#it's not a good sign when you hear the imperial march in your head when thinking of college work is it

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

Seeing the same people who perpetuated or sent vicious misogynistic hate to Hannah Schmitz, as well as disgusting racist abuse towards Yuki and Alex because of FUCKING CONSPIRACY THEORIES and those who just straight up ignored it, now up in arms regarding whatever the fuck is going on between the FIA and the wolffs is beginning to piss me off. Because now that it's not someone red bull affiliated involved, it's somehow now unacceptable.

[icarusthelunarguard]

This Week’s Horrible-Scopes

It’s time for this week’s Horrible-Scopes! So for those of you that know your Astrological Signs, cool! If not, just pick one, roll a D12, or just make it up as you go along. It really doesn’t matter.

Aries 

No matter what you think, we’re not here to judge you. Others might, but we won’t. To that end… You didn’t want to take down your… “Year-End Holiday Lights”, and that’s OK! But may we suggest you trade them out for those new-fangled color-programmable ones? Slave them to your Home Automation system and they’ll change with each new holiday’s theme with no direct input from you. Sadly we’ve already passed May 9th, which was Lost Sock Memorial Day. So add that to your holiday list for next year. 

Taurus 

Let’s face facts - you are never going to beat that Super Mario Brothers Arcade Game High Score anytime soon. Oh, you were good in your youth, and you could afford to buy an original 1983 coin-op cabinet to play on… but do you really think you can score over Five and-a-half Million Points to take the world record away? We don’t think so either. Save that $1,500 and take a vacation next month. 

Gemini  

Remember the cartoon series ReBoot? It was produced between 1994 and 2002. One of the opening lines was, “They say the User lives outside the Net and inputs games for pleasure.” Well guess what was released to the public in 2001 by Nintendo. That’s right… a Blue… Game… Cube! If Mainframe Entertainment had TradeMarked that term, they could’ve gotten some kind of marketing deal with Nintendo and had Money To Spare! (*Sigh*) This week, try to think way ahead.

Cancer Moon-Child 

There’s a specific set of dice that are used in table-top gaming: D4, D6, D8, D10, D12, and D20. They’re all some typical geometric shapes, but. There have been some weird ones that’ve come down the pike ever since. So yes, you can buy a D1, which is a form that ALWAYS lands on a specific side, and the D7 which is a Klingon Battleship. This week, remember that The Fourth will be with you, Always. 

Leo 

You remember hearing how “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees is one of the best songs to use to time your CPR Compressions? It’s not the only one. You could use ABBA’s “Dancing Queen”, “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor, “One Week” by the Barenaked Ladies, or, ironically enough, “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen. But if you really want to screw with the person’s head as they come to, have everyone around you hum “The Imperial March” from Star Wars. That’ll scare them enough to wake them up without resorting to smelling salts. This week, listen to some old music again.

Virgo 

Speaking of Smelling Salts… Don’t use them! Sure, it’s kinda funny to use them as a prank to wake up your friends when they’ve fallen asleep first at a party, but don’t use them when playing sports. Yes, you can get a hit of oxygen into your blood due to more respiration, but you don’t need it. You’re an umpire… at a Pee-Wee T-Ball league. Just relax this week.

Libra 

It’s five o’clock somewhere, so you might as well have a drink!  Come to think of it, have a lot of drinks, but make it a challenge; Run something through your Soda Stream that isn’t supposed to be. Something alcoholic. Better yet, you’re smart and innovative. The patent for the original “SodaStream”.. OH, sorry… the “aerating liquid machine” expired a long time ago. Go ahead and redesign it to work with liquors and make a killing in the Novelty Bar Drink market!  

Scorpio 

Speaking of drinks, Scorpio; This week you’re going to visit an old house. Make sure you have an extra-bright flashlight with you because you’re going to find a bomb. Not a munition, but an old Hawaiian Punch tin can from the early 1980’s. It’ll look like a blue and red mis-shapen rugby ball. DO NOT TOUCH THIS UNHAPPY ABOMINATION! Just take a picture and walk away. Leave disarming that to the professionals.

Sagittarius 

You need to clean up your Whatnot Drawer in the kitchen, like it or not. First off, that bag of rubber bands? They’ve dried up and crumbled into chunks. The super glue hasn’t dried out yet, but it’s almost ready to spill all over the battery cases. And as for those, you have three locations where you’ve been storing batteries. Just condense it into one place. This week just… get your act together.

Capricorn 

Sexy asked for, sexy delivered. We’re challenging you to buy the thinnest, tightest bikini possible for the summer. And before you ask, no! You’re not going to buy it from Wicked Weasle, the Barely There Bikini Shop, or Bitsy’s Bikinis. Head out to your local hardware store and get yourself a gallon of Benjamin Moore Latex, a 3-Inch natural-hair brush, and an understanding get-away driver for the beach. Good luck!

Aquarius 

You get a sexy one too! You’ve been worried about your weight, and we’re going to tell you not to. A couple kilos isn’t gonna kill you, and it might even be fun. Some of your clothing’s gonna fit a little tighter, look a little smoother, and need you to reconsider sporting underwear to keep the lines unblemished. Now, remember, we said “a couple” kilos, meaning two; not three or four. You start making excuses and rationalizations and you might as well buy an emergency sewing repair kit. Actually, do that anyway.  

Pisces  

When everyone said, “May the Fourth be with you”, and you answered back, “- and also with you”... We get it. It’s OK. It’s like muscle memory now. You can stop being embarrassed about it now. Just take a breath and have a drink of wine to calm your nerves. But, you know… not that watered down stuff. Drink the GOOD stuff. Riunite… on ice. It’s So Nice! (Yes, it’s a hold over from last week’s commercial theme. It was tough coming up with one for you, alright?)

And THOSE are your Horrible-Scopes for this week! Remember if you liked what you got, we’re obviously not working hard enough at these. BUT! If you want a better or nastier one for your own sign or someone else’s, all you need to do to bribe me is just Let Me Know! These will be posted online at the end of each week via Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook and Discord.

