over. God. Her soft belly, lightly dented by the garter belt. The way the buttons of the bustier strain over her tits. "Hey, Sammy? Tell me something." He makes some sound. The stockings, christ, the stockings—that's doing something to him he didn't even know—"If you could do anything right now what would you do?"

His brain doesn't engage with the answer; it comes straight from his balls. "I'd eat your pussy," he says, and Deanna's hand spreads on his chest like a star, her chest heaving under the breath she takes. "Can I?" he says, belatedly, looking up finally at her face, because he wants to suddenly very badly, can practically taste the wet split of her, and she's pink over her cheekbones and ears, her lips wet and flushed, already, but she says: "No," and climbs into the armchair with him, instead, straddling him, her ass settling down on his knees, her hands in his hair, pulling his head back, making him keep eye contact. She dips her head, lips brushing his, and he opens his mouth for her but she doesn't quite kiss him. A tendril of hair swings forward, brushing his cheek, and she follows it, her lips faintly wet and a little sticky from the gloss, trailing over his cheekbone, breathing warmly damp against his ear. Her thighs clench around his and his hands flex, on the chair-arms, and his dick—god, he hasn't hardened up like this with no contact at all in years, didn't even know he could, but any second now it feels like he's going to start leaking, ruin the new pajama pants she gave him.

"If I asked you to hold on," she says, low and private against his ear—like anyone else could hear, like they're in a strip club and she's offering a private show. "You think you could? Hold on, not go until I said?"

"What, because I'm on such a hair trigger the rest of the time?" he says, attempting lightness, but honestly—christ, it feels like that could be a danger, right now, with her in his lap like this, with her smell, with her fingers dragging out of his hair and down his chest again, trailing down his abs through the sleep shirt. "God, Dee—you're so—" He's interrupted, when her fingers brush against the shape of his dick, through the sweatpants. She leans back, looking between them, her lips barely parted and her eyes dark. His dick flexes, against her hand, and her eyes flick up to meet his. "I can hold on," he promises, recklessly, and she flattens her palm and presses him thick against his own thigh where he's caught awkward in the soft material, but her chest heaves again on a deep breath, clearly as turned on as he is, and he says, then, "Kiss me," and she leans down immediately and does.

No touching rules or no, he's not going to just sit here, inert. He lifts up into the kiss right away, knocking her mouth open and licking inside, and she grips his hair again, fucks her tongue against his, squirms. "Scoot forward—come here—" she mumbles against him, half-coherent, and he hikes his hips forward between her legs so he's right on the edge of the seat and that, fuck, that tucks his hips warm between her thighs where he belongs, and his dick swells up against her pussy, the heat of it intense even through the layers of sweatpants and lace.

She doesn't tease, not exactly. She grinds down against him but then slips her hand right back to his dick, cupping the bulge of it firmly through the soft cotton and then sliding her hand inside. God—soft, warm. She rubs her thumb at the base, scratching her nail through his pubes, and then says, "Get it out," and he lifts, squirms, drags the waistband of the new pants down below the urgent heave of himself. Christ, he's hard. She presses right up close against him, thighs closing around his hips and his dick crammed tight up between his stomach and the scratchy lace of her panties, and she fists him capably, knowing, her cheek pressed against his and looking down between them, her breath heaving. She presses his cockhead up against herself, smearing it in the window of bare skin between the waist of the panties and the line of the garter belt—the sensitive ridge catching against her navel—and rubs her thumb hard under the crown—and fuck, fuck. Sam's balls ache. "Jeez," she says, low but light. "Happy to see me, huh? Wish I could suck it but I think I'd tear my tights if I went on my knees."

Sam groans. "You could try," he says, and she snorts, smears her lips against his jaw, kisses him brief and hot. She's as turned on as he is, which isn't helping him cool down at all. "Fuck, Dee. Let me—can I—"

"You can touch my ass," she offers, and he grabs her there immediately, squeezing, tugging her in so the spine of his dick crushes in against her pussy, grinding where her clit's got to be swelling, all trapped in the lace. She hitches air, back arching, and presses his dick firmer there with the hand caught between them, riding the pole of him. It feels outstanding but he's half-distracted because her ass, her ass. Fat and hot and so soft, denting under how hard he's gripping her. He slides his thumbs under the garter straps, tugging, and then sliding down, daring, finding the clips where they attach to the stockings. She squeezes his dick and he pulls, there, slipping his fingers under where the top of the stocking rides high and sweet and tight, and groans again, and says thoughtless Deanna, and she lifts her head up, looks down at him, eyes bright and her face flushed and her lips wet and her expression half-thoughtful, half-delighted. "Sammy," she says, and he squeezes the fat sweet swell where her ass rises up out of her thighs, the garters slipping silky against his palms. "That doing it for you? My stockings?"

He can hardly say, just lifts up and kisses under her jaw, sliding down to suckle at her throat—pulling—but she finds his hands, arrests them. He wants to knock them away but his brain's not completely offline yet and he stills, lets her pull his wrists away—lets her stand, fuck, up, wriggling backwards off his lap and getting her heels on the floor again, standing. "Hm, let's see," she says, low, and turns around, and that's when he gets to know that the stockings ride just a little higher in the back, the straps pulling with how the belt's fastened high at her waist, and they've got a thick seam that arrows down the line of her legs, ending in a little triangle of lace at the heel, just barely visible above the patent leather. The panties are practically sheer in the back—the lace finer, showing the crack of her ass—and the bustier dents in at the sides of her waist, making the tiniest roll there between the edge of it and the top of the garter that makes him want to fucking bite her, there, feel the soft flesh, taste her salt.

She's kicked the fallen robe out of the way and found the research table, her table, the one that's clear of books and mess. She bites her lip like a coquette and beckons, and he's up in a second, crowding in close, hands on the table on either side of her hips because she said, she said—

"If you want," she says, looking up at him, flushed, "you can eat me out, now."

He goes to his knees so fast it hurts and his mouth's between her thighs in the same second. He opens wide, breathes hot, sucks through the lace—her taste, right there, the fabric soaked at the little knot of the seams coming together—and she groans, bracing her heels on the floor, her ass barely perched on the edge of the table. He knows her cunt in every single way but like this it feels new, wrapped and pretty and served up for him, and he takes it slower, savoring. Drags his teeth over the unfamiliar scratch of the lace, kisses the pale-plump inside of her thigh above the edge of the stocking and suckles there, pulling tighter and tighter until she's squirming and gripping his hair and saying Sam breathless, and then switching to the other side and doing the same. Fuck, her smell. Salt-ocean, the queer unmistakable tang of pussy. He sucks at her clit through the fabric, not hard but in slow pulsing drags of his mouth that work her plump lips even fatter with hot blood, and her hips lift against him, a low pleased noise making his dick pulse. "Take them off," she says, somewhere, and he lifts up and kisses the little half-moon of skin above the waistband, fucks his tongue into her belly-button, and when he tugs—he pulls—dragging the panties down under the constriction of the belt and its straps—and he doesn't know how to get them out without ruining her whole costume—but christ, these are his present, aren't they?—and so he pulls harder, tears, and she gasps up above, "Holy shit, you lunatic," but then the lace is in two pieces and her thighs are pulling wide and he gets to dip his head and lick wide up the whole glossy slit of her, burying his nose in the slick-wet gingery patch of her hair, getting the salt without any stupid fabric in between. She grabs his head, pulling him closer, and he hooks his fingers into the straps of the garter belt and works, deep sloppy licks that smear slick all over, her clit swollen and aching just like he likes it. He spreads her wide with the edge of his thumbs, not touching, and licks the entrance to her vagina without dipping inside in the way he knows drives her absolutely nuts—and, yes, her thighs close around his shoulders and she arches with this surprised stupid sound that makes him grin against her cunt and she says, "Fuck, fine, fuck, get up here, come here—" and he stands slow, kissing her belly and her sternum and breathing against trapped satin swell of her breasts before she grabs his face and kisses him, eating her own taste out of his mouth.

"If you don't get your dick in me," she says, panting, "in about two seconds—" and so he grabs her ass and tips her backwards on the table and feeds his dick inside, pressing in bare, the scraps of lace tickling a little at his skin but the overwhelming feeling just the, fuck, the tight slippery grip of her, the close-grasping heat, the way she arches and makes this little hurt sound when he gets deep because he's thick, and he didn't even finger her to warn her, but she's so sloppy-wet he's not sure it makes much of a difference. He tips his hips in and presses his pelvis against her clit and leans in deep and kisses her, just staying still for a minute, feeling—christ. All of her. She slides a hand down between them and feels where he's splitting her wide, and he rocks back a little so she can hold his dick and then feel it slot right back in where it belongs. Fuck. "Fuck," she says, breathless, her hand flattened between their hips, and then Sam realizes she's massaging her mound with heavy, slow pressure. "Come on," she says, low and tight against his cheek, and he grips her hips and works her with a deep rocking, hardly pulling out, just grinding up and up and up inside while she works herself from the outside, and it's no surprise at all when she comes, fast, rippling inside and clenching so hard that he can barely move for fear of getting pushed entirely out. He drops his forehead to her collarbone, pushing deep, letting her clench and pulse. His dick feels so fat and swollen he could imagine all the blood in his body's there. It certainly doesn't feel like he's brain's involved.

Deanna sighs, after a second. "Holy crap," she says, like relief. "Mm. Lift up, 'kay?" He lifts up, keeping his hips right in place—his back cracking as he stands all the way straight—and she's flushed and pleased, spread out below him. "Shirt off?" she says, and so he strips it off, tossing it to the other end of the table. She reaches out and trails cold fingertips over his pecs, his abs, licking her lips. "Hm," she says, and smiles at him, wide and unexpected. She kicks her heels off, each one clattering to the floor, and lifts her legs against his sides, the stockings slick and smooth against his skin. He grabs her thighs immediately, savoring the long clench of muscle under the satin. She unbuttons the top two tiny buttons on the bustier—the top three—her tits spilling a little, the creamy swell of them loosened, and when she arches he can see the dark shadow of areola, peeking from below the maroon cups. She laughs a little at whatever his expression is, and then reaches down and grasps his hips, the sweatpants still barely caught around his ass. "Okay, birthday boy. Your turn. You can do whatever you want, but—" and her nails dig in, making his ass clench. "You make sure you come inside."

"Jesus christ, Dee," Sam groans, and she grins, eyebrows popping high like she's made a joke she's letting him in on, but it's not a joke, christ, it's not at all, and he hooks his fingers into the garter again and jolts his dick inside, deep as he can where he knows it knocks her cervix, and her eyes fly wide and she grasps his biceps instead, thighs clamping around his waist in shock, and that's—yeah, yeah, that's what he wants, and so he nails her again, and then one more time to make her gasp in a deep choked way and say shocked oh, that's—oh, and then he leans down and mouths her tit away from the soft cup of the loosened bustier and slip a sweet dark nipple into his mouth and then he just—fucks her, gripping her thighs and suckling her tit and slotting in and in and in to the perfect wet of her, making her gasp, making her clench and cry out, her heels dragging against his ass in harsh drags, scratching because of the lace, the seams of these perfect fucking stockings, pulling at him. She's soaked, her pubes a sticky mess when he drags his thumb over her clit, and he drags that wet up over her quivering belly to the garter belt, smearing there, rolling his dick in these demanding dragging slides that are making Dee arch her back, lift up one elbow, her other arm hooked around the back of his neck, her hips working back against his, her lips wet and helpless against his temple as he works her, her pussy grasping and clenching and knocked-open for him. He pulls out just because he can—feels the load of wet that spills out with him—looks down between them, at her tits spilling flushed out of her lingerie and her garter twisting and her stockings, fuck, still neat and tight in place even with her all red-sloppy and fucked-open between them—and when he pushes back in, her pussy parting immediately and welcoming, tight, perfect—she groans in this deep shocked way that connects directly to his nuts, a molten tight thing taking over where his brain ought to be, and he hooks a hand into the split of the bustier and grips a thigh tight against his side and fucks her hard, fast, his orgasm screaming up his back. If he weren't feeling so insane he'd wait for her, make sure she came again good, but it's—this is for him, she said, she wanted this, she wanted him to have her wrapped up like a present, to use like she told him to use her—and he dips down and finds her nipple again and bites there, sinking his teeth into the swell of her tit, and she squirms and clenches and says hot and quick, "Sammy, Sammy—harder—" and he unloads inside, just like she asked him to, his wad pulsing out of him hard enough that his thighs shudder, struggling to keep him up. He slams a hand on the table by her head and she flinches and moans at the same time, feeling it maybe—his dick twitching and pulsing so urgent that surely, she can feel it, even if she's so wet she can't tell her slick from his load—and he lifts off her tit with his jaw loose and his mind strange as an animal fresh off a kill, and she clutches her legs around his hips to keep him tight inside and grabs his head in both hands and presses her mouth open against his. Not kissing. Just their lips brushing, and their air shared and hot, and her forehead tipped against his, bone to bone.

His dick throbs, satisfied. His balls clutch, unload another wet pulse. He slides his hands down her sides, catching on the bustier, and then up again to frame her tits in the soft cups. The left one's out, the bitemarks obvious. He tugs down the little maroon-silk shield on the right and finds that breast full and pale, faintest freckles dusting the top, and kisses it softly, tender. Licks over the half-swollen bud of the nipple and feels it tighten, and suckles it gently when it does. Deanna's fingers comb through his hair, her chest rising against his mouth, and below her pussy clenches around his still-hard dick, needing. Wanting him.

He lifts his head and she's watching him, very close. Her eyeliner's smeared with the sweat of their fucking, the lip gloss long-gone. He fucks his dick in and out, carefully, and watches her eyelashes waver, and then slides out all the way and feeds three fingers in right after, squishing in on the mess he left, his thumb riding over her clit. Deanna's hand flashes down, fingers covering his thumb, and he lets her take over, watching not her hand but her face as he helps her chase it. She's close, has to be with how swollen and hot she is around his fingers. He kisses the pale inside curve of her tit where the bustier buttons are split wide, and the sweet peek of her belly, and then crouches and spreads his mouth wide on the thin skin of her hip, where the garter strap's still hanging on, fucking his fingers in again and again in steady pulses while Deanna arches and tightens and clutches around him and then ripples so hard he can't move, for a second. He looks up and she's silent, her mouth split and dark on a heaved breath, her head tipped back. He rubs his thumb over her wet fingers and she shudders, and he's pushed out of her pussy that way, the muscle clenching deep. His fingers are smeared white. She grabs his hand, quick, and pulls, and he stands up between her legs again and his dick presses against her pussy and he watches while she wraps her lips around his fingers and sucks, her eyes closing in concentration, her tongue slick against his knuckles, getting every last drop of come, until he's clean. He tugs his fingers out and she blinks at him, looking almost dazed, and he holds her eyes while he slots inside again and scoops out another gob of come—christ, it's slipping down against her thigh, staining her stocking—and he collects that too, and presents it to her, and she takes his wrist in both hands and sucks it all in, taking it, wanting all of him.

It's—quiet, after. Sam's tugged his sweatpants up. They're folded into the armchair but she's in his lap, this time, tucked in with her head on his shoulder, her legs slung over the arm. Deanna's torn panties are discarded on the floor and he keeps looking at them. "Do my hair?" she murmurs, finally, and he shifts them a little so he can reach and then does, searching careful for the bobby pins and pulling them out one at a time, setting them on the side table with little clicks, mussing her hair to looseness as he goes. Long time, since she asked for this. Not since… god, it was when Sam's mind was still trapped behind a wall, and he'd had a few bad flashes of memories he didn't understand. When they'd screwed madly, after that terrible job with the mannequins, and she'd held him inside in the same desperate, needing way, and she'd…

Her hair falls to mid-back, when all the pins are out. He combs his fingers through it, thick and soft. "Thanks," he says, quiet.

"Thank you," she says back, snuggling her head against his chest. "Now I'm not gonna stab myself in the middle of the night. Hallelujah."

Quiet, dumb. He sweeps her hair over her shoulder and runs a finger down her spine instead, finding the edge of the bustier and rubbing there in a soothing, repetitive line. "Dee," he says, asking, and she sighs, and doesn't say anything.

That time, that last time, when she'd been so desperate and clinging, when she'd wanted him inside. Held her hand against herself when he pulled out and felt the load he'd left, and of course it couldn't do anything, she'd been on birth control since she was fifteen, but it had made something go queerly hot in his gut to see it. Like some instinct she was operating on, trying to absorb him every way she could. Greedy, his sister. At least she used to be. He wonders if that's true, now, and doesn't know if he can ask. She's nesting, she's content, but between them—things are good, but…

Sam kisses the top of her head and she makes a small content noise, turning her face against his throat, her lips soft. He runs a hand over her knee, the stockings slick, and finds the lacy top, plucking lightly where it bites into her skin. He pulls at the garter strap and she smiles against his skin. "Never thought you'd be such a horndog about this," Deanna says, and it's sleepy-smug enough that he pinches her, on the soft plumpness of her thigh, barely hard enough that she'll feel it. She completely ignores that and crosses one knee over the other, bumping her leg up into his palm. "Should I get more? Pantyhose under the FBI suit?"

