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mandos-mind-trick · 1 year ago

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Carry Me Home

Summary: You live a quiet life, away from stress and danger. So of course Fate had to drop you right in the middle of an active battle to meet your soulmate.

Pairing: Commander Cody x reader Soulmate AU

Warnings: NSFW, smut, unprotected sex, no foreplay, Soulmate AU, brief violence and description of a battle, as usual reader has a bit of a backstory just so the story flows better.

A/N: This one I think is my least favorite so far. I've fought with it all week and just decided to go with it. I love Cody, but goddamn is he hard for me to write.

MASTERLIST

Getting dropped right in the middle of a battlefield was not how you planned to spend your weekend.

You were sitting down to enjoy your favorite book when you had the sudden uncomfortable sensation of being pulled through a thin tube and instead of your comfortable chair, your butt hits dirt.

It takes a second for you to fully comprehend what’s happening. Your apartment has disappeared, and instead you’re outside. It’s very loud where you are as the ringing in your ears begins to fade. Your vision aso clears, and you find yourself staring up at...a helmet?

There’s a figure directly in front of you, just inches from your feet. He’s kneeling behind a rock, blaster in hand. He’s dressed in armor, armor that’s familiar to you. You’d seen it countless times in the news, and a few times on your own home planet.

This is not good.

It’s only a matter of seconds, but it feels like a lifetime that you stare at him in shock. You don’t have much time to think it over as he reaches for you, tugging you behind the rock far too easily. He covers your body with his just moments before an explosion rains debris right on you.

“Stay down!” He orders, pressing a hand into the back of your head.

You’re compacted into a rather uncomfortable crouched position, but you’re not about to move as he goes back to firing. Your hands cover your ears as explosions rain from both sides. Your heart is pounding, feeling like it might beat right out of your chest. You close your eyes, praying this is some cruel dream your brain has thought up. You’re panicking, but you have every right to.

This is not what you had pictured when you had thought up your weekend plans.

You’ve always preferred a quiet life. You weren’t adventurous or impulsive. If you were going to do something, lots of planning went into it first. You were perfectly happy spending your weekends relaxing at home with a holonovel or a film.

Not in the middle of a major battle.

How did you come to be here?

Or better yet, why were you here?

You’re stuck far too long in that position, tucked into a ball behind the rock as blaster and cannon fire flies over your head. You’re stressed beyond belief, adrenaline pumping through your body. Your home planet, Alderaan, was involved in the war heading the relief effort and taking in refugees. You had heard countless stories about what it was like, but none of them could compare to actually being in it.

How the clones do this time and time again is beyond you.

You’re shaking, joints protesting as you’re helped to your feet. The blaster fire has stopped, the world seeming far too quiet after that absolute nightmare. His grip around your arm is tight. He’s not holding you to keep you steady.

He practically drags you through the battlefield, past dead and injured troopers. He doesn’t seem affected at all, your weak legs trying to keep pace with his determined stride. You try not to look, your stomach churning at the thought of all of those people dead, and for what?

It doesn’t take you long to figure out where he’s leading you as you approach who you assume is the Jedi General in charge, judging by the look of him.

“Who is this?” He asks as you come to stand in front of him.

“Unsure, sir. She appeared in the middle of the battle.” The clone says.

“Appeared?” He asks in disbelief.

“Out of thin air.” The clone answers. “Right in front of me.”

“Strange.” The Jedi mumbles, stroking his chin as he stares at you for a moment. He turns to another clone. “Escort her back to the ship. Keep her in a holding cell until we return.”

The clone holding you releases your arm, the other taking his place. You’re led to a gunship, your eyes drifting back to where the first clone and the Jedi are standing for just a moment.

“What are you thinking, sir?” Cody asks, looking at Obi-Wan.

“I don’t think she’s dangerous. Nor is she a spy.” Obi-Wan answers.

“Then why do you think she appeared here?”

Obi-Wan smiles at Cody, a familiar glint in his eye. “The Force works in mysterious ways. Perhaps she was sent here to help.”

***

You sit in the holding cell, fingers tapping on the table anxiously. You’re still shaking a bit from the adrenaline rush, your body very unused to such high levels of stress. You tried to avoid it for that very reason. The trooper that had brought you to the cruiser is standing in the corner behind you, watching you carefully. His unwavering stare is also making you nervous, even though you haven’t done anything wrong.

You grab the cup that’s sitting on the table, taking a sip of the cool water. He had at least been decent enough to get you some water. You’re terribly thirsty after sitting in the middle of a battle for what was probably close to an hour. You’re also starting to get hungry, or perhaps that’s just the nerves twisting away in your stomach.

You’re not sure how long it’s been, not that having a window would have told you much. The eternal darkness of space wasn’t a good indicator of time.

“Apologies for the wait,” The Jedi says. “There was still much to be done after the battle.”

“No apologies necessary.” You say. “I would expect as such after a battle like that. Not that I’ve been in many battles.”

“I am Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’ve already met Marshall Commander Cody.” He introduces them.

You tell him your name as he takes the seat across from you.

“Cody’s already told me his side of the story. I’m interested to hear yours.”

So you tell him. “I had just gotten home from my job at an art museum on Alderaan, and I was getting ready to settle down and read some of the new holonovel I’d picked up when all of a sudden I felt like I was being pulled through a tube and then I’m sitting in the middle of a battlefield.”

Master Kenobi stares at her for a few moments, stroking his beard. “That is very odd indeed. I do believe you. Though, unfortunately, with no way to verify your identity, we have to remain suspicious of you and your motivations.”

You understand, you really do. No doubt Separatist spies constantly tried to infiltrate the Republic. You were very far from a spy, however there was no way to prove that. Unless...

“Senator Organa.” You blurt out before he can stand. “Senator Organa knows me. He and his wife often attend charity galas at the museum. He can vouch for my identity.”

A small smile tugs at Master Kenobi’s lips. “Of course. I will get in contact with the Senator as soon as possible. Until then, I am afraid you will have to remain here.”

You nod. “I understand.”

He nods to the clone in the corner. “Nova will remain with you. If you need anything, he can get it for you.”

***

Obi-Wan and Cody make their way up to the bridge, Cody replaying the conversation in his mind. It’s very odd, this situation. He’d never heard of anyone teleporting before, much less straight into the middle of a battle from halfway across the galaxy.

“What do you think, sir?” Cody asks. “Do you believe her?”

“I do.” Obi-Wan says. “I cannot sense any danger in her presence here, though we cannot be too certain.”

“What do you think it means, her arrival? I’ve never heard of anything like this.”

Obi-Wan smiles. “I believe congratulations are in order, Commander. I think you’ve just met your soulmate.”

Cody stops walking, blinking in shock. His soulmate? She can’t really be...can she? He hadn’t put much thought into his soulmate, like most of his brothers. There were far bigger things to worry about, and considering they were forbidden from initiating their bonds, most of them tried to ignore the existence of soulmates.

Of course, he knows most refuse to follow the rules regarding their soulmates. Many clones have met and keep contact with their mates. Many, not just clones, view the rule as being just another way to dehumanize them.

So many don’t listen.

Cody hadn’t put much thought into what he’d do. It’s easy to pretend you can follow the rules when you’re not facing it yourself. He figured he’d deal with it when the time came. He’d hoped perhaps that time wouldn’t come, or the war would be over before it came. He didn’t think it would happen right in the middle of a battle.

He doesn’t think his General is wrong, either.

He can feel it, the stirring in his chest that he’d overheard his brothers whispering about. The tugging, begging him to go back and just be in the presence of this mysterious teleporting girl once more.

“Sorry, sir?” Cody asks, quickening his steps to catch up to the General once more.

“It’s a rare soulmate link, though I’ve heard of it happening twice now since the start of the war. One soulmate teleporting to the other’s location.”

Cody’s heart clenches in his chest. If the girl is telling the truth, if Senator Organa does verify her identity, then this must be the answer for her strange appearance. But why now? Why did she have to show up now?

Why couldn’t fate have waited for the war to be over?

***

You look up as the energy shield of your cell drops. The time feels like it’s gone by faster this time, possibly because it hasn’t been as long. It’s impossible to tell, without knowing the time.

Commander Cody enters your cell, his helmet tucked under his arm. He’s handsome, well, all the clones are handsome, you think. You take a better look at him now that you’re not so nervous. He wears his hair in regulation cut, and his face is clean shaven. He has a scar on the left side of his face, what looks like a crescent moon at his temple and a line trailing down his temple and across his cheekbone. You wonder how he got it, what had caused such a cruel looking injury.

“The General spoke with Senator Organa. He verified your identity and backed up your story.” Cody says.

You breathe a sigh of relief. You knew you had nothing to worry about, but yet you had still been nervous. What if they hadn’t been able to reach Senator Organa? What would have happened to her then?

“If you’ll follow me, we’ll get you somewhere more comfortable.”

You push yourself up from the table, your legs wobbling a bit. You feel unsteady from sitting for so long so soon after your extreme adrenaline rush. You grip onto the table, keeping yourself steady while your legs wake up.

“Are you alright?” Commander Cody asks.

“Yeah.” You laugh. “Just not used to teleporting, being on a battlefield mid battle, being interrogated, you know. Like everything that’s happened today.”

A smile tugs at the side of Cody’s mouth. “I guess that would be rather jarring. Well, where you’re going there’s a real bed.”

You nod. “Okay. I think I can manage to get there.” You let go of the table, forcing your legs to be steady. You turn to Nova, still dutifully standing in the corner. “Thank you for watching over me, Nova.”

He shifts slightly, almost like he wasn’t expecting it. “Y-You’re welcome, ma’am.”

You turn back to Cody, taking a couple test steps to make sure your legs will hold you. He’s got a smile on his face, a small one, but still a smile. You follow him from your cell, glad you’ll never have to see it again. You hadn’t been treated badly, but sitting at that table in the blank, windowless room for hours hadn’t exactly been the best experience of your life.

“We’re heading to a GAR resupply station. There will be a ship there that will drop you off back on Alderaan.” Cody says as you walk beside him, his pace slower than you really need.

“It will be nice to be back home again.” You say. “Not that you’ve been unwelcoming. It’s just...this life isn’t really for me. I prefer something slow and low-stress.”

“I don’t blame you.” He says. “This life is easy for us because we were designed to handle constant, high levels of stress. It’s...not for everyone though.”

“That’s for sure.” It falls silent for a few moments as you walk through the huge cruiser. “Did your Jedi General figure out why I teleported right to you?” You ask out of curiosity. You’d thought through every explanation you could think of and none of them made sense.

“He had an idea why.” Cody says, clearing his throat. “It’s...it’s complicated.”

“I mean, I did teleport halfway across the galaxy. If that has a simple answer, I’ll be floored.”

Cody glances around, slowing his pace even more. He speaks quietly, like he doesn’t want anyone to overhear. “He thinks it may be our soulmate link.”

Your steps slow to a stop, Cody pausing as well. You stare ahead of you in shock. You hadn’t thought of that possibility. You’d never heard of that being a link, but then again, you’d never looked much into soulmates. Like many, you simply knew you’d find them eventually. You had no distinguishing marks or any of the more common links that were obvious. You’d considered perhaps you didn’t have a soulmate at all, and though that thought made you a bit sad, you’d accepted it. If it was meant to happen, it would.

And apparently, it had.

“I...didn’t even know that was a possibility.” You say.

“Neither did I.” Cody says. “Apparently this is the third time it’s happened since the war started.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.” You say. “We’re not the only ones.” You stare at him for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. “Why do I feel like there’s more?”

“Well, there is.” He says, and you begin walking once more. “Us clones, we’re not allowed to initiate our bonds. If we find our soulmate, we’re supposed to reject them like the Jedi.”

“Oh.” Your shoulders fall a bit. Of course it makes sense. They’re supposed to be loyal, unshakeable soldiers free of distractions. There’s nothing quite as distracting as a soulmate bond.

You feel a bit disappointed. You’ve just found your soulmate and now he’s telling you he has to reject you. You know how painful it is, how debilitating it can be to go through it. Most don’t come out the other side the same. How can you when you’ve just lost half your soul? Half of your very being?

“That’s...” You swallow the lump forming in your throat. “I-I understand...why...”

A gloved hand touches your face, sliding along your skin. You look up, that hand cupping your chin. You look up into those dark eyes, getting lost in the deep brown of them. They’re so soft as they stare at you, wide with emotion. You’d read once that eyes are the window to the soul. You can tell a lot about someone by their eyes.

“Luckily, most of us don’t agree with that rule.” He says quietly, like he’s afraid someone might walk by and hear. From what he’s saying, it could be dangerous if the wrong person walked by and heard. “It’s not fair to us or to our mates. Most of you have waited long enough.”

“Too long.” You whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“I can’t promise a life, or a future. Any of us could die at any moment. But when the war ends, I will do everything I can to find you.”

***

Your time with the 212th is short. You spend a suspicious amount of time with Cody. For being a Marshall Commander, he certainly has a lot of free time. You meet many, many clones, and do your best to memorize each and every one of their names.

All too soon you’re landing at the GAR station, your time with them at its end. Cody escorts you off the cruiser, leading you through the bustling station to where the shuttle is waiting to take you back to Alderaan.

“I hope the war doesn’t bring us to Alderaan.” Cody says. “As much as I’d like to see you again.”

You smile. “I do hope to see you again soon, but preferably not on a battlefield again.”

Cody smiles down at you. “I’ll keep in contact as much as I can.”

“I’ll be waiting.” You say, looking up at him. Oh how you want to kiss him, but you know you can’t. “You know where to find me.”

Cody lets his fingers brush yours just for a moment. “I’ll never forget.”

You look back as you board the shuttle, your chest already aching. The thought of being apart at all is nearly unbearable, and you can’t even say how long it will be until you see him again.

If you see him again.

No. You refuse to think that way.

You will see him again.

***

The war is over.

It ended rather abruptly, and came with the restructuring of the Republic into the Galactic Empire. Nothing about it feels right to you, mostly because you haven’t heard from Cody since the war ended.

He had sent you a quick message before he left on a mission, and then the war had ended.

That had been a year ago.

You haven’t heard from him since.

You refuse to believe he’s dead. You would have known. Even without initiating your bond, you would have felt it. The pain of half of your soul fading away to nothing. The discomfort, the never-ceasing chill of half of you being gone. You haven’t felt that, which means Cody is alive somewhere.

It’s been a long year.

You’ve been going through the motions, checking every chance you can for a message, some sign from him, but you’ve heard nothing. It hurts, but you know he wouldn’t do that. Not without reason. You hope he’s safe, wherever he is. You hope he’s safe and healthy and whole.

You don’t want to lose him. You barely know him, but the thought of losing him is driving you insane. Your thoughts have slowly been taken over by Cody. You know it’s the bond, the deep yearning to see him and be close to him again. You’re meant to be together, not a galaxy apart with no contact.

You worry you may go insane if you have to keep on without him.

Luckily for you, that doesn’t happen.

It’s your day off and you had planned to spend it sitting on your couch relaxing. Your comm is sitting on the table, waiting for any sign from Cody that he’s alright. You’d give anything just to hear his voice again. You’d sell an organ to see him again.

A knock on your door pulls you away from your thoughts. You’re not expecting anyone, but random visitors aren’t that unheard of. A neighbor or a coworker stopping by. You’re not really in the mood for company, but maybe that’s just what you need.

Except you’re not expecting who’s behind the door.

Your stomach twists painfully, your heart thudding in your chest. Your mouth drops open, the air in your lungs whooshing out in a gasp.

He looks good. Or, at least, he looks uninjured. You know it’s him. Even without the scar, you would have known. He’s not in his armor, dressed down into civilian clothes instead. You want to yell at him, you want to slap him. How dare he leave you for a year without so much as a message. But as you look into his eyes, that idea melts from your mind. There’s dark circles under his eyes. He looks tired. His eyes are shining in the lights of your hallway and there’s a sadness to them, no, a guilty look to them.

“Mesh’la.” He breathes, and you’re moving before you even realize it, practically throwing yourself into his arms.

He wraps his arms around you tightly, almost painfully. You don’t care, relief flooding through you. All the horrible thoughts that had plagued you, all the anger and the fear and the anxiety melting away simply by being in his presence once more.

He backs you into your apartment, the door sliding closed. He doesn’t loosen his hold on you, keeping you close to his chest. “I’m sorry.” He breathes, his breath fanning your ear. “I’m so kriffing sorry.”

“Why?” You ask, your voice thick with tears. You’re not sure when they started, but they’re slowly soaking his shirt. “It’s been a year, Cody. A year since I’ve heard from you. The war ended and then...nothing.”

“I know.” He pulls back slightly, looking down at your face. “I’ll tell you everything, just let me hold you for a moment.”

And so you do. You stand there for the better part of an hour, just holding each other. Time and time again your hands run along his back, cheek pressing into his shoulder just to make sure he’s really here.

Once you manage to separate yourselves, you move to the couch. He tells you everything, about the war ending, Order 66, the inhibitor chips, losing control of his mind, waking up after Kashyyk, the horrible things they’d been forced to do, deserting the Empire. He had wanted to contact you as soon as he left, but he knew it was too risky. He’d found Captain Rex who’d helped him, hiding him and once it was safe, getting him here to you.