[justalost4girl]

" If anything can go wrong, it will."

Good night!! (Here it's still night :p )

A few weeks ago I said I would do a oneshot Lorraine Broughton x F! Reader, but it got too big so I decided to follow the initial idea and turn it into a mini series. I have two chapters written and I'm going to post them here and in Ao3, I think there will be 3 or 4 chapters in total, but I'm not sure yet.

English is not my first language, so all mistakes are mine.

Enjoy!!

warnings: mention of violence, R cursing, forgery of documents (?)

Words: 4573

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1989

Berlin, East Side

You feel in your bones, when you wake up, the consequences of last night and think that the famous Murphy's Law decided to test you. On this side of the wall few things go right, but having an order in your head two days after joining STASI's wanted list proves that nothing is so bad it can't get any worse. Courtesy of a dumb customer who messed with the wrong people and thought revealing where you find your customers would be enough information to escape death. The Local Gang (or Angels, as they call themselves) loves to eliminate competition from the market.

Now he's dead and you have to deal with the STASI AND the Local Gang (you refuse to call them Angels).

The local fucking gang that sent a team of idiots to break into your favorite bar and made you run out the back door before meeting a customer who was going to pay well. The local fucking gang who must be pissed that you shot the six dumbest members you've ever had to face in your life. No really fatal shots, but of course that won't matter as they do business with the KGB.

Sometimes you want to ignore the rules you've made for yourself, especially "never kill someone unless it's in defense of yourself or someone you love", but you think killing six agents who don't have the ability to set up an ambush of success would be a great waste of bullets. Now you know you're going to have to leave town soon and you have no idea how to break the news to your brother/partner, how do you honorably abandon a war before it's over?

Damn Murphy's Law

You know you need to sort this out, but you refuse to stay in bed crying over what's already written and decide to leave the wonderful Egyptian linen sheets you got from your favorite client last month to face the world and it's impossible to face the world without a good amount of coffee. After a quick shower with a cup of Blue Mountain in hand, your newest addiction, you sit in a robe in a nice armchair, look out the window at dying Berlin and thank heaven for the comfortable life you've earned by working with one of the greatest smugglers on this side of the wall, perhaps from all over Germany. Some desperate customers offer you valuable items from them in exchange for passports and unlike your idiot “brother”, you don't have a rule about only receiving cash. Almost everything here comes from gifts, from the sofa, pictures, bags, clothes and even some books on your shelf. You don't even remember buying that cup, or the coffee set, for gods' sake.

If he saw you now he'd complain about being soft with customers and say something about how items aren't a bargaining chip in the real world, you'd get into a tiresome discussion about enjoying the finer things in life and how bills don't compare in the importance of yours. silver chain with moon pendant that was once an amulet for more than three generations for a French family.

At the end of the day, Merkel has a large information network and an office that takes up half the block, where she keeps as much money as she has secrets, and you have a house decorated by other people where each object symbolizes someone you've helped.

Four walls don't make a house

The thought takes away some of the almost peace you feel and you decide to finish your coffee before it gets cold.

After a quick glance at the calendar you remember about the march that will take place in Alexanderplatz square and decide to go scream for Germany one last time, hopefully you'll be able to hide long enough to see the fall of the damn wall that divides this country. It's not your country, not really, you don't even like to remember how you got here, but the experiences you gained wouldn't be exchanged for anything, not even for an original Van Gogh. Also, Merkel asked you to go and bring a black umbrella, the reason was not explained and you didn't feel like asking, sometimes you think Gordon Merkel is not his name, but how to judge the man who is your only family in this end of the world? You smile when you remember that he shouldn't have an umbrella with a story as cool as his and decide to piss him off for it.

Your phone rings, and you notice you've lost track of time. Merkel was helping a blonde woman named L, he didn't give you more details other than a few stories about how she was a perfect and dangerous assassin that you should keep your distance, as few people know how to deal with her. You thought he overreacted, but you had to take over some business from him while she was in town. She seemed important considering the way he told you about her and you knew better than to deny help to the person who always supported you and declared himself a brother, you trusted him because not even the best agent in the world could fake so much sincerity and affection in claiming this title for himself.

You reach out, pick up the phone, and decide to answer it. “Hey little sister, how are you out there? I called to say that everything is fine for dinner today, but there was a mishap and the wine ran out, bring the best Bordeaux you have, I'll return the courtesy as soon as possible." A code, of course.

He needs your services ASAP. Wine is a passport, Bordeaux means two elements, courtesy involves a child.

You can combine business with pleasure "Hi brother. I'm looking forward to today, I'll take the best wine I have, don't worry. I already know how you can thank me. I need to clean the house and go to the office first, but I'll be there on time. wait for me." you say in a voice that oozes normalcy, you never know when someone's listening on the phone especially now that you're a fugitive, disgraced customer. Your body sinks into the armchair noticing the oncoming cloud of worry

Merkel now knows you need his help, as cleaning the house means getting away and going to the office shows you're in a hurry.

"Alright, do you want me to send the driver?" He asks like he's not freaking out and offering the bloody job of one of his mercenaries

“No, bro, thanks, I know the way.” You say as if you really have an escape plan besides getting a fake passport, emergency backpack and all the money you can find.

“See you later, don't forget the wine. Are you sure you don't want the driver?" You wonder if he has forgotten that knowing the way literally means everything is fine

“Relax, see you later” It takes a few seconds for him to hang up and you can hear his sigh.

He will be SO pissed.

You put the phone down as you get up to gather the passport forgery materials and put them in a briefcase. Your cookbook is already there along with some banknotes from different countries. As you pick up the black backpack of standard clothes and accessories that always waited for you in the corner of the door, you decide to wear the first jacket you bought, the dark blue jeans, the combat boots you got from a skinhead, the wristwatch you bought. you got for your brother's birthday, thick leather gloves and a thin white shirt that matches the rest of your outfit. After all, if you can die when you open the door, then die well dressed. Be sure to keep the Colt 1911 around your waist and the Russian dagger around your ankle, after yesterday you never know, Your pocket watch with the coat of arms of the Brazilian imperial family indicates that 15 minutes have passed since Merkel's phone call

You take one last look at the house you've been so proud of in recent years, snap a photo with the Polaroid you've won, and, with a bittersweet smile, close the door. One day when the wall comes down, the government changes and your face is forgotten, you can come back here, until then you will have to make do with the photo album you keep in your backpack and this photo.