"I thought you said pantyhose was the patriarchy trying to suffocate women to death, or something," Sam says, and Deanna leans back so he can see her face, grinning, and says, "Yeah, but if it gets your dick that crazy then I'll deal with suffocation, doofus."

Honest, and nothing but content. Sam slides his hand over her belly where the garter's still digging in and slips two fingers between the clutch of her thighs where her pubes are still damp, incredibly hot, and she blinks at him surprised and then her smile changes, her thighs pulling open just like that. Easy for him, just like always. Sam puts aside any other worries and nods, thoughtful. "I guess I wouldn't mind seeing you use a garter belt to strangle a vamp," he says, and she barks out a quick delighted ha! and then lifts her mouth to his, opens her body to his, and he takes what's on offer instead of wondering about what's not.

[flyboytracy]

It’s easter! It’s the final day of Earth and Sky week! It’s Scott Tracy’s birthday! and this lil fic is about none of the above because Scott wouldn’t shut up 👌 

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

It’s three in the morning when Thunderbird One begins her final approach to Tracy Island. She always lands a lot more quietly than when she launches but her pilot takes extra care to settle her back onto her launchpad beneath the pool with as little noise as possible when the world outside is dark and most of the bedroom lights are out.

Of course he knows which bedroom light belongs to whom. One room in particular is almost always dark because its occupant lives in space and Scott has to tilt his head back to say goodnight to a tiny little pinprick of light as it blinks in the skies above instead...

Another room is glowing brightly but Scott’s not too concerned because the middle of the night for them is the afternoon for a certain agent of International Rescue and he’s got no desire to walk into another conversation between the lovebirds. He’d stuck his head ‘round the door the last time he’d landed to find Gordon awake at two am and really, really wished he hadn’t. Tonight he’ll brush his fingers over that door on his way past and wonder again what happened to the little kid he used to take to the pool every weekend when dad wasn’t home. When did that tiny brown-eyed boy turn into a man ready to be a family with the woman he loves?

It was probably around the time that their dad went missing, only Scott was too occupied with trying to fill in that bottomless hole that dad left behind to notice all the tiny little cracks and crevasses that opened up too.

Thankfully Virg had always been Scott’s man on the ground since the moment Scott’s feet first left it, and he’d been there to stabilise and fill in those little fractures when Scott was too deep in his own hole to notice that others had opened up. Then he’d toss down a rope and haul Scott out before the sides could cave in and bury him forever like their m…

It’s been a long, long day. Scott’s glad to see that dad’s bedroom light is out, as is grandma’s. It hasn’t been easy for dad to readjust to life on a full sized planet but he’s making excellent progress because he wishes to be the one to walk a Lady down an aisle – if they have an aisle and either of them actually ask the other because the whole marriage and babies thing isn’t something everyone wants these days. Either way, Scott had accidentally overheard a snatch of conversation by the pool last month that’d made his eyes weirdly hot and he’d had to retreat to Thunderbird Two’s hangar to get a grip on himself.

Virg had been there but he hadn’t said a word because he hadn’t needed to. He’d drawn his big brother into a one-armed hug before pushing him in the direction of the giant vats of grease and they’d had a very calming afternoon oiling anything that squeaked on Thunderbird Two.

Scott’s surprised to see his brother’s still awake because Thunderbird Two had her own mission today which Scott wasn’t involved in but kept an eye on nonetheless. Virg was in the exo-suit for hours thus Scott’s surprised to see his room’s still aglow despite the late hour. He’ll check on his best friend after making one other stop first. Alan’s lights are on and if he’s old enough to pilot a rocket then he’s too old for a bedtime, but Scott worries anyway. Troubles weigh more in the dark and his youngest brother carries more than most teenagers his age. Dad coming back into their lives has rocked Alan’s world more than most because the rest of them are old enough to remember Kansas and the man their dad used to be before International Rescue took him from them twice.

Scott can remember when dad was just dad; that giant fella who gave him a ride to Rescue Scouts every weekend and took him to GDF airbases even when it wasn’t a bring your kids to work day. He knew the person dad was before they lost mom, whereas Alan’s far too young to remember their dad as anyone other than the Commander of International Rescue and it shows. Alan never got to lay on the roof of the jet with him as stars wheeled overhead and they talked about anything his boy had on his chest.

Instead Alan spent his formative years hearing about the legend of Jeff Tracy and Scott knows he’s kinda to blame for some of that. He built their dad up to be this unstoppable, undefeatable force inside his own mind and Alan picked up on it, as kids do. Scott didn’t even realise how tall he’d built that statue of their dad until the day after they brought him home and the reality of the situation kicked in. Scott wasn’t even sure what he’d expected; part of him had expected to be too late because who the hell could survive eight years in deep space on a ship vastly understocked for such a voyage?

Of course Jeff Tracy had survived, but the reality of that was a father who’d left his children behind and returned to find they’d grown up with Scott instead of him. It made things awkward sometimes, like when Al’ went to his oldest brother instead of their dad for advice. Whatever advice Scott gave him wouldn’t be the same advice dad gave him because Scott’s advice was based on the young man he’d raised but dad’s advice was for the little blue-eyed boy he’d left asleep in his bed on the fateful day he disappeared. Then there was the issue that his advice was based on his experiences with his four oldest boys, but out of the five of them, Alan had the most freedom to follow his own dreams and didn’t need to be told what to do with his future. He just needed to know that he’d got the support of his family behind him no matter what.

Scott might not be a fan of all of his little brother’s decisions. His friendship with a certain Mr Berrenger gives him hives, not to mention the way Alan’s newest desire to race cars across unfriendly terrain littered with hazards makes his eye twitch. However he’ll defend Alan’s right to make those decisions, and then go bother Virgil until the big guy installs VTOLs or something in Alan’s car that’ll keep him out of danger.

In the mean time, Scott treads heavily down the corridor, smiling to himself when Gordon’s light briefly flickers out. Alan’s light remains on, which surprises big brother until he looks round the door to find a couple of bodies on the floor. Virgil’s sprawled on a throne of blankets with a little brother asleep on top of him just like the old days when Al’ refused to go to sleep in case one of them went away again and never came back. For a moment he thought they’d both fallen asleep in front of the TV, but then Virgil yawned like a bear and a little figure dressed in green armour went sideways off a cliff and died in Alan’s game. Big brother couldn’t help chuckling at the bewildered “Ah,” and the slightly later “….oh.” when the game over screen appeared.

“Hey, short stuff.” Scott kept his voice down low to avoid disturbing their youngest brother as he crouched, sliding an arm beneath Alan’s bony knees and the other went around his ribs before scooping him up effortlessly. Virgil could’ve done the same anytime he wanted but he’d chosen to remain on the floor. It reminded Scott of someone perching on the very edge of their bed to avoid disturbing a kitten fast asleep in the middle of it. “I think it’s bedtime for both of you. Need a hand?”

“No. Maybe.” Virg conceded when he tried to get off the floor only to find his tired muscles wouldn’t bend far enough, “Just leave me here, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

Scott just smiled and dealt with his youngest brother first, pulling off his socks and t-shirt so he wouldn’t overheat before tucking him into his actual bed. He pressed a quick kiss to that golden hair just because Alan was asleep enough for him to get away with it, and then turned his attention to the rather bigger little brother on the floor.

“C’mon, HeavyLifter2, I gotcha. Up you get.” Scott reached down for those big hands and hauled him up, not quite as easily as he could move Alan out of the way, but he’d had a lot of practise at shifting brothers over the years. Giving Gordon piggy-backs home from school when it’d been a long day and they weren’t gonna make it back before dad got in. Lifting Al’ up onto his shoulders so he could get a good view of the air displays they used to go to before International Rescue made regular things feel mundane. He’d even carried Virg home one time after he’d taken a tumble climbing down from their tree house and it’d damn near killed him to carry his not-so-little brother all the way back to the farmhouse, but there was no way he’d have ever left Virg behind, even if it was just to get help.

He’ll never leave a brother behind. Dad left them behind and it wasn’t exactly intentional but they’ll be dealing with the repercussions of that for the rest of their lives. He might be home now but it’s not easy to let go of the past eight years. It’s not easy to step back from his brothers to let their dad back in. It’s not easy to just stop worrying when it’s all Scott’s ever known.

“Hey.” Virg rumbles sleepily, all slow and soft like thunder in the distance as they trudge to his bedroom, “Stand down, Scotty. Everything’s okay.”

And Scott believes him.

[frecklef0x]

Mass Effect 1: Playthrough Masterpost

At last, I have finished Mass Effect 1!

I have heard some mutuals say they wish they could play it again for the first time, and you kind of can--through me! I’ve been posting little “episodes” of live-tweet-stream-of-consciousness as I play, and now I’ve compiled them into one post to make my life easier.

Anyway, here’s the first one, the rest are under the cut. :)

frecklef0x plays mass effect: (ME1) episode one

My ass looks great in this uniform, first of all

Impaled robo zombies, yikes

Cheap shot, Saren, smh. How will I pass my spectre test now?!

Why does he have robot eyes? Is he like, Geth-Turian? Why? Is he a robo zombie also? Was it the beacon???

Cool beacon nightmares, I'm sure this is fine

This Kaiden guy has implants? ORTEGA?!??!?

"Call me princess again and you'll be picking your teeth up off the floor" lol obliterated

The citadel elevators are very realistic, five minutes of tense silence huh

Ya girl got a PROMOTION and a DOPE SQUAD time to catch a TRAITOR

frecklef0x plays mass effect: (ME1) episode two

First things first, gotta go find the blue scientist to join the gang

This galaxy is HUGE! How many of these places will I actually be able to go?!

Only two friends at a time????? D:

Ah, a distress signal, let's see wha--A DESERT CENTIPEDE NOPE ABORT ABORT

Robo aliens? In MY Theronian mining facility? Its more likely than you think

Running over dudes in my Mako is extremely satisfying tbh

*runs over geth troopers* *runs over geth armature* *runs over geth colossus* ... *backs over geth colossus*

Working elevators in the ancient ruins ✔

Oooooooh man hope this nerd is gay

Wrex, a friend of yours? Nope, not a friend, too murdery

"ShAaaAame about the ruins Shep, sOooOo much collatoral damage, SHEP" stfu Council, "ruthless" was in the resume when you promoted us, 10/10 would shoot lasers through archeological digs again

When Kaiden calls us "ma'am" I am, uh, into it

frecklef0x plays mass effect: (ME1) episode three

Time to talk to the gang! Gotta meet the fam proper

Oh dear seems we got a shmee of racism on board, compatriots

Wow Raina, good foot-in-mouth moment with Wrex there huh...sorry about the eventual extinction of your race, lost this round of Pain Olympics

OH SHIT OH SHIT BLUE HOTTIE BIGENDER? THIS IS NOT A DRILL???

“hi I’m Kaiden wanna hear about my last crush ;)” “hi I’m Liara wanna hear about Asari mating rituals? ;)))” damn we really slidin right into the DMs no chill

Garrus: fuck rules and red tape amiright Raina: oh u right ;)

Guess I’ll actually do a mission now LETS GO LESBIANS LETS GO

Honestly rolling out with Tali and Liara is a mood, squad goals

Raina @ every corporation on Noveria: I would sell you to satan for one(1) corn chip

This reactivation puzzle is some shit

I see some Mistakes were made

We already killing moms at this stage damn BioWare

FUCK FUCK BENEZIA KILLED ME AND I LOST A FUCKTON OF PLAYTIME

THERES LIKE NO AUTOSAVE IN THIS BITCH FUUUUUUUUU

fuck fuck fuck god damn it gotta shoot a bunch of deranged baby bug people again god DAMN IT

Okay we killed Liara’s mom in front of her hope that’s fine

And we let mama bug go free because after talking to Wrex, Raina’s like “this galaxy is a little trigger happy with the genocide, good luck out there bug mama ❤️ be cool please”

I have literally watched the scientist in the hot labs get killed three times now

So far the debreifs with the council have not gone very well

“You let bug mama go?! How many generations until they take over everything???” “My money’s on two :D Place your bets now assholes or stfu :DDD”

Asked Liara if she was okay and she seems pretty Cool With It

I hope to one day return to Noveria and Death Star it into oblivion

frecklef0x plays mass effect: (ME1) episode four

Talked with Tali and this situation with the Geth and the Quarians is giving me an existential crisis

You “inspect” my beautiful ship? You got somethin’ to say about my crew??? Talk shit get hit, bitch I will kill you

Yoooo my old earth gang, yeah what the hell, I’ll help ou—oh nope nvm he’s a xenophobe, you hang him and I’ll shoot his friend in the face, thx for your time

Went to the citadel to finish some assignments, left tasked with twice as many

“dOn’T cUt CoRneRs” fear not dear Kaiden, I have a permit: this piece of paper that says I do what I want

Still with the elevators, I really cannot with this

“You make it all sound so...dangerous...” ;) ;))))))

frecklef0x plays mass effect: (ME1) episode five

Headin’ to Virmire to rendezvous with the Salarian team

A cure for the genophase?!?!?! :D

Oh wait oh no are we for real gonna talk about destroying the cure like Wrex isn’t standing right here omg

SHIT GUYS NO NOT LIKE THIS WREX PLEASE

Phew for a conversation that basically started with guns drawn, it went pretty well... “What Saren has isn’t even a proper cure, he’s just fucking with the Krogans at this point. Are we gonna stand for that? Or are we gonna murder?” “Damn Shep, you right, we gon’ murder”

Okay Ashley, go join the aliens, try not to die

Shadow Team!🎵 tearing through the base 🎶 disabling all the     defenses 🎵 (you gotta sing it to the tune of the Trogdor song)

We free the prisoners!!! :)

We shoot the prisoners??? :(

“Raina? How can you shoot them where they stand?” So it’s more merciful to let them explode? NAH FAM

This scientist is responsible for the mind control stuff? For Benezia? Fine     I’ll let her go but I hope she explodes

We did not learn our lesson concerning beacons I see

Wait if even Saren is worried about his mind control ship does that mean there are larger forces involved here?

Oh. Oh fuck

Ugh Ashley I EXPLICITLY TOLD YOU NOT TO DIE

(so we really never found any info about that genophase cure huh? disappointing)

Oh Seren, you dumb dumb. You absolute fool. Clown man.

When Raina slings Kaiden over her shoulder to carry him to the ship—mmmmmmmmwoooow I am very bisexual

Bruh Raina takes every council call and she disconnects pissed off every time

WAIT I literally just hung up with the council, ASHLEY is DEAD, and Kaiden needs a DTR RIGHT NOW?!?!? Boy, NO, READ THE ROOM

This has been a stressful day

frecklef0x plays mass effect: (ME1) episode six

Shepard will avoid her feelings and go to Faros instead

Seeing Ashley’s figure greyed out and her locker inaccessible makes me sad

Wrex and Garrus, let’s go shoot some geth 💪 

A mind controlling planet—of course!

Shep gets all her renegade points shooting capitalists

Saved, uh, about half the colonists

If I have one more bad acid trip I stg

Oh nope here’s another one

Shep needs a nap

frecklef0x plays mass effect: (ME1) episode seven

Ah, the council. Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal.

At least Liara is good at pep talks ;)

Joker, you cockblock

Haha DUDE we airborne, you THOUGHT

Now that I am exiled from the Citadel, guess I’ll run some galactic errands:

o   Killed corporate scientists who though we would rescue them lol

o   Destroyed a bunch of geth camps helping Tali on her pilgrimage

o   Disabled a nuke and killed some pirates

o   Shut down some evil Cerberus experiments

o   And illegally traded information!

Okay time to get back on track

So we may or may not be flying to our doom

OH GOD LIARA LOVES ME!!! RAINA, YOU DISASTER, YOU DID IT AAAAAH ❤️❤️❤️

frecklef0x plays mass effect: (ME1) episode eight

You know what I love? Being murdered by geth armatures

All these Ilos ruins be looking the same

Security panel is only kinda helpful

Oh, luckily I know Prothean now!

“CANNOT BE STOPPED” wow very encouraging, thanks

After that super motivating message and disabling security, its time to go down, down to goblin town

Vigil? Oh word?

My girlfriend is GEEKING out

I knew something what wrong with that fucking Citadel

Vigil: information is power. Also Vigil: What does it matter why they do what they do? All that matters is you stop them

“non-essential” personnel die first, huh? GROSS, VIGIL (gotta be honest that hits different in 2020)

Garrus gets it, I knew we liked that guy

Okay, find conduit, save galaxy, break millennium-old genocide cyle, nbd

Ugh Mako you gotta do me dirty one last time I see, I hate this thing

THE CONDUIT STRAIGHT YEETED MAKO

The citadel robot says we’re doomed : )

This shootout is SO fun, seriously

Saren get it toGETHER

Renegade Raina can kill with a conversation apparently, well done then

Concentrate on the Sovereign—why am I gonna save a council that hates my guts, sorry, but I have a JOB to DO that you ACTIVELY HINDERED

Great, zombie husk Saren, just what I needed as I mull over the possible consequences of my galaxy-altering decision

GO JOKER GO

Humanity-only council seems…questionable. Raina didn’t love the council but this sits wrong. Couldn’t we just appoint a more diverse council, including a human?