“Oh, Cody.” You say, tracing your fingers along his scar. It’s the first time you’ve touched him, really touched him. He’s so warm, the press of your skin against his sending little sparks through your body. “I’m so sorry.” You draw him in, his face pressing against your neck as you hold him.

“Why did it have to happen this way?” He asks, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“We can’t change the past.” You say, running your fingers through his short curls. “We can only keep moving forward from here.”

He breaths a long sigh out, relaxing completely into you. He’s heavy, your body slowly falling back onto the couch. He follows, his lips brushing against the skin of your neck.

“I’m ready to live your boring life.” He murmurs.

You can’t help but laugh at that. He had once remarked that your life was boring when you’d told him you intended to spend your time off at home reading. You knew he had meant it lightly, and he wasn’t wrong. Compared to his life at the time, yours was very boring.

“Don’t let me go.” He says quietly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck.

A smile tugs at your lips as your back hits the cushions, Cody shifting slightly so he’s not crushing you under his weight. “You have a year to make up for, Cody. And I have some vacation time I’ve been meaning to use.”

“Good.” He says, dragging his lips up your throat. “I don’t intend on letting you leave this couch for a while.”

You pout a bit as he kisses the corner of your mouth. “The bed is more comfortable.”

“We’ll get there eventually.” He murmurs before pressing his lips to yours.

You sigh against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck. The swirling chaos that had been driving you crazy for the last year is beginning to settle now that he’s here, in your arms, pressed against you. Most soulmates don’t last more than a few days once they meet. It’s been over a year since you met him and you hadn’t so much as touched him.

“Cody,” You sigh against his lips, his body pressing closer to yours. You can feel him, hard against your thigh. “I need you.”

“I’m right here.” He says, pulling away from your lips. He cups your face, calloused thumbs stroking your cheeks.

You smile, reaching up to cup his cheeks. He really is real. He’s really right here. “You are.”

He makes quick work of your clothes, dragging his fingers along your exposed skin. Every touch is like lightning, your body thrumming with energy. It reminds you of when you’d met, appearing on that battlefield, the adrenaline pumping through you. He had to have known, deep down. He’d saved your life without thought, keeping you safe until the battle was over.

He’d saved you, stayed with you until he couldn’t. Now it’s your turn.

Your fingers trail along his back, feeling every ridge of muscle, every raised scar. You want to kiss them all, but that’s for a later time. His teeth sink gently into the side of your breast, making you gasp. You’re already wet, probably leaving a wet spot on your couch.

You’ll have it cleaned later.

“Please, Cody.” You breathe, pressing your hips up against his. “It’s been too long.”

“I know, mesh’la.” He says, kissing your sternum. “I’m so sorry.”

You sink your fingers into his hair, drawing his lips to yours. “Don’t apologize with your words.”

He smirks against your lips, shifting his hips slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

A shiver runs down your spine. You have the former Marshal Commander of the Grand Army of the Republic naked on your couch, and he had just called you ma’am. You feel a bit powerful, so unlike how you normally feel.

You’ll have to explore that later.

You slip a hand between your bodies, lining him up. He presses into you slowly, taking his time. The stretch burns, and you regret not prepping a little, but he’s slow, easing your tension with gentle kisses and the touch of his hands.

He pauses once he’s seated inside you, giving you a moment. You’re overwhelmed with feeling, the bond between you two strengthening. You can practically feel the link, the cords tying you together multiplying and strengthening into something unbreakable.

His lips press against yours, his hands taking yours, lacing your fingers together. You’re connected in every possible way.

He begins to move, dragging his hips slowly against yours. You moan against his lips, squeezing his hands. He feels so good, you feel so good pressed up against him. It’s been a long year waiting for him, and this very moment has made up for most of it.

You moan his name as he thrusts into you, fingers gripping his. He moans in your ear, whispering to you, speaking near nonsense as you lose yourselves in each other.

You cum, clinging to him so tightly you’re worried you might bruise him. He offers no complaints, his body going lax over yours as he cums, emptying into you. You both stay there, uncaring of your sweaty skin or the fluids leaking between your legs. You’re both breathing heavily, holding onto each other like you might disappear if you let go.

He goes to pull away after a few moments, but you wrap your arms around him tighter, keeping him still.

“Stay?” You whisper, just needing to feel him.

He smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

(P.S. Don’t worry, they do eventually move from Alderaan to some small farming planet where they live happily ever after.)

Taglist:

@stressed-cherry

#star wars #star wars fic #clone wars #clone wars fic #commander cody #commander cody x reader #clone trooper cody x reader #marshal commander cody

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charmwasjess · 7 months ago

Note

6, 13 and 18 (Dooku) for the fandom ask, please :D

6) Show us a bit of a WIP!

:D You get the Sifo + Dooku + Time Travel Piece that I'm "definitely" "not" "writing." Some Asajj + 20 year old Dooku team-up nobody asked for. Especially not Asajj. -

Asajj studied him again, more appraisingly this time. He did look disconcertingly familiar.

Did Dooku have an heir that she’d never heard about? She’d clocked the boy as younger, what with all his naivete and whining, but now that she really looked at him… Nineteen? Maybe twenty years old? The age lined up disconcertingly well with Dooku’s first days as Count. A hereditary title, after all, passed from father to son. The idea of Dooku reproducing was nauseating, of course, though it was at least a little funny to imagine the former Jedi’s face upon being informed that House Serenno required his “gift” to ensure the bloodline’s survival.

But no. Why would House Serenno surrender an heir to the Jedi? She didn’t need to see the long braid to recognize that this was clearly one of their Padawan Learners; he reeked of a sheltered Temple upbringing. She could practically smell the refectory milk on his breath.

“Why do you want to be the one to kill Count Dooku so badly, anyway?” she asked, instead.

“He killed my best friend!” His voice broke on the word best, but his fury streaked, vibrant as a comet in the Force.

Asajj almost choked on her laugh. It was so melodramatic. Cliche. Like a line from an overwrought holonovel, spinning out in predictable plot hooks before her eyes. This Jedi child was pathetic. She ought to get them into space and send him to look for Dooku out the airlock. It seemed like it would save her and the Jedi both a lot of trouble.

She thought of her sisters.

Vengeance. Thick and sweet and tangy, like spoiled cream clinging to her tongue. It belonged to her, but no less to the others whose lives Dooku had crushed out for no better reason than because he could. She was here to glut on the Count’s blood. Who was she to deny this hungry child his own right to the feast? Dooku made a big corpse. There was plenty for all.

“Do you know how to sit down and shut up?” Asajj turned briskly to the ship controls. They had already wasted too much time.

“Yes.” A lie. She could tell that without even looking at him.

“Yes, what?” She prompted, glancing back. Maybe she just wanted to hear him try to call her “my lady” in that ridiculous, overformal Coruscanti accent of his.

He swallowed audibly, clearly uncertain. He glanced again at the twin lightsabers at her waist and seemed to decide. “Yes, Master.”

Asajj couldn't help the small, startled laugh that broke from her chest. That hadn’t been what she was expecting. No one had ever called her that. She felt surprised at the strength of her own reaction. Perhaps this would actually be amusing. At least, for a little while.

“What is your name?”

“My name?”

Asajj rolled her eyes. “You have a name? Or should I just refer to you as ‘idiot’?”

She watched his hesitation, saw those big, guileless brown eyes drift and refocus. Black fucking stars, he lied artlessly, like a child.

“Sifo-Dyas. My name is Sifo-Dyas.”

13)What's a character or ship you haven't written/drawn yet but would like to some day?

I know I went backwards here writing the most unknown/unpopular character in the series with Sifo-Dyas to the most popular, but I'd really like to spend a little bit more time with Obi-Wan. He's got a large role in the next chapter of Twelves Months to Murder Count Dooku and I'm really excited. I really like the character. Kenobi changed something for me about him.

18) Type [charater]'s name and tell us what the autocomplete suggests as the next word

Lolol. "Dooku FOUGHT." "Dooku only" and "Dooku Nu" were other suggestions. Yeah, that really says it all. No notes, google.

#such a fun ask thank you so much Ant!!!#don't worry too much about Sifo-Dyas in the WIP he's just off playing with his clones #and Dooku fought Dooku only and Dooku Nu are my three main ways to write Dooku after all #answered asks #time travel au #why is that a tag I have now someone stop me

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pencildragons · 4 months ago

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hyping myself up writing chapter 7 of glory be (codywan timetravel but sideways and back) by posting a snippet for you all :] have 500 words of cody being very autistic in his consideration of language <333 (i didnt even write him as autistic on purpose i just had a Realisation that he super super is. because i am projecting how i am autistic in my consideration of language)

“Hey, Cody,” Jon says. Cody, seated upright in his bed, turns towards her. Face white-and-gold and blank as ever, she holds one of the glowing things, a little slimmer than what he reads his holobooks on. The pain in his head is sharp and ugly, and it makes him feel sharp and ugly in places that there is no logical reason for such feelings to be. “Yes,” he acknowledges. Jon bobs her head to the side, flesh appendages flicking in brief amusement. No—they have a name. He read somewhere that they have a name. It is a thin word, fitting like a block of real-wood under the hands of his mind, tucking in beneath his chin and sitting comfortably around his glands. He knows the shape of it, the feel, but the word itself—escapes him. This makes him feel the sharp-ugly feeling in different ways, ways that are not pain. The name of them fits the same shape as cherry blossoms do—he read a holonovel about a cherry blossom gardener, and had found the idea so interesting that he borrowed an encyclopaedia all about the genus as soon as he had finished the series—but it does not reside in quite the same place. Still it evades him. (Stubbornly, the only thing that remains undeveloped is his command of speech. The alt-comm augment is difficult to use, and the amount of language it contains is overwhelming. Cody does not know where to start. And even though they are nearly healed and unburdened by bandages, his hands are clumsy and uncoordinated in a way that fills him with—an emotion. Anger, maybe. He is not certain. He is not certain. In his holobooks, hot, tense feelings are ascribed to anger. (He does not know yet if he likes ascribed. Master Vergu said it once, and it was a thin and papery word between his lips. He does not know. It is not as hideous as alright, but—it is still a disdainful word.) Cody does not feel hot and tense; instead, there is terrible pressure beneath his eyes and in the hollows beneath his cheekbones, curling down to swell resentfully in the soft pouches of the glands beneath his chin. He thinks it is anger. He does not know what else it could be.) Jon is silent in the way he has learnt means that it is his turn to speak, which means he did not hear what she said. The terrible pressure mixes with the sharp-ugliness, intensifies, takes a bitter edge. Xahx. (He thinks this word is something like fuck in his holobooks, but he has only ever heard Jon say it, and only twice at that, sharp and harsh and not meant for him to hear. Fuck is—boring, a character in a holobook would say, and he finds it a dull-round, thin-flat and shallow word, like a machine-pressed circle of metal. Xahx, punchy like the sharp, thick needle in the back of his hand that drip-feeds him analgesics, is much better.) He shifts, flicks the glowing thing containing his holobooks on and off again, bright, dark, bright, dark, and looks at Jon in a way that he hopes will convey his ignorance. The silence continues. It feels—thick. Awkward, if he was a holobook character.

(reblogs appreciated!)

#oc: jon the temple guard #jon temple guard best character most funny #twi'lek oc #commander cody #codywan #cw needles #cw needles mention #glory be #wip (wyrm in progress)#wyrm writes #hits them with. a hammer #star wars #sw fanfic #cody: this is how i feel in detail about this specific word. also here is a paragraph about this book i read #most guy of all time truly #i LOVE him SO DEARLY #whoops it hasn't been nearly three months since ive last updated glory be nooooooooo why would you think that. haha #oc: master healer wanathu vergu #master vergu's literally not even in it but he's MENTIONED ok

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queen-scribbles · 2 years ago

Note

“Aww, you’re blushing. I like that look on you.” for any of your SWTOR babes

A Good Distraction

Literally heard that line in Eisza's voice, so she snagged this one for her and Theron :3 Set somewhere post-KotET and pre-Ossus.

---

“I’m good at what I do, right?”

Theron narrowed his eyes as he looked up from his datapad. For her to ask so out of the blue the second she walked in the room... “This a test?”

Eisza snorted a dark laugh at his dry tone as she flopped down on the couch. “No.” She rested her head against the arm, one leg along the length of the couch, the other dangling haphazardly off the edge, and started chewing on one of her braids.

She only did that when annoyed. Theron smirked. Ah. “Sniper rematch?”

Eisza grunted an affirmative, brow furrowed in a way that was entirely too adorable for her level of pique.

“He beat you again?”

“I dunno how!!” she groused, pushing herself upright. She glared at him, but Theron knew he wasn’t the problem. “Jorgan’s not a better sniper than me, I can outshoot him, I’ve done it before.” She flopped back, glare now aimed at the ceiling.

“Just not the last... three times.” Poking the wampa might be dangerous--depending on how she took the comment--but Theron had always been a touch reckless.

Eisza made a sound somewhere between a growl and a snort. “...Maybe he’s been getting more practice. He always gets deployed as a sniper, last few missions I’ve done were close quarters and sneakin’ around.”

“So you’re rusty? That’s your argument?” Theron arched a brow.

“No, I-” She growled. “Maybe. I don’t wanna talk about it any more.” She eyed the datapad in his lap. “What’re you working on? I could use a good distraction.”

He shifted it away when she reached for it. “I don’t think this would be any help.”

Eisza narrowed her eyes and looked between him and the datapad now held off over the side of his chair.

Hell.

“What makes you so sure it won’t help?” she asked, scooching closer down the couch. She had that hunter’s look in her eye, and Theron cursed himself for giving her that distraction in the worst way possible--for him, at least.

Karma for that comment, he thought sardonically. “Just not something you need to bother with, Commander.” He grimaced as soon as the words left his mouth.

Her eyes flared with curiosity. “You’ve never been cagey about datawork before...”

She’d scooted close enough that when she lunged to grab for the datapad, he didn’t have a prayer of getting out of reach in time. He still tried, resulting in Eisza half-sprawled across his lap as she let out a triumphant Ha! and pulled it from his grasp.

Theron made a grab for it, futile as he knew the effort would be. “Eisza-!”

She grinned as she batted his hand away. “You really should know better by now.”

He groaned--exaggerated, but not much--and flopped back in defeat.

The first startled gigglesnort came only a few seconds into her perusing the screen. “An adventure holonovel? Not datawork?” she teased, pausing briefly to grin at him again.

If his brain had been working just a little faster, Theron would’ve said something witty and sarcastic to keep her attention on him. But it was stuck somewhere between prepping damage control and the fact his girlfriend was sitting in his lap, one elbow digging into his ribs, and nothing came to him in time.

Eisza read a few lines further and her brows shot up. “A romance adventure?!” This grin was wider, more predatory. “Agent Shan, I wouldn’t have figured you for the type.”

“Yeah, well-” If his damn brain would work for five seconds so he could come up with a more eloquent retort that would be great.

“Aw, you’re blushing,” Eisza cooed, tossing the datapad toward the couch and shifting to wrap one arm around his shoulders. “I like that look on you.” She kissed his temple.

“It’s not blushing, it’s plotting revenge,” Theron muttered, even as one arm instinctively settled around her hips.

She chuckled, leaning in close to murmur, “Not often I see you flustered-”

He kissed her. Mostly to shut her up, but there was a part of him that really liked the teasing glint in her green eyes. From the way her fingers dug into his hair, she’d either been anticipating that reaction or at least planned to enjoy it.

“IS this revenge for reminding y-”

“Shh.” Eisza kissed him, hard. “‘M in a good mood now, don’t spoil it.”

Theron chuckled into the kiss, his arm tightening around her waist. “Yes, boss.”

Finally, though, she pulled back and shot him a mischievous smirk. “So. About your taste in literature.”

He groaned. “Eis...”

“Please, I’m hardly gonna judge you,” she snorted, running her fingers through his hair. “Can almost guarantee I’ve read trashier. It’s just very... not you, and I’m curious how that got started.”

“The way most hobbies do for people in my line of work. Got hurt, going stir-crazy on med-leave, friend gave me a couple holonovels so I wouldn’t get so bored I did something stupid--his words. Took a couple days before I caved, and the first one was a spy thriller I mostly read to see how much they got wrong.” He snorted. “They got a lot wrong. But it also ended on a cliffhanger--”

“The whole novel?! That’s evil.”

“Yeah. So I read the next one. And the next one. And before you knew it, new habit. My friend was very smug.”

“If he got you into something that helps you relax once in a while, I’ll bet he is,” Eisza said dryly. “Maybe I should meet this friend, learn his secret.”

“Don’t think that’s a good idea,” Theron shook his head, wincing at the mere thought.

Her hunter’s grin was back. “Now I really wanna meet him.”

“No.” Over my dead body. “So how’d you get into reading trashy romance?”

“Only so much a girl can do for fun on Tatooine, Theron,” Eisza said, giving him a look that said she was allowing the subject change but not forgetting. “I swiped ‘em from my aunt when she was done with ‘em. How’d you get over to romance from thriller?”