Putting on your sunglasses, you arrive on the street and decide to take a taxi on the other corner, make sure you look around before leaving your home, no one knows your address, but you can't be sure the local gang is so stupid to the point of not following you after last night.

Getting a taxi was relatively easy. Neil, the driver, thanks to the boots, mistook you for a revolutionary and talked for 10 minutes about how he hoped he could take down the wall with his bare hands, you thought it was cool, but as you passed the big river that was just a few blocks away from the your brother's office, you couldn't hear a word from him.

A sign signaling that the river was closed to visitors made your eyes fill with tears. You used to go there when the day was bad, spread a blanket in a corner and watch the stars, or just laugh at the distinct reflection the water made of the moon and stars. Merkel accompanied you on anniversaries, justifying them as bonding experiences. After some freaks started swimming in the river and executions increased, STASI took over and you replaced the dark water for the restaurant's bright lights. But seeing it tightly closed gave him a feeling of anguish and rancor. You would silently curse the wall builders for the rest of the trip.

Neil seemed to notice but didn't comment on it, you thanked him, wiped your tears and left a good tip as you descended a block away from your final destination. This time you didn't need to look around because even though Merkel was super busy, he made sure to leave some security close to where your landing place was.

A tall man dressed in a red T-shirt approached you and hugged you as if he hadn't seen you in a long time. You've known him since the beginning of last year, when he arrived at Merkel's office begging for a job, and from the first moment the way he turned grief over his brother's death into a thirst for revolution made you admire the young man. The two of you walked through the great gate hand in hand as you asked about his life with genuine interest, and Klaus increasingly believed in Merkel's theory about you having such a pure heart that you didn't care about motivation or the number of lives they took, your explanation of the judgment not being your responsibility, crossed the man's head before he escorted you to the main office.

You thanked him with a smile, opened the door and stood in front of the table in the windowless room, where your brother was already waiting for you.

"What the hell happened? Are you okay? I was about to send J to get you, please tell me what happened"—he said hurriedly as he got up and pointed at the couch for you to sit on. J was one of the most dangerous women in the building and you were grateful for not wasting her time.

Putting your backpack and umbrella aside, you answered:

"I'll explain later, little brother, now let me help you. You need passports urgently, don't you?" Yes, you were stalling and postponing the conversation. He'd call you an idiot for going out on the street right after you got on the wanted list, and he'd feel guilty when he found out why you didn't tell him. Merkel wasn't going to understand that her fear of failing him was no one's fault but yourself.

Your sentence seemed to give him some responsibility back, but still, as he held out a glass of water for you, his eyes met yours with a glint that warned that this conversation was far from over.

"Yeah, I really do, but don't think I'm going to forget about it. Let's talk when this is all over. Even if it's the last thing I do today."

You accepted the glass with a bit of trepidation and stood up towards the large center table while opening the briefcase with the supplies you were going to need, if Merkel noticed the bills he didn't say anything. Once at the table, you made two passports for mother and daughter in record time. According to the clock, 10 minutes passed, faster than a car, this deserves a celebration. It would have been six if Merkel hadn't been so curious to make you waste time pulling your watch out of your pocket just for him to analyze.

Everything was going well and there was only one last detail for mother and daughter to be taken by one Percival to the other side of the wall. Percival, according to Merkel, was strange and fickle. Unreliable and extremely dangerous, you should also keep your distance from him, as this man had crucial contacts on both sides of the wall.

"He must have fewer contacts than you", you would answer

If a loud noise didn't break the silence

The annoying noise of the door creaking made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and you almost missed the last signature, it made your body vibrate with irritation and your eyes follow to the offensive source of the sound. A tall man with short hair and blue eyes was holding the doorknob with a military posture and before you could release your anger and explain something about how people shouldn't be violent inside Merkel's office you noticed he was accompanied by a woman.

AND WHAT A WOMAN!

Your eyes connected to a pair of fierce, intent green eyes, surrounded by a pale skin tone and hair so blond it looked like snow. The barely perceptible frown showed she was surprised to find someone other than Merkel there, yet she looked ready for a battle. You looked into her eyes again and nodded in acknowledgment, this must be L, the woman he was talking about.

She looked at you suspiciously, but also as if she could see into your soul, and what must have been frightening, you found endearing. A few stories of murders orchestrated by her crossed your mind, but all you could imagine is how beautiful she must be when she's mad.

They say green eyes darken when we're high on adrenaline, does that happen to her?

Her analysis of the intriguing blonde ends when she notices that the man accompanying her has raised his voice and from his furious expression, it's not the first time he's repeated the question. You interrupt him before you hear him and make sure to direct the ghost of anger before him:

"Have you lost your mind? Who walks into the office without knocking? Surely you should be here asking about passports, but if it weren't for my experience and steady hands, they would be in the trash by now. Learn to be civilized. You're under two paws not four, so act human and not animal" you say in an explosive but articulate tone to make sure he understands what you say. Sometimes when you speak fast, you are betrayed by faulty diction. Not today. Today you want this man to feel every fiber of irritation that went through his body.

Hearing Merkel holding a nervous laugh, you try to relax, but judging by the cold, almost murderous look of the man in the doorway, you've definitely gotten yourself in trouble. Looking at the organized clothes, you notice it's an old police uniform, probably taken by your brother, and unless Merkel has hired new employees, you've never seen it around here. His eyes snap back to his and something inside you warns that this must be Percival. He probably wants to kill you.

Damn Murphy's Law

A brief silence settles in the room and you shake off the fear and turn away, refusing to play the glaring game with a man who almost spoils your art. On other days you might look at him at a party, but today you want to make him swallow the ink on the stamp in his hands and invite the blonde to dinner

And it's her voice that breaks the silence.