Anderson seems like a good enough dude, so…we’ll see.

TIME FOR WAR BOYS, GODDAMN WHAT A GAME

[themanip]

alternate routes

SYNOPSIS — how do you go throughout life? well, you find someone you like. get to know them. start dating. break up a few times, get back together. get married. have some kids. die old. typical. fucking in a back room of an awards show, not once, but twice as complete strangers, was definitely not how most relationships start out.

PAIRING — taehyung x metzi (oc) WARNINGS — descriptions of cheating, fliphones, mentions of getting laid, really bad intros tbh, the introvert line being introverts, and girls who are rlly bad at timing, an asshole named ryan, cursing WORD COUNT — just over 3.1k AUTHOR’S NOTE — hi! i am so fucking bad at writing the first chapter or two, i promise if you can bear the beginning of this story, it gets better. i have two and a half chapters written so far but i am writing super often! once a few more chapters get published i will create a masterlist. please enjoy and if you have any comments or recs don’t hesitate to let me know!! :)))

𝟏: 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐄 

𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟖 ⇥ The universe known to man is a labyrinth—an irregular maze, a passage that cannot be routed—and to understand that took more than an average mind. The matter was far too complicated than any obsolete man to comprehend on a whim. Millenia passed before galaxies were formed, planets were created, all unbeknownst to the stars bursting just miles apart.

From early amphibians, to the ice age, to cavemen, evolution has made great strides in every species. Humans in the past were variants called homosapiens, and most likely came from chimpanzees. Great strides like this were something to be proud of, you'd think.

When Metzi Ludovic realized that birds can fly with natural evolution, while humans had to industrialize it (thanks to the Wright brothers) she was pretty distraught. As an imaginative and critical eight-year old, fifteen years later, not much had changed. Currently, she was pondering over the fact that humans are one of the few species with opposable thumbs.

Majority of animals had not yet evolutionized to create opposable thumbs. While frantic over this, she also imagined her beautiful Pomeranian, with thumbs popping out of his paws. Her thoughts were quickly subdued, thanks to her coherent thoughts making an appearance. As cool as it would be, all other animals would devour humans if they gained that ability.

Is that the only reason humans are all mighty? They can industrialize and aim properly due to their adaptations, so that they somehow became top of the food chain?

Thankfully, she was redacted from her thoughts as her manager, Emmy, let out a distressed sigh. "Wren, we cannot change your outfit again. You look beautiful," At this point, looking at Wren, she knew that she would look good. Somehow, she couldn't convince herself.

"Wren, we can switch. I don't hate green, so you can take blue if you want it. I really don't mind," Metzi smiled softly, and she knew it was the right thing to offer as Wren's face lit up, a few tears being wiped away. "Really? Are you sure?"

"Yeah, just do me a favor and loosen the ties on that, please. I have had way too many tacos yesterday to fit into it with the strings that tight," a small laugh left her mouth, and as she laid on the comfortable sofa. It was plush, but somehow offered no lumbar support. Who the hell makes a couch so soft, yet so unbearable for convenience of naps?

Selfish, she thought.

This dressing room was beautiful, so you'd think they'd have enough funds to make a decent couch. She could enjoy the aesthetics of the room, anyways. A luxurious baby pink covered the walls, and was bordered by pristine white. Plush gray carpet was under her feet, and was stain free. With Malorie in here, that probably wouldn't last long.

She was over by the double mirrors, applying powder over her face. She was so beautiful, Metzi couldn't fathom why she insisted on so much makeup. The same could be said about herself, so she kept her somewhat inner misogynistic comments at bay. She was pretty quiet, but something was off. She wasn't usually this quiet, so Metzi shot her a text.

She was very personal, and barely talked about what bothered her. Occasionally, Metzi would get her to open up, which she could physically see the relief on her face as she broke down. A brief, but to the point was written out on Metzi's phone.

you don't seem okay. wanna talk about it? Read 2:33 PM

The three dots popped up, and Metzi's attention was quickly brought to Vida, who sat down next to her, letting out a sigh. "How much longer until Olive gets here? I'm so close to taking a nap," Vida quickly put her hair into a makeshift ponytail, and leaned back, closing her eyes.

"It's only two, so I imagine not for a good hour or so, a nap sounds kind of nice," Wren commented, stood in the other corner of the room, with Emmy helped her undo the straps of her outfit. Her green silk top complimented her skin perfectly, but Metzi knew it was too late to convince her.

"Well, I'm out, wake me up when she gets here," Vida quickly blurts, and her head is now comfortably laying on the arm of the sofa. "I'll get up, I have to go to the bathroom anyways," Metzi commented, sighing before getting up.

Silence followed, and the blonde decided to take a look at her phone. A text was sent back on Malorie's behalf, and she widened her eyes momentarily. Standing still, she turned back to look at her. A face of guilt was evident, and she tried her best to hold her breath.

i have something to tell you, i'm not supposed to. i just feel so bad knowing while you don't i really shouldn't have said anything forget it

meet me in the bathroom

Read 2:37PM

Metzi's mind was in a whirlwind, and she couldn't think of anything she'd be referring to. Of course, it was useless, because clearly she wasn't meant to know about it. She hurried out of the room, the last thing she heard was Wren complaining once more about her outfit.

The hallways were empty, mostly because they'd came so early, and Metzi took her time reaching the bathroom. It was communal, so she really hoped that nobody else was here yet. The awards were meant to start in a few hours, and considering they had three faces to paint with makeup, early was a necessity.

"I hope you won't be mad at me," A small, timid voice aired behind her. The blonde turned around, and clutched her phone in fear. "I'm not, please tell me what's going on,"

As Malorie opened her phone, Metzi tapped her foot anxiously.

God, she really had to piss.

The brunette looked up at her, and showed her a photo.

"What is that?"

"That, was Ryan. On Saturday."

Ryan was her boyfriend of six years. An anxious cramping formed in her stomach at the mixture of his name and the tone of Malorie's voice. The photo she was now staring at made her want to vomit. Her stomach was now doing somersaults.

In the photo, it was indeed Ryan, in Metzi's own bed, with a mop of curly red hair under him. Most was covered by the sheets, but it was enough to come to the correct conclusion. He was clearly enjoying it too, judging by his face. Upon further inspection, she noticed something odd.

Grabbing the phone out of Malorie's hand, she zoomed in. On her nightstand, where a picture of the two usually sat, was now face down. While he fucked another woman in her bed, he turned her face down.

Tears pricked at her eyes, and she took a deep breath in.

What happened Saturday? She was home mostly all day, so when did he have time to do this?

"What—how did you get this?"

"I came to give you your present, and I heard something. Y'know since you gave me keys? I figured it was okay to come in, and your bedroom door was open. I knew Ryan would try to make me the liar, so I took a picture. He told me that if I told you," Malorie pursed her lips, "well he threatened to do something pretty fucked up."

"Holy fuck," Metzi whispered, "I just—I had no fucking clue. This entire time, and who knows how long he's been fucking her?"

One lonesome tear fell down her cheek. In anger or sadness, Malorie didn't know.

Opening her phone, she opened Ryan's contact. "Hey," Malorie whispered, her voice now soft. "If he tells you anything about me, promise you won't believe him?"

"Of course, you come first. Always."

She debated on whether or not to call him, but instead opted on a text.

I hope you enjoyed fucking merida, we're done. get your things out of my house by tomorrow. delete my number.

She wiped the tears from her eyes, and a smile adorned her face. Her bladder problems now the least of her concerns, she started back for the dressing room. Emmy now sat at the vanity, on her phone, and Vida and Wren were basically cuddling.

Surprised at the sudden intrustion, all eyes landed on the pair standing in the doorway.

"Ryan cheated on me, so now we're all single." Metzi gave nobody the chance to respond, as if anyone could think of what to say, and took a deep breath in.

"I haven't been fucked in months, and now I know why. So, I'm gonna get laid tonight, feel free to join me."

All seven of them had their faces beat to perfection, their outfits tailored and steamed of any wrinkles. They looked absolutely impeccable, as if the world around them kissed their feet. Hell, some reporters actually acted like that.

The members of BTS were now known worldwide, and it seemed that they were sought after by nearly everyone. Each member was so unique—so captivating in every aspect. Personalities somehow intertwine perfectly, yet polar opposites sometimes.

Proud but humble men, they basked in the warmth of positive attention. All eyes were on them for now, and they proudly understood it. As they walked on the red carpet of the music event, Yoongi and Jungkook both hated what they would be forced to do in mere minutes. As self-declared introverts, social interactions were about to start, and they honestly would rather sit in the corner and get this over with.

They would meet a few smaller artists, an occasional household name, (which they would fawn over for the rest of the night) and then be on their way. It would probably be in a few news articles, and some artists would insist on pictures, and they would be spread around within minutes. It was the same routine, and almost every time they would speak as little as possible, save for Namjoon, and would discuss it later. Hollywood was English dominated, and they despised it.

"Right now we only have to meet one group, and then we're okay for a few hours," Namjoon spoke quietly and quickly, and they piled off of the red carpet into a building. The hallways were scary, dark and empty, but a light above them quickly lit up.

To their surprise, the hallway was beautiful. The walls were an navy blue, white accents on top and bottom. Numerous gold paintings and records lined the walls, and it seemed to go on forever.

"Who is it we're supposed to be meeting? This hallway is a bit sketchy," Jimin perked up, and Namjoon chuckled. "WB,"

"Who is that?"

"I can't remember what their name stands for, but they sing that one song," Namjoon goes on to hum the tune to a familiar song that got pretty big, and all of the members start singing along. Of course, the lyrics are completely off and the tune is absolutely horrid, but they all recognize it vaguely.  

All numbly following Namjoon, he was taking rough instructions from their manager to get there. This was not how it usually happened, but he had said something urgent came up. He had told Namjoon how to get there, and he knew that they were smart enough to make it without breaking a couple ligaments.

"Group? I thought it was one singer," Jin commented, and Taehyung nodded in agreement. "I would have never thought it was more than one. Are they American?"

"I guess we're going to find out," he snickered, and they all stopped at the corner. The door was slightly creaked open, and soft laughter could be heard. It was feminine, soft. It sounded like pure happiness was inside that door.

To double check, Namjoon eyed the sign on the door.

A large, black WB was written so even the partially blind could read. It was odd, the only dressing room out of probably at least a hundred, was all the way back, alone. They had no time to question it before Jin took a few strides forward, and boasted his English abilites.

"Come on-uh, guys."

The rest of them burst into laughter, and Namjoon quickly followed suit, knowing Jin would not be the prime candidate for introductions. He would simply utter a few English words, turn to Namjoon for help, and in panic, make a really bad play on words in Korean.

Timidly, Namjoon's knuckles rapped on the already-open door, accidentally pushing it further open a bit. "Come in!"

They were met with three girls stuffing their faces with chocolate cake, and another laying on the floor, fiddling with a.. flip-phone?

Jin grimaced at the reminder, glad it wasn't pink.

All eyes awkwardly met at the realization, and two of the three muffling down cake choked a bit. "Emmy, I thought you said 5:30?" Malorie was the one to ask, but none of the boys knew that.

"It is 5:30,"

The cake was swallowed within seconds, the flip-phone was now laying on the table, untouched. Four girls scrambled up simultaneously, and watched as the rest of the men piled in. An awkward stout of silence followed, and this so called Emmy, rose and met the boys first.

She had a firm grip, and introduced herself as their manager. The situation was humorous to say the least, these girls who could pass off as teenagers, were standing in single file in shame. The first was a beautiful girl with a large afro, and she kept a tight smile. She did not know who they were, nor did she really care. She introduced herself as Wren.

Next, was a taller woman, who seemed a hint older, with large winged eyeliner. She was Vida. Jin's first instinct was that she reminded him of him, she was definitely the oldest. Then, a smaller girl with a thick smile and soft curls was next. Soft hands, gentle grip. Her name was Malorie.

The last, was a young woman with blonde hair. Realistically, she didn't have any defining features besides her hair, she was the average American-looking girl. She introduced herself as Metzi, and to their surprise, bowed.

"It's really nice to meet you guys," Emmy let out a soft chuckle, and Namjoon nodded tightly. "Are you performing tonight?" It was Malorie who had asked, a soft question. "Yes, actually,"

"I heard you are as well," Namjoon replied, hoping to end the small talk quickly. "Yes we are! I'm surprised you've heard of us, I mean we're not huge."

She wasn't lying, but they definitely weren't small, either. Sixth biggest girlgroup of all time by album sales just behind TLC. Thirtieth on the most followed Spotify artist. Their debut album was certified Gold in six countries. Humble was the key to success, though.

"I'm not sure how big they are in the States, but aren't they pretty well known in Korea?" Yoongi spoke, but of course he wasn't talking to the girls, he was talking to his bandmates. He also spoke in Korean, which is why he nearly had a heart attack when a very feminine voice responded in Korean as well.

"We're big in Korea? I knew we were pretty well known in Japan, but I never really knew about that," It was the blonde one, Metzi. All seven members were in shock, the way she spoke it so effortlessly. If she didn't look the way she did, she could pass off as Native Korean by language alone.

"I know South Korea is very conservative and insistent upon how they operate things, and we're probably the farthest thing from it. I just was under the impression that we didn't fit the mold to do well there," Metzi continued talking, and Wren, Vida and Malorie had absolutely no clue what was going on or being discussed.

Had this been in Spanish, all the girls could have participated. Metzi just insisted on learning Korean, though.

They didn't seem too bothered, though, instead more humored.

"She's been waiting to use that one, huh?" Vida whispered, laughing lightly. "You're not wrong, Korea is known to be very conservative, however, that doesn't mean you have to fit stereotypes to break Korea or any other Asian country for that matter," Namjoon spoke in English this time, and finally the other three girls got a whiff of the conversation.

"We are the farthest thing from ideal boy-groups in America, and we broke it for the most part. Obviously a lot of it is due to our fan base, but point still stands." Seokjin broke in, the conversation now half Korean, half English.

"Good to know," Metzi said softly, a grin on her face.

"How did you learn Korean?" Taehyung spoke up in curiousity, and crinkled his eyes. "I started learning a few years ago before we kind of blew up, and when we visited Korea a few times, I just picked it up a bit. Still a lot I don't know, but I can speak pretty fluently now."

Taehyung nodded in understanding, silently applauding her ability to simply pick up on a language. He doesn't think he will ever gain fluency in English, no matter how hard he'd try. It was a lot harder than he imagined it to be.

"I'm gonna be honest, from media portrayals you guys are made out to be asshats, but you seem pretty down to Earth. Nice to know the fame doesn't get to your head, you know?"

Now it was Wren speaking, and a few snickers sounded from Jungkook and Jimin's mouth. "Asshat," Jimin repeated softly, and they broke into more laughter.

"We appreciate that, thank you. Ignore them," Hoseok spoke this time, a large smile adorning his face. "We will watch your performance tonight, and cheer you on."

"Ditto," Metzi responded in English this time, and Hobi's eyes crinkled in confusion. "Same to you," she clarified in Korean, and he nodded.

They said their goodbyes, and Metzi told all the girls to bow. Namjoon and Vida had a brief talk, and it was no time before BTS and WB were now separate, discussing the events that had just taken place.

The talk of the night was the mysterious blonde girl who spoke fluent Korean. 

taglist: @princessoftheroad​ <3

[anghraine]

“the jedi and the sith lord” - chapter twenty-one

This is the final chapter of The Jedi and the Sith Lord, though it’s less “fin” than “to be continued next episode.”

Last chapter:

“Well, you’ll have to send an agent.”

“Yes, I will,” he said slowly. “In a matter of this much importance, it would have to be an agent of extraordinary capabilities and dedication. One who could communicate their observations and actions without any possibility of detection, and respond to my thoughts and plans in an instant.”

She drew a sharp breath.

This chapter:

“There is no one better suited to the task,” said her father. His tone allowed no argument.

Had he chosen her because she was his daughter? That had plainly weighed into a great many decisions he’d made over the last few months, or longer. There was a—a tie between them, even concern. But she couldn’t think him sentimental enough to risk his plans on that alone.

chapters: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight, chapter nine, chapter ten, chapter eleven, chapter twelve, chapter thirteen, chapter fourteen, chapter fifteen, chapter sixteen, chapter seventeen, chapter eighteen, chapter nineteen, chapter twenty

-

Anakin didn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Lucy couldn’t help but remember how she’d fought to fly in the Rebellion. The Empire wasn’t much better, as far as she’d seen.

“Why me?” she asked. “All those things you just said—”

“There is no one better suited to the task,” said her father. His tone allowed no argument.

Had he chosen her because she was his daughter? That had plainly weighed into a great many decisions he’d made over the last few months, or longer. There was a—a tie between them, even concern. But she couldn’t think him sentimental enough to risk his plans on that alone. At the same time, she’d never really done anything of this kind. She was a pilot and a soldier, not a secret agent like Leia and Captain Andor had been.