And they were back to this conversation being awkward. If she wasn’t sitting in his lap, he would be finding an excuse to bolt. “The spy in those thrillers got a love interest. Those parts at least were... better written, even if that’s not saying much. So when I finished that series, I... branched out.”

She gave him an inscrutable look. “Are you one of those who’s gonna want to... do stuff inspired by that kind ‘a book?”

His face was burning again. “No.”

“Mm, too bad,” Eisza said playfully, tracing a finger along his cheekbone. “There’s things in a couple I’ve read that might be fun.”

Even as Theron stared at her, trying to find a snarky comeback, her comm beeped.

Eisza glanced at it--”Oh, Lana needs me”--and stole a quick kiss before she started pushing to her feet.

Theron didn’t let go, tugging her back into his lap. “Tell her you’re busy,” he growled, claiming her mouth in a kiss. “Got distracted.” Another kiss.

She laughed into it, her hands cupping his jaw. “You are a very good distraction....” she mumbled.

“And you” --kissed her again-- “are blasted good at what you do. To answer your question.” His thumb rubbed arcs against her cheek, tracing her tattoos. “You’re good at everything.”

Eisza stared at him a moment, tossed her comm on the table, and dragged him onto the couch with her to set about proving him right.

She was good at everything.

#queens fic #teasing prompts #eisza merik #theron shan #eisza/theron #swtor #i only proofread twice so i apologize for any errors i didn't catch #wanted to get it posted for #theron thursday

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ltbroccoli · 5 years ago

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Better Sit Down

@slytherinnash ( continued )

“I’m fine, darling. Come and sit down.” She waits for him to get seated before she continues. There’s no easy way to give bad news, even less so when it was a laundry list of bad news.

She’d gotten an owl in the afternoon on, what had seemed like, a very average day. The letter was, however, anything but average. Part of her wanted to chuck it on the fire and hope that ignoring the truth would make it go away. But no amount of magic or willful ignorance was going to help. Besides, Reg needed to know.

“I have some bad news. Some very bad news. I received a letter today and… there was an attack at the school. A Death Eater…..” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to say the name. “And Voldemort.”

Reg timidly perched himself on the edge of the couch, his whole body tensing up. He knew that Liz was doing the best she could to make whatever this news was as easy for him to hear as possible, but there simply wasn’t a way to do this and have him not freaking out.

When she spoke the name, he gasped softly. The first thing he processed was just the name itself -- he’d almost never heard her refer to him that way. Then it processed that she was speaking about him like he was alive, like he was... “But... he’s dead,” he replied, confused. “He’s been dead for a long time, he’s... that can’t be right. What happened at the school? Is everyone alright?”

#slytherinnash #computer run program ( .｡.:*☆ IC. )#holonovel ( .｡.:*☆ Better Sit Down. )#draco dormiens nunquam titillandus ( .｡.:*☆ Harry Potter AU. )#computer freeze program ( .｡.:*☆ Queue. )

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hansoulo · 4 years ago

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whisper scarcely breathing

part four of “Pillar of Salt”

Pairing: Boba Fett/Princess!Reader (she/her pronouns, no Y/N)

Warnings: NC-17, NSFW, explicit language, mentions of canon-typical violence, fluff, hurt/comfort but without the hurt, bathing and/or being bathed, choking, female-receiving oral, loss of virginity, unprotected M/F intercourse

Word Count: 6.1k

Image Credit: (x) by @/365filmsbyauroranocte, not meant to be a representation of the reader

A/N: this one is for the boys with the boomin’ system 😩💦

༓ series masterlist ༓

The datapad that you’d left in the garden was thrust back into your possession one morning by the hurried hands of a maid. Truthfully, you had forgotten all about it. The mind, when faced with matters as pressing as the press of a mouth, tends to forget about inconsequential objects.

You’d never met the girl standing in front of you before, and she avoided your eyes while passing over the small screen. She seemed eager to be rid of it. You couldn’t say you blamed her. “‘S yours, miss. The bounty hunter said you’d lost it.”

Did he, now?

“Thank you,” you replied sincerely, careful not to let the datapad drop to the floor as you tucked it back into the deep brocade of your gown pockets. You didn’t have the wherewithal at first to ask her when he’d found it or found the time to return it. But you also didn’t have the common sense to keep your mouth shut. “Could I ask when he gave it to you?”

The servant ducked her head. “This morning, your Highness. I- I was in the loading bay when they left, think he was tryin’ to get a hold of you but didn’t have the time, told me- told me to keep quiet ‘bout it.” A bob of her throat signalled a nervous swallow. “Princess.”

Poor girl, you thought to yourself absentmindedly. Boba probably scared her half out of her wits.

“Really, I can’t thank you enough.” You touched a soft hand to the servant’s shoulder in an misguided attempt to soothe. She returned the action with a nervous smile, eyes still downcast and trying not to shy away.

You never realized how afraid they all were. Of you.

The realization made your tongue tangle in your throat, tripping over some lie about a fever and champagne-induced amnesia as explanation for your exchanges with a man so ill-acquainted.

Hopefully, the maid didn’t make a habit of gossip.

Hopefully, you stopped making a habit of Boba Fett.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

A chaincode, a datapad tracking number, and the rest of your life flashed in backlit neon. You silently cursed yourself for not putting an opening passcode on anything, including the datapad that you now held with slightly tremoring hands.

In your defense, it’s not like it held anything of interest. Mostly just holonovels and some pictures of things you found intriguing enough to want to paint or draw.

But now there was a thing of veritable interest stuffed into a new folder titled “Your Highness” and glowing in galactic basic.

BF-18378-3263827

You stared at the numbers until they morphed into a strong, stern-featured face, muddy in your imagination against the ink night invading your bedroom. Boba left his tracking number there for you. If you wanted to, you could use them to message him or comm him or leave a holoprojection message. Whenever you wanted. Right now, even.

When did he even find your datapad? Why he found it (and why he returned it with the aforementioned numerical contraband) was probably a more apt question.

There was quite a lot to think about. Best to take stock of the present moment, lest you lose your head and go completely mad. As if you hadn’t already.

The facts repeated themselves in a half-conscious mantra, screen slipping out of your hands and onto the pillow beside your head. Facts. Facts were good. What were the facts, again?

Boba Fett was arguably the most dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy.

Boba Fett was not much of a talker.

Boba Fett was a piss-poor dancer.

And Boba Fett was an unfairly good kisser.

The beginning three points held little negative sway, with the first adding much more appeal than it should, the second a welcome relief, and the third being… sort of endearing.

It was on the last point that your mind lingered the longest.

You didn’t even realize you’d copied numbers into the screen’s communications system until its microphone crackled to life.

One breath, two breaths, stuck in your sleep-thick throat. No words from either side yet. Did you get the tracking code wrong? Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe you were dreaming already, imagining the wind outside to be the quiet, husky inhale that sounded from the other end of the receiver.

“Not falling asleep are we, princess?”

Your eyes shot open. “No. No, I’m…” the words croaked themselves out as you fought down a yawn, “I’m awake.” His low chuckle. “I called you didn’t I?”

“That you did,” Boba assented. Quiet amusement colored his accent. “And you called because…”

“I wanted to,” you said simply, without room for teasing. You were too sleepy to be ashamed of admitting you sought out his company, as foolish as doing so was. No use in hiding what both parties knew to be true.

He let out a noise of soft approval and it rumbled a pleasant sunburst between your ears. “You seem to want a lot of things, don’t you?”

Makes me want… want…

Want what, Princess?

Want you.

You can have me.

The memory snaked a fever flush down your neck, over the still-tender skin and lightly mottled marks. Boba was remembering it just as well as you were. You knew he was.

It gave you a rush, a weird sort of power trip. Because as stupid as you felt doing this, wanting this, he wanted it too. Enough to let your hands thread through his hair and around his arms, then to the scar above his left brow and across his mouth. Enough to let you do it again at the risk of being caught. Enough to leave you his tracking number, like you were two teenagers trading love letters and not legal adults with judgement better enough to do otherwise.

You stayed on the comm for two hours, and only went to sleep because Boba threatened to cut your link off if you didn’t.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

It had been almost five standard months since the first time you’d spoken. Typed words continued to be exchanged under your covers, day after day, night after night. Sometimes you’d fall asleep talking, peppering him with questions about his ship and his job until your throat ached with the effort of keeping yourself awake. Sometimes you did more than talk.

He never fell asleep. Never seemed to sleep, period.

What a strange man. Strange, dangerous, interesting man.

You often missed each other by a hair’s breadth. Courtly flurry and galactic bounty hunting didn’t make much space for private conversation. Boba was still taciturn. You were still naive.

And yet…

You liked him. He listened when you talked about botany and painting, neither of which you imagined interested him. He was arrogant and cocky and insufferable sometimes, but he listened. He told you about his job and regaled your sheltered curiosity with lurid, gory details. He told you about his father.

And one day he somehow, miraculously, had a set of Nabooan watercolors left for you in the garden.

Biting down a juvenile grin with every new message, you watched the quiet ping! of the datapad.

Hello

are you busy?

In a way

how so

Had a brush with Hutt’s rancor

poor thing

Don’t get soft on me now

wasn’t talking about you

Very funny

I’m very, very sorry

Should be. The bastard nearly tore up my flight suit

… show me?

⫸———————————————— ⫷

BF-18378-3263827 HAS ATTACHED 3 FILES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

HOLOCALL DURATION: 02:45:35 HOURS

SAVE CALL RECORDING? PRESS YES/NO TO CONFIRM

Your damp hands tremored.

YES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

Six months, four days, and 20 hours. That’s how long it took for you to see Boba Fett again.

You’d started to think the entire ordeal was a mirage, an illusionary experience your brain conjured up for you as a one-time brush with what your life could have been. Who it could’ve been with.

But you did see him again. Foolhardy, reckless, and unplanned.

You didn’t listen to his explanation about having to leave in the morning, taking some third-rate bounty as an excuse to come back to Quas Killam for the first time in what seemed like ages—practically eons since his mouth had last been at your neck. He appeared on your bedroom balcony near midnight like an apparition, mounted by a still-burning jetpack that shut off with an arc of smoke.

You’d been sleeping, albeit fitfully, and woke the minute his knuckles rapped against the glass. You didn’t remember ever telling him where your bedchambers were, but given… everything… you couldn’t say you were surprised he knew. When he crouched down to shed the helmet, it made a soft thump on the plush carpet.

And then you kissed. And kissed. And kissed.

Boba’s fingertips dragged fire across your prickled skin with every pass. Whose breathing was whose didn’t matter. It was hard, heaving, and shared. Eyes closed, lips raw, every part of you dizzy. Dizzy.

The sneeze that left you was loud enough to knock his forehead against yours. Hard.

Feet stumbling until your legs hit the bedspread, you let your weakened knees carry you down into a sitting position atop the covers and tried to catch your breath. Boba only chuckled, seemingly unperturbed by the mild injury.

Of course your body had picked today to come down with a cold. And of course you’d forgotten to tell him.

In your defense (you seemed to do a lot of self-defending these days) you didn’t know Boba would be coming tonight. When you asked him a week ago—the last time you’d spoken—he’d said “soon.” Whatever “soon” meant, you hadn’t anticipated it being now. Your rumpled nightgown and deteriorating personal hygiene was evidence enough of that.

The day had passed in fitful naps, with you waving away all attempts at help until the servants who usually tittered about decided to give you a wide berth until tomorrow. They’d left the door locked and your curtains drawn, thank the gods.

“A hello would’ve been nice,” you mumbled. The lingering taste of him in your mouth mixed with the bitter medicine that you’d forced down a few hours ago.

Boba didn’t answer at first, only stalking forward with his silhouette glowing in light of the full moon. You brought your knees up to your chest to make room for him to stand in front of you. Every movement was bathed in slowness, in the reverence of caution and night-time silence.

His gloved hand brushed against your chin and tilted it upwards, thumb rubbing a small circle into your jawbone as he moved your face in one large grip. Left, inspecting a swollen mouth and puffy eyes, then right. Up to see the column of your exposed neck. Down to meet his bare, dark face.

He kissed you again, more gentle this time. “Hello.”

A soft whimper left your throat.

Oh, you hated it. Hated the way you sounded when he touched you, small and pathetic. Needy.

The balustrade doors were still open, and this fact was made known by a particularly biting gust of silver wind.

“You’re cold,” the man standing close to you noted with a deep downquirk of his mouth. Boba never had to conceal anything; his helmet did that for him. But when it was off, every thought flickered past his face in evening technicolor.

Your hands paused in their run up your arms to hold petulantly at your elbows, covered only by the thin fabric of your shift. Goosebumps rose against your neck with a new breeze and you fought down the urge to shiver. “M’not.”

“And stubborn.”

You glared at him, but it held no real venom.

“I appreciate the concern,” you sniffled again and your body trembled slightly. “But I’m the picture of health. I really have never been—” here you sneezed rather violently, crumbling any remaining sense of composure and making the final words thick with congestion, “—any better.” Boba hooked two strong arms underneath your knees and around your shoulders. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“C’mon,” Boba grunted and lifted you to his chest in one swift, easy motion. “Up.”

“I’m already up,” you grumbled, a headache you’d thought was all but gone now throbbing from the quick movement. Armor pressed to your cheek and you let yourself go pliant, curling up into Boba’s broad chest. He smelled nice. Like the outdoors. The real outdoors—not manufactured gardens or stone courtyards. No, dangerous things. Like deserts and leather and guns.

You queried him as he walked in long strides across the room. “Where are you taking me? Should have you—” another sneeze burned your airways, “—have you arrested for treason. A high crime or misdemeanor of some sort, kidnapping royalty...”

He only scoffed, shifting your slack body into his one-armed grip when he arrived at the entrance of your adjunct refresher. The door opened with a soft click. “You talk too much.”

Your head rolled back to face him, pressed so close already that the attempt made you cross-eyed. “And you,” a polished finger jabbed lightly at his chest plate, “are up to no good.”

You were only joking, but Boba didn’t deny it.

Green was your favorite color, even before you met him. It was the color of gardens. Of mint leaves. Of insects and jewels. Of him.

Gods, he was beautiful. Did he know that? Would he ever believe you if you told him? He was achingly, painfully, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The man set you down to your immediate protests. Funny how quick you seemed to change your mind. “Don’t whine,” he chided when you did just that, pushing you forward by the small of your back.

You walked into the refresher confused, that same confusion compounding when Boba strode over to the marble bathtub in room’s center with a surety that belayed the fact he’d never once stepped foot inside here. Were all bounty hunters this self-assured? Or was he just so full of bathroom bravado that your sprawling floor-plan didn’t faze him?

Whatever the case was, said bounty hunter was now crouched down on the tile floor and twisting the tub faucets until they sprayed out a gush of hot water, quickly filling the room with heady steam.

“Hot water helps.” A still-gloved hand dipped an inch into the filling tub and deemed it acceptable. “The steam’ll clear up those sneezes of yours. And the headache.”

“How did you know I-” your mouth opened and closed before you realized you didn’t do a great job of hiding your symptoms. Maker knows you looked a sight, all mussed and tired and sticky with cold sweat. He should make a run for it now, you half-joked to yourself. He’s only ever seen me stuffed into a corset and done up half to death.

He got up with a grunt and turned back towards you. Beskar and durasteel and tactical fabric suddenly made you feel, for the first time in your life, underdressed. “‘S not hard to tell, princess.”

“Oh,” was your only response as you pushed off the sink counter, fisting the fabric of your nightgown in an unconscious display of hesitancy.

Boba’s heavy boots made for the door.

It was probably just to leave you some semblance of privacy, but you panicked, not wanting to be left alone now that he was finally here. “Wait!” you burst out, reaching a palm onto his shoulder before he could exit. “Wait. Can— can you stay?” Of course he won’t stay, you dolt. He probably came to sleep with you, not babysit you. “Please?”

Both of his hands curled into themselves when he turned back to you, their leather squeaking in the tight flex. Then, they released limp by his sides. Each word was carefully measured, slow-simmering like a pot about to boil over. Like a trigger finger twitchy on a blaster. “If you want me to.”

You answered with a bobbing nod and a swallow. “I do.”

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba Fett had long since forgotten he was a man. Instead, he was armor. He was a code, a set of strict (albeit grey) morals, the steadfast honor he’d been imbibed with from the years with his father and then the years of tearing emptiness after.

Bounty hunters had no time for attachments. They couldn’t afford to humor every batting eyelash with more than a self-serving flirtation, and he’d had his fill of those already. He’d overflowed his cup ten times over with shallow pleasantries and quick release.

But those days were long-gone. Had been for years now. Now he was practically puritanical.

Had been, anyway.

He didn’t like thinking of himself as impulsive, wanting to leave the trait behind in his younger years but not being old enough to shake it off completely. But he wasn’t impulsive anymore. He wasn’t.

You were going to destroy him.

Low-ranking royalty on some Imperial-occupied factory planet; sheltered and pretty. You had the brightest eyes he had ever seen and a temperament that took no prisoners, and you were going to destroy him.

Boba thought you’d make him leave, but you didn’t. You wanted him to stay and told him so.

So he stayed. His armor was peeled off in your presence for the first time— carefully placed on a chair in your bedroom—and he walked back into the refresher to see you untying your flimsy nightdress like it’d done you a personal wrong.