You're flipping through the two passports for failures when she says

"Sorry, miss. My friend is an unprecedented idiot. Shall I close the door and knock again? Perhaps your highness too--"

You turn her body towards her when you hear the slightest hint of irony in her tone and interrupt her with a fake smile as you look into her eyes.

"It's not necessary, I accept your apology, Miss. I always said that Merkel should have someone armed at the door to remind everyone of the need to knock on the door. Anyone who didn't knock would lose his mind as the law of my reign says. Perhaps I should start. for him, since the top head is the last thing he wears lately" you joke look at Merkel who doesn't seem offended by the statement, shrugging you look at those blue eyes again and say "the passports are ready. Let's get out of here."

You close the passports, reach for your backpack and umbrella and start moving towards the door, both agents let you lead the way and judging by the blonde's expression, she's not used to being interrupted, nor is she used to seeing someone talking like that with Merkel, but today it was acceptable. You really think she's adorable, but you know better than to let someone make fun of you, especially in front of your brother who wouldn't let you forget about it. Either she doesn't care, or she's a great actress. Anyway, that idiot is still by her side and you refuse to be the reason for his possible laugh.

Her friend probably didn't have the same acting classes and his resemblance to the local gang members, like he's going to kill you in the blink of an eye in a cowardly way, is almost frightening. If Merkel hadn't said L is a woman, you'd be scared. It makes you shiver a little and look for Merkel, but he's not following you. Looking over his shoulder you see him putting a few more piles of dollars and euros into your briefcase. With a snap of your fingers you get his attention and before you walk out the door, you hear the briefcase click closing.

Once out of the room, you look around and realize that nothing has really changed, all faces are familiar, except for three people: a couple talking to a child. After a brief analysis you find yourself facing the passport clients, mother and daughter. The man doesn't look older than 60 and has kind eyes, almost as if he doesn't live on this side of the wall.

They don't seem to notice you

Your observation is interrupted by Merkel's loud, proud voice, right behind you. Here it comes

"This is Elizabeth Loyd and Percival, two trusted clients. Elizabeth and Percival, this is my little sister, she will be on the march today, if you need anything in the future you can talk to her."

Hearing her name, you notice that Merkel really wasn't creative at all. Who would use the initial letter of a surname as a symbol? Anyone who heard the stories about L and met a loyde who knows a Merkel would make the connection. As you turn around, you swallow your nervousness and try to put on your best smile as you say your name to them. The blonde woman who finally has a name, Elizabeth, leans closer, her eyes never leaving yours, and you wonder if she can feel the jumble of emotions that is unraveling inside you.

She smiles a smile that makes you sure she does and reaches out and greets you with a firm grip, if she noticed the sweat on your hands, she didn't let on. She also looks a little more comfortable.

Maybe because she noticed you said her real name, idiot.

You hate yourself for one second and the next you want to be without gloves because it feels soft and warm.

The man, Percival, comes next and looks at you suspiciously and the smile fades from your face, you wonder if no one else can smell the strong smell he gives off, a smell of cheap whiskey and arrogance. Still, he holds out his hand and this time you thank the gods for the gloves. Make sure you don't bow your head or fail in your posture. He still looks at you like you killed his son. Useless even to pretend, for God's sake.

Merkel watches the exchange from afar and nods to Elizabeth, she responds and Percival walks away looking uneasy. You look around uncomprehendingly, feel a little left out, and wonder which computer must have Tetris installed.

You would kill for a distraction right now.

Going out on the street in a crowded march while being chased by two groups still makes you sick.

Your brother approaches and extends his hands around you. You've missed him for the past few weeks. He still wears the perfume you gave him for his birthday and it makes you sink deeper into the hug. You know he's going to be mad when he finds out what happened so you enjoy as much affection as you can

"Little sister, in addition to our conversation I need to tell you something" his voice is low in tone and you doubt you would understand the words if you weren't so close to him "but I can't do that until the march is over. Meet me at usual table at the restaurant where we celebrate our achievements, It's very important"

His even low voice is charged with strong emotion and you are genuinely worried, Merkel has never been like this before.

"I'll do it, brother, I promise. Whatever it is, we can work it out together" you say with all the certainty you can muster in your voice, because you need him to understand that this is true.

You feel eyes on you and as you look up you notice that Elizabeth keeps an eye on your exchange with Merkel while talking to the little girl's father, from the distance she probably can't understand anything and you don't know if she celebrates or cares with so much attention received. A little further away is a Percival who pretends to be busy with the coat he's wearing. He also pays attention to your exchange, but his talent for discretion is as effective as his ability to open doors.

Your eyes return to the concentrated blue eyes that are in front of you and Merkel speaks in an almost inaudible way:

"When I whistle, I need you to raise your open umbrella and stay alert. The three people we're going to cross are very important, nothing can go wrong. But if it does, I'll be at the restaurant, whatever happens find me there."

Noticing the proximity of Percival and Elizabeth, you place your hand on your brother's shoulder and smile as you speak a little louder:

"Don't worry man, it's always a pleasure to help you. I'll leave my briefcase here, then meet you to get it. Good march."

Merkel shows that she understands his strange move and smiles, you greet some friends of his that you haven't seen in a while and as you head towards the exit, you meet a pair of deep green eyes. Elizabeth is gleaming in the cold lights that are refracted by the mosaic of the gate, she looks into your eyes, ever alert, looks at the object in your hands and nods her head with a half smile, do you think the guard's idea black rain was hers.

As you wave back, you can feel that a pair of eyes haven't left your back since the moment of your brother's embrace, as the old man is saying goodbye to the family, you know who they belong to and decide not to look for them. If the STASI, KGB or local gang find you, he doesn't own the pair of eyes you want to remember before you die.

Taking a deep breath, you walk through the gate and blend into the crowd.

..........................................................................................................................

After leaving Merkel's office block, you take a hat out of your backpack and wear your sunglasses as you look around, not that a local gang member is here but because if he sees you in disguise he will ask a series of questions and he has enough problems already, plus STASI must be monitoring this area and the last thing you want is to be arrested. You decide to tuck your coat into your backpack to change your look, and while internally debating your ability to ignore the cold, your eyes catch the almost snowy blond hair in the crowd.