“I don’t know,” said Lucy, but the words were scarcely out of her mouth when she realized that she’d be out of the castle at last. Free! Or something like it, at least.

“The experience will be useful to you,” he said. “For now, what we need is information. The mission should be straightforward enough.”

“Don’t jinx it,” she replied. “How do you know I won’t just run off?”

“The fact that you asked is a strong hint,” said Anakin. “But if you accept, you will have a companion.”

Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “An Imperial? You’re sending me with a keeper?”

“A companion,” he repeated firmly. “And an Imperial of sorts. I would hardly send you with a Rebel.”

She had half a mind to tell him that the galaxy wasn’t divided into Imperials and Rebels, or at least to think it at him. But he should know that already, coming from Tatooine. Apparently he’d forgotten.

Well, he’d forgotten a lot.

“Am I—would I meet them on the way there?” she said, trying to get the logistics clear in her head. “Or are they coming here?”

“They are already here,” said Anakin. “I will take you to them, if you consent to the mission.”

Between the promise of open air and her agreement to help him against his enemies in the Empire, her first inclination was immediate assent. And it’d be something to do, some way to exercise her abilities and to do it, amazingly enough, against Imperials. But she’d also be doing it for Imperials. Leia, in her place, would indignantly refuse. Han might go along out of self-preservation, but he’d be alert for his first chance at real escape. Lucy—

She looked up at Anakin, and remembered how Beru had told her that Shmi’s people believed in the young supporting their elders. Not in everything, but where it was necessary. Did this count?

She remembered, too, the terrible dread she’d felt as she flew away from the Rebellion, and the moment when she took her father’s hand in the archives, and the cool air of a starship.

“I’ll do it,” said Lucy, hoping she hadn’t just made the worst decision in the history of the galaxy.

At no point did she sense much doubt from Anakin, but she nevertheless felt a quiet relief from him at this.

“Good,” he said, and turned around, his cape swirling after him.  With a forward gesture, he continued, “Come with me.”

Lucy followed.

After another long trek across the castle—though in a different direction from the archive—she found herself in a large room. She’d never seen it before, but apart from the bedchambers and training hall, one room here was very much like another.

However, it wasn’t entirely dissimilar from the training hall; it stretched longer than it was wide, and at the far end, targets had been set up. Each had holes and gashes clustered in and around the center.

Lucy had no difficulty guessing where they’d come from, because the room also contained a tall woman in an Imperial uniform. She was currently shooting a blaster at the targets, one shot following the other with no hesitation and alarming accuracy. She must be almost as good as Leia.

Lucy coughed loudly and the woman whirled around, blaster raised. As soon as she saw Anakin, however, she lowered the blaster.

Lucy frowned at her. From the front, the woman looked eminently forgettable—brown hair, grey eyes, pale skin, unremarkable features. Yet Lucy couldn’t escape the feeling that she’d seen her before—a feeling that came less from any conscious process than the Force itself. Lucy knew her.

“Have we met?” Lucy asked.

The woman’s glance passed to Lucy, then back to Anakin. She seemed to be waiting for something.

“The situation has changed,” he said. “You are now to offer Lucy any assistance you are capable of. Also, you are to remain near her at all times during her mission.”

“Her mission?” said the woman.

Lucy’s heart nearly stopped.

“Tuvié?”

-

The woman—droid?—turned to her. Though her expression didn’t change, her voice did.

“I did not expect that you could correctly identify me, Miss Lucy!”

Lucy managed to slow her whirling thoughts long enough to say, “You’re pretty unmistakable.”

Tuvié was still functional—and still here? But she was … what had happened? She’d had humanoid prosthetics here and there before, but now, Lucy would never have known her for anything but an ordinary human woman. She didn’t understand.

Tuvié lifted her eyes to Anakin. Lucy tried to wrap her mind around that—Tuvié had eyes now.

“Oh! I quite forgot, sir—”

“You may consider the ban lifted, F-2VA,” he said, removing all doubt.

Lucy took a deep breath.

“Tuvié, this won’t mean anything to you, but—”

“Yes?” said Tuvié.

Lucy took a step forward, then abandoned all caution and walked straight up to her, wrapping her arms around the droid’s torso. It felt like hugging anyone would have.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she said.

Tuvié patted her head.

“I am familiar with the significance of the gesture among humanoids,” she said kindly.

“I’m sorry,” said Lucy, releasing her and stepping back. “I didn’t mean—I—”

Tuvié’s face didn’t change, and probably couldn’t, but she managed to exude bewilderment anyway.

“Sorry?” she said. “Sorry for what?”

Lucy had no idea if Tuvié had welcomed the changes to her structure, or if it was some bizarre kind of punishment. Either way, she couldn’t believe that Tuvié hadn’t endured Anakin’s wrath in some way or another. And it was all because Lucy had lied and tricked her in a futile escape attempt. That horrified, desperate Lucy seemed almost another person now, but it didn’t negate her responsibility. Did Tuvié really not see that?

She thought of saying I didn’t want you hurt, but without knowing exactly what had happened, and with Anakin right behind her, she couldn’t quite bring herself to.

“I deceived you,” said Lucy. “It wasn’t—honourable.”

Before Tuvié could respond, Anakin strode forwards, his towering form cutting into Lucy’s peripheral vision. Each step thudded in her ears, and his respirator seemed even louder than usual.

“At least some portion of the fleet is gathered on the planet of Pheraz, near the Outer Rim,” he said. “I have obtained codes that should give you access to the base of operations.”

Lucy hesitated, then turned to him. “How?”

“I have my own methods of acquiring information,” he said, the mask and suit revealing no more than Tuvié’s face.

She took that to mean the Force.

“You will be given disguises that should allow you both to pass unnoticed among Varti’s and Jerjerrod’s men,” Anakin went on. “Tuvié, your assignment is simple. You are to remain with Lucy at all times and see that she returns in one piece.”

She might have been imagining it, but she thought his voice emphasized returns more than one piece. It made sense, of course—he had no reason to think she wouldn’t seize her first opportunity at escape, and keeping her under control had to be his first priority—but it made her uncomfortable, nevertheless. She hadn’t agreed out of hope for returning to the Alliance. It was difficult to imagine just waltzing back to the Rebellion as if none of this had ever happened, even if the chance did present itself.

“Yes, Lord Vader,” said Tuvié.

“You know the consequences if you fail me again,” he added.

“I do, sir.”

Lucy’s throat dried. She couldn’t think Tuvié would survive another failure. It was remarkable enough that he hadn’t destroyed her outright, all things considered, and that he’d entrusted her with the same task in more dangerous conditions. That was very odd, now that she thought of it.

It’s a test, Lucy thought. For both of them. Whatever the consequences of failure might be for Lucy herself, they would be disastrous for Tuvié. They had to succeed.

“Lucy,” Anakin said, “you will otherwise take the lead, guided by me. Keep your mind open and your senses alert.”

“I will,” she promised.

“You will both be provided with Imperial identities,” he said. “However, close inspection would trace them back to me and reveal your true allegiances.”

Lucy felt a flicker of doubt from him at this, and bit her lip. He couldn’t really know what her allegiance was at this point. She wasn’t sure she did herself, except to the Force and the liberation of the galaxy. She’d never support the Empire, but her father was neither the Empire nor the Emperor, whatever he might wish. She could help him in this without betraying what she believed in. Couldn’t she?

“Therefore,” he told her, “you should do your best to avoid providing them. You should be unobtrusive, or as much so as you can manage. You will have a uniform, a blaster, your wits, and the Force. That should be enough to carry us through.”

Despite herself, she liked the sound of us. Repressing the feeling, Lucy nodded.

“Do you both understand?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Tuvié immediately.

“Yes, F—Lord Vader,” Lucy said.

“Very well,” said Anakin. “Tuvié, you may go.”

Without another word, she walked away, her footsteps light—altogether unlike her old clatter. Lucy didn’t mind it, exactly, but it unsettled her. She’d heard of replica droids, glanced past holos of them, but she’d never seen one, and certainly never seen one made out of another model altogether. She inhaled, steadying herself, and looked up at her father’s inscrutable mask. She couldn’t sense his feelings beyond the usual, either; he must have closed himself off in some way, or simply didn’t feel much else.

Lucy searched the mask anyway, wishing she could at least see his eyes through the lenses. Her aunt always said that Lucy had her father’s eyes, though Shmi’s had been dark. But she’d never seen them in person.

“Father,” she said impulsively, “you can trust me.”

He studied her for several long seconds. Now, she thought she could sense something—not wistfulness, but not wholly unlike it. He wanted to believe her, even if he couldn’t quite manage it.

“We shall see,” said Anakin.

-

Leia Organa never thought of leaving the Rebellion. Not once. But the Alliance’s structure chafed on her at times, all the more in the years since the destruction of Alderaan, which had swayed many of those who wavered before fully realizing the threat posed by the Empire. If it could happen to Alderaan, it could happen to anyone. So many had only needed the understanding that their own people’s lives and welfare were at stake to support the Alliance in some fashion or another.

Cowards. At times, it was all Leia could do to keep her fingernails from cutting into her palms. She clenched her hands under Council tables and behind her back as she stared through viewscreens.

Useful cowards. Cowards who had chosen the right side, in the end. But they brought expectations of a certain kind of order with them, expectations rooted in a Republic that Leia couldn’t remember. She’d been born the very day that the Republic fell—she and Lucy both.

Her nails dug deeper. They hadn’t heard anything of Lucy since the day Leia escaped Cloud City with Lando and the droids. Even their best agents hadn’t heard a whisper of her; she might as well have died. Some people thought she had. But Leia couldn’t quite believe that Lucy’s death would leave the galaxy so untouched, leave Leia herself without any sure way of knowing it had happened. She trusted her instincts, and her instincts told her that Lucy was alive.

Leia had every reason to know that alive didn’t mean well, though. If she’d somehow escaped Vader’s trap, Lucy would have returned to them. She could only be a captive of the Empire—of Vader.

Leia knew exactly what that meant. Was Lucy suffering at his hands and dark powers even now? Her instincts didn’t tell her anything about that. She didn’t feel overwhelmed with foreboding, as she had when Han and Lucy flew away from Yavin 4. She was just afraid for Lucy, afraid for them all, and beyond that, unsettled. Once they discovered Lucy’s location, once they rescued her—Leia refused to tolerate if—Lucy would find the Rebellion a different place than even on Hoth. She’d find the galaxy a different place.

Would Lucy be different? Leia supposed it depended on when Vader had taken her out of carbon-freeze, and how long after that she’d been subject to his ... mercies. Lucy wouldn’t give up the Rebellion; Leia believed that with all her heart. But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t change her. Lucy escaping unscarred seemed increasingly impossible with each day that passed.

And Leia, tangled up in command, could do nothing.

She might have done something for Han, or at least tried. But everything was so slow. Lando had made his contacts with Jabba the Hutt’s minions, and would hopefully infiltrate the stronghold soon. When he did, they could determine Han’s current state. If he remained in carbonite, as all their reports suggested, he could be saved. They had only to penetrate the heart of the stronghold, discreetly extract Han from carbonite despite the danger of hibernation sickness, and somehow escape unnoticed.

Leia didn’t like leaving it all up to Lando. She thought of Lucy again, and nearly had to press her first to her mouth. She couldn’t. She couldn’t stand around in her pristine clothes and neat braids, giving orders while those she loved most in the galaxy were prisoners of the Huttish and Galactic empires. But she couldn’t leave the Rebellion, either.

She’d have to find another way.

-

Janos Varti cooled his heels on Naboo for a good month before Emperor Palpatine deigned to take an interest in his doings. But, finally, the time had come. Varti knelt before a large hologram of the Emperor, keeping his eyes lowered and trying not to think of any dust that might accumulate on the knees of his trousers. Lord Vader might be an inhuman relic, but he was right that Palpatine’s favour could be withdrawn at any moment; that had to take priority over every other concern.

Besides, it let him avoid looking at the Emperor’s face, at least for a few moments.

“Admiral,” said the Emperor, “allow me to offer my congratulations. You seem to be in good health.”

“I am, your Highness,” Varti said humbly. “Thank you.”

This sufficed for pleasantries. Palpatine told him to rise, then closely questioned him on his meetings with Vader. He asked about Bast Castle’s defenses, which he must already know about; he asked about Varti’s conversations with Vader in such detail that Varti could almost have accepted the common belief that the Emperor had spying devices everywhere. Nevertheless, Varti reported as closely as he could recall, suspecting that the month-long wait was at least partly a test of his memory. In fact, he’d always had an excellent one, though he knew better than to depend too heavily upon it.

“Lord Vader warned you that you might not always enjoy my good graces, hm?” Palpatine asked.

His flickering face seemed more amused than anything by this.

“Yes, your Highness,” Varti said.

“That,” said the Emperor, “depends on you.”

Varti nodded respectfully, then added, “So Lord Vader advised me.”

Palpatine studied him, his features now as unreadable as usual. Varti, who had long-since grasped that the Emperor expected submission but despised weakness, managed not to gulp.

“I see,” he said. “Tell me, was there anyone in the castle with Lord Vader?”

“Well, yes,” said Varti, startled. “A number of officers and troops, as well as droids—more droids than soldiers.” Then he remembered his initial reception, with all its peculiarities. “And there was a girl.”

He felt, more than saw, Emperor Palpatine’s concentration narrowing in on him.

“Tell me about this girl,” he ordered.

Varti blinked several times, but had not come this far by ignoring direct orders. “She received us when we first arrived. She seemed about twenty—short, slender, blonde hair, blue eyes. I had the impression that she was some sort of housekeeper or servant. We spoke briefly and she provided tea.”

Maybe it was just paranoia on Palpatine’s part, but Varti couldn’t see why he should feel the slightest interest in that girl. It was possible, of course, that Varti had missed something about her, but it didn’t seem likely. He was an excellent judge of character.

“Did she create any difficulties for you and Lord Vader?” asked the Emperor.

“No,” said Varti, even more puzzled. “She seemed quite accommodating, when she was present. I saw little of her, except during dinners.”

Now that he thought of it, though, that did strike him as odd. Why would Vader invite his housekeeper, or whatever she was—Varti didn’t really want to think about it too much—to dinner with an Admiral of the Fleet? Had he wanted her to notice something?

Something niggled at Varti’s memory. He’d noticed something. What was it?

“I trust no significant business was conducted at these dinners?” said Palpatine.

“You are correct, your Highness.”

In a rush, it came to him. He felt silly to even mention it to the Emperor, but he wasn’t about to hold things back.

“Her clothes were strange,” he blurted out. “Old and faded, but the fabric was very fine—embroidered and such. It seemed peculiar for a servant.”

Palpatine didn’t bother responding to this.

“Did you ever hear her name?”

“Alsara,” Varti said promptly. “Lucy Alsara.”

“Ah,” said Palpatine, with a faint smile. “Her true name is Lucy Skywalker. She was a Rebel and a would-be Jedi traitor, until Lord Vader apprehended her.”

“A Jedi!” Varti exclaimed.

Astonished, he stared into the Emperor’s blue face. Varti had taken tea from a Jedi? A Rebel one, too? And she hadn’t tried to poison him then, or at any of their other shared meals? And Vader had simply left her to wander around?

“She appears to have learned the errors of her former cause, and is now Vader’s apprentice,” said the Emperor.

“She seemed docile enough,” Varti acknowledged, the whirl of his thoughts slowing to something like reason. “Was it a trick?”

“Possibly,” Palpatine said, looking thoughtful. Then he fixed his eyes on Varti, who valiantly repressed a shudder. “Should the opportunity arise again, take care to observe her very closely.”

“I will,” said Varti. At this point he was so bewildered that he presumed to add, “Is this one girl a threat to the Empire, your Highness?”

“No,” the Emperor replied. Horrifyingly, his smile broadened. “I think not.”

[noyin]

One Percent

AO3 Here!

[This Is Logan To Ground Control]

Rating: G

Pairing(s): Logicality, Familial Analogical, Background Prinxiety

Tags: Astronaut!Logan, familial analogical, Emotional Hurt, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Alternate Universe, I Know Nothing Of Spaceships, I Know Nothing Of Hospitals, Oneshot, Inspired By: One Percent By Gorillaz

Summary:

Anyone Not anyone of us who is in search Everyone's receiving you...

—

The stars spun ever so slowly. Passed the circular window overhead, the beauty of the galaxy, starry and alone, stretched out for miles. But nothing came close to the beauty of planet Earth, centered in the glass.

Logan could stare at Earth for hours. It wasn't like there was anything else left for him. After all, he could only do so much about the T. Sanders' condition and he had no company. So he'd float there, trying to sleep but never being able to, and he'd look at Earth, round and awe-some, and…

He found that he cried often.

His eyes turned up to Earth as he floated. He suspended in relax, drifting wherever the loss of gravity took him. It was like he was underwater, which was a fitting comparison; sometimes space felt suffocating.

Earth reflected in his teary brown eyes.

"Hello, Patton," Logan said. He sounded as small as he felt. A lone man in space. "It's night now. I know I should be going to sleep, but I can't without telling you that I love you." Logan breathed in a stuttering breath. "I love you."