When it dropped beside your feet, it took every ounce of self-control Boba possessed to stop himself from eating you whole.

He heard you kick it to the floor (his eyes had since been very determinedly fixed on a fascinating piece of groutwork near his left foot) before you stepped into the bath, sighing in a way that made breathing a work harder than it should’ve been.

His looking away wasn’t a request on your part, you didn’t seem to mind either way, but he didn’t trust himself to do otherwise. Not until the sounds of splashing had subsided somewhat, signalling your stilled motion. “Boba?”

Now there was permission to walk. Look down. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, the clawfoot of the bathtub. He had reached his destination.

A wet hand tugged at his belt loops and he finally allowed himself to look, meeting the sight of you sitting bare in the clear-blue water with legs pulled up to your chest. The arm not touching him was roped around your calves. Your chin rested on the wide, curved lip of the tub.

If Boba had any self-respect, it had been snuffed out the first moment you opened your mouth, six months ago in that cavernous palace hallway with your failed attempt at bravado. It was haughty, short-lived, and adorable.

Maker, you were beautiful. Did you know that? Would you ever believe him if you told you? You were blindingly, effervescently, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The position of your chin forced your lips into a slight pout. As if you needed another weapon in your arsenal of ways to make him question his judgement. “Could you bring me the tray on the counter?”

Of course he could. He could bring you anything you liked. He would bring you a rancor, a dozen rancors, a fucking sarlaac if it meant you would smile all soft-like the way you just did when he answered yes.

Boba Fett, mercenary feared farther than he would ever live to travel and hunter too expensive for the Imperial payroll, was now a bath attendant. It was torturous in its sensual irony.

The tray was brought over in short order, cluttered with tiny vials of Maker-knows-what and bars of who-knows-how. Individually they probably all smelled nice, but crowded together the heavy scents only made his head spin. He set the tray down on the floor with a rattle and held up each mystery soap for your inspection. No. No. No. No, not that one. Gods, you were picky. No. No. Yes, please.

You were Miss Manners tonight apparently.

“It’s floating archidia,” you told him, mind running through an endless backlog of plant indexes as he handed over the soap. You sounded clearer now, less congested and more alert. Needed to drink water, though. “The flower that this is made with, I mean. Native to the planet Nubia, rumored to have euphoric properties.” You snorted and ran a thumbnail along the bar’s waxy edge, bringing up a curled pink piece. “Whatever that means.”

“Do you think it does?”

“Have euphoric properties?” you hummed, considering it for a moment. “Maybe. But maybe it’s just wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking,” Boba parroted.

The meaning of words can change when they’re repeated. Neither of your minds were on flowers.

His jaw tensed when you reached your other hand to his forearm, baring the rest of your body to the dim orange of the refresher lights’ night settings. The water rippled, warm now instead of steaming, and your fingers curled around the scarred skin of his wrist. “Take off the gloves,” you echoed, your voice suddenly desperate and distant as you traced over pale leather seams. “Please.”

He had refused the first time simply to toy with you. You weren’t used to being told no, and it showed. But he let you take off his helmet in a moment of thoughtless self-indulgence, scratching the part of his subconscious that itched to be touched, stroked, held. Shedding the helmet in front of someone else didn’t really mean anything in an honorable sense—at least not to Boba. Nothing tied him to the habit except a desire to keep himself and his motivations unknown. It was easier that way. Less messy.

He acquiesced. "Since you asked so nicely."

Wrinkling your nose, you guided newly-bare palms to knead gently at your shoulder blades. The skin there was soft and warm, pliant under his sandpaper touch. "Keep mentioning it and I'll go back to being difficult."

The soap made foamy bubbles across your back, over your arms and the velvet slope of your hips. Fingertips ghosted through the space between your jaw and ear, where he remembered sucking in a soft bruise.

He liked being known by you.

⫸————————————————⫷

You clambered out the tub with all the grace of a baby krugga deer and about as much shame. Which is to say, none at all. The subsiding cold had left you tired, bones like jelly and mind sloshing its thoughts around with no real order. Boba was here. Had stayed. Was standing in front of you now, watching tiny water droplets trail down your feet and letting you balance on his arm to keep you from stumbling.

A towel was wrapped around your shoulders. The press of his hot mouth against your forehead followed close behind. “Go sit on the bed.”

For some reason, you didn’t mind listening to him this time. Chalk it up to moldable exhaustion, you thought. Definitely not the fact that his voice sounded especially nice tonight, or any number of other questionable reasons.

He was going to ruin you. Or you would ruin yourself. Any way it was construed, Boba would play a part.

Still only in a towel, you drank the stale tea that sat on your bedside table and watched in mild interest as the mercenary’s shadow emptied out tepid bathwater with the thick glugluglug of the drain. It washed down soap and all your shared secrets.

Was it wrong that you still wanted him? More, now that he’d done this for you? Now that it wasn’t just cruel kisses and groping hands? What sort of a person did that make you?

Your mind whispered it when Boba walked back towards you. Someone lonely.

He helped you slide a new chemise on when you asked him to, quick and steady over the thin linen ties. I bet you do that with all the girls, you’d teased. No, he answered simply. Just you.

He was going to ruin you.

“Do you have to go yet?” you asked quietly and climbed under the covers. They were green today. Life enjoyed coincidences like that.

Boba crouched down on the floor beside your lying figure and shook his head. A wide fingertip smoothed away the crease between your brows. He was doing lots of touching. You were not complaining. “Not ‘til morning.”

“You might as well then,” you mumbled and lifted up the embroidered blankets with a sleep-slack hand. “No one’ll bother us, I promise.” you answered the empty air, too heartsick to comprehend any possible insinuations and too tired to realize the fingers tracing your brow bone had paused. “I told them all not to come back until tomorrow.”

His shirt and pants were shed in an unceremonious pile. You were already half-asleep when he climbed into the other side of the bed, slotting his legs against yours like puzzle pieces. Two question marks curled into each other, his chest to your back and his lips brushing your head.

“Goodnight, princess.”

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dreaming about him.

He was the burning sun that every single one of your thoughts had orbited around for the last six months and now he was invading your subconscious, dream-talons taking the form of dark hands rubbing soft circles against you and then invading your open mouth.

In your dream, Boba touched you softly and not at all, a tease even in your self-serving imagination.

Then you woke up, and it wasn’t a dream anymore.

Two thick arms encircled your waist with a grip unyielding in their strength. They’d pulled you impossibly close, pressed up against his sleeping body until every ridge of his muscled stomach could be felt against your back. Something else was against your back.

Your head reeled in its effort to sludge through the fog of sleep and reach the reality of masculine hips. They shifted in an unintentional grind against your legs until you couldn’t bite back the gasp that bubbled out from your voicebox, the sound quiet, keening, and lost in the shuffled sounds of fabric. It was still dark out. The water-clock in the corner of your room read 01:25:02.

You hadn’t put on anything underneath the new chemise. Why bother, when he’d already seen everything? Your body had grown to be a thing for display, a clothes-hanger and object to be prodded by strangers, and you’d long since rid yourself of any precocious modesty.

But this was different.

When Boba touched you, it wasn’t to sew flowers in your hair or drape a sash over your chest. It was simply to touch. The thought made you light-headed with newfound embarrassment, wiggling in his grip until you turned to face his sleeping form.

All the heavy things he carried on his shoulders during the day were gone now. His bottom lip pillowed out when he slept and he looked younger, the perpetual downturn of his lips now settled below the black hair at his temples. You felt a sticky sort of fondness settle in your chest.

“Boba,” you whispered, two hands placing themselves on his tanned cheeks. They traced the divots of scars and premature lines with all the reverence of worshipfulness.

“Mmm,” his voice rumbled with eyes still closed. A warm mouth kissed the side of your palm.

“Boba,” you repeated, more desperate this time but not knowing what you were desperate for. The space between your legs already knew what it wanted, hot and pulsing with a familiar dampness. Traitor.

“What do you need?” The question wasn’t accusatory, nor annoyed at your waking him. It was known that he would give you whatever you liked. Eventually.

You. Just you.

“I don’t,” you huffed, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to your now overheated body as you squirmed, “I don’t know.” Lie.

“Think about it and tell me,” he whispered, eyes opening in their dark, heavy-lidded expectation. The moon and stars suspended outside offered light enough to see the smirk on his face. His skin was the color of burnt earth and of gods. Somewhere, far away in the canopy of carefully pruned trees, a single lark let out its warbled cry.

There was an old adage about being like a lamb to the slaughter. You’d never touched a lamb. Never seen a slaughter. But somehow, you knew it was true.

This lamb, dumb and tender-hearted, was willingly sacrificied.

"I...'' the word left you in the arc of your exhale, one whoosh of air that rattled your chest already wracked with fevered tremors. "I- want you to-"

"You want me to what, pretty thing?" His voice was low, dangerous. It made every part of you want him more. "Say it."

You weren't used to cursing. It was never tolerated and you barely ever heard it, but you'd learned enough to know what he wanted you to say. Which word he wanted to hear, and what it'd mean he would do.

"F-fuck. Me." you choked out, biting your lip to muffle the embarrassment of having to speak it out loud. The word was filthy and raw between your teeth. "Please?"

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dying. Possibly had already died. Were ascending up or barrelling down, you didn’t care as long as his wet mouth stayed between your legs and never, ever stopped.

Wide hands cupped at your skin and kneaded wherever they could reach, simultaneously rough and supplicating. Every pass of his tongue was enough to make you feel possessed. He was killing you.

“Good. Good girl.” he said against your swollen skin when your hips arced off the bed, your spine and toes stiffening for what seemed like an eternity during the damp lightning finish. It sounded like a growl, animalistic and vibrating. A burning, sweet hurt.

Some people call it “little death,” a lady’s maid once whispered underneath her hand in a giggle. “Little death?” you repeated incredulously. That seems a bit dramatic, don’t you think?

You understood now.

Boba didn’t let up, never once letting his touch waver even as you buckled and swayed, all sense lost and all sensation compacting. “Another,” he ordered. Your body listened, bending to his touch without complaint with eyes rolled back into your head.

You were dying.

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba let you lay against him in the downturn, rubbing mindless shapes into the bone of your wrists as you struggled to breathe. Your neck was cradled in one of his broad, bronze palms. It gave one tiny, imperceptible squeeze. An accident. A test.

You pawed at the hand resting heavy on your nape until it moved to leave completely, but was caught instead by your fingers and guided—slow and curious—to cup at your bared throat.

“Dirty,” the man noted in a dark rasp and rolled over to face you. There was a slight smirk in his voice, but that could’ve just been your imagination.

“I don’t see you...” your voice trailed off into a wheeze as Boba’s thick fingers pressed into the sides of your neck, “—see you complaining.”

He kissed you. And kissed you. And kissed you. An eternity was spent opening the seam of your mouth while he choked you softly, baring your pulsating soul with only your bedroom walls as witness to the present depravity. The air was filled with begging and grunting—simple noises that stuttered and left your sheets ruined.

You wanted more. You couldn’t help it.

His chuckle morphed into a groan when you reached down to touch him with widening eyes, squeezing him curiously after pulling down his boxers. “You’re a brave little thing,” Boba noted with a hint of greedy pride. “Never done this before, have you?”

Your own hands served as poor substitutes all these years. You shook your head no.

“D’you want to?”

Of course you did. This was the only thing you wanted. The only thing you would ever want, over and over until your body turned to dust under him. A million grains of fizzy, burning blaster powder. A million comets passing by a supernova.

You nodded and tucked your face into the space between Boba’s shoulder and neck, rolling onto your side and hooking a leg over his hip. Your chests met, damp with sweat as cool air flowed over bare skin. The covers had long since been pushed aside. “Safe,” you said in a heady moan over the shell of his ear. “Implant.”

Thank goodness for modern medicine.

⫸————————————————⫷

It hurt a little at first, but most of the discomfort melted away as he whispered to you, sweet and cloying praises alongside filthy things that you’d be hard-pressed to repeat in public. They wove together in an endless stream of baritone vowels, lapping over each other like ocean waves until everything was a gyrating, syrupy playback.

He let you move against him, mouth open and sloppy against your temple when you whined at the stretch. The hands at your back didn’t push. Only placated. “I know, I know,” Boba assured you with fingers rubbing sympathetic desire into your flesh. It would bruise, but you’d come to like the marks. Your hips bucked at their own accord when he pressed up against something tight, the friction burning a bright, numb spark. “Slow down,” he mumbled into your hair, “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Never in your life did you think this was how it would be. Your first kiss, more of a battle than it was a kiss, served as fuel for the expectations of your first time. Never in your life did you think he would be the one telling you to go slow.

It was for your sake, you knew that. But it was still surprising.

You huffed and bit the shell of his ear in childish revenge, blowing a puff of air where you knew it would tickle. Boba only growled and tightened his arms around your waist, rocking into you slow and deep. “Don’t tease,” he warned.

The new movements robbed you of the ability to speak until all you could do in response was lift your head from where it had rested on his shoulder, meeting impossibly dark eyes in lust-addled vision as a building pressure colored the entire world in shades of black, red, and green.

In a moment of complete and utter lack of propriety, you leaned forward, smiling like a woman deranged, and pressed a kiss to his nose.

Boba came undone the same minute you did. It was a rush of wet, rocking pleasure, spreading like thick webs of lighted fire from inside your blood and out to fill the room with quiet devotion. Panting, bursting, close, messy. You’d never felt so whole.

Your foreheads met and you went cross-eyed trying to look at him again. That’s all you wanted to do. Look at him. Uttered underneath his jaw, where the skin was smooth, was your finishing admission. “I love you.”

You didn’t say it to hear it repeated. It was just to give it a shape. Make it concrete. Said more to yourself than him, really.

But Boba did repeat it. Over and over and over. In the tangle of your arms. I love you. In the kiss to your breasts. I love you. In the towel brought between your legs. I love you. In the settled silence of new sleep. I love you, I love you, I love you.

⫸————————————————⫷

The watery light of dawn melted through heavy curtains and you awoke, body weighed down with lead and gold. Sweet soreness had made its home in your muscles and you were loath to get up, but the man you’d been using as a pillow had very rudely left his post.

“I have to go,” he said, already awake and standing sentry by your bed. You raised your head up from the pillows in groggy protest to meet his blurry figure. If you squinted, there were three of him standing there at once.

A shake of your head rid your vision of the doubles, leaving the lone man. He kissed you—quick and dirty, with tongue—and squeezed your exposed breast, prompting a low moan to tumble from your mouth before he slipped his blaster into the holster at his hip. It wasn’t even 6 in the morning and you were thoroughly debauched. What a scandal, you thought (not for the first time) with passing amusement. A bounty hunter and a princess.

Watching in a dim haze as Boba finished strapping on his amor, you tracked the reflection of the sun in the metal’s lazy movement.

He leaned over you. “I’ll be back soon.” Soon. What did soon mean? Another kiss, slow and careful on the bow of your mouth. One more on the slope of your forehead. For luck, you supposed. Whether it was for you or him didn’t matter much. “Promise.”

Slowly, as he climbed out onto your balcony and was gone with a flash of jetpack light, you wondered if it was a mirage; a dream, maybe. The entire night a hallucinatory haze, a figment of your overactive imagination and reckless romanticism.

But the towel left discarded on the floor and the pulsing ache between your legs was very, very real.

#boba fett x reader #boba fett/reader #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett x you #boba fett fic #boba fett oneshot #boba fett imagine

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ironmandeficiency · 4 years ago

Text

laying low

pairing: fennec shand / reader

word count: 3019

summary: she didn’t want you to retire because you were the only one she trusts to have her six. you retired because you couldn’t let yourself fail and get her killed.

a/n: i want her to step on me but also i wanna be the one (1) person the stoic badass is soft for. also i’m posting from mobile again so ✨hooray✨

warnings: angry fennec, parting on maybe-bad terms, canon typical violence, being kidnapped, toro calican himself is a warning (undid his death for the sake of plot)

“is this really what you want? to sit here and let yourself rot?” fennec was bitter. you hated seeing her like this and nearly every muscle in your body ached as she spoke. the two of you worked together like a finely-tuned machine and she clearly thought that you retiring was a waste of potential. but when you slipped up and nearly cost fennec her life, you refused to endanger her with your presence. she was far too valuable to you and you would do anything, even retire in this skughole, if it meant keeping her safe.

after a speeder crash you endured during a fight against stormtroopers, it severely impacted your ability to fight. fennec knew that you wouldn’t be the same, but that didn’t bother her. there were only one or two more bounties picked up afterwards because you realized you had become a liability. fennec was having to cover your ass more often than not and even though she insisted that it wasn’t a problem, you had to do something different.

picking up a little slack would be miniscule if you were with her but you didn’t see it like she did. you had been her longest companion and the only one that she’d ever let see her weak. life came with trauma, and with trauma came nightmares — she remembers the first one she had early into your partnership, the way you held her close and anchored her to reality. from then on it was decided: you were it for her. not that she’d ever tell you, but it was true nonetheless.

you sighed at her words; the very same thoughts went through your head at the beginning of this plan but it was the only viable option for you. “it’s all i have left. maybe i can find some peace before hunters come looking for me.” you pour two mugs of caf, setting one on the table in font of an empty chair as an invitation for her to sit. she doesn’t.

the anger in the air around her nearly chokes you with its intensity, rising in the air like heavy plumes of smoke from a raging fire. you’re unsure what you can say to tame the blaze, if you even can at all. normally you would know the exact words to say to bring her down when she’s this upset, but now you were the root of the problem and there was nothing short of foregoing retirement that would make her happy.

fennec continues talking about the brave fighter she fought alongside turning into someone she didn’t know, how you’re showing your belly to the world like the damn tooka sunbathing in the windowsill. the venom she’s spitting doesn’t bother you. she’s angry and hurt, probably feeling abandoned by you and your decision to stay and make a home.