This signals that they are already on the march and you decide to get a little closer to them, but make sure you do this without drawing attention to yourself since the nasty man is still there. Elizabeth is on your diagonal absorbing all the extraneous details that might be a possible threat, she seems so focused on the job of passing the owner's gentle eyes in a safe way that it makes you wonder how important he is and if she's noticed you.

A few meters later a familiar noise floats through the march and you open the umbrella almost instantly, as do other protesters.

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Percival taking the man's family across and sometime later Elizabeth does the same. You notice that her posture has changed and when she decides to stop for a better look, the crowd drags her and you can no longer locate her.

Her feet continue forward and as some signs are raised by the protesters, you try to find your brother. Unsuccessfully. You decide to trust their ability and hope that you can meet him again at the restaurant.

You also want Elizabeth to be okay.

Continuing on the march, after two or three long blocks you notice the familiar silhouette of one of the STASI bosses, he is watching the crowd as if looking for someone, but he doesn't seem to notice you. You notice observers on top of buildings and decide to leave the streets. Whether it's the Local Gang, KGB or STASI itself you don't know and decide you don't want to know.

Your brain tries to design routes to escape and your body mimics the movements of the closest protesters so as not to draw attention to you, but when some agents in black point in your direction and make space in the crowd, you run between people to seek shelter in somewhere you know and at every step you are sure that the day will be worse than you thought.

Damn Murphy's Law

[myriadimagines]

Babysitting Duty

Star Wars (Rogue One) One Shot

Pairing: Reader x Cassian Andor

Other Characters: K-2SO, Jyn Erso

Warnings: violence, death 

Summary: You’ve always felt like Cassian is constantly leaving you behind on missions. So when Cassian orders for you and K2 to stay with the ship during your mission in Jedha, you and K2 decide to disobey his orders, leading to some near death experiences and a surprising confession.

Original: Not Your Babysitter — Part 1 & Part 2 

Word Count: 2,469

A/N: the amount of time it took me to finish this was offensive. i literally started the draft back in september. i almost didn’t rewrite this one bc this didn’t have an actual request to go with it, but part 2 had a request so i just decided to combine both together into one. anyway!! happy new years!!! heres a one shot. as a treat.

reblog/feedback/comments are very much appreciated!!!

You button up your knapsack, shoving your blaster into your holster before you straighten, hopping off the ship. You see Cassian a short distance away with Jyn, the two of them crouched by the edge of the cliff staring off at the Holy City. It’s situated in the distance, Imperial ships looming in the sky, with a giant Star Destroyer about it all. 

Find Saw Gerrera, in a city swarming with stormtroopers. Sucking in a sharp breath, you think, shouldn’t be too hard, right?

You walk up to Cassian, who hands his binoculars to Jyn as he goes through his backpack for his supplies. He looks up as you approach, and you sit down beside him as you can hear him explaining to Jyn, “Kyber crystals. It’s the fuel for the weapon.”

“The weapon your father’s building?” K2 chimes in, and Jyn looks over her shoulder, glaring at the droid with a steely gaze.  

“Maybe we should leave target practice behind.” Jyn slowly says, and you raise an amused eyebrow as you look up at K2.

“Are you talking about me?” K2 asks you and Cassian in disbelief, and you can’t help but chuckle as Cassian nods.

“She’s right. We need to blend in. Stay with the ship.” Cassian orders, and K2 shakes his head. 

“I can blend in!” K2 protests. “I’m an Imperial droid. The city is under Imperial occupation.” 

“Half the people want to reprogram you, the other half want to put a hole in your head.” Jyn explains, and you can see Cassian bite back a smile. As Jyn and K2 continue to bicker, you give Cassian a nudge.

“So what’s the plan?” you ask, and Cassian presses his lips together. His gaze lingers on you, before he looks away, and you resist the urge to sigh as you already know what’s coming next.  

“Stay with K2. We need someone with the ship in case we need to make an escape.” Cassian says, and your shoulders slump. 

“So you’re putting me on ship duty.” you don’t even bother hiding the disappointment in your tone. “Again.” 

Cassian looks almost apologetic as he looks up to meet your gaze, and there’s something else in his expression you can’t quite decipher. You should know by now not to expect so much with Cassian, with him constantly sidelining you during your missions together with no good reason for doing so. He reaches out, his hand landing on your shoulder as he gives it a little squeeze, and he tells you, “We’ll be back soon.” 

He gets up, and you watch as he walks off, not even bothering to try and argue with him. You can’t help but anxiously chew on your lip, feeling a sense of helplessness wash over you as he walks further away from you. He follows Jyn as she dumps a bag in K2’s arms, and K2 flinches as he remarks, “I’m surprised you’re so concerned with my safety.”

“I’m not.” Jyn curtly responds. “I’m just worried they might miss you, and hit me.” 

Cassian pats K2’s arm as he passes, and K2 lets the bag fall out of his arms, quietly remarking, “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

The bag crashes against the floor, and an awkward, heavy silence fills the air as Cassian and Jyn’s footsteps fade away. You can see their tiny figures making their way across the desert landscape, and you let out a heavy sigh as you look over your shoulder to see K2 marching back towards the ship. You pick up your own bag, reluctantly dragging your feet back to the ship, and you perch yourself on the edge of the ramp as K2 fiddles with the controls in the front. He sits in  the pilot’s seat, staring out through the window, and after a few moments, K2 remarks, “I can practically feel your disappointment from here, y/n.” 

“Well, because I am disappointed.” you scoff, and K2 looks over his shoulder at you. “I shouldn’t be stuck here with you when I’m more than capable of being out there with Cassian and Jyn.” 

“You’re not the one who should be complaining here,” K-2 grumbles, and you turn to look at the droid with a raised eyebrow. “I’m clearly the more unfortunate in this situation.”

Your hands ball into fists, and had it not been for the fact that K-2 is made of steel, you would’ve punched him. 