The fragment of the moon floated in the corner of his peripheral. Logan rubbed his eyes, inhaling again. He hugged himself but it wasn't his own arms he wanted to be in.

"I just wish you were here to hear it."

-

After a while, jerky became something Logan ate for its texture rather than its taste. Logan was sure he wouldn't ever eat jerky again if he had the choice. But he thought it was best that he remained loyal to routine. It was good to have a constant when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

Throughout Logan's day, he had five constants. The picture in his pocket that he looked at far too often for far too long, the jerky breakfast and marking down his inventory—he had exactly a hundred and fifty days left of meals now—speaking to his electronic log, up-keeping the ship, and falling asleep as he spoke to the company he didn't have, watching Earth in a distance.

As he chewed the jerky, like many times before, he made his way to the computer room and strapped himself down on the chair. He turned on the computer.

"Salutations, computer. It is day two hundred and eighty five, and it is currently- ah, running a little behind today. It is currently zero nine hundred and seven, UTC. This is still flight engineer Logan of the space shuttle, T. Sanders. I believe I am approximately twenty days away from Earth. As happy as this news is, I do have concerns regarding my reentry into Earth's atmosphere and landing without guidance or assistance. Especially with the OMS engine barely on the side of functioning. Given the OMS engine is used specifically for the final deorbital burn...I'm not entirely sure how much strain the system can handle." Logan leaned back a little.

It wasn't like any of it mattered, though. The worst case scenario would be his untimely death, but Logan had been aware of the possibility since the moment he turned the ship around.

With a sigh, he continued, "It will still be a while before I am faced with the terrifying task of reentry. But until then, I will continue to try to make contact with Ground Control and attempt to repair the OMS engine the best I can, but there is very little I can do." With his sign-off, Logan saved his entry and turned off the computer.

He sat there for a moment in complete silence, save for the ever constant whirring that reverberated within the metal of the ship. With a longer, drawn out sigh, Logan set his head in his shaking palms.

He thought of Patton and Virgil and his heart ached. He longed for them, he wanted to kiss his husband's rosy-cheeked face, he wanted to hug his son. He wanted to see them, so much it hurt.

He pressed his palm against his lips, just as the tears rushed from his eyes, as the ever occurring thought returned to him, "I'm never going to see them again," Logan sobbed, muffled.

It felt like the world was crushing around him and it was hard to breathe. Logan did his best to ground himself before the anxiety could take hold of him, but he could tell he was slipping into a breakdown. It was hard to stay grounded when he was so far above the world.

Logan couldn't withhold from bursting into tears. Doubt and fear was festering in Logan's mind more and more, now. Irrational thoughts, human thoughts, and Logan knew that these were made of raw instinct and emotion. He just wanted to return safely to his family.

But as time went on, the more he believed he had already seen their last smiles.

-

Logan held the picture of Patton and Virgil in his trembling hand. The picture was so worn, with a line going down the middle from how he had folded it and a white splotch over the corner of Patton's cheek where he had brushed his thumb over thousands of times.

He took his time as he chewed through his jerky, appreciating the texture one last time as though it was his last meal.

His heart pounded against his ribcage and he felt alive with anticipation. He would be seeing his family soon.

Logan's eyes drifted to the spacesuit in hung neatly on the wall. And the face of the Earth pressed against the circular window overhead.

-

The only thing he could hear was the steady pulse of his heart thumping in his ears and the heaviness of his breath.

The presence of Earth was daunting. The adrenaline which flooded his veins made him shakier than usual, and the looming thought that he might not make it home—no, Logan thought, and instead he forced himself to think of Patton's smile.

He pressed the button for the intercom to Ground Control, knowing he would be met with nothing but hoping anyway, as he had done for all of three hundred and five days.

"This is flight engineer Logan to Ground Control," Logan said, forcing his voice to steady, "I am preparing to reenter Earth's atmosphere in approximately t-minus one-eighty seconds. The OMS engine is...operable at best, but not entirely reliable. I don't believe I have any other choice, however." Logan said. He inhaled. "It would be beneficial, I think, to have Ground Control as guidance."

Static. Logan sighed, his hand settled on the control panel.

Despite the anticipation that bubbled inside him restlessly, the universe reflected the opposite. It was always quiet. It was always beautiful. He knew the stars would always hold a spot in his heart. Logan was ready to leave it behind to more beautiful sights.

"T-minus one twenty seconds," Logan spoke to the intercom.

Static.

The whirring of the ship rumbled faintly at his feet, and kept him grounded—his thoughts tended to gravitate towards the clouds, towards the worst possible scenarios. But Logan felt the rumbling at his feet and it reminded him, to shift his focus on the things within the realm of his control.

Easily, he placed his hand over the control stick. He closed his eyes. And took a breath.

Static.

Logan's eyes shot open.

"...Is…ol...o..."

He stared at the intercom for a moment, curious. He pressed the button. "Is- is anyone there? Over."

There was silence for a moment, in which Logan held his breath, and then spoke a voice clouded in static, "This is Ground Control to the T. Sanders. Logan Berry, we are receiving you loud and clear. Everyone is receiving you. Over."

Logan let out a soft cry, overwhelmed by relief and shock. I've made contact with Ground Control.

"Ground Control, this is flight engineer Logan Berry of the T. Sanders, the only remaining crew aboard the T. Sanders," Logan said. It was a struggle to keep his voice clean and even. "I am set to reenter Earth's atmosphere in approximately t-minus fifty seconds. The OMS engine is damaged and I am flying the craft alone. I require your immediate assistance. Over."

"We will guide you through."

In Logan's field of vision, the Earth began to swallow up the darkness of space into a beautiful hue of blue—the color of blue that had always been Patton's favorite. Then followed the tufts of white clouds and miles of green, a sight that filled Logan was an indescribable feeling of euphoria.

That euphoria lasted for a second before sparks of fire began to flash and the turbulence picked up, making the craft shudder. Logan felt his anxiety spike, his focus fading.

And then a thought came to him, clear as day—Breathe in for four seconds, he heard himself say—but he was talking to someone else. Hold for seven seconds. Virgil knelt in front of him, a tense, clammy hand in his own. Out for eight seconds, he heard himself say, and Virgil breathed out.

Four, seven, eight.

Logan's breath began to even and everything returned to focus.

As Ground Control spoke through the intercom and Logan executed each command, and it was, as they say, so far, so good. When it came time to put the OMS engine to use, to reduce his velocity until it was suitable enough for landing, Logan felt his doubt creeping in. But it was either die trying or die not trying at all. And Logan would do anything if it gave him a chance to return to his family.

As soon as Logan began to operate the machine, a warning signal beeped within the craft in time with a flashing red light on the dash. Warning, it read, Overheating.

Logan grit his teeth, yet held his ground.

The craft began to creak and groan, strong vibrations making the ship shiver. It was growing evident that the engine was struggling, as it was growing extremely turbulent and alarmingly warm aboard the flight deck. The beeping continued, drowning out the static of the intercom.

Warning: Overheating.

Logan did not heed the warning yet, though he knew the engine would soon start to give out on him. He just needed enough time, enough time to-

 Crash!

Logan jerked in his seat as the spaceship lurched violently, shuddering like a stalling vehicle. Everything felt thrown to disorder, and Logan felt all disoriented, his world spinning in front of him. He could barely hear the blare of the warning, now mixed in with a hissing noise. Not good, Logan thought.

The ground was rapidly approaching. Logan closed his eyes tightly, bracing for impact.

Beep, beep, beep, beep...

-

The experience was still so vivid to him, even in his dreams. Though everything felt distant. He could remember fire. Heat. The feeling of his body twisting and crushing. He couldn't breathe. Water. He remembered the water before his consciousness gave out on him.

But most importantly, he could still hear the beeping, blaring in warning. In warning that everything could go wrong in the blink of an eye. And that he would be gone, without so much of a goodbye.

Logan could still hear the beeping.

 Beep. Beep. Beep.

But this beeping was different. Slowly, the sound of frantic blaring faded into something calm and steady.

Logan opened his eyes and he was immediately greeted by a gentle light. He turned to it, warmth exploding against his face like delicate kisses on Saturday mornings. Sunlight, his mind supplied helpfully, Oh, I've missed the sun.

Wait.

And then the realization hit Logan with full force. He scrambled to sit up, his body protesting every movement and his head throbbing. He was consumed by disbelief—and he needed to know whether or not he was dreaming. Or if he was, maybe, incredibly lucky.

The room was small, pristine, and white, with cabinets and a sink, and a box for sharps. Logan looked down at himself, finding that he was clad in a paper gown. A hospital, Logan quickly deduced. He was at a hospital.

He then turned his focus to the table by his bed, on top of which had a glass of water and a piece of paper beside it. Logan reached for the paper first, its worn edges fitting perfectly in his hand. It was a photograph. He instantly recognized his husband's smile and his son's signature scowl.

Logan covered his mouth, thick tears blurring his vision. Oh. He dropped his face in his trembling hands and began sobbing in overwhelming happiness and relief.

"I'm alive," Logan said, "I'm alive."

It was so difficult to believe that, after everything, after all the odds were against him, after he truly believed returning home wasn't possible, after he had resigned to believing he would die, he would be alone-

After everything, he was wrong.

Logan looked up when he heard footsteps enter his room and hastily made to recompose himself, wiping his eyes free of tears. The nurse who entered stopped by the door with a look of surprise.

"Oh, Mister Berry, you're awake!" he said. He gave Logan a warm smile as he approached with his cart. "I'm Emile and I'm going to be your nurse for today. How are you feeling?"

"Salutations, Emile," Logan said. He paused for a moment. "I'm feeling overwhelmed, I think. I've been in space for nearly a year, after all, and I thought I wouldn't-" Logan said, but he stopped himself. He smiled a little to Emile. "You know, it's nice to be speaking to someone again."

"I can't imagine how you must feel right now. It hard it must've been hard for you," Emile said.

"I don't particularly want to discuss it," Logan said.

"That's completely understandable. When you were admitted, you had several broken ribs and a severe concussion. You just woke up from a medically induced coma," Emile explained, "So, I'm going to check your vitals now, if that's alright with you."

"I want to go home," Logan said instead. It wasn't what he meant to say, but it certainly was what he wanted to say.

Emile paused. "Oh. Well, I'm not sure that would be advisable."

"I know," Logan said, "But if I can be prescribed a medicine to manage pain, I think it would be appropriate enough to discharge me."

"I would have to check with the doctor on that," Emile said. "Let me take your vitals and I'll get into contact with him."

"That is fine," Logan said, "Thank you, Emile."

-

Maybe it wasn't the most logical thing to leave the hospital against medical advice, but Logan couldn't regret his decision.

He sat nervously in the back of the taxi cab, his precious photograph cradled in his hands in his lap, and he couldn't help but smile as he looked at it. He couldn't wait for the moment he wouldn't need the photograph anymore. He would be able to stroke his husband's cheek and hug his son, rather than brush the worn face of the picture and press it close to his chest.

There was nothing that could describe all that he was feeling in that very moment. Especially as familiar sights began to fly by through the cab's window—the cafe on the corner, the local library, the skate park, the flower shop. Logan was getting all antsy with anticipation when the taxi turned into his neighborhood.

It was only a short drive until his home came into view and it looked just as welcoming as he remembered it to be, and Logan felt like bursting into tears upon seeing it. After all this time, he was finally home.

"Alright, babes, here we are. Twenty-four Stokes Lane," said the driver as he pulled up against the curb.

Logan paid the fare, hurried out of the cab and collected his duffle bag of belongings. He stood at the end of the driveway for a second, taking a few recomposing breaths, as he felt like he was going to explode with nerves, he was trembling so much.

He made his way up the driveway and to the front door, his heart beating harder with every step. Finally, he lifted his hand to the door and gave a firm rap. A moment or two passed, and then the door unlocked and swung open.

"Yes, can I help you?"

The person that stood in the doorway wasn't someone he recognized, but rather a young adult with tan skin, fluffy hair and honey colored eyes, clad in a jacket over a set of pajamas. Logan felt his heart sink a little and he frowned.

"I- I'm-" Logan stammered, at a complete loss on what to say. He adjusted his glasses and took in a deep breath. "I'm looking for the Berry residence. Do they still...live here?"

The man smiled brightly. "Oh, yeah! This is the Berry residence," he said, "I'm Roman. Can I help you with anything?"

Logan felt a smile spread across his face. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Roman. I'm Logan Berry."

Roman's eyes grew wider than saucers. "You're-"

"Hey, Princey," spoke a third voice, low and grouchy, which Logan recognized immediately. "Who the heck are you talking t-"

As Virgil popped around the door frame, he stopped completely in his tracks, shocked. The three of them stood there in silence for the longest time—Logan was simply too overwhelmed by the sheer joy of seeing his son for the first time in a year, and Virgil looked as if he had died and come back to life. Which, honestly, Logan wouldn't blame him for thinking so.

Virgil clutched Roman's sleeve with white knuckles and buried his face into Roman's arm, and began weeping. He quickly abandoned Roman and stumbled through the doorway into Logan's arms. Logan caught him in an embrace with a teary smile.

"Dad," Virgil cried.

"Virgil. I love you, Virgil," Logan said, his voice all shaky with emotion. "I'm here. I've missed you so much."

"I fuckin' hate you," Virgil said thickly. "I hate you so much."

But Virgil squeezed him tighter, as if he would never let go, and continued to weep against Logan's shoulder. Logan closed his eyes and held him close, and while there were no words exchanged, the hug spoke multitudes. Logan had dreamt about this moment for so long and nothing in the universe compared to what he was feeling. The physical manifestation of absolute happiness and love was right there in Virgil's arms.

"'m sorry," Virgil mumbled, sniffling and wiping his eyes. "I was so angry at you. But I love you so much."

"I know. I'm so sorry, Virgil."

"Wait, shit-" Virgil pulled away from him. "Dad, you have to see papa."

Logan's heart lurched at the thought of Patton and he smiled. "Yes."

Virgil pulled him inside, and Roman closed the door behind them and took Logan's duffle bag. As soon as he stepped in, he was bombarded by warmth, familiarity, and the smell of chocolate chip cookies. He knew he was truly home and that alone felt so overwhelmingly euphoric.

And then he heard the sound of singing coming from the kitchen and he couldn't hold back a smile. He could imagine the scene—Patton, clad in an apron with the words 'Hi Hungry, I'm Dad' printed on it, flour in his hair and his cheeks rosy.

Virgil led him into the kitchen and Logan's breath caught in his throat when he saw his Patton, the love of his life, for the first time in far too long.

Though his attention was towards the oven, as he held a tray of hot cookies in one hand, and fiddling with the oven knob with the other.

"Oh, goodness, we need a new oven," Patton said with a light laugh. Logan's heart fluttered.

"Hey, Papa," Virgil said. He was beaming. "Guess what."

"Yes? What is it?" Patton turned around.

His eyes met with Logan's and if felt like the world stopped spinning. There was a sharp clatter as the tray of cookies slipped from Patton's grasp. Logan could see the slight tremble in his hands as he brought them over his mouth in complete shock. Tears began to spill from his eyes and stream messily down his cheeks.

"Logan?"

"Hello, darling," Logan said, tears also gathering on his lashes.

Patton cried softly, sinking to his knees on the kitchen linoleum. Logan approached and knelt beside him, collecting his husband in his arms. Patton turned into his chest, gripping the face of his shirt and hiding in the crook of his neck.

"I must be dreaming," Patton said through his hiccups. "I missed you, Logan. So much."

"I love you," Logan said.

Patton tittered and sobbed, cupping Logan's cheek in his palm. When he smiled, his eyes shimmered like stars—beautiful and warm, and- nothing like the loneliness of the galaxy.

Patton leaned up to place a teary kiss onto Logan's lips. It felt like a dream to finally be in the arms of his love, to be able to kiss him, and hold him, and smell the chocolate chip that clung to his hair.

"You said you'd be back before I knew it." Patton said.

"I know. I'm so sorry."

Patton smiled softly, however, and kissed him again. "I'm so happy, Logan. I'm so happy you're home. And I love you so much."

"I love you so much, too. And there's nowhere I'd rather be than here. In your arms. With Virgil and Roman," Logan said. He held Patton tighter, placing a kiss on his forehead. "Nowhere in the galaxy."

[thelordofdarkreunion]

The Great Game

This is kind of a sequel to “Man Behind the Curtain” and prequel to “The Misty Planet.”  I decided to write a bit of an explanation story for some of the things that are going on, and some of the things that are about to happen.  Be aware, that I have not written every player of the Great Game into this story, and I probably forgot a couple that I’ll add if I ever write another story like this.  None of these characters are mine.  Enjoy!

“There is no death.  There is nothing to keep us in check… except each other.  We are what you would call gods, and this is the eternal game for absolute dominion over all.  Now, there are new players to be dealt in.  Welcome to the Great Game, my enemy.  Our journey has just begun.”