“if you ever need somewhere to lay low, i’ll always welcome you. we’re partners fennec, whether fighting side by side or not.” you wanted to give her that much. even if she wasn’t ready now, you would always welcome her into your new home, into your arms the way you’ve yearned to for years.

nothing is said to acknowledge your words. you didn’t think she would say anything anyway but it hurts regardless, another reminder that she doesn’t like this the same way you don’t. all she does before leaving you is grabbing the mug from the table and pouring its contents down the drain, letting the mug clatter in the sink once it’s empty.

maybe one day she could see that you were doing this for her. maybe one day, probably long away from now, she would walk into these doors with the weight of the galaxy being dropped on your doorstep. with a soft smile and open arms you would greet her and show her what it was like to live the quiet life.

for now, you would just have to settle for the warm embrace of the memories you shared, hoping that more could be made in your new little hut.

it’s been close to six months since you retired. you hadn’t seen or heard fennec since she walked out of your front door wearing her signature scowl. it still stung, after all this time, that after everything she wouldn’t even comm. you’d tried that the first couple weeks after she left but there was never a reply, only a dwindling hope and the worry of not knowing if she was okay.

that was one of the biggest benefits of traveling with fennec; you would never have to worry where she was because she was always right beside you. there was never a nagging worry that ate at you, no nightmares allowed to linger since her touch would ward them away. life without her was a new normal

there would be days where you would see something and want to tell her about it, throwing her name over your shoulder only to remember that she was never there to hear what you had to say. the comms you sent grew further apart as time went on, eventually stopping altogether. she would never reply anyway, there was no reason to waste both your time and yours on something seemingly broken beyond repair.

she may not have been dead, but you still lost her.

several more weeks went by and you had grown accustomed to the solitude. sure you would socialize when going to the market for food and supplies, but it was never anything of substance, only mere pleasantries and remarks on the quality of the items you bought. somehow you were far more weary during retirement than you had been before it.

your mind would drift to her still, wondering whether she had found someone else to watch her back or if she was vagabonding all by her lonesome. how you yearned to see her again, hear her voice or feel her hands gently help you when you fall like you have lately. it’s like your body doesn’t see the reason to keep up. you exercise to the best of your ability and try to stay fit as possible, but you’re still losing your footing more and more often, even at home.

it comes to a head when you’re making breakfast. everything had been okay prior, but one little nudge of your bad leg against a table corner and you’re sprawling. laying on the floor covered in your breakfast, it takes you thirty minutes to muster the strength needed to stand on your own.

the next day, you get a cane. you loathe having to buy it at all, hearing her voice calling you old and jokingly asking where your grandchildren are. it’s either a cane or losing what little mobility you have left, so you go with the former. you despised the visible display of your weakness, grated on what pride you had left. if fennec could see you now, what would she say?

the man had beat his way into your home with every intention to rob you and take what little supplies you had. he had been traveling for days in the desert and was tired. but then he saw exactly whose house he was robbing and he had an even better idea: take you to what used to be jabba’s palace, now ruled by bib fortuna.

see, the paths you used to tread alongside fennec provided ample opportunities to make an enemy here and there. jabba was one of them simply because you refused to work for him, and with his death, you had a little bit of peace. fortuna never attempted to seek you out but anyone who knew of jabba’s grudge against you would be wise to the reward your capture would produce.

this young hotshot was foolhardy and far too cocksure compared to his abilities. if you were in the body you used to have, this buffoon (who made his name very known to you in some sort of dominance attempt?) would be dead thrice over. but time wasnt kind to you and you still have a near-lame leg, so at his mercy you were.

you just wished he would shut his damn mouth for longer than it took him to suck in another breath. he must not realize that silence is far louder than jabbering when it comes to someone holding your life in their hands. maker forbid you have peace in your final moments, apparently. figures.

jabba’s former palace was soon in your line of sight and if you weren’t positive that you were being led to your death, you’d have been grateful to be freed of the nuisance that was toro calican. all the assurance you could find as he hauled you out of his speeder was that his arrogance would soon get him killed if he continued the way he was going.

toro dragged you to the throne room with a hand roughly dripping your bicep, trying to hurry you along as if you still had two normally functioning legs. you knew he knew about your predicament, your lack of fully independent mobility a frequent topic of his. “ease up, wank stain! you know i have a lame leg!” his answer was an aggravated huff and his blaster pressed harder into your lower back.

the lower you descended, the deeper the dread sank into your gut. this was actually real, you were about to die. peace had been made long ago with the knowledge of someone possibly wanting to find you, but now that it was happening… completely different.

you wondered if fennec would ever find out about your death. or if she did find out, your brain would questioned if she would even care. of course she would, your heart consoled, think of how long you traveled together! the trust! the bond you two share transcends time!

but you cut your journeys with her short, there was no telling. there were so many things you wish you could have told her, not just about the feelings that only grew in their intensity during her absence from your side. you wanted to tell her about the stray tooka that you took in when you first settled down; she had a litter of kittens and one of them had a glare that rivaled your dear assassin’s. there was an action holonovel you read once that had you cackling, imagining your fennec cutting off all the frivolous villain monologues with a blaster to the face.

she was never told these things and now that you were becoming rancor chow, she’d never even know them. the idea of dying before telling fennec everything that you’ve been stewing over for so long, not telling her you loved her, fuck was it heartbreaking.

a mumbled curse fell from your lips when you felt saltwater make a descent down your cheeks. you didn’t want your harbinger to see you this weak, this vulnerable, but you had no choice in the matter. your hands are bound by a pair of shockingly sturdy binders and there was no way for you to wipe the tears away. all you could do was blink them away, then meet death with your chin up and your love in your heart.

“now what do we have here?” that was most certainly not the voice of bib fortuna. you opened your eyes to find a broad man clad in green beskar occupying the throne. your common sense identified him as boba fett, which you should have thought was impossible. then again, you didn’t think it was possible for someone to be as annoying as toro calican. it was a day of being proved wrong, it seemed.

anyone could see that toro wasn’t prepared to see someone that wasn’t bib on the throne. his eyes had grown to the size of the twin suns and even through your wet eyes, you could see his facial expression morph from his fake swagger to a dog of uncertainty. nevertheless, he persisted, throwing you down at the foot of the throne. “there’s a bounty on their head and i’ve come to collect the reward.”

boba fett, even through the beskar, doesn’t seem pleased. he doesn’t move his helmet’s line of sight from toro as he speaks, something you’re grateful for. “there’s been a, how do you say, recent transfer of power. and with that change came a new way of doing things, you understand.” he scoffed at the man, your proximity to the throne enlightening you to just how annoyed he was becoming in such a short period. it seemed that toro had that effect on everybody.

“how do i know this is actually someone with a price on their head? what evidence do you have that proves their identity?”

it was clear that your captor didn’t expect to have to prove a damned thing. what a fool, not even bothering to prepare for a single unexpected event. you were almost ashamed of having been overpowered by him at this point. “anyone who’s anyone knows, this is the former partner of the late fennec shand! i’m sure you heard abour her demise — that was me by the way — and now i’ve brought her partner to you, to be taken out of commission…”

all the hair on your body stood on end. fennec was dead? killed by the very man that brought you in? no, not your fennec. she wouldn’t be overpowered by this arrogant bastard in her sleep with a hand tied behind her back, there was no way. but boba said nothing to negate the rumors and that told you everything you need to know. “if you have even a morsel of mercy, by the stars make this quick. if she’s really gone, then i’ve kept her waiting for far too long.”

those were the first words you’ve spoken since toro bound you and dragged you like a ragdoll from your home. there was no reason to entertain the man, but there was the tiniest sliver of a chance that you could implore the mandalorian in front of you to end your life with the efficiency he was known for.

he asked the man his name and merely hummed in acknowledgment when it was boastfully given, like his name meant something to a battle hardened mandalorian such as boba fett.

if you had paid attention to boba’s demeanor since your arrival, you would have noticed that something in his air changed when toro spoke about being the one to kill fennec. some would have mistook it for disbelief but it was much more than that. boba knew that toro was indeed the man who shot fennec shand, but he was not the man who killed fennec shand because she simply wasn’t dead.

she was, in fact, just in the next room scavenging for another bottle of fluorescent blue spotchka when her curiosity was piqued by the conversation occurring in the throne room. at the way the voices seemed to be familiar, she abandoned the search and decided to see for herself what the commotion was.

what she found sent liquid fire through her veins. you, on your knees and head bowed just enough to show resignation and grief, binders shackling your arms and fennec knew that you wouldn’t be able to get up on your own because of it. toro calican, the man who nearly killed her all those sunsets ago in the middle of tusken territory standing above you with a wicked sneer on his lips. this would simply not do.

“word of advice, calican,” she made her presence known with her voice, walking around to boba’s right hand side and leaning a hip against the throne. “always make sure your kills are dead before you leave them. leaving them for dead? that’s how you make enemies.” her blaster was out of her holster and firing before toro could reply, and boba was impressed with the speed she fired with. he had a feeling that it had to do with the figure at the foot of his throne.

your eyes had to be deceiving you. there was no way, toro killed fennec… right? so how in the stars was she here now? the feeling of her hands on your cheeks, warm brown eyes giving you much needed comfort after what you’ve been through. you didn’t even register boba leaving his throne until he’s on the ground in front of you, unclasping your binders with the gentleness one would treat an injured animal. maybe that’s what you were to him, a pitiful tooka missing a leg that was dropped on his doorstep.

before you can venture deeper into this rabbit hole, your body is pulled off the questionable floor and into fennec’s embrace. the way she felt against you, the calluses of her hands as she held you, it was home. you didn’t know when the tears had come back but she was quick to wipe them away with the pads of her thumbs.

“seems you found trouble. what happened to laying low, huh?” her comment brought a ready chuckle from your throat and a small smile to her lips. sweet maker how you’ve missed that smile. “maybe you’ll be safer here, what do you think?”

any and all words elude you. nothing on this planet or any other in the galaxy could drag you away from her now, not when she’s as beautiful now as the day you met her, when she gives you the smile you knew was only saved for you. “i’m always safer with you, fennec.”

she hums, her lips pressing to your forehead to ground you both in the reality of being together again. “i’ll have to say the same about you, desert rose. nearly died only a week after i left your hut.”

“only a week? i thought you’d last longer than that.”

“it was because i didn’t have you. but we don’t have to worry about that anymore, do we?”

she was right, you wouldn’t have to worry about losing her for the rest of your life.

fennec shand taglist: @cryptidcody @sacred-things @clownocoruscant @steel-phoenix @aerolanya @felucians @bookbandobssessed @senator-nahberries @obirain @themarcusmoreno @jedi-mando @flightlessangelwings @whovianwar @hornystarwarsbisexual @kaermorons (i love this handle bye ohmygod)

#fennec shand imagine #fennec shand x reader #fennec shand #the mandalorian #star wars imagines #star wars reader insert #the mandalorian season two

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kunoichi-ume · 4 years ago

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“Take all the time you need” prompt for your least written about characters

Hurt/Comfort Dialogue Prompts

Thanks for sending this! It took me a bit to write it but I really enjoyed exploring this vulnerable moment for Rugama. Is she my least written about character? No, I have some I haven’t written at all (GASP) but she is the one I have dabbled with that I really want to do a whole story for but just haven’t been able to dive into another wip with everything I already have going.

Words: 785

Characters: Rugama Neiu and Theron Shan

Timeframe: sometime during the war with Zakuul

Rugama’s hand shook as she reached for the object on the table before she lost her nerve and snatched her hand back to her lap. This was silly, she chided herself, she should be better than this, afraid to even turn the damn thing on. She was Sith, a former Dark Council member and a Darth - the leading of an Alliance to save the whole galaxy. She didn’t need to prove herself to anyone.

Except herself, she thought with a sigh. She’d managed her whole life without this, what was the last few years? The way things were going she wouldn’t live to old age, right? Rugama closed her eyes and sighed again, the war was never ending but no excuse to give up. She was only alive today because she refused to surrender, regardless of how hopeless the situation was.

Sitting with her eyes closed, Rugama felt Theron’s presence in her mind before hearing him enter their shared room. She feigned ignorance of his arrival as he moved about the space, leaving his boots at the door, dropping his jacket over the back of a chair, all the routine things he did everytime he retired to their room for the night.

The sofa dipped slightly as Theron sat next to her, close enough that the movement made her smaller body slid into his side.

“Avoiding practice again?” Theron asked, his voice soft as he broached what he knew was a sensitive subject.

Rugama opened her eyes and glared halfheartedly at Theron. “No.” She paused for a beat and sighed for the third time in so many minutes, “yes.”

Theron reached up and toyed with a loose lock of hair that had fallen out of her bun, “why?”

Inhaling deeply, Rugama looked away and stared at the datapad on the table. “I don’t know, it’s just so… difficult.”

Fingers brushed her chin softly before Theron turned her face back his way, “I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge Ru. Why does this have you so hesitant?”

The question made Rugama’s chest tight, anxiety rising to an all time high. Theron was right of course, she’d faced harder challenges. Hell, this wasn’t even a life or death situation - she wasn’t even risking a flimsy cut. It was the big “what if” that was stopping her everytime she reached for the datapad. What if she couldn’t do this? What if there was something wrong with her? What if she was not smart enough? She’d never been to school, and that was where people learned to be smart - wasn't it?

“What if I can’t do it?” Her voice was barely a whisper but the widening of Theron’s eyes showed he heard her. “What if I try and I’m just not bright enough to understand?”

Theron shook his head, turning in his seat to face her properly. “Ru, that’s probably the stupidest thing I have ever heard you say. Look at what you have accomplished, earning your freedom, a spot on the Dark Council - impressive even if I still disagree with their politics. Hell, the Emperor himself picked you out as his greatest threat. And you did all of that without a basic skill most people fail to appreciate.” Theron shook his head, lips turned up into a smile, “that will never fail to impress me. I honestly don’t think there is anything you can’t do but babe you have more than proven you don’t need to be able to read to succeed.”

Chewing nervously on her lower lip, Rugama turned Theron’s words over in her mind. He was right of course, she only had the most basic understanding of aurebesh but that had never really stopped her. Slowed her down occasionally perhaps but there were endless ways to get information, many without any reading required on her end. But still… “I want to learn, Theron.”

Warm eyes studied her expression carefully for a long moment before Theron leaned forward, snagging the abandoned datapad off the table. He offered it to her with an encouraging smile, “then take all the time you need, but you can’t learn if you don’t try. Don’t forget I’m here to help anyway I can, I’m not going anywhere.”

Finally taking the pad, Rugama pulled up the youth holonovel Theron had helped her download weeks ago. Instead of the nervous fluttering in her stomach she felt earlier she felt grounded, ready to face this challenge and she had no doubt it was the support of the man at her side. “I hope you meant that,” she said, smiling up at him before settling more securely into his side in to practice, “I plan to hold you to that one Shan.”

#Swtor #Theron Shan #Theron Shan/Sith Inquisitor #Hurt/Comfort prompt #OC: Rugama Neiu #My Writing #carterashofficial

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party-gilmore · 4 years ago

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So I'd had the thought myself a few times projecting when I go to the drive in movies alone, and then ESPECIALLY after that ep in Voyager, but like...

I cant believe there's no "Julian had a date planned but she sort of kind of broke up with him right there in Quarks literally on the way to the holosuite but fuck it he paid for this damn expensive 'antique drive in movie date experience' and hey he'll at least still get to watch one of those ancient Bond 'films' he's read so much about that influenced the holo-genre so heavily so he's gonna still go watch the damn movie even if he's by himself

but ah, Garak has chosen to break into his holosuite again, this time claiming he 'thought [Dr. Bashir] could use a friend after that awfully embarassing display downstairs and - what IS he watching?' and it slips out of Julian's mouth before he can think better of it, because despite the danger new unusual circumstance he DID have fun in the last spy holosuite so he invites Garak to stay and watch with him... except this isnt LIKE the holonovel, they're just sitting there in the front seat of this tiny 'car,' next to each other, in the dark, thighs so close and hands unsure of where they should go, the air warming with their breath, the tension of all their History together looming at them from the backseat, as the titular 'Bond' onscreen pushes this film's love interest down into the similar vehicle in the movie, caressing her, soft music playing, and there's nothing for them to DO but sit close to each other and think about each other and watch the movie in the dark together.

Nothing to distract but the screen before them that's - oh thank the prophets it's a fight scene now, but that's still not enough to make a dent in Julian's ever so convenient ADHD-provided hyperfixation the man beside them and fuck this was a bad idea-" fics on AO3.