“You know what?” you straighten, pushing yourself off the ramp and getting to your feet. You look at K2, placing your hands defiantly on your hips as you declare, “Screw Cassian’s orders. Let’s just go!”

“I would rather defect back to the Empire than do that.” K2 deadpans. Rolling your eyes, you let out an annoyed huff as K2 continues, “Do you know what your odds are of getting killed? In summary, they’re high. And if Imperial troops don’t get you first, Cassian probably will because you’re disobeying him. He already thinks you’re a troublemaker.”

“Excuse me?” you gape at the droid. Shaking your head, you snatch up your bag, fuelled with anger and spite that you can feel brewing in the pit of your stomach. You start marching in the direction of the Holy City, and you snap, “I refuse to sit around here anymore. I’m going to show Cassian tha—”

You jump back at the distant sound of an explosion, and your eyes widen as you can see a stream of dark smoke menacingly curling from the city into the sky. You instinctively reach for your blaster, and you turn to look over your shoulder at K2, who had rushed to trail after you in an attempt to stop you. You can see his eyes flicker from the city before back at you, and you don’t even need to try and convince K2 further as he remarks, “Let’s just go. Cassian and Jyn clearly don’t know how to stay out of trouble.”

—

The entire city is in chaos, the sound of blaster fire and sporadic explosions filling your ears. You and K2 duck into an empty street, avoiding as much of the violence as possible. K2 had made it very clear that your mission was to find Jyn and Cassian, not to join in on the fight, and for the first time today, you agreed with him. You keep your finger gripped around your blaster, and the two of you sprint past an abandoned tank, engulfed in flames and surrounded by the bodies of fallen stormtroopers. You hate how your mind jumps to the worst conclusions, but with so much death surrounding you and no sign of Cassian and Jyn, you can’t help but wonder how they’ve managed to escape all this.

A grenade explodes close by, and you find yourself blown backwards. You scramble to take cover by a collapsed building, and you raise your blaster just in time to fire at two stormtroopers approaching you. K2 calls out name, quickling pointing out an extremist rebel that’s about to  throw another grenade in your direction and you quickly shoot him. Shaking his head, K2 remarks, “I have to say, we’re not making a lot of progress.”

You survey the scene, before pointing at an alley to your right. “Come on, let’s go!”

You scramble to your feet, sprinting away from the main street. You can hear stormtroopers on your tail, and you and K2 navigate the narrow alleys, darting in between the buildings. You’re scrambling to find a way to lose the stormtroopers behind you, and you fire a few shots over your shoulder before your blaster is shot out of your hands. You swear under your breath, and you reach over to topple over a stack of crates at your side, trying to improvise as they tumble onto the path. It buys you some time as the stormtroopers stumble over them, and K2 picks up a blaster from the body of a stormtrooper nearby, and you duck as K2 shoots the rest of them dead.

“You’re welcome.” K2 says, lowering the blaster, and you simply roll your eyes. You dust yourself off, picking up another fallen blaster off the floor, and the two of you turn a corner, just in time to watch a KX droid fall front of you. You defensively raise your blaster, before realising it was Jyn who fired the blast, you can see her eyes widen in horror before she registers you and K2 standing behind it. After a pause, K2 demands, “Did you know that wasn’t me?”

You bite a smile, and Jyn relaxes. The both of you lower your blasters as she shrugs, “Of course.” 

You gaze wanders over to Cassian, who fiddles with his blaster as his eyes momentarily meet yours. Relief washes over you, but before you can say anything, Cassian turns away before he chastises, “I thought I told the two of you to stay on the ship.”

“You did. But having to sit with y/n is boring, and you were in trouble.” K2 responds, and you turn around to glare at the droid, mouth opening in protest. K2 marches past you as he sees one of the fallen stormtroopers struggle to get up, attempting to toss a grenade at the four of you. K2 catches it with ease as you shoot the stormtrooper, and Jyn backs away as K2 tosses the grenade over his shoulder, just in time to hit an incoming squad. You flinch as the grenade explodes, and K2 deadpans, “There are a lot of explosions for two people blending in. You’re right, we should just wait on the ship.”

Cassian resists the urge to roll his eyes, and he turns his attention to you. He shakes his head, before saying, “I expected better from you.”

“What?” you stare at Cassian in disbelief, and you can feel anger and frustration bubbling up inside of you. Pointing to K2, and you splutter, “You left me with babysitting duty, Cassian! You know, maybe if I was with you in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

You gesture wildly to the fallen stormtroopers around you just as K2’s head whips around in your direction. “You were babysitting? I’m the one who was on babysitting duty!”

“Enough.” Cassian waves his hand, quickly putting an end to you and K2’s arguing before it can further escalate, and you know K2 is biting back his remarks as much as you. You fold your arms across your chest, staring at Cassian, and he shakes his head. “Why can’t the two of you just follow orders?”

You grit your teeth, and you can feel months of accumulated frustration bubbling to the surface. You struggle to keep your voice steady as you retort, “Because your orders always consist of leaving me behind. I didn’t join the Rebellion to just sit on the ship with your droid, Cassian. K2 told me that you think I can’t keep myself out of trouble, but I’m a good fighter, and it’s about time you realised that.” 

Cassian’s jaw clenches, and he pinches the bridge of his nose as he tiredly mumbles, “K, that’s not what I told you.” 

“Well, that’s just how I interpreted the situation.” K2 defensively remarks, and you frown, confused at the exchange between the two. “And I was right. y/n almost got themselves killed. They almost got me killed!” 

“Wait, what did you tell K2 then?” you ask, and you can see Cassian gulp as he nervously avoids eye contact. You stare at Cassian, willing him to look at you insist, “Cassian, what’s going on?”

Cassian stays quiet, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he almost looks embarrassed. Jyn, from where she’s standing, looks between the two of you, before she remarks, “Oh, I think I’m beginning to see what’s happening here.” 