It was empty blackness.  Nothingness.  But yet, it was something.  Something different… something that mortals could not comprehend.  It was utterly anathema to all normal senses, to Euclidean geometry, to the laws of time, space, and reality themselves.  It was completely indescribable, except to the players themselves.  But, to a mortal, it might be described as something like this:

Beings, sitting around a massive table.  

There were a lot of newcomers this time.  They were attracted by this… the Great Game.  The game of gods, all vying for power over each other.  Originally, there had been three players.  The three original Dark Gods of Chaos, all battling for cosmic supremacy between each other.  Then, a fourth was born.  But with the fourth came someone else: the Anathema.  The End of Chaos.  The Supreme Ruler of Mankind.  The King of all Human Kings.  

It was then that the Great Game got a lot more interesting.  At last, the Dark Gods had an opponent different from themselves.  The Emperor of Mankind wished for His species to thrive, and wanted to impose His order throughout the stars.  The Dark Gods disagreed.  The Primarchs, genetically crafted sons of the Emperor, were corrupted.  The Emperor was mortally wounded, and his physical form confined to the Golden Throne of Terra.  But He still fought ever onwards against Chaos for the protection of His race.  The game continued, uninterrupted, for ten thousand years since then.  

Then, through a series of completely random circumstances that none of them saw coming, eight other universes were thrown in with theirs.  Some of them did not have gods in any sense, but many did, which brings us to the present setting.  

If it could be described, the table would have been utterly massive to accommodate the bulk of many of the players.  They were gods, after all, and most liked to make their forms as big as possible.  On the table were layers upon layers of… things.  Layers upon layers of images of planets, galaxies, people and creatures all flashed past.  Each individual god had their own “color” if it could be described as such.  Each of the holdings, or pieces in the Game, were tinged with the color of the god they belonged to.  Gods moved individuals as they saw fit, for the lives of mortals were simply pieces on their chessboard. 

The figure of the Shadow Broker, tinged with the cerulean blue of Tzeentch, died as his broken figure was gunned down by his own guards.  The ever-changing, utterly unknowable form of Tzeentch flashed a thousand different emotions at once.  

“Well then.  There goes one strand of fate.  A pity he did not succeed.”  Tzeentch leered at its fellow players.  “It does not matter in the end, though.  Or does it?  One really can never tell.”  A bird-like face formed on the mass the was Tzeentch, followed by a tentacle-like arm that scratched it thoughtfully in a very mortal fashion.  “I’m still wondering whether to leave this strand alone, or continue to spread my… taint to this galaxy.”  Tzeentch grinned over to the Emperor of Man.  “Is that not what your followers call it?”  The figure opposite Tzeentch scowled.  

“Because that’s what it is.  You Dark Gods have meddled in the affairs of mortals for far too long.”  The Emperor was clad in ornamented golden armor, with the symbols of His rein etched into the surface.  His features were those of a man born in the wilds of ancient eurasia, in the very first human civilization.  His skin was a blend of bronze and burnt umber, and glowed with the golden radiance that seemed to swirl around His person.  His hair was shoulder length and solid black, held in place by a golden laurel wreath.  But it was the eyes that betrayed his true power.  They glowed solid gold, with endless depths promising eternal vengeance against the enemies of humanity.  Golden electricity crackled around His eyes and face as he stroked his chin, considering His moves.  He turned to his left and right.  “What do you think?”  

The slim figure to the Emperor’s right shrugged.  

“I’m not really sure.”  This figure had short cut black hair, and took the form of a human man wearing the uniform of the United Federation of Planets’ Starfleet.  He gave a quick grin.  “Although, this group that unknowingly defeated Tzeentch’s opening move shows a lot of promise.”    The enigmatic figure of Q gave a mischievous smile once again.  “Yes… they show promise.”

“The balance of fate may hang on their shoulders,” replied the figure to the Emperor’s right.  He took the form of a human man, a very familiar one to many people.  He had a shock of blond hair beneath a pale face.  An eyepatch covered one eye, while the other glowed green.  Deus, or the one who had been tasked to play the Game, wore the form of Admiral Adam Vir.  

“Be a shame if they were… corrupted.”  The voice that spoke was so completely, utterly perfect in every regard that mortals quite literally would have died at its sound.  Another figure, glowing with pink and white light, sat opposite the human gods and next to Tzeentch.  Its form, just like its voice, was entirely perfect, combining the best features of a thousand different races into one.  However, there was something wrong, deep down, with it.  Many of the less powerful gods, and certainly any mortal, would feel the urge to vomit at its sight.  To look upon it was to die.  This was Slaanesh, Dark God of pain, pleasure, and unimaginable excess of the senses.  

“Yessssss.  Corruption, though, exists in many forms.”  This voice was a deep baritone, filled with phlegm and rasping coughs.  The form of the god was massive and bloated with oozing boils and rotting skin.  Organs spilled out from the bulk, and necrotic flaps of flesh covered it.  Nurgle, Lord of Pestilence and Decay considered the board.  “And if they are to be corrupted, then it will be my corruption to take ahold of them.  Not yours, Slaanesh.”  

“And how do you know it will be any of your corruption to reach them?” asked another voice.  This one was deep, growly, and distinctly human.  It had the sort of dark edge to it that made one instantly wary around it’s user.  The user himself was wearing heavy black hooded robes and gloves, and considered his moves carefully from behind his dark hood.  

“You’re not even a god, Tenebrae,” boomed another voice.  This one swirled with untamed power, and hissed with darkness.  A shifting mass of darkness, convoluted into a humanoid head, stared with glowing purple eyes.  

“Yes, and no,” replied Tenebrae.  “I am not a god, though I should have been.  But it matters little.  In the end, I, and I alone, am the Dark Side of the Force.”  Tenebrae paused for a moment.  “Plus, you, Dormammu, lost to a mortal.  Stephen Strange, if I remember correctly.”  This was said with a malicious grin.  

“So did you!” raged back Dormammu.  “Revan and the Hero of Tython.”  Tenebrae scoffed.

“I defeated Revan and bound him to my will.  I controlled him once, and tricked him twice.  He is nothing by a piece under my possession.  And in the end, my defeat did not matter.  I am still at this table, am I not?”  Out of the corner of his eye, the Emperor watched Tzeentch discretely move another pawn.

“Enough of this bickering.  No one will be corrupting them,” He announced.  

“Indeed,” remarked Deus.  “Now, my move.”  A misty red planet came in front of him, and he moved a white orb from one place to another.  “This shall ensure that.”  Deus smiled.  “No corruption today, I’m afraid.  They are already earmarked as our champions.”  He looked over to Q.  

“Shall I touch yours?  Just in case?”  

“Eh.  Why not.  Can’t hurt,” replied Q.  

“And yours, Revelation?” Deus asked of the Emperor. 

“No,” replied the Emperor.  “He is already marked by me.  No other power shall touch him.”  The gods of humanity made their move.  

I will be out with the direct sequel to “The Misty Planet” ASAP.  As always, if you have any questions, comments, concerns, criticisms, or requests, feel free to ask!

[dameronology]

the one where you take the leap {poe x reader}

summary: you and poe take a late night walk and talk about everything and nothing (and you get tacos)

warnings: language 

just some fluff because i am having a big sad tonight™ and i need some wholesome content. this is about 101 cliches rolled into one but sometimes that is the best thing 

enjoy,

- jazz

There were very few people that Poe Dameron would wake up at 3AM for. In fact, the list started and ended with your name. You were that important that he was willing to forgo his beauty sleep and that was truly saying something. Everybody in the galaxy and their mother knew that the pilot needed a full eight hours to function and nobody could change that. However, you didn’t fall into the category of nobody.��

That’s how you both ended up trekking across the plains of a jungle planet at an ungodly hour, the squelch of your boots in the wet mud filling the comfortable silence between you. Ajan Kloss was unbearably hot in the day but it bordered on glacial at night; that was how you’d ended up with one of Poe’s jackets. It was far too big for you, almost swamping your body, but he’d insisted you’d put it on before leaving. 

‘Remind me why we’re going on a hike at 3AM?’ Poe’s voice, still raspy with sleep, called from behind you.

‘Because I told you I couldn’t sleep and you said hey, let’s go for a walk!’ You chortled back, peeking over your hood to glance at him. 

‘Poe from half an hour ago was an asshole.’ He grumbled.

You stopped, turning to face him with a grin. The moon was high up above you now, casting the field of green in a yellow glow. Compared to the humid days, you almost relished in the crisp night air, enjoying the cool sensation on your skin as you glanced up at the dark sky and plethora of stars. Late night walks with Poe had become a regular occurrence over the last year - sometimes he initiated them, and other times like tonight, it was you. 

‘The village isn’t far from here.’ You said. ‘Maybe we can see what’s open?’

‘That tiny place that does the tacos is twenty four hours!’ Poe’s face lit up as the thought came to him. ‘C’mon!’

‘Waaaaait!’ You called after him. ‘My legs are tired, Dameron.’

Poe knew you what you were doing - the whole thing was kind of your play. Either that, or the man was so whipped that the first thing he thought to do was carry you the rest of the way there. Whatever it was, he bent down in front of you, signalling for you to leap onto his face. You swung your bag over your shoulder and made a run for it, landing perfectly in place. He wound his arms around your legs and boosted you up slightly, peering up to face at you. 

Now, it should be noted that Poe Dameron was one of the best-looking human beings you’d even seen - and that was on a normal day. But under the light of the moon, with his brown eyes illuminated like a warm, welcoming fire, and a cheeky grin on his face as he turned to look at you, it was something else entirely. It wasn’t just the external kind of beauty either - it ran deeper than that. He was the best person you knew; the kindest and the funniest, the smartest and the most selfless. As far as you were concerned, he was the most beautiful person in the galaxy (and he was carrying you half a mile - for tacos). 

You chattered quietly amongst yourselves but it wasn’t about anything in particular. That was how a lot of conversations went; they were simply natural musings, you two bouncing off each other and giving a thoughtful hmm every now and then. 

Clinging onto the material of Poe’s jacket, you blinked under the bright lights of the village, finally breaking through a clearing in the thick trees. It was a little town made up mostly of retired rebels and business owners. The place was hardly a sprawling city but it provided the Resistance with shops and bars, becoming the hub of different squadrons. 

‘Taco Town is open!’ You cheered, almost falling off of Poe’s back as you pumped your first in the air.

‘Have you summoned up the energy to walk now?’ He teased.

‘I think I might be able to.’ You gave him a light poke. Your boots hit the ground with a dusty thud and then you ran towards your beloved taco place. 

It was a twenty-four/seven shop, usually because of the Resistance soldiers passing in and out all hours of the day. The lady who manned the place at night was an elderly woman - she knew you both by name (and both your orders, because that’s how often you frequented the establishment). 

After gathering your order and paying her a few extra credits as a tip, you carried the food outside to Poe. 

‘You’re the only person who can get me out of bed at this ungodly hour for tacos.’ He muttered, flinging an arm across your shoulder as you sauntered towards a strewn bench. 

He didn’t move it when you sat down, nor did he say anything when you shuffled into his side. The air was still cold, biting at the bare skin on your face as you enjoyed the taco-induced bliss you’d been waiting for. To your right, you could see the rest of the town lights as they stretched out for miles, eventually blurring into a blob of distant light. Poe was on your left, meanwhile, hand absentmindedly rubbing circles on your shoulder as he ate his food. 

‘I wonder how far out this place actually goes.’ You murmured. ‘I’ve only been as a far as the boot shop, and that took me like an hour.’

‘Sorry I set fire to your old ones.’ Poe nudged you, and you couldn’t help but laugh as you remembered the incident. 

‘It’s okay. I nearly grounded your jet so we’ll call it even.’

He didn’t respond verbally, instead giving your shoulders a light squeeze. 

Even with the chaos of the war, Poe felt like an anchor amongst a raging ocean of pure fucking insanity. You’d met people before, ones you’d vibed with and connected with but with him, it was an entire new level of...whatever it was that you had. You’d teetered on the ledge of more-than-friends on multiple occasions, but neither of you had taken the leap. If you did, there was no coming back - you’d be jumping without a parachute. 

‘That was a good taco.’ You declared.

‘Worth the walk.’ Poe nodded. ‘Not that you did much walking.’

‘You offered, Dameron!’ You reminded him. ‘You are my trusty stead.’

‘And that’s all I’m useful for?’

‘Of course not! Sometimes you bring me caff as well.’

Your conversation continued, veering off of the subject of the Uses of Poe Dameron™ and to a million other things. 

You spoke about his X-Wing and the fact that BB-8 had made a point to show every single person in the base his new antenna. You discussed your latest meetings and missions and how Finn had lead his first successful operation the day before. You laughed about something - you couldn’t remember what - and the only thing that pulled you from the conversation was the fact you noticed the sky beginning to turn pink. 

‘Maker, it’s gone 4AM already.’ You pulled up the long sleeves of Poe’s jacket to check your watch. 

That was the thing with you and Poe - when you started talking, or when you were even just in the presence of one another, you completely forgot about the world around you. It felt like nothing else mattered. It was just you, him and the blank canvas of the galaxy ahead of you (and sometimes, a circular droid child). 

‘Let’s stay a while.’ Poe murmured. He dropped his head against yours, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. ‘I have no-where to be tomorrow.’

‘Me neither,’ you reached up to squeeze the hand that was resting on your shoulder. ‘But the Resistance doesn’t wait.’

‘It can for now.’ He shot back. 

Maybe this was it - the moment that he finally found it within him to take the leap and just tell you outright that he was blatantly, irrevocably in love with you. The thought of risking your friendship was painful - but the only thing more agonising was the idea of not knowing if you loved him too. 

(But with the way you looked at him, it was a mystery to everybody around you how he didn’t you obviously were - but more on that later). 

‘What is it, Poe?’ You gave his hand another gentle squeeze.

‘Huh?’ His blinked at you.

‘You’ve gone off some place else.’ You replied. ‘I know that look on your face and it means you’re either in deep thought or you’ve seen a nice butt and given that I’m sat down and the only person here, I’m gonna assume it’s the first one.’

That was the comment that pushed him over the edge. The realisation that you knew him, that you could read him like a book. You got him in a way that no-one else seemed to, understood him in a way that others had failed to. In a galaxy so cold and so daunting, having somebody by his side with a bright smile and a few cheesy jokes was imperative. Every time he thought about his future after the war, your face was always the first thing that popped up.

‘You know I love you, right?’ Poe - for the first time since you’d met him - stumbled on his words.

‘Of course.’ You replied, before silently adding but not in the way I want you to love me.

‘No...’ He shook his head. He shuffled to the side slightly, turning to face you. He put one hand on your cheek, the other resting on your shoulder. ‘I mean I love a lot of things. I love Leia, and I love Finn, and I love Beebs and I love my X-Wing. But not in the way I love you.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying I’m in love with you.’ He got there eventually.

‘You’re in love with me?’ You couldn’t work out if you heart was going a million miles an hour or if it had stopped entirely. 

‘Yeah. What do you think?’

‘I mean...’ You trailed off, chewing your lip for a moment. ‘I think you’re probably in love with your X-Wing too. I saw you cry over the landing gear once-’

‘-Y/N!’ Poe whacked you in the shoulder. 

‘Poe, you’re an idiot.’ You gave him a watery smile. ‘Obviously I’m in love with you.’ 

Dropping the remains of his taco to the ground*, the pilot grabbed you, crashing his lips to yours. Just like Poe, the kiss was a lot of contradicting things all at once - it was soft but hungry, demanding but sweet. It was a lot of feelings at once and you could feel every single individual one, finally coming together after well over a year of pining. You’d both taken the leap and the water below was even better than the ledge on which you’d been standing. 

(* you made him pick up the taco wrapper before you walked back to the base - hand in hand, obviously). 

[writeyouin]

Swerve X Reader – Changes - Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – The Arena

A/N – I finally came back to this, my poor abandoned baby.  As usual, a special thanks to @rocksinmuffin​​ without whom, this story wouldn’t exist.

Warnings – Minor suicide mention.

Rating – T

“That is the cruellest thing I have ever seen you do,” Swerve glowered at you.

“It had to be done. There was nothing else for it,” You replied nonchalantly.

“RODNEY DID NOTHING WRONG.”

“He existed.”

“SO YOU JUST KICKED HIM OUT FOR EXISTING?”

“Look, you get to choose your Animal Crossing villagers, and I get to choose mine.”

“Abuse them, more like,” Swerve pouted.

“Fine, do you want to play on the switch and adopt an ugly-ass hamster who does nothing but bitch all day?” You asked, holding the console out to Swerve.

He took it from you, placing it on the tallest shelf in the hab-suite, “You can have this back when you learn kindness, you monster.”

“… That’s just mean,” You said, looking despondently at the shelf which was labelled No Man’s land. Beside the switch was a copy of Harry Potter which had been removed from you until you could read it without yelling at Snape every time you saw his name, and several pictures of Getaway which you had scrawled insults on; Swerve wasn’t punishing you for those, he just liked admiring them every now and then while you worked on new insults to scribble.

“Okay, fine, you can have it back right now, if you say that hamsters are cute,” Swerve grinned.