#garashir #thoughts to write later maybe?

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july-19th-club · 4 years ago

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about to just start inventing picard episodes

star trek picard episode whatever “Electric Sheep”: Cris, Raffi, and the gang beam down to pick up supplies for malfunctioning holograms. Soji and Geordi conduct an experiment on lucid dreaming. (geordi’s here because i love him and the experiment they’re doing is ‘if soji puts enough parts of her brain in sleep mode can she or geordi talk to a remnant of her dad in there’ and the result is ‘yes and there are seventeen individual lines of dialogue that will have you bawling like a baby’. then they have to pilot la sirena out of a contested patch of space together because they accidentally let her drift while they were doing weird science and everybody else is planetside having wacky market haggling shenanigans and emmett & enoch are still not online. do they sit in The Correct Spots On The Bridge? brother, it’s the only reason the scene exists)

star trek picard episode whatever 2 electric boogaloo “Dinner and a Holonovel”: Raffi and Seven go on their first official date. Meanwhile, La Sirena receives a coded message from one of Raffi’s mysterious contacts. (in this one Raf and Sev get dressed up but they’re both sort of uncomfortable doing so and they try to have a date but neither of them are enjoying themselves trying to be normal, because Raf’s an old reprobate who’s definitely forgotten how to Have Fun With Others and Sev never learned because it wasn’t relevant to her interests. but then they wind up in some trouble(maybe they deliberately seek it out sort of unconsciously bc they’re bored) and it becomes a fun bar fight date that they really enjoy. everybody else is playing twenty questions trying to figure out this weirdly-encoded message for her bc she’s busy. they come back all bruised and grinning and the whole gang looks up at them with this half-decoded message and is like what kind of life do you lead).

star trek picard episode whatever 2 the sequel “Dr. and Mr. Smith”: Raffi’s contact has asked the crew for their help in a...discreet political matter. (it’s a reverse heist episode starring everyone’s two favorite sort-of-semi-retired-?-spies (if we are spies no we are not. yes we are. no <3). julian and raffi have a very good rapport and sev and garak don’t understand each other AT ALL. yes they are together in this one. no i dont think we need much backstory on when or how it happened i will leave that to the experts and their fucking youtube plays. keep up the good work. what are they reverse-stealing? idk yet it’s just a vehicle for character dynamics anyway).

star trek picard episode we cry a lot “The Daughters”: Soji confronts her legacy when an old friend of her fathers hails La Sirena, eager to repay a debt. (although to be honest, when is our sweet girl NOT confronting her legacy? that bitch is all legacy; she’s got legacy frankly oozing out of her positronic pores. this is partly a story about soji, but it takes a while to get there. first it’s the story of Sarge, who had an imaginary friend when she was six...

she can’t pinpoint exactly when she came up with him, and she doesn’t even remember what she named him - but she knows it happened sometime around the evacuations, and when they all moved back home and the world started growing again - lush and fast from the rich volcanic soil - she used to spend hours playing around with her birthday-gift radio set, ‘talking’ to her imaginary friend. of course, she never got actual replies, but as she aged out of the phase she retained an interest in radio and communications, and her parents indulged it and bought her more and better equipment, enrolled her in science programs, fed her curiosity. until one day as a young adult doing a school project on theoretical outer space transmissions, she arrived at a theory which (she later describes it as a CLICK, like something is settling into place in her brain) could account for the existence of extraterrestrial life, just out of reach. and perhaps, she posits in her presentation, the reason no aliens had yet contacted her world had little to do with them not being there and much to do with them choosing not to respond. the goal, she concluded, was to continue reaching out - to close the gap. she wrapped up the presentation with a nod to nostalgia. “And maybe someday, those friends will be imaginary no more.”

she wins an award for the project, and begins work in her chosen field that’s extremely rewarding, but it is still years before she reaches her second conclusion: the logical leap that if future alien contact was not only possible but likely, her imaginary friend might have been a real person after all. she brings this idea up with her mother one night over dinner, and her mother is somewhat alarmed - what do you mean you think you were talking to aliens, you couldn’t do that on a child’s transmitter kit, adults??? adult aliens? what are you saying they said to you? - but she can’t answer. she doesn’t have clear memories of that time, only an unshakeable conviction that the life she may have contacted is closer than anyone could possibly imagine. and so she starts a new project. she digs out the old childhood kit, fiddles with the dials, finds the frequency she used to tune it to. in her mind’s eye there’s the impression of a clear, frank voice, but no words. she tunes her own, more modern and complex instruments, to the same frequency, and keeps listening.

one day, she hears something. this time, she doesn’t talk first. the next few months are a whirlwind of information-gathering. there are people out there. whole societies. she pieces together the basics of what she’ll eventually learn is the prime directive; enough ships pass by the atmosphere of her world that she’s able to form a working conclusion as to why the come close but never hail. they know we’re down here, she thinks, they just think we’re not ready.

and maybe they don’t have the kind of boats that could get you that far into the sky. but she’s always been resourceful. she picks up a new frequency, and starts listening to starfleet. and after a few months of listening and planning, she starts packing. she takes the kiddie transmitter kit, she takes clothing designed for all-weather wilderness exposure, she takes the kind of emergency preserved food that people used to keep by the pallet in case of earthquake, and she takes a few other trinkets she can’t live without. and when the time is right, she hails. it might be a combination of luck or goodwill, but she manages to convince a passing freighter that she is the stranded comms officer of a downed private ship, the only survivor of the wreck hiding out on a pre-warp world. they beam her up and the first few weeks are very touch-and-go, but she manages to convince them she belongs up here, that the people who look like her are very far away and not just under their feet, darting around her green little world like a hill of bugs under the eyes of giant birds. she gets off at the nearest starbase, and she starts exploring.

she takes numerous vessels to numerous worlds, gathering information all the time. she starts calling herself Sarge, instead of Sarjenka, and it makes people think she’s a military type and nobody bothers her. she stops at a library planet for a month and researches everything she can about the major governing systems in the galaxy. without much to go on - no name, only a vague physical description (tall? pale? humanoid?) - it’s hard to determine exactly what kind of vessel the Friend would have been on, if indeed he existed. the yellow clothes, one of her few clear recollections, lead her to guess starfleet, but starfleet is a massive organization and so many of its vessels have come near her homeworld that it seems unlikely she’ll be able to narrow it down like that. so she tries a different tack, searching for the other two vague faces that she can bring to mind. one is a middle-aged woman, humanoid, but the search turns up nothing; the woman is a doctor who has retired from the organization and now works at a teaching hospital near vulcan. the other is a bald man with a deep voice, humanoid, and his record turns up an absolute deluge of information. she skips past most of it; she’s inpatient now, if anyone knows about the Friend he will, and so she checks his last known location. on board the private supply-class ship La Sirena, captained by ex-starfleet officer Cristobal Rios. Rios is tall, dark-haired, and humanoid, but absolutely nothing about him rings that little mental bell. she checks his last docking location. the ship visited a reclamation site briefly, and then disappears from the record.

but Sarge is nothing if not a searcher, so she adjusts her frequencies and tries again. it’s months before they’re in proximity to one another, months in which she’s taken the opportunity to secure her own vessel, a little rented, dented passenger bucket that’s probably worth more in repairs than the price she got it for. but she trades radio repairs for ship repairs at the port where she buys it, looks up its name (Avis) and finds it acceptable, and then she’s in the sky. she tools around exploring new bases and stations, and keeps the hail open. and one day, it’s answered. a human voice answers. “Avis, we read you. What can we do for you?” they go on-screen with each other, and she sees first the captain - the bearded guy - and then...him. the old man. he is an old man, the bald guy, and his eyebrows raise when he sees her come on the viewer.

“Permission to come on board?” she asks. “I have something which might belong to one of you.”

the old man looks wary for a moment, but then he turns to someone behind him, they exchange some quiet words, and he nods. “Permission granted.”

there’s a young woman waiting for her at the transport platform. shorter than her by a good half meter, humanoid. pale. “Dr. Soji Asha,” she says, “You look...”

and Sarge could swear she’s about to say ‘familiar.’

“Sarge,” she says, and the woman’s small hand grasps her long one in a firm shake, and then waits patiently while Sarge performs greeting, letting her fingers just-not-rest on the woman’s shoulders and arms. “I’m actually looking for an old friend of mine, and I thought you might have his whereabouts. Tall, pale, starfleet officer? Ops gold. I know that’s not much to go on, but if it helps, he would have once contacted and established a rapport with pre-warp Drema IV? Humanoid, but not human. He...” It’s weird. standing here, explaining herself to this quietly-held young woman, Sarge is able to articulate better than ever before her half-formed memories. “He told me once he was a machine.” and then, like another CLICK is settling, she has a name. At last. “Data.” I knew he’d had a name.

the woman’s face lights up and falls in such swift motion it is hard to tell which comes first - the recognition or the sorrow. but they’re both there, clear and present. “Dad died almost twenty years ago,” she says. “But if it helps, I have a positronic clone of his brain.”

Sarge starts laughing; she doesn’t mean to, but the way the woman - Soji - says it, so matter-of-fact, so frank...she stops herself before it’s rude, but Soji’s laughing too. “Sorry, I -”

“No, don’t - how do you - how did you know Dad? Come on, come with me -”

“What happened? I didn’t know him for long, I barely remembered him, but I knew he existed -”

“That’s a long story. Do you want to meet the crew?”

Soji reaches for her hand, and with a feeling of mechanisms interlocking as they properly should, she takes it. they start walking. “Oh.” She’s almost forgotten. “If...if he’s not around to take it back, then this might belong to you.” She reaches in her pocket and holds it out: a small, ceramic singing bird.)

#mr chabon take notes or just hire me #geordi is also in all the other episodes . i really think picard would go from good to great if geordi was there regularly #i miss him sm and im in the middle of tng AS WE SPEAK #i got a little carried away on the last one and it turned into a whole-ass fic maybe #star trek #star trek: picard #this is the post that was incoming and yeah it's all star trek dont @ me #i am really good at star trek

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sharpnothashtag · 4 years ago

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The Good Ship CrushWay, Chapter 29

Naomi is on a shuttle with Greskrendtregk. She looks up at him nervously. He smiles back warmly.

Naomi: Father, I don’t remember much of my experience as a Borg. Why must I go to Mars and talk about it with your class? Greskrendtregk: (gently) Because, Naomi, you went through a very bad thing. You need to talk about it, whether you realize it or not. Naomi: But I’m fine! Greskrendtregk: I know, and I’m glad you are. This is just to ensure that you stay that way. Plus, you’re also going to be learning about what some of the other Borg children went through. These are people that would be coming to your camp--don’t you want to know how to help them, too? Naomi: I do, Father! I do. Greskrendtregk: (grabs her hand, squeeze) I know you do. You are your mother’s daughter.

In the class with DeAnna

DeAnna: In the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, there was a television program, kind of like a non-interactive holonovel, called Sesame Street. It was geared toward children, and a number of times, the muppets-- Naomi: Muppets? DeAnna: It’s a combination of a marionette and a puppet. It’s hard to explain, but they looked like this: (shows this picture)

Naomi: Aww! They look like fun characters. DeAnna: (smiling warmly) Yes, they do. As I was saying, these characters were often used to explain difficult things to children. One that I think directly applies to our ideals (if not our initial subject matter) is their inclusion of a character in foster care. Here’s a portion of the episode: (she shows this video) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GF2w5qdn1-o

KJ is getting dressed. She brushes her hair, and Bev hugs her from behind.

Bev: Hey. Did you ever get back to sleep? KJ: Not really. I was having nightmares. Bev: You could have woken me up--I would have held you. KJ: I know, but you needed the sleep. I went and talked to DeAnna. Bev: ...you did? KJ: Yeah. I asked if I could be a volunteer patient for the counselors she’s training. Bev: Are you sure you’re ready to talk about it? KJ: I have to. Keeping it inside is more than I can take. Bev: (cupping KJ’s face in her hands) I will be here for you. I will not move. I will not leave. I will never give up. KJ: (brushing Bev’s hair out of her face) I know. (kiss) You need to head on down. Seven will come up here to bring you down there. Don’t test her on that one. Bev: Oh, I wouldn’t put that past her. (pulling her close one more time) Please, take care of yourself. I love you. KJ: I love you.

KJ waits outside of the counseling classroom DeAnna exits with a Klingon woman, Biquv.

DeAnna: I’m so glad to see you in a more hospitable hour, Kathryn. KJ: I cannot apologize enough for that, DeAnna. DeAnna: Nonsense. I’m glad I could be there for you when you needed me. Kathryn, this is Biquv. Talking to both of you makes me think you two are a good match. KJ: It’s good to meet you, Biquv. Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam. Biquv: Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam. Your Klingon is very impressive. KJ: Thank you! Biquv: Shall we go to an office? KJ: I think that’s a good idea.

Sitting down in an office, Biquv takes a cup of tea from the replicator.

Biquv: May I offer you some moHbogh? KJ: (making the grossed out face) No thank you. Biquv: (laughing) I’ve never met a human who likes it. In fact, I’m sure sure I know a Klingon who actually likes it either. It’s a tradition, though, to take it before trying to purge our feelings and all weakness. KJ: Yeah, purging basically anything is what it’s good for. Biquv: (smiling) What is it that you need help with, Kathryn? KJ: I lost my sister recently. She...she killed herself. Biquv: Is this the Phoebe Janeway? KJ: Yes? How did you know her? Biquv: Oh, I never met her. I was familiar with her work, though. My brother once commissioned her to sculpt a bust of Kahless. She is--was extremely talented. KJ: Yes, she was. Biquv: Did you get the chance to tell her goodbye? KJ: Yes. When she did finally drift off, she was peaceful. Biquv: How do you feel about her death? KJ: I feel like I’m not enough. (Biquv cocks her head) She threw herself off a bridge because she couldn’t deal with never seeing me again. The doctors kept her alive in a terrible state until I came home so I could say goodbye. She told me she gave up because the pain of losing me was too much. Biquv...am I responsible for her death? Because I kept my ship lost in the Delta Quadrant, the universe lost an amazing artist. Would it have been better to stay at home? Biquv: What is the name of the race of beings you saved? KJ: The Ocampans. Biquv: And the Borg. Her name is? KJ: Seven of Nine. BIquv: No, the other one. KJ: Erin Hansen. Seven’s mother. Biquv: It seems to me that the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. KJ: But she was MY few. Biquv: And you’re angry with her. KJ: She couldn’t wait for me make it home. Biquv: Voyager was declared lost--your whole crew was assumed to be dead. She had no hope left, Kathryn. KJ: Why couldn’t she have fought a little longer? I did. I fought to get home to her...to mom. To Mark. She was so selfish to have done this. Biquv: I guarantee you she felt like a burden. The most selfless thing she could have done in her mind was to take herself out of the equation. KJ: But without her, the equation doesn’t equate. It doesn’t make sense. It means nothing. Biquv: She couldn’t have known that. KJ: I”m angry. I am sad. I’m confused. I feel betrayed. I feel abandoned. I just feel so many things. I feel like I need to purge them. To feel them, one by one, and then let them go. Biquv: I might have something that can help with that. KJ: It’s not that tea, is it? Biquv: (chuckling in spite of herself) No. I’ve got something a bit...louder. Do you have a picture of her? KJ: Yes, in my quarters. Biquv: Ok. Go get it, and meet me back here at 20:15. (KJ nods and exits)

Bev is in her quarters reading. KJ walks in.

Bev: Hi. How’d your session go? KJ: It’s not over. I’m supposed to bring a picture of Phoebe to my counselor in a few minutes. Bev: Who is your counselor? KJ: She’s a Klingon woman named Biquv. Bev: Do you like her? KJ: She has made some good points already. I’m interested to see what she wants me to do with Phoebe’s picture. Bev: I am, too. KJ: What if she tells me to get rid of it? Bev: You don’t have to do that. KJ: But I need to have her help to move on. Bev: Yes, but you don’t have to throw away memories. Her job is to help you cope with your memories, not rid you of them. Do you want me to come with you tonight? KJ: Yes. That would be really helpful. Bev: (takes her hand) Let’s go.

They go to meet Biquv. Biquv takes them to an outdoor section of the station.

Biquv: In ancient Klingon tradition, when a warrior falls in battle, the nearest Klingon goes to this warrior, opens their eyes, and then screams to Sto-vo-kor to look out--a warrior is coming their way. I know Phoebe was very special to you. In ancient human traditions, there were people who decided to scream when they stopped understanding what was going on, or when they had a lot of emotions to deal with. That’s what I want you to do. KJ: You want me to scream? Biquv: Scream for the loss of your sister. Scream for your anger. Scream for your confusion. Scream for sadness. Scream for your betrayal. Scream for your abandonment. Scream for the loss of one you love so much.

KJ walks to the center of the room. She lays Phoebe’s photo on the ground. She looks deep into her sister’s eyes. She lifts her head, and screams. The pain seems to ooze from her. She continues bellowing without words. She stops for a minute to take a breath. Bev laces her fingers through KJ’s, and she begins to yell, too. Biquv takes hold of KJ’s other hand, and the three women scream until they no longer can. KJ collapses from exhaustion. Biquv and Bev help carry her to the room, where she sleeps. PJ appears in KJ’s dream again.