Cassian shoots her a look, before he suddenly grabs your arm, pulling you away from K2 and Jyn for more privacy. You reluctantly stumble after him, still feeling your residual anger, and Cassian lets out a quiet sigh as he fiddles with the zipper of his parka. After a pause, he finally admits, “I wanted you to stay behind because I didn’t want you to get hurt.” 

“How is that better from what K told me?” you huff, folding your arms across your chest. “So you really think I can’t keep myself out of troubl—”

“No, it’s more than that.” Cassian interrupts, borderline annoyed. Feelings are so frustrating, he bitterly thinks, and had it not been for the fact that he’s in love with you, he most certainly would’ve lost it by now. Shaking his head, Cassian finally reveals, “It’s because I care about you very deeply, y/n. And that might make me a selfish captain, but I don’t want to risk losing you.” 

You don’t respond, the gravity of Cassian’s words slowly sinking in. You open your mouth to respond, but find yourself at loss for words. Cassian himself can’t quite meet your gaze, almost too nervous to see the expression on your face, and you breathe out, “Oh.” 

“You should’ve stayed on the ship.” Cassian insists again, letting out a heavy sigh. You gulp, and you can feel your heart hammering inside your chest as he shakes his head. “I—”

“I don’t want to lose you either.” you blurt, and Cassian finally looks up at you, eyes wide. Letting out a shaky breath, you continue, “Do you know how nervous I get each time you go off alone?” 

Cassian blinks at you, before he softens slightly. “I’m sorry. I guess we’re both trying to figure this out.” 

You slowly nod, knowing that this, these feelings, are uncharted territory for the both of you. You let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of your neck as you ask, “Are you going to make me go back to the ship?”

“No. You should’ve been on this mission with me from the start.” Cassian shakes his head. He offers you one of his extra blasters before continuing, “You are a good fighter, y/n, I’ve always thought so.” 

Your fingers brush as you take the blaster from him, and you can feel your cheeks getting hot as he nods at you. His fingers linger on the blaster for a second longer than necessary, and the both of you exchange a shy smile as you fumble to tuck the blaster into your holster. 

“Are you two done having your little moment?” K2 asks, and you and Cassian look up to see Jyn and K2 awkwardly standing beside each other, Jyn impatiently tapping her foot as she raises an eyebrow at the two of you.

Leaning into Cassian, you quietly say, “Please don’t ever make me babysit K2 again.”

Cassian laughs. “I don’t plan on it.” 

tag list: @proudchocolateaddict​​ / @myfriendmagislit​​ / @dragon4123​​ / @fire--pheonix​​ / @natalia-helena-alianova-romanov / @fairytalesforever​​ / @emmacata​​ / @hauntedpocdreamer / @fangirlsarah16​​ / @adaleya​​ / @floup-doodles​​ / @batfam16​​ / @into-the-ironverse​​ / @lotsoffandomrecs​​ / @ruvaakke​​ / @911buttercup​​ / @azeret-mirror​​ / @randomfandomimagine​​ / @lotrfics​​ / @locke-writes​​ / @lovinghufflepuffgirl / @lxncelot​​​ / @captainshazamerica​​ / @ta-ka-shi-ma​​ / @interwebseriesfan24​​ / @sebstanismylife​​

[dokoni-mo]

Far Away, Together || Darth Vader x Reader

(A/N: Hello all! This is my first post on tumblr and I am so excited to share my fic with all you lovely people!!! I used to write alot, but haven’t in some time. Since I am renewing my love for star wars, I thought that I would do a little something for my favorite man of all time: Vader!!! A big thanks to Kenna for helping to inspire me to write again (you know who you are :))) ). This is chapter one of a series of about 10 chapters I plan to write. Please enjoy and feel free to ask to be added to the tag list!! also, not my gif)

WARNINGS: mentions of a TIE crash, some cursing

Key: (F/N) = first name  (L/N) = last name

Word Count: ~3600

Edit: Link to Chapter Two: [x]

Life on the Super Star Destroyer was exactly the same as the ship looked on the outside: cold, dull, and gray. Color? What’s that? Life? Never heard of it. 

No one ever really stopped to mingle with one another, even for a brief, courteous “hello!” or “hey, how’s it going?”. These types of action were seen as unnecessary and not impactful to squashing out the rebellion, as well as to eliminating any sign of hope that one day the Empire will just cease to exist, leaving everyone alone. Everything and everyone had a purpose within the Empire. Everyone had their own job, and heaven forbid that you are somehow unable to do that job. Any failure was seen as weakness, and the Empire had no use for weakness amongst its ranks. These were the fundamental truths of working under the Empire.

Being a mechanic wasn’t so bad. You got to do what you loved to do, so what’s so bad about that? Sure, you had very little contact with the outside world (aside from the occasional news briefing or smuggled-in holovid), you had very few acquaintances, and you were always just referred to as last name only, but all of these could be overlooked. You wake up, put on your drab, gray-green uniform, go to work, then go back to your quarters, rinse and repeat every day of every week. A nice little routine for your nice little job on the nice little imperial vessel. 

To say you blended in with the crowd was wrong. Everyone blended in with the crowd, so to say you blended in with the crowd was diagnosing yourself with special-snowflake syndrome. There was no individuality within the Empire. There was only the Empire, the usage of names only a formality or a way to get one’s attention. Despite this, due to human nature, those serving would often try to attempt some sort of individuality. Female officers would have a signature way of pulling back their hair, troopers would talk in different made-up accents, and some even gave themselves tattoos. You, however, found your individuality within your work. 

When fixing something, you would often put  your own spin on how you bring said thing back to its former glory. Fixing a speederbike? Lets rewire the wires so that they make a nice, pretty zig-zag pattern. This will help it steer a bit better, anyway. Fixing a blaster with a faulty trigger? Why not add a new cooling system just to be nice. Fixing a TIE? Oh boy, the possibilities are endless. 

This may be what has allowed you to rise through the ranks so quickly as a mechanic. There was seemingly nothing that you couldn’t inflict your midas touch upon. Plop anything down on your workbench and it's a guarantee that it will be fixed. 

On the other hand, it may just be dumb luck. This is ultimately what you thought. You were just merely doing your job, trying to not cause any trouble for yourself, just like everyone else you worked with. It just so happened to be you that the Empire had noticed. 