“Clearly, you’ve never seen one in real life. They work for the devil and steal people’s souls. I’m ninety percent sure that they also have armies ready to-”

Pain wracked your body and you woke up screaming to find your captors prodding you with weapons akin to cattle prods but much larger and stronger. It was the same creatures that had captured you.

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” You yelled through the pain.

The humanoids didn’t reply, staying eerily silent; you wondered whether they were even capable of communication in a way that you might understand.

“All right, that’s enough… For now,” A human called, stepping forward, looking completely out of place among the others.

Your captors backed away, leaving you alone with the human on the opposite side of the cell. You glared at the woman, who couldn’t have been older than thirty. She wore acidic green armour that bore a symbol of a decapitated robotic head with wires and cables sticking out from the neck; the ensemble made you nervous.

“So… You’re our newest contestant. How dull,” She commented boredly, examining you.

“Contestant? What do you mean?” You asked fearfully.

Once again, you were left without a reply as the woman pulled out a dictation machine and began talking into it as if you weren’t there. “Subject is of questionable build. A Minibot. No definable insignia – probably a NAIL. Presumably no fighting skill of which to speak. No weapon attachments that can be seen. One noticeable draw to the crowds is that it’s a female – a rarity in itself.”

“Oh my God, are you- Fuck, are you putting me in the hunger games?” You demanded incredulously.

“The bot uses organic terms in communication. It’s possible that it has spent much of its time around organic communities rather than with its own kind.”

Although you knew you could argue that you weren’t originally a Cybertronian, you decided that it probably wouldn’t get you very far with your captor; she was clearly only interested in her job, whatever that was. You doubted that you would get anywhere talking to her.

“So that’s it? You’re going to put me into an arena to fight? Did I get it right? Hey! HEY, I’M TALKING TO YOU. YEAH, BITCH WITH THE BAD HAIR, YOU!”

The childish attempt at an insult earned you a bemused glance, and the woman paused the dictation machine.

“You ought to mind your manners, or you’ll be in a much worse condition before the fight, and that will only bore the spectators,” She warned you.

“I’ll behave, if you at least tell me your name. I’d like to know who I’m insulting.”

Your roguish attitude earned a sadistic smile; it wasn’t every-day that your captor met a Cybertronian with any spirit left, “Lady Ouida.”

“Stupid name,” You murmured, mostly to hide your fear. “So I’m right about this being a colosseum of sorts?”

“Yes. You are to fight in the arena.”

“And if I win, I go free?”

“No. If you win, we kill you anyway. The people are out for Cybertronian blood after all.”

“Wow… That’s so fucking stupid. Like for real, did you take this out of a book? It’s not very creative is it? How many movies have you seen where the hero is thrown into a death ring to battle? Plus, there’s not going to be much of a fight. I mean, look at me. My arms are all fucked up from your bodyguards, I’m clearly not a fighter, and I’m like only three feet taller than you. Factor in multiple opponents and you get a five-minute fight, tops which will mostly be me running for my life.”

“You don’t seem too concerned with your fate.”

“Bitch, I am terrified, but I’ve seen death and been dragged back from it. I have defined the meaning of an out of body experience. Right now, I am competing with forces that you cannot even imagine in a brain that was not meant for me. In other words, there is nothing you can do that is worse than what I’ve been dealing with for the last forty-eight hours so GET FUCKED.”

The words PERSONALITY MALFUNCTION appeared on your visor, and you knew they were true. In your human form, you tended to avoid confrontation where you could. However, faced with the prospect of unavoidable death, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. There were only two options left for you anyway. Die in an arena, or wait for the Lost Light to come to your rescue. As you stared into the grinning face of Lady Ouida who had developed a sudden interest in you, you hoped it was the latter.

Chromedome sat miserably in the brig, having been put there for attempting to forcibly alter Swerve’s memory banks with mnemosurgery. He had lost count of how many times he had been in that exact scenario, where mnemosurgery was the only way forward, but nobody else would see it that way. How many times had Rewind refused to talk to him because of it? How often had he been forced to alter Rewind’s memory afterwards so he wouldn’t leave him? Chromedome held his head in his servos, thinking of Rewind. He wouldn’t believe it if Chromedome said it was all for Swerve. So what if mnemosurgery felt good, as long as it helped people it wasn’t that bad. Sure there were risks, but there were risks to all sorts of things that people did anyway.

With nothing else to do but think of his failure, Chromedome waited despondently in his cell, with the faintest of hopes that Rewind might deign to visit him, even if it was just to yell.

Ultra Magnus watched the security footage stoically from the computer panel in his office. As well as Chromedome, he was also watching Swerve, who had been restrained for his own safety and was sobbing loudly, screaming your name, and Whirl who was in the med-bay, awaiting yet another energon transfusion. Of the three, Whirl worried Ultra Magnus the most; he was not taking well to Ratchet’s surgery. He had damaged one of his internal components beyond repair and it was now up to Perceptor to create a suitable replacement. The replacement would undoubtedly need constant maintenance for the rest of Whirl’s life if he survived, but it was the only way forward.

Ultra Magnus looked up as the door flew open, and Rodimus came barging in.

“THIS IS A DISASTER!” Rodimus roared.

For once, Ultra Magnus didn’t have the spark to placate Rodimus; he was right, everything was going disastrously.

“WHIRL IS DYING. CHROMEDOME IS ALL KINDS OF MESSED UP. REWIND BLAMES ME FOR WHATEVER REASON. SWERVE IS SUICIDAL AND (Y/N) IS MISSING. Please tell me you have something that might help fix this mess?”

“I do not,” Ultra Magnus replied quietly. He had never felt like such a failure. Under his watch, everything had gone wrong. The Magnus armour was getting heavier every day; he didn’t deserve to wear it.

“FRAG! WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO? SHE COULD BE IN DANGER. THE ROD POD’S TRACKING SYSTEM IS FRAGGED. THE CREW ARE FURIOUS. THEY HAVEN’T BEEN THIS MAD SINCE-”

“OUT OF THE WAY, COMING THROUGH,” Nightbeat’s voice called in the corridor as he weaved through the few bots out there and made his way into the office with Megatron close behind him.

“Rodimus. Ultra Magnus,” Megatron greeted professionally, before gesturing for Nightbeat to take over.

“I FOUND (Y/N),” Nightbeat began ecstatically, completely missing the sombre atmosphere.

“What? How?” Rodimus asked, dumbfounded.

“I watched the Rod-Pod’s ejection from the bay and followed it through the security cameras. After that, it was simply a matter of predicting several plausible trajectory’s considering that (Y/N) isn’t a pilot-”

Rodimus waved his arms, “Forget I asked. Just tell me where she is.”

Nightbeat ignored his disappointment that the big reveal had been ruined; it had taken a lot of work for him to covertly listen to all the radio stations where you might have landed and then locate you from that. “She’s on a privately owned planet called The Arena.”

“The… The Arena?”

Megatron nodded solemnly, “Yes. My research tells me that they capture stray Cybertronians and-”

“Don’t tell me. They put them in the arena ‘cos they think that’s creative… Primus, that’s annoying. All right, plan time. We change course, go to The Arena, break in, rescue (Y/N) and make everything go back to normal. Any questions?”

Megatron took a moment to consider the plan, “How-”

“No? Great. Then let’s go. We’ve got work to do.” Rodimus transformed and drove out of the office to head to Brainstorm’s lab. He had brushed it off with his usual casual demeanour but just like everyone else, he was furious that anyone would want to hurt you. If he was going to rescue you, he would need weapons; the morally-grey kind that Brainstorm made.

Swerve sniffled, feeling pathetic as coolant that he couldn’t wipe away under his constraints dripped down his front. Yet another failed suicide attempt to go on his record; he couldn’t even do that right. He remembered the last time he had done something so drastic, when you had come to save him from himself; you had probably only married him out of pity. Despite the depressing thought, Swerve found himself unable to believe it. You had married him because for some reason that he didn’t understand, you loved him. The two of you had spent one year married and it had been the best year of Swerve’s life. When you brought up the idea of sparklings on your anniversary, Swerve couldn’t believe that life could be any better, and now after all of that you were gone.

Although Swerve longed to wallow in self-pity, he couldn’t help thinking of Chromedome. It seemed that his last conversation was finally sinking into Swerve’s processor. What was it he had said exactly? Swerve vented air through his systems, calming himself so he could isolate the memory file.

“YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT (Y/N)!”

While it was true that Chromedome could have just said that to stop Swerve from ending his life, there was also a slim possibility that Chromedome really did have new information about you.

Swerve kept replaying the memory’s audio, listening for the truth. As a bartender, he liked to believe he was good at separating lies from the truth, but when the other bots were sober, he wasn’t very good at it.

“(Y/N)…” Swerve whispered your name, wondering what he might not know about you as of that moment.

What if you had come back and he was wallowing in his cell, too wrapped up in himself to know about it? It wasn’t possible. If you were back, it didn’t matter what state Swerve was in; he would have been taken to you. Unless…

Swerve struggled to sit up, his processor racing with endless possibilities pertaining to your fate. What if he hadn’t been taken to you because your new body was failing? What if you were dying and Swerve wasn’t there? What if he was the only one that could help you?

Unbalanced as he was, Swerve managed to stand up. He started kicking at the door, yelling as loud as he could.

“HEY! GET ME OUT OF HERE! TAKE ME TO MY WIFE! TELL ME WHERE (Y/N) IS!”

Swerve didn’t pay much heed to what he was saying. All he cared about was getting to you, no matter what it took.

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[that-scary-romulan-chick]

🪐Screaming Silence

-Contrary to visual appearances, the planet of  large, black spheres with glowing white lights seems to be teeming with life and noise. Nothing Aella can hear physically, but something that crowds her telepathic senses. It’s too abstract for her to translate directly, but her xenolinguistics background helps her determine that these orbs are likely communicating with each other somehow. At any rate, there was a lot going on, and no matter where you went, there seemed to be a constant and intense mental static. Overall they seem to be at peace, but there IS an underlying concern among them. It rumbles through them like a murmur in a crowded room; a sense of worried curiosity. Difficult to make out any more than that over the many, many telepathic signals bouncing around the planet-

<Mission Log: Day three on Tenzaar IV. As previously stated, this portion of the planet receives very little light from the sun. The temperature remains a constant 17 onkians, and as always, there is just enough light to see by. My ship’s navigation, life support, weapons, and sensors work when I am on planet, but the scattering field that surrounds the planet continues to make it impossible to leave. I am guessing they are also responsible for scrambling my distress signals.

<The Orbs still haven’t changed their behavior. Still some roll around the planet’s surface, and others move the tendril-like legs that they stand on, but don’t seem to be going anywhere. Yesterday I saw one whose height rivaled the height of the Capitol, though I didn’t take my ship close enough to scan it properly. Their white lights make them stand out against the dim sky, so the tall ones are easy to avoid. I have yet to determine if they are organic or mechanic in nature, and I cannot begin to guess who might have built them if they are mechanic. I have seen no signs of life on this desolate planet. Just the Orbs.>

Tal’kaela sighed deeply, watching the time tick up on her mission log. She hardly ever had anecdotes this long, and never were they in such a hushed voice. But after three days in the dark, alone, with no sound but her own voice, she was beginning to feel cripplingly lonely. 

<I will continue to stay out of sight,> she said, <I don’t know if these things are intelligent or hostile, but I won’t risk letting Romulan information fall into alien hands. ...or tendrils... ...... Last I scanned the planet’s surface, there appeared to be a cluster of aeveerium nearby, which is what I need to repair my artificial quantum singularity that was damaged in my fourth attempt to leave the planet. However, it is in a canyon that I cannot take my ship into. I’m forced to go on foot. I have the ship set to self-destruct if I do not return within eight cycles, and I have--,> she took a deep breath, <--I have what I need in case I am captured and must take desperate measures. Glory to the Romulan Star Empire. t’Lareth out.>

Tal’kaela double-checked to make sure the self destruct was set and all the lights of her ship were off before sliding out onto the planet’s surface. Her boots sent up lingering clouds of dust as she landed in the gray dirt. The low gravity made navigating down into the canyon tricky, and her scrambling seemed to crackle through the desolate silence. The orbs seemed indifferent.

It took much longer than she thought it would to get to find the source of the aeveerium reading, but when she finally did reach it, a cold despair seized her. It was at the bottom of a deep, massive pit. Even though she could fire her mining disruptor at it, there was no way she could go down to retrieve it. Hot tears welled up in her eyes. Fury, fear, frustration, hopelessness and above all desperation...an overwhelming and sudden surge of emotions boiled inside her gut. She clenched her teeth and made a brief effort to control herself before her emotions exploded out of her in a prolonged, growling scream the echoed off the gray stone in the darkness.

-Tal’kaela’s thoughts are far from organized, as she’s having trouble focusing on anything but her own despair and desperate loneliness. She’s furious at the planet for trapping her here, and furious at the aeveerium for being so out of reach, and furious at the orbs for not giving her more information to go on or even making sounds, but most of all she seems to be furious at herself for her incompetence. Stupid, stupid, STUPID. Hatred and fear are consuming all of her thoughts. She just needed NOISE. Despite her lack of organized thought, a few ideas of words screech through the general quiet.- “No no no NO NO! I don’t want to die here! Not alone. Not ALONE!! Find me find me find me find me. Commander-- It’ so quiet! Let me out! Let me OUT!”

@empathicstars

[lailannajacobs]

A Complicated Truth and a Simple Lie | Counterfeit Criminals pt. 8

Pairing: Loki x fem!reader

Chapter Summary: You get answers from Loki - or at least, some answers. 

Warnings: Only a pinch of angst this time! 

Word Count: 1.6k 

A/N: After blaming writers block for about a week, I finally forced myself to sit down and write, and I actually like what came out of it! Hope you do to! <3 

Counterfeit Criminals | Part Eight 

“So, who was that and why did they feel the need to kill you?” You tumbled onto the seat of your ship, barely able to keep standing any longer.

He looked you over, a wary look on his face, “I don’t believe that’s our main concern at the moment.���

“And what do you believe our main concern is at the moment?” You asked, mimicking his tone.

He shot you a look that let you know he wasn’t impressed.

“Go on,” You continued, unable to hold the sarcasm from your voice, “You’re holding all the cards at the moment. I’m completely clueless. If getting answers isn’t my main concern, what is?”

Standing, he motioned for you to get up as well. When you struggled, moaning as you leaned up against the arm rest of the seat, he raised a brow.

“Don’t say it,” You growled.

He smirked and went ahead anyways, “You are in no condition to stand, let alone repair your ship. I suggest we stay here.”

“Not going to happen,” You snapped, “There could be more of them coming - whoever they are - and I’m not risking my ship, or my life again because of your stupidities.”

He stared at you for a long time, but you refused to back down. Just because you were injured and human, didn’t mean that you couldn’t get the job done and make the smart decisions. Sensing your resolve, he nodded.

You sighed, “Good. Wait here and I’ll be back.”

He grabbed your good arm as you turned to leave, stopping you in your tracks, “You look like you’re going to faint. Let me do it.”

“I’m fine,” You lied, trying to even out your breathing.

He snorted, “Of course. Let me fix your ship, Midgadian, and I’ll give you all the answers you’d like.”

Everything you’d wanted to ask him from the moment you left Asgard flashed through your mind; the questions were eating you alive. You needed answers and he had to know that he held the biggest bargaining chip by dangling them in front of you, but you couldn’t let him off that easy. You refused to let him know just how far you’d let him into your heart while you still were on Asgard.

“Or you could let me fix the ship and tell me after,” You countered.

He stepped closer, your bodies a mere inch apart as he dipped his head to whisper, “You’ll have to make me.”

You glared at him.

“Oh, that’s right,” He chuckled, the sound a soft rumble in his chest, “You can’t. If you want answers, Midgardian, all you have to do is trust me.”

You grit your teeth, weighing your options. He was asking you to trust him to fix your ship in exchange for answers. You couldn’t trust him, but he was right. If you didn’t fall over making your way to the engine room, you’d pass out trying to lift the broken piece to weld it back into place.

Deep down, you knew you were going agree. You told yourself it was because you knew you had to get off this planet, but really, it was because a part of you, no matter how small, trusted him to take care of the one possession you cared about the most.

The mocking glint in his eyes had flickered away, soft hope, small but visible taking its place. Maybe this wasn’t just a game. Maybe, among the tricks and theatrics that made him, well, him, there was some truth there. A chance he was asking you to take, because no one else ever had.

“Okay, Loki,”

His eyes widened slightly.

“But I’m going to supervise the whole time,” You warned, poking him in the chest despite the pain in your arm, “And if I see something, anything, I don’t like while you’re fixing it, you’re out.”

His hand wrapped around your finger, smoothing out your clenched fist until it lay flat on his chest - his heart - with his own atop it. He waited until your gaze lifted from your hands to his eyes to speak.

“That’s all I’m asking for,” He whispered, “I will protect it because it’s yours.”

You stared into his eyes, the feel of his beating heart beneath your palm and you knew he was telling the truth. And despite how mad you were with him, his words broke your heart a little more, because you knew Loki always chose his words carefully, and the thought of what he might mean, what he really meant, was almost too much to handle.