PJ: Katie, I know you love me. I will always love you. I’m not physically here anymore, no, but I will never leave you. There is nothing that could keep me away from my sister--not even death itself. Now, let’s rest. (She puts her arms around KJ and holds her as they rest. PJ fades out, and in her place in the bed is Bev, holding KJ as Bev herself drifts off as well.)

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crqstalite · 5 years ago

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pt. 1, crossfire (vector && rubiksi)

this one didn’t go as well as it should because originally i was going to write it as a 10k word chapter for all nine months, but i didn’t happen so i guess we’re gonna wait again for the writing fairy to whack me over the head again.

anyways psa i love mr bug man and you should too.

written: 9.20.19. word count: 2,419.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════ character song: crossfire, stephen.

character file: khelan hyllus & vector hyllus.

1 month.

rubi-no, khelan now, isn't sure what to think anymore, as she stares out the window of her apartment. all she wants to do is lie down and cry, and she's not sure what's causing it anymore. after all these years, all her tears should be dried up now. they should be, but for some reason it seems like every day a new situation arises, and she isn't emotionally ready to deal with it. picking up the holophoto on her night stand, she tries not to cry as she analyzes the photo taken on their wedding day. the way she'd faked a smile in a white dress and vector in a diplomatic uniform until she could return to the phantom to be alone for a while with her emotions. it should've been a happy day.

but it wasn't. why couldn't she just be happy for once? and stop thinking about marring the skin beneath her sweater sleeves, about finally leaving this world for good? possibly it's because of the pale lines that still dot her wrists, and the fact that the ring on her finger feels heavy with pity everytime she slips it on.

"khelan?" a voice startles her from her thoughts as she places it back gently next to the chrono, where it always sits.

"yes, vector?" she asks, turning from the window as the joiner enters the bedroom. he's dressed down today, and he smells of sweets. the man had taken up baking since they'd moved in together, saying something about finally being able to please her properly with his cooking. it's delectable, as is to be expected. (he spent months learning from two-vee in secret before presenting her with an exquisite cake for her birthday. possibly the hive has been giving him recipes, and though she knows they can't read minds, he always seems to know what she has a taste for) "is there something wrong?"

"you didn't come to eat dinner." he responds, curiously cocking his head, as a child would. his dark hair plays peek-a-boo with his pupiless eyes, and she offers him a smile as he brushes it out of his vision, coming to stand next to her by the floor-length window, the cool sky reflecting onto his pale skin, "we were worried."

"i'm just fine, vector. do not worry yourself with the likes of me." she responds, inhaling his scent as he moves to put his arms around her. there's a significant between the joiner and prior agent, but she feels safe as she buries her head in his chest. safety isn't ever guranteed for her, and she's glad that she took the leap of faith to finally say yes to him. he was never persistent, he gave her the space she needed to recuperate from the life she'd once lived. he leans his head against the top of hers, and she closes her eyes to relax for just a moment. he smells of the rain, but also of the forest and a sharp smell of something spicy she just can not name. she wouldn't trade her husband for the world. "i will come to eat in a bit."

"if you are not hungry, we can put away the food for another time, ru..khelan." he corrects himself as she frowns, pulling her hair back into a low ponytail at the base of her neck. he's not used to her new alias either, and it's as if he can sense it bothers her. her aura must be out of whack again as a questioning look covers his features (she'd never understand how vector saw her, though he'd tried to explain it a few times with little success). "we are sorry if we've troubled you. which do you prefer?"

she considers for a moment before following him out of their bedroom. "i wish i did not have a name at times like these, vector. it makes everything so much more difficult. i don't even have my own identity that wasn't cultivated by intelligence."

he simply listens as she walks into the kitchen, pacing back and forth as the thoughts fly through her mind at breakneck speed. she's never been more grateful for him as she thinks to herself, and he simply continues to prepare dinner alongside her. it isn't until they've sat down across from each other that she responds to his question, "the ensign once told me on my official records, my name is ana'la. would you like to call me that, vector?"

"we would be happy to call you whatever you prefer, ana'la. names are not everything." he says, picking up his own cutlery as he tries to comfort her, "all that matters, is that we love each other."

she seems surprised for just a moment before looking down at her own plate with a certain satisfaction in her eyes. "thank you, vector."

"we are happy to be with you, ana'la." he responds, though instead of indirectly looking at her (as he typically does), he finds that her aura is rather odd. it's color remains the same, an indistinct grey tinged with red and pink, as it typically is when they spend time together, but something is making it white. he won't prod into how she's feeling at the moment, but he is curious. what has his wife feeling such a way?

month 3.

khelen didn't tend to ever eat much as it was, but this was getting a bit ridiculous, even for her. the odd way how she couldn't ever hold anything down, even her most favorite delicacies from vector. water was the only thing that would stay down, and she was beginning to have an aversion to even the most pleasant smells.

she was concerned she was going mad. maybe the workaholic lifestyle and done something unspeakable to her, and now she was feeling the after effects? she tried to keep a myriad of other other fragrances about the apartment to keep the feeling of retching out of her mind. it proved difficult, and she eventually threw quite a few away after realizing that vector's enhanced senses were most likely going absolutely bonkers with the strong smells. it seemed the smell of the constant kaasian rain was the only thing that would soothe her, and so that lead to the couple's apartment windows being open a portion of the time.

to say the least, it was still annoying to be so absolutely sick that she didn't want to continue getting out of bed half the time. she was considering holoing lokin at this point, and she rarely if ever contacted her old crew, vector excepted. kaliyo was somewhere in the underbellies of dromound kaas after she dropped out of contact, temple returned to serving the ascendancy and the empire, SCORPIO could be doing something highly illegal, and lokin was always going back and forth between morally questionable medical conferences. she always kept tabs on them, even if it didn't benefit her directly. she still cared about their well-being, even if they didn't.

but being bed-ridden didn't fancy her. at all. the nightmares plagued her, being controlled by watcher x again and again, by the sis. keeping busy, even working on the side for intelligence is what kept her mostly sane. her obvious health issues kept her out of the field for a long while, but once this spell passed, she'd try and begin working in diplomatic services with vector. maybe they wouldn't see each other as much anymore, but it was better than being home alone.

wrapped up in one of vector's jackets, she usually sleeps or reads until he returns home. her current holonovel was just wrapping up, so she'd have to go and buy another soon. with nothing better to do, she might as well train her mind in puzzles and literature while in this state. she'd been slacking lately, and there was no way intelligence would take her back without the required skills.

the door opens just as she's sitting up from her perch on the bed, brushing her hair back as she tries to keep her meager breakfast down. vector must've been back early today. padding out the bedroom, she finds him just taking off his overcoat and hanging it on one of the nobs near the door. she offers him a smile, and he returns it. "you're back early, vector. is something wrong?"

"there is nothing wrong, ana'la." he responds softly, a kiss pressed to her forehead as he puts down his bad. "we were let go early today. we wished to see you again, we were concerned you were ill."

"i'll be fine, vector." she responds, trying to choke back the bile building up in her throat again as she covers her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt. "i've been sick before, and survived worse."

he doesn't respond, but frowns in disbelief. khelan would know this, after knowing him for so long. he often doesn't try to hide his facial features and the emotions tied to them, and she knows good and well he doesn't believe her. "i've been resting lately, if that makes you feel any better." she says, trying to comfort him. speaking isn't helping either, and the feverish feeling she gets before inevitably tossing her last meal is beginning to creep back into her system. "it's most likely just a harmless virus."

"your aura is...different." vector makes note, and she figures he isn't looking directly at her anymore. what does it typically look like? she'd never understood how her husband saw her through his lens, and she wondered if there was some sort of chart she could find somewhere on joiner's and their auras.

"i'm sure it is, doesn't sickness affect it as well?" khelan tilts her head just a bit, and brushes the hair out of her face as he seems to contemplate it, pacing into the kitchen. is he upset? sometimes he bakes when he's feeling upset (she wouldn't exactly complain, they were still very good, but it does concern her when he does). "vector, talk to me. is there something wrong?"

"your aura is, special. we are unsure of why." he says pointedly. "white represents that of purity, and childish natures. we don't believe you radiate much of either."

she decides not to comment here, as he most likely has more to say, "we don't wish to worry you or plant the seeds of doubt in your mind, ana'la."

"do you believe there is something wrong, vector? do you believe that's why i feel ill?" khelan still isn't catching onto what he's saying, or if he's trying to imply something to her. he continues to pace into the living room as she hurries to follow him before he pauses abruptly, "whatever it is, i'm sure we can face it together." she whispers, though she isn't sure this is that's the best answer. what if she's dying? what if her life is ending, and there's nothing they can do to stop it?

he seems unsure of himself before finally turning fully to her, "we've only seen this aura a few times in our life. but, we believe you are with child, ana'la."

something stops functioning properly as she tries to soak in what he's admitting to assuming. child? as in, she'd be a mother in a few, short months should she allow it to continue? how? and when? they had always been careful, and rarely if ever made love to each other as it was. how did this happen? why?

could she be a mother? a functional one at least? visions of the fire blare through her mind, as her adoptive father yanked her older brother away and her older sister tried to protect her the best she could from the dangerous situation. would her child end up in such a situation, khelan unable to protect them from something lethal?

"this is all speculation, ana'la." he breaks her train of thought to tilt her head upwards from where she'd been staring at her hands. "it could be nothing, for all we know. do not panic yourself over the unknown."

it would explain the sudden onset of these horrid symptoms for the last two moments. the vomiting, the unexplainable aversion to her favorite foods. she'd heard about it a few times around the agents she'd met that were now off the field and happy with children, but had never expected it would happen to her. she and vector had never spoken at length about it, ever. it was just a subject that never fascinated her to any end, and so it didn't matter.

or she could be dying. that's a possibility too. one she'd rather not think about at that moment, though it itches at the back of her mind. "possibly you're right, vector."

"do you believe so?" he asks, his face still contorted into that of concern and confusion. "we would believe you would be the first to deny such a thing."

"it makes sense, to say the least." she responds, wringing her hands out as the thunder crashes over her words and thoughts, "this may not be our most ideal situation."

"maybe not." he answers, still seeming uneasy. "at least your child will still grow up here instead of a battleground. they will have a loving mother, and pick up your own admirable traits." she turns an eyebrow up as he continues on, "intelligent, clever, compassionate. beautiful. we have high hopes for your child, ana'la."

"i...yes. thank you vector." he seems satisfied with her answer, and presses a kiss to her forehead to reassure her, her cheeks heated as he makes the observation. still after all these years, he's still able to stun her with his way with words.

she pauses to think for just a moment, before responding with what was on her mind while he spoke, "it seems you forget i've never been with another man though. this is your child, as much as they are mine."

he smiles for once in the entire encounter, and surprises her by picking up around the waist. she holds back a shriek as he smiles, as her own legs latch around his waist to keep from falling. "we do not believe you understand how happy that makes us, ana'la."

"i can make some guesses." she responds, managing a grin for her husband as he kisses her softly in the light of fading day outside.

#swtor oc #swtor #star wars the old republic #star wars #vector hyllus #female imperial agent #female imperial agent/vector hyllus #heritage universe #swtor fanfiction #swtor fanfic #fanfic

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queen-scribbles · 4 years ago

Text

Vigilance

Post-Echoes of Oblivion Keme/Jorgan, because why not?

---

Keme was trying to be quiet.

And all it took to undo her efforts was a shape darting past the balcony in her peripheral vision. Likely just a flutterplume or something else innocuous, it nevertheless provoked a reaction in her hyper-vigilant state. She managed to bite back the yelp, but her knee banged the table when she jolted. Hard enough to bruise and rattle the blaster rifle component spread in front of her for cleaning.

Dammit. She grimaced and tensed when she heard movement from the bedroom. That was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid, but military careers did not heavy sleepers make.

There was a moment of silence, where she pictured Aric noting her side of the bed was empty(and had been long enough the sheets were cool) and then, just loud enough to carry, “Keme?”

“Out here,” she called back, rubbing her knee and scowling at the window, now empty of whatever had startled her and showing only purple-black sky.

The bed squeaked. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Keme sighed. “I was trying not to wake you, sorry.”

Another beat, another squeak, followed by the shuffled of footsteps and Aric’s voice from the open doorway to their bedroom(she should have remembered to close that). “So if everything’s alright, what’re you doing up?”

She fiddled with the vibration cell for her rifle and didn’t turn to look at him. “Just couldn’t sleep.” Didn’t want to sleep. “This seemed more productive than staring at the ceiling.”

He huffed a quiet laugh as he moved to join her. “You didn’t drink Theron’s caf, did you?”

“Hell, no,” Keme chuckled in return. “I get wired enough off the regular stuff; I think that high-octane abomination he and Hylo drink might kill me.” She let her gaze settle on the scar across his chest as he sat on the couch, ‘looking at him’ without making eye contact for fear he’d read her like a holonovel.

Unfortunately, he could read the avoidance just as well. “Keme. What’s wrong? And don’t say nothing, you only do this sort of thing when something’s bothering you.”

Her sigh was tinged with a growl. “It’s not... just that I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, meeting his gaze with lingering reluctance. “I don’t want to.”

Aric’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

Keme wrinkled her nose and ran one hand through her hair. “It’s silly...” Part of why I didn’t want to wake you...

“I doubt that,” he scoffed. “You have good instincts, Commander; if it’s bothering you enough to prompt midnight weapon maintenance, odds are it’s not silly.”

She smiled wryly at the confidence in his voice, even rough with sleep, but hesitated a moment before the words finally tumbled out. “I’m worried he’ll still be there.”

“Valkorion?” Aric asked gruffly after a beat.

Keme nodded, tucked back hair the movement freed.”I know he’s supposedly gone for good, but...” She bit her lip and sighed. “I’ve thought that twice, Aric. Twice he was gone and twice he came back.” Her fingers curled into the rug beneath her. “And now even with everyone from Satele to Lana to Senya telling me he’s gone, the Force feels different, I don’t believe it. I’m not connected to the Force like they are, I can’t be sure.” Her gaze dropped to the rifle spread across the table. “I feel like I have to be ready, have to be vigilant, so if he comes back again, I can end him again. However many times it takes.”

He didn’t say anything, but she could feel him watching as she started slotting the pieces of her rifle back together.

She didn’t make it far before setting the half-assembled weapon down and meeting his gaze again. “And I’m afraid even if he never... physically comes back, I”ll still see him in my dreams.”

“Hey. Come here.” Aric reached down and tugged her arm to move her from her spot on the floor to sit next to him. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders to pull her close. “He was in your head, Keme.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “While I absolutely believe you’re capable of destroying him for good, it makes sense to worry he’ll pop back up. It’s the furthest thing from silly to consider a devious and powerful enemy having an escape plan; that’s just good tactical sense.”

Her lips curved in a smile at his reassurance and she traced her fingers along the scar on his chest as his thumb brushed over one on her shoulder. “Nice to have someone who doesn’t think I’m just paranoid.”

“Never, boss.” There was a heavy dose of amusement in his voice. “Feel like you’ll be coming back to bed soon, or do you want company out here?”

Keme pulled back enough to shoot him a protesting look. “Jorgan, I can’t ask-”

“You’re not,” he cut her off, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “‘Sides, the Special could prob’ly use a good once-over. It’s been a while.”

She doubted that; he took better care of that rifle than some people did their children. But she also knew what his offering meant, so, “Company would be kinda nice. If you need to clean it anyway...”

He nodded, smiled, and extricated himself with one last kiss to the top of her head. “Be right back.”

Keme eased herself back to the floor as he ducked into the bedroom and resumed reassembling her blaster rifle.

Aric reappeared after a little over a minute, the well-loved duranium-barrel special held in one hand while the other finished yanking on a dark grey t-shirt. He paused a moment to make mental calculations about space, then sat on the floor next to her to start disassembling his sniper rifle for cleaning.

They worked in silence, but just his being there helped settle her frayed nerves after today. He had her back, trusted her instincts, and she trusted him. Thoroughly and implicitly. It didn’t take long for them to finish--she’d been half done when he woke up, and the Special really didn’t need the once-over he gave it.

“Still not tired,” Keme muttered, setting her rifle on the table and rubbing her eyes with thumb and forefinger. She managed to swallow the threatening yawn, but it still stretched her words on the way down.

“Keme.” Aric shot her a skeptical look as he rested his gun across one of the chairs.

“Still don’t wanna sleep,” she corrected herself. She plunked on the sofa, leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling. Much as she hated it, she couldn’t shake the sick dread she’d see him if she fell asleep.

Aric sat next to her, shifting to lean against where the couch arm met the back, and tugged her close again. “Alright.”

The angle had her reclining, and his heartbeat in her ear, and she knew exactly what he was doing. She smiled wryly into his chest. Every time she thought she couldn’t love him more he went and proved her wrong. “You don’t have to stay out here, y’know,” she murmured as she settled in on top of him.

He slid an arm around her and his chin pressed lightly to the top of her head. “I spent five years sleeping without you, like hell that’s happening ever again if I have any say in the matter.”