Loki had been surprisingly adept at fixing your ship, and within the hour, he was flying you off the planet. Standing had taken so much out of you that you hadn’t even protested when he said he’d steer. Although you’d taken a seat next to him, you’d fallen asleep in seconds, only waking up when he’d warned you about the upcoming jump.

“How much longer until the next jump?” You asked, knowing it would be your last one.

His eyes drifted to the screen, fingers drumming on the wheel as if he’d been driving your ship his whole life, “Another six hours.”

You nodded, readjusting your position, trying to stave off the numb feeling in your but.

“Why there?” He continued, staring at the name of the planet you’d programmed into your ship’s destination.

“Because everyone needs a criminal sometimes,” You shrugged, “Even if no one wants to admit it.”

He took his eyes off the front to shoot you a sly grin. You smirked back and settled further into the seat, lifting your feet onto the dash of your ship.

“You owe me some answers, Prince,” You said.

He nodded, “What would you liked to know?”

You closed your eyes, head falling back onto the headrest, “Typical of you to make me ask the questions instead of telling me the answers.”

“I simply believed that was what you wanted,” He replied innocently.

You scoffed, “You know damn well I want answers. If you only give me information based off of questions I’ve asked, then I don’t necessarily have the answers I want.”

He smirked, “Then ask the right questions, Midgardian.”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“How am I not upholding our deal when you can ask the number of questions you’d like?” He paused and thought for a moment, “Unless, of course, you don’t think you’re capable of asking the right questions.”

You rolled your eyes, “You’re an ass.”

His lips pulled into a wolfish grin, “I’m the God of Mischief.”

“Okay, God of Mischief,” You replied in a mocking tone, “Who were those people back there?”

“Members of specially trained guards,” He replied vaguely.

You sighed, exasperated, “Why are they after you?”

“I may have broken into their vault some time ago.”

“To steal…” You prompted.

“Nothing,” He shrugged, “After all the trouble I went through, they didn’t have what I wanted.”

You looked over at him more closely, “So why come after you now?”

“Because,” He paused, brushing the hair from his face, “I may have tried to steal something else of theirs recently.”

You almost smacked him upside the head, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

His eyes widened at your outburst, but you pushed on, not letting him get a word in, “You’re not a thief! You’re a Prince, a powerful sorcerer, and you’re relatively infamous, but you’re not a thief! You’re going to get yourself killed!”

He chuckled, “Is this concern? Should I be flattered?”

“You should be smarter than this,” You snapped, smacking him across the arm, “What the hell did you try to steal now?”

He smiled even wider at your hit, “An object I stored away a long time ago. It’s proving harder to retrieve than I initially thought.”

“And that’s why you decided to come find me…” You mumbled, something in you deflating, making you think that maybe, somewhere deep down, you’d hoped there was another reason for his finding you.

“I only want the best,” He drawled.

You crossed your arms, “When were you planning on tell me?”

“Whenever you asked,” He simply replied.

“And if I never did?”

“I knew you would,” He shrugged, “You’re too smart not to.”

“I should stab you right here,” You growled.

He shrugged once more, “And then you’d be without a driver.”

You shook your head, “Idiot”

“Again,” He smirked, “God of Mischief. It shouldn’t be that hard to remember.”

Ignoring his comment, you asked, “So what’s so special about this object you want back?”

“It’s less the object itself and more what’s in it. Actually, you may be familiar with the object. It’s a Faberge egg.”

“You stole a what? Why?” You demanded, unable to hide your confusion and interest.

He waved his hand as if it wasn’t a big deal, and you supposed for an Asgardian, it wasn’t, “A little fun. The theories that have come up since their disappearance have made my little trips to Midgard slightly more amusing.”

You almost smacked him again, “What’d you hide in it?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment until finally, his expression darkened, and he said, “Something that would help me seal my rightful place as king of course.”

“I should have known,” You muttered.

“Will you help?” He asked, all the arrogance in his voice gone.

You thought it over, knowing that with him on your ship, it wasn’t much of a question, “I get to keep the egg.”

He nodded, “Of course.”

“Fine,” You sighed, wondering what you’d just gotten yourself into, “But we have one stop to make first.”

[commanderrivercc-3628]

One Hundred Sixty-Three Years

Words: 2.6k

Warning: some strong language

This was a short story I wrote a year ago. So, yeah... also this has nothing to do with Star Wars

There were eight people on the mission, which is normal as the transport shuttles are made to be large in size to transport more supplies and resources than people. When they were prepared to embark on the mission, the eight entered the large-sized shuttle and were put into one of the larger rooms in the shuttle. The engineers who created the shuttle called it the ‘Eclipse-Sleep Chamber’. Within this room, there were eight Eclipse-Sleep pods, and that’s where the eight stayed for the duration of their travels. Typical travel time is somewhere between one hundred fifty to three hundred days. The travelers weren’t told the exact number, but that’s roughly how long it takes to get to Mars, which is the mission: to transfer humans from the climate change ridden Earth to the new homeworld, Mars.

The shuttle was dark. The round lights that lined the halls were off to preserve power. An occasional window opened up the tight space, showing the empty void that waited outside. Doors led to more rooms and doorways to more halls.

One by one the Eclipse-Sleep pods began to awaken the person inside. The first person that woke up was Marcus. He stood in the center of the room, waiting to help the other eight people. In five minute intervals, the rest of the group began to wake up. Michael was the second to be brought out of Eclipse-Sleep by the automatic wake up system. Marcus stood next to the pod, arms crossed as Michael struggled to climb out. The two glared at each other as Michael left the room.

Chloe was the next to wake up. Marcus offered her a hand which she accepted. She stayed back to wait for the next person to wake up. She looked towards her shoes to avoid any eye contact with Marcus.

Another five minutes later Adam was pulled out of Eclipse-Sleep, grabbed Marcus’s hand for help, and nodded to Chloe as he walked out of the chamber. Adam was different from Marcus. That much you could tell just based on body language. While Marcus stood arms crossed and standoffish, Adam stood warm and inviting with great posture.

Chloe was still waiting with Marcus, not saying a word. Another pod opened revealing Sophia. At the sight of Sophia, Chloe rushed to her and helped her up. The two young women quickly left the room, leaving Marcus alone with the others still in the Eclipse-Sleep pods.

The next two to emerge from Eclipse-Sleep were Julia followed by Dean. The last sleeping crew member was a young woman. She had shoulder-length, curly auburn hair.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.” Marcus sweetly stated.

The woman slowly opened her eyes to see who was talking to her. The chamber was bright… too bright. Her eyes adjusted quickly and soon was able to make out Marcus’ smirking face.

Judging by the look of him, he was older than she was. He had deep green eyes, a five o’clock shadow, and short, dusty brown hair that was beginning to grey on the sides.

“Don’t call me Sleeping Beauty, Marcus.” The young woman said, groaning. Her beautiful amber eyes seemed to sparkle.

“Look, Sweet Heart, it’s really not my fault you overslept.”  Marcus laughed as if it were Bobbi’s fault that her Eclipse-Sleep pod woke her up last.

“Don’t call me Sweet Heart either. Where are the others?” Bobbi asked, looking around to find the other six people on the mission.

There were four men, including Marcus, and three women other than Bobbi.

“Well, I’m guessing Michael went to the control room seeing as he’s technically the boss. And Julia probably went there too, since she’s the technology specialist. I’m gonna bet that Dean went to the med bay since he’s the medic. But I don’t know where everyone else went. Oh, and we are here, alone.” Marcus replied.

He winked at Bobbi after that last part. Bobbi rolled her eyes and began fussing with the restraints that fastened her in the pod. Marcus helped Bobbi pull herself out of the pod, which was situated in the wall like a small cave. The end of the pods stuck out with a glass dome that opened, allowing the person inside to get out

Just then, static sounded overhead as the speaker turned on.

“Everyone get to the control room. Now. We have a problem.” It was from Michael. There was a distinct hint of urgency and worry in his voice.

Bobbi and Marcus looked at each other and then took off running out of the chamber and down the hallway.

Dean and Adam were already in the control room, along with Julia and Michael, by the time Marcus and Bobbi arrived. Bobbi looked to each of her fellow crewmates. Michael was standing by a large chair which she identified to be the captain’s seat. Julia was standing to the right-hand side of the room by a large panel. Bobbi assumed this to be the diagnostic equipment. Adam stood opposite of Julia on the left-hand side by another large panel, which she concluded to be the navigation panel.

Sophia and Chloe arrived a few moments later.

“The travel logs,” Michael began. “They say we’ve been in space for 59533 days.”

Confusion washed over the crew’s faces. A few raised their eyebrows. Some put their hands over their mouths. Others just stood there. Chloe was the first to speak up.

“How is that possible?” Chloe asked.

“It shouldn’t be,” Michael stated.

“Well, that’s what it says,” Adam argued. “The navigation logs aren’t wrong.”

“There must be something wrong in the system then.” Bobbi began.

“There’s not.” Adam was now shouting. “No matter how many times you ask me to check the damn travel logs, it won’t change.”

By that time Sophia had walked over to Adam and placed her hand on his shoulder. He took a deep breath. Everyone look at each other, the looks of confusion now turning into concern.

“Yeah, look, I hate to point out the obvious,” Marcus stated, “but that’s not near Mars.”

“Jee, Marcus. That was so helpful.” Bobbi said, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms.

Marcus scrunched up his face and stuck his tongue out.

“You’re thirty-nine years old. Act your age.” Bobbi said, her voice grew louder.

“Enough,” Michael yelled. “Adam, is there any way to convert that time to years?”

“Maybe.”

The room was silent. Everyone just looked around at each other. No one made a sound until Michael sighed.

“I’ve tried to recover the log files, but I can’t find anything.” He said.

“I could give it a try,” Julia said.

While Julia began typing very quickly to useful, Adam turned to speak.

“We’re about one hundred sixty-three years away from Earth.”

The room was dead silent again. Chloe turned to step out for a moment as tears filled her eyes. Sophia followed her sister out of the control room to comfort her. Marcus crossed his arms, shaking his head, and pinning his tongue between his back teeth causing his jaw to appear slightly crooked.

Julia had now turned around and pulled up a video. Seeing this Michael had called Sophia and Chloe back into the room.

“Wait, what is that?” Sophia asked.

“No idea,” Julia said. “But it’s dated back to before the launch.”

She looked back over her shoulder to the other. She played the video.

A man, probably about fifty years old, appeared on the screen. He was wearing a white lab coat and safety goggles on the top of his head. There was sweat on his brow, and he kept glancing over his shoulder.

“Isn’t that Dr. Gallagher?” Dean asked.  

“Yeah, it is,” Sophia said.

Dr. Gallagher was the head engineer and astronomer back on Earth. He actually designed the Eclipse-Sleep pods, allowing long-distance space travel without aging.

No one spoke as the video played.

“Hello.” The video Dr. Gallagher said. “No doubt by now the eight of you have discovered that you aren’t going to Mars. Recently, I discovered a planet in an unknown galaxy. I believe that it supports life.”

All jaws dropped. Eyes widened. Still, no one spoke. The video played on.

“Now I am aware that none of you were informed of the change in plans, but mission control wasn’t either. The board wouldn’t approve to send anyone to this new planet because it’s ‘too far away’. Ridiculous. Here we are, on a dying planet. And a perfectly good habitable planet is just about one hundred sixty-three years away from Earth. But I showed them. I sent you there anyway.” The doctor paused and took a deep breath. He mumbled something to himself and smiled creepily.

“I will be dead by the time you see this. But none of that matters because I was right. I was able to send you all to Planet 893RF. Now should you succeed and actually make it to the planet, the eight of you will be able to live out the rest of your lives on this new planet. Unfortunately, I was not able to bribe the fuel mechanics into giving you enough fuel to last a four hundred year journey. Meaning, you won’t be able to return to Earth or Mars. I wish all of you luck, and I hope you enjoy your new home. I will continue to try and get a sanctioned mission sent to Planet 893RF so that there will be more of you, however, I doubt it will happen.”

The video shut off. No one spoke. Tears filled the eyes of Julia, Chloe, and Dean.

“Damn it,” Dean screamed. Falling to his knees as the realization he’d never see his wife and daughter again set in.

Marcus’ hands balled into fists. The rest just stood, jaws dropped. The silence was eerie, in the light-filled room. After what felt like years, Bobbi spoke.

“So, we were basically sent on an unauthorized suicide mission to a planet that may, or may not be habitable. Did I get that right?”

“That’s exactly what happened,” Chloe said.

   “Shit,” Bobbi said.

“Guys…” Adam said. No one was listening, as Adam slowly made his way towards the large window in the control room.

“This new information doesn’t change the facts that we still have a mission to accomplish,” Michael stated.

Chloe, Julia, and Dean nodded in agreement as they wiped tears from their eyes. Dean stood up.

“What mission, Michael?” Marcus yelled. “We are over one hundred years past the mission. We don’t even know if people are still being sent to Mars.”

Bobbi and Sophia looked at each other then nodded, showing their agreement with Marcus. They stepped forward slightly to stand next to him. Chloe, Julia, and Dean then stepped closer to Michael.

“That doesn’t mean anything, Marcus.” Michael calmly replied, trying to refrain from becoming angry.

“Guys…” Adam said yet again, now standing next to the large window, staring off into space. There was still no one listening.

“What would the point even be to continue the mission? Everyone we’ve ever known is dead. And heading back to Mars would take another, what? One hundred sixty-three years?” He turned to look at Julia, who nodded in response to confirm his number. “How do you know we even have enough full to travel all the way back to the Milky Way?”

Michael didn’t say anything. He just stood expressionless. He only moved to glance towards Julia. Julia nodded in response and began to examine the various gauges and controls until finding the fuel gauge. She turned back around to look at Michael and shook her head.

“See,” Marcus said, motioning his hand towards Julia, who had just proved his point. Upon hearing this, Chloe walked past Michael to stand beside Bobbi and Sophia,  clearly now agreeing with Marcus over Michael.

“We have a new mission, don’t we?” Michael said, raising an eyebrow and smirking slightly.

“There is no way in hell I’m going to do what that slimy son of a-”

“Guys,” Adam yelled, causing everyone to turn their heads in his direction. “Come look at this.”

The other seven made their way to the large window. Everyone’s jaw dropped when they look outside. There was a planet, it was Planet 893RF.

“It looks just like Earth, in a way,” Bobbi said.

The planet was primarily water, with some small islands of dense green scattered throughout the ocean. There was an occasional larger island, but the vast majority were smaller by comparison. Small bursts of clouds were scattered throughout the atmosphere.

“I feel like we are obligated to go down there at this point.” Adam calmly stated. Everyone slowly began to nod in response to Adam’s statement. Everyone, that is, except for Marcus.

“We can’t go down there.” He exclaimed.

“And why not?” Sophia asked, turning to look at Marcus while placing her hand on her hip.

“It’s suicide. We have no idea what, or maybe even who is down there.” Marcus replied, flinging his arm in the direction of the window, gesturing towards Planet 893RF.

   “That’s exactly why we should go down there. We need to explore and see if it’s actually a habitable planet.” Chloe rebutted.

   “If we go down there, Dr. Gallagher will have won. He ruined our lives. It’s his fault we’ll never see our families again.” Marcus expressed.

“Well then what do you propose, Marcus? Stay here on the shuttle?” Dean asked, stepping forward to be more engaged in the conversation.

“Maybe.” Marcus shrugged.

“We can’t stay on the shuttle.” Julia began, using her advanced knowledge of technology and the shuttle itself to get her point across. “The shuttle will eventually run out of fuel. At that point, life support will begin to fail, if not sooner.”

“Marcus, we have no other option but to go down onto the surface of the planet,” Bobbi said, placing her hand on Marcus’ shoulder while smiling at him sweetly.

“Wait. How do we even know if the atmosphere is breathable?” Michael questioned.

Marcus made a smug face and gestured towards Michael. Sophia and Chloe rolled their eyes. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and middle finger while shaking his head. Adam sighed.

“Once we get closer to the surface of the planet I can run an analysis of the planet’s atmosphere with shuttle’s diagnostic equipment,” Julia stated matter of factly.

“Ugh, fine,” Marcus said, giving up the argument knowing he wouldn’t win. “Now what do we do?”

“Go down to the surface of the planet, obviously,”  Sophia stated.

“I mean we’ll have to gather food stores and weapons to defend ourselves. None of that even matters if the atmosphere is toxic to us.” Bobbi rambled.

“Hold on.” Michael began. “Is everyone ready to go to the planet’s surface?”

Everyone nodded almost simultaneously, even Marcus, who still had his arms crossed.

“Alright then. It’s settled. Down to the planet we go.” Michael said, putting his hands on his hips.

He looked everyone over. They were strong and intelligent, some more than others, but nonetheless, still the best of the best.

The eight stood in a circle. No one moved. No one spoke. Despite deciding to make the venture to the surface of Planet 893RF, no one really knew what to do. They didn’t even know if they would be able to land the shuttle. They didn’t know what was to come, and what may be down there, but they all knew they could handle it. As long as they worked together, but the eight were on their own. That’s really what scared them.