She laughed against his shirt. “Love you.”

His arm tightened around her briefly, and she’d bet her favorite boots he was smiling. “Love you, too.”

Under the circumstances, Keme wasn’t really surprised when she started drifting off. She was, a little, in that muzzy, half-aware sense, that she didn’t fight it. The steady rhythm of her husband’s heart was an alluring lullaby, and the weight of his arm around her a silent promise it was safe to let her guard down.

So she did.

Her dreams were much more pleasant than she’d anticipated.

#queens fic #kementari rand #aric jorgan #keme/jorgan #otp: got your back #I LOVE THEM

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azems-familiar · 6 years ago

Note

Hi, hope you don't mind more prompts: nr 2 "none of this is your fault". Thanks!

this got, long, so have 1645 of kinda angsty post Order 66 fun and reunions!

It’s been a little over a year since the day his life shattered.

Since the day the war ended, the day he thought, for just a moment, that maybe- Maybe there could be a future outside the endless fighting and the loss and the pain, that maybe he could take the chance he’d always held himself somewhat back from. Grievous was dead, Dooku dead, and the look on- on Cody’s face as he handed Obi-Wan his lightsaber back was something warm and fond and tender, and he’d thought-

Well. He supposes it doesn’t matter what he’d thought, anymore, now does it?

Life on Tatooine is quiet, a far cry from the peace of the Temple before the war, or the frenetic pace of the Clone War, dashing back and forth across the galaxy. Too quiet, sometimes; all he has for company are his ghosts, most days, or Owen and Beru, on the rare times they let him see Luke or he needs help with his vaporators. From Anakin to Qui-Gon, the memories are all there, taunting him every time he closes his eyes.

Train him.

I hate you!

There is still good left in him…

And of course, the worst one, in some ways: starting up the cliffside of the Pau City sinkhole, feeling a shout of warning in the Force, and then the cannons firing - feeling the way his men’s Force signatures suddenly warped, twisted into something unfamiliar and heavy and wrong, wrong, wrong, and then falling, and then-

In any case, he almost wishes for something to keep him occupied, to keep his mind off the still-aching emptiness of the Force and the way he still sometimes glances over his shoulder to say something to Anakin, or Cody - that’s the primary reason he’d started investigating Jabba’s movements and going after his supply shipments. Part of it, of course, had been he could never let himself sit idly by and let the slavery and the stealing and the corruption go on, but if he’s honest with himself - which he’s never been too good at, he supposes - he’d needed the distraction from everything and everyone he’d failed.

Ahsoka contacts him, occasionally - he knows she’s working with Bail to form a rebellion. She’s been trying to get him to join, but he can’t leave Luke alone. Besides, Ahsoka is a strong young woman; he has faith in her abilities.

The comms can be frustrating, though, especially on a day like today, when the endless sands and the burning suns seem to have sucked the life out of him - he doesn’t have the energy to argue with her again.

“Obi-Wan,” Ahsoka says, when he answers the comm.

He sighs, rubs at his forehead. “Ahsoka, I’m not in the mood,” he says, before she can get anything else out.

“This isn’t about rebelling,” she says. “I’ve… found something of yours, I’m bringing it to Tatooine.”

He chuckles, though it feels not-quite-forced. “What, did you land on one of the multiple planets I left a cloak behind on? That’s hardly important enough to warrant the trip.”

“Something like that,” Ahsoka says, evasive.

He knows her well enough to know she’s hiding something; today, he’s too tired to probe. “Alright, then,” he says. “I’ll be here. Please don’t let the Empire know.”

“Trust me, Obi-Wan, I’m better than that,” she says.

He doesn’t tell her that’s what Anakin always said, right before getting them into some terrible mess. The wound is still too fresh, and in any case, she’d know that.

The comm cuts off and he sighs, rubs at his temples. What in the galaxy could she have found that’d warrant a visit all the way to this wretched hellhole?

If it really is one of his cloaks, he’ll-

Oh, what’s the point anymore?

He almost doesn’t bother to clean up the hut, although he manages to sweep out some of the sand (it’s impossible to keep it out, he’s tried everything) and organize the small stack of holonovels and the two precious holocrons he’d managed to save from the Archives. It helps keep him busy, anyway, and after a while he goes out to check on the vaporators, and he waits.

He’s been doing nothing but waiting, it seems like, these days.

Ahsoka’s ship lands on a dune nearby his hut, late evening, as the twin suns are slowly sinking into the western sky, turning everything blood red and warm gold and streaked with violet; Obi-Wan steps through his door and paces a couple meters from the hut, squints a bit against the setting suns.

There’s three figures walking towards him, silhouetted against the sky. Ahsoka is one of them, her montrals are distinctive, and he thinks the two others are clones - one’s likely Rex, the other another vod they must’ve gotten out. Good, that’s good, although it means he should’ve put more effort into seeming… normal.

As though there’s anything normal about this, a Jedi Master living in hiding on one of the least-liked planets in the galaxy, an absolute hive of scum and villainy, trying to evade his own men and his own padawan.

One of the two clone-figures freezes in place on top of the nearest dune, and Obi-Wan frowns, narrows his eyes, notes the other (who must be Rex - it’s not like Rex would be surprised by Obi-Wan’s appearance) taking the first clone’s arm. He watches them a moment, then shakes himself, turns back to Ahsoka, who’s nearly to him, crosses the last of the distance himself and sighs. “Ahsoka, what’s this about me losing something?”

Ahsoka just smiles (damn it, but he’s fairly certain she picked that trick up from him) and nods a bit back at the two figures making their slow way down the face of the dune, and in that moment, the light shifts and he’s finally able to make out their faces.

Thick dark hair, longer than he remembers, falling into amber eyes colored with apprehension and shame, a scar curling around his left eye.

Cody.

Obi-Wan doesn’t entirely realize he’s moving until he stops in front of his Commander, who hasn’t moved a muscle since their eyes met, is not-quite-shaking, the last golden-red rays of sunlight melting over his face and setting him ablaze. “Cody,” he says, soft, too soft, lifts one hand to ever-so-lightly skim across Cody’s scar.

“Sir-” Cody’s voice is strangled, and he tilts his head into Obi-Wan’s hand, seemingly unable to hold still. “Sir, I didn’t mean- I’m sorry,” and his voice cracks and shatters, tears welling up brightly-crystalline in his eyes.

“Oh, Cody,” Obi-Wan says, and pulls his Commander into a hug. Cody buries his face in Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and Obi tilts his head so he can tuck his nose into Cody’s hair, letting out a breath it seems like he’s been holding since his world came crashing down. “None of this is your fault, my dear.”

Even when he feels Cody’s shoulders shake beneath his arms, it still takes Obi-Wan a moment to realize his Commander is crying.

He’s only ever seen Cody cry once.

(It’s a long, somber hyperspace trip back to Coruscant from the mess that was Umbara; Scratch and half his medical team are on board the Resolute, tending to saber wounds and exhausted troopers, leaving only a skeleton team in the medbay. At first, Obi-Wan thinks that’s where he’ll find Cody, checking in on their injured, but to his surprise the medbay is quiet, the lights dimmed to night-cycle brightness. Cody’s not in the barracks, either, which is where he should be, sleeping off their latest battle - nor is he in the mess, where they meet late at night when nightmares get to be too much and neither of them can stand to be alone with their thoughts.

He finds his Commander standing at one of the massive bay windows facing out into space, staring at the blue glow of hyperspace, casting his features in an otherworldly light. He’s whispering, under his breath, lips barely moving, and although he can’t hear the words Obi-Wan thinks he knows what’s being said.

“Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc,” Obi-Wan says, soft, stepping up beside Cody’s shoulder. “Ni partayli, gar darasuum.”

Cody twitches slightly at the Mando’a, turns his head to look at Obi-Wan, and only then does Obi-Wan see the tears on his cheeks.

“Waxer,” Obi-Wan says, and Cody nods.

He tugs his Commander into his arms and lets Cody cry on his shoulder, and after a while shifts him so they’re sitting, back against the wall, the blue of hyperspace turning everything blue, like his lightsaber, like grief, like the paint on all those broken bodies. Eventually Cody’s tears peter off and his Commander dozes off, head on Obi-Wan’s shoulder; he sits in the silence and watches Cody breathe and tries not to feel helpless.)

“It’s going to be alright, Cody,” Obi-Wan says, pulling himself to the present with an effort, and kisses the top of Cody’s head. “I’ve got you.”

Obi-Wan tilts his head to one side, just a bit, and Rex catches his eye, hands quickly sketching out a message in the old GAR sign language: we’ll wait on the ship. He nods once in acknowledgement, tugs on Cody’s shoulder just a bit, says, quietly, “Why don’t we go inside? Rex and Ahsoka will join us in a bit.”

“Okay,” Cody says, raspy and hoarse, pulling back completely and shifting as though he intends to fall into parade rest.

That won’t do at all.

Obi-Wan tucks an arm around Cody’s shoulder, pulls his Commander against his side, and turns and starts for his hut. “Come on, cyar’ika,” he says, lightly, the endearment slipping out almost without his notice. “We have a lot to talk about.”

Cody nods, hesitantly slips his own arm around Obi-Wan’s waist, and Obi-Wan smiles and hopes that for once, he won’t have to let go.

#codywan #tcw #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #post order 66 #my writing

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inyri · 6 years ago

Note

Fluff prompt: warmth

(I thought the recent weather we’ve had here suited this one rather nicely.

SWTOR. Nine/Theron.)

Of all the terrible romance holonovels Nine has read over the years, by her own reckoning at least twenty percent of them featured some variation on the classic theme: oh, no, it’s so terribly cold and we’ve only got one bed, whatever shall we do? (The outcome was inevitable, of course. She’s never claimed to have good taste when it came to literature, but good taste was decidedly beside the point.

A girl’s got needs.)

Not a single fucking one of them covered this particular situation.

She’s always hated Hoth. The only predictable thing about the whole planet was that the weather was going to be lousy and this run was no exception, one unceasing snowstorm ever since the shuttle landed. But they needed the fuel cells and the pirates were easy prey, just a quick speeder trip in and out of their territory-

-until the left-hand engine sucked in a chunk of ice the size of her head. Sparking and sputtering, the speeder skids to a halt and the loaded cargo skiff nearly pulls the whole rig over sideways before it settles up beside a snowdrift.

“It’ll be fine.” Theron shouts, looking back over his shoulder until she can just hear him above the howling wind. “I just need to-” he turns the engine over, or tries to; it whines pathetically as he revs the throttle and starts to glow a worrisome shade of orange- “okay, that didn’t work. Let me try something else.”

When he dismounts the snow’s up to his knees. The ice shards are still wedged in the intake and he tags at one piece, then another, slipping off one padded glove to prod at the jammed mechanism before he almost immediately pulls it on again.

“I can fix it,” he says after a moment. “But I don’t think I can fix it right now.”

“Then we’d better start rigging up a shelter, or we won’t last long enough to have the chance. I don’t think this storm-” her mask prickles against her face, the heat of her breath not enough to thaw the frost as she does a few quick calculations in her head. In this cold and wind they’ve got half an hour, probably, before they risk losing toes. Maybe less than that.

Theron nods. “Might have something better. Hold on.” He tilts his head. “You up for a hike?”

“Define hike.” She’s already off the speeder, though, pulling the camouflage covers out from beneath the seat. Storm or not, she’ll be damned if those pirates steal the power cells back (they were Imperial property to begin with, technically speaking, so really she’s just taking them back, right?), and the skiff’s far too heavy to haul behind them to shelter. “Tatooine, or Belsavis?”

“I’m pretty sure I apologized for Belsavis.”

“The swamp was particularly scenic the third time around.” She throws the far end of the tarp at him and he hooks it down against the skiff. “Although their MaxSec is a joke. I could have broken out of there with a shoelace and a sharp stick.”

That was a grin, she thinks. It’s hard to tell beneath mask and scarf and hood and goggles. “I bet. And think Tatooine- I’m picking up a bolthole a half-klick east. We picked a good place to break down.”

“Next time, shoot for a sauna.”

Theron takes point with the emergency pack slung over one shoulder, breaking a rough trail insofar as it’s possible with ice stinging through their coats and snow drifting in heaps and piles waist-high in places, filling in his footprints almost before she can step into them. But he keeps moving forward and she pushes hard to keep pace- his strides are longer and she could have run this distance twenty times over without a thought but running’s one thing; slogging on half-numb feet with a headwind faster than they’re moving’s something else entirely. After two hundred meters he signs back at her, glancing over his shoulder. Okay?

She returns the sign and points forward- keep going.

Void, she hates Hoth.

Another hundred meters and then another hundred. They must be nearly on top of it by now but she still can’t see it, doesn’t even really know what they’re looking for but clearly Theron does; he stops abruptly and crouches down beside a snowbank, digging with both hands until he strikes something solid. Even then he keeps going, clearing off a flat surface- after a minute she grabs the pack off his shoulder and pulls out the little folding shovel and sets in beside him- until a small metallic hatch with a ring-shaped handle sits exposed.

A very small hatch.

She thinks she knows what’s beyond it. (For a brief regretful moment she recalls a dugout trench on Alderaan, up to her hips in rubble and mud in the middle of a warzone and fighting a Sith for the one dry foxhole until he threw her half the length of the trench and slammed the entrance shut before she could move again. That ended up working in her favor; an artillery barrage took out the whole damned emplacement ten minutes later.) It’ll be tight quarters, but better than nothing. Better than freezing to death.

She and Theron both reach for the ring, pulling backward together until the door hinges open with a squeal of protest. “After you.” Theron gestures into the darkness beyond the hatch.

“If a wampa eats me-” she reaches into the pack again, pulling out a chemlight and cracking it between her hands- “I will haunt you forever. Fair warning.”

Crouching, one hand on her knife and the chemlight in the other, she makes her way slowly down the entrance tunnel into the main room of the shelter. It’s empty, at least- probably an old Republic hideout if Theron had it in his own maps, and this stretch of terrain’s still nominally White Maw territory- but scarcely large enough for one person, let alone two: a padded mat and sleepsack, a few hooks for hanging wet gear, a little camp-style ‘fresher in one corner. But it’s dry, and warmer than outside. It’s something. She calls back to Theron.

“Wampa-free. Latch the door behind you.”

There ought to be a lantern in their kit somewhere, she thinks, and she crouches down to look for it just as he clears the entrance and almost trips over her. “Well,” he says, bracing himself against the wall, “this is cozy. Sorry. If I’d known-”

“It’s not so bad. ” Lantern lit, she hands it up to him. “Hang this up there?”

“I could go find a tauntaun. Had a buddy who claims he sheltered through a storm inside a dead one once.”

The light bounces off the walls, casting shadows into the corners; she pulls off her goggles, hat and mask and ah, that’s better and- wait. “You can’t be serious.”

Theron shrugs. “Cross my heart. Gutted it with a-”

“Force, imagine the smell. I’d rather freeze to death.” She wrinkles her nose. “Help me get my jacket off.”

Gloves off next, half-sodden and studded with ice- that’s what she gets for wearing combat gloves in this weather. Her fingers shriek protest but start to pink up quickly; flexing her hands for a minute until she can almost feel them, she manages to get all her coat fastenings undone and holds up her arms. Theron reaches for her sleeves, tugging the heavy jacket off over her head. “I don’t think this place actually has heat, speaking of freezing to death. Are you sure you want to kit down?”

“Better than wet gear, and it’s warm enough to sleep- we’ll barely fit in the sleepsack as it is, let alone in all that extra padding. This storm’s supposed to last all night, so we may as well get some rest.”

“You should sleep. I can-”

She wiggles one foot free of her boot and kicks it at him. “Warmer with two. Unless you’ve gotten tired of sleeping with me?”

“That isn’t-” Seeing her grin, Theron stops answering just long enough to drop a chunk of snow onto the back of her neck and as she yelps and swats at him he finally starts to undress himself, coat and insulated trousers and scarf and hat and boots all put up carefully to dry until he’s standing in just his woven undersuit and rolls his eyes at her when she whistles appreciatively. “You know what I meant. Now take off your pants.”

“Rather forward of you,” she says, unhooking her belt as she tries to get up again; in the little space she has to stand on the padded mat. “Considering.”

He dabs at a water droplet on the mat with one sock-clad foot; the snow’s been melting as she sat. “It’s that or you get the wet spot. Your choice.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Have fun with your tauntaun.” The effect’s entirely ruined by her giggling- he’s not nearly so serious as he likes to pretend but in all their time together she’s pretty sure he’s joked about sex exactly twice (that being the second time) and given the circumstances she can’t help but laugh as she wriggles out of her own trousers. “As for me, I’m going to sleep.”

Theron knows she’s teasing, of course. She can tell by the way he kisses her.

It’s a close fit as they both settle into the sleepsack, doing up the fastening to keep as much heat in as possible. But moving’s overrated, anyway, with his arms around her waist and breath on the back of her neck, and before long her eyelids flicker with the lamplight.

“See?” she murmurs. “Warmer with two.”

“Mm.”

#inyri writes #fluff prompts #nine/theron #swtor fanfiction #equivalent exchange outtakes #look i wrote fluff it's a miracle #keldae

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