It was this attention that landed you this new assignment.The news had come suddenly and almost unexpectedly. Pack your bags, (F/N), you're out of the Endor research station and now on a one-way ticket to the Super Star Destroyer. Of course, there was no one around to pat you on the back when you got the news, and certainly no one to say congratulations. You did that yourself that night by treating yourself to an extra ration. 

If you were anyone else within the Empirical army, you would be over the moon about working on this ship. But, you felt no emotion towards the subject. It was just another job, what’s so special about it?

You quickly learned the answer to that. 

Him. 

He made the entire aura of the ship much tenser than any other research station or star destroyer that you had ever been on. People were not kidding when they said that his entire presence dripped with authority and power. To defy him, was to defy the Empire. To fail him, was to fail the Empire. It also always meant a loss of your life by the point of his saber. 

You remember the first time that you saw him with your own eyes, not just an image from a news briefing or the picture you formed in your head when you heard the stories. You were lined up along with all of your new fellow troopers, officers, and mechanics, your hands firmly by your sides and your chin held up high, your eyes the only part allowed to move. He had been returning from some sort of escapade, and it was time for another customary formal greeting for him.

He was hard to miss when the door to the shuttle had touched the cold, hard ground. Everything about him was massive, intimidating. Dressed head to toe in black, his frame resembling a man but his features that of a droid. Despite the layers upon layers of armor and clothing, you could tell his muscles were nothing to bat an eye at. His shoulderspan looked like it could be twice your own, and his hands look like they could wrap around your waist and crush you in to a million tiny pieces at any second. Hot. 

As he walked past you, you could feel the floor vibrate with menacing trembles as he took each step. His breathing was enrapturing, filling up your ears like it was there to live rent-free. When he finally spoke (a simple “Good, admiral”), you could feel the bass right in the middle of  your chest. His voice was encapsulating, surrounding you with it's deep, authoritative, encompassing demeanor. Even hotter. 

Yes, Darth Vader was quite the interesting character. But, he was not the one, you had decided, to try and become buddy-buddy with. Far too risky. Instead, you would carry on as normal: do your job, and don’t get in anyone’s way. You have done this for years, and a change of scenery with a far more intimidating boss wouldn't change that. 

Except when it did. 

The day (you believed that it was day, at least. It was hard to keep track of time in the middle of space on a giant floating mouse cursor) was as simple as ever. You woke up, ate your breakfast rations, then went straight to work. They had you fixing a few blasters and comms that day. How exciting. 

You almost didn't hear the sound of the sirens when they went off, nor how the room suddenly was flashing red. When you had finally came-to, the sound of a highly distressed officer was over the hangar’s comm system. 

“Everyone clear the bridge now! Lord Vader is coming in hot!”

Coming in hot? You wondered what that had meant. Of course, you knew what that meant, but this was Lord Vader we were talking about. He was the best pilot in the whole Empirical fleet. He never crashed, you had thought. 

Despite your judgement, you put down your tools and started to run along with the other mechanics. They seemed just as confused as you were, awkwardly trying to shuffle out of their stations into somewhere safe. Quietly slipping past the small crowd, you found refuge on the other side of the doorway you were in, finding a place to watch within one of the windows. 

Looking up to the stars that made up the tail-end wall of your workplace, you were almost shocked to see that the officer over the comm wasn’t hallucinating. Lord Vader’s TIE was, indeed, coming in hot. A noticeable plumage of smoke followed in his wake, as well as the occasional burst of sparks and the odd chunk of metal falling off. The noise that TIE made when it passed through the barrier was unholy, making you wince right before you had jumped in your polished boots. Lord Vader’s TIE crashed right on the floor of your workspace, skidding along and spinning not before crashing into several unfinished projects and stopping just before the doorway you had been standing in.  

Oh, maker. He’s dead. 

That was your only thought as the smoke and dust around the TIE settled in the air. The smoke was occasionally illuminated by the sparks coming out of the ship. This was definitely not a pretty scene. That TIE was busted. 

A twinge of some sort of odd emotion rippled through you as you saw the tip of a red stream of light pierced through the metal of the broken TIE. It made a large circle motion before shrinking back inside. Moments later, the circle had been thrown off, flying past the group of mechanics that had begun to shuffle awkwardly back into the hangar to inspect the scene for themselves. You had joined them as the circle was discarded off of the TIE, the wind making a strand of your hair raise. 

He stepped out of the burning pile of metal mess moments later. A small amount of smoke radiated off of his body as his boots collided with the ground. His shoulders were raised, his left fist in a ball as his right held on firmly to his weapon. He offered no one any explanation as he marched his way to the medical bay, an air of contempt and loathing following him. 

They had let you off to lunch early that day. The smoke from the TIE could be toxic, and they needed some time to clear out the hangar before everyone could get back to work. 

You ate your ration in silence as everyone around you murmured their theories and rumors about the incident that had occurred about an hour earlier. There was no need to speculate, in your eyes, and the only people you talked with were out on some other assignment. Silence kept you company, anyhow. 

Your peaceful lunch, however, was eventually rudely interrupted by some rude, old geezer. His uniform adorned many different patches and pins, so you figured he had to be some sort of presiding, know-it-all, experienced officer. The lines in his face only made him look more stern and stuck up than he sounded, his lips pursed as he eyed the datapad he held whilst he stood in front of your lunch table. 

“(L/N), I presume, yes? Our newest mechanic from Endor?” the old man questioned, his dark eyes flicking back and forth between you and your glowing blue picture. 

“Yes, sir. That’s me.” you responded, sitting up to offer some sort of respect to the officer. 

The old man turned off his datapad with that, folding his arms behind his back as he addressed you fully. “Well, Miss (L/N), I do hope that your current assignment holds no sentimental value to you. You are being reassigned with a very important alternative, effective immediately.” 

“Immediately?” you questioned, “I apologize sir, I don’t quite-”

“Your new assignment, Miss (L/N), is to repair Lord Vader’s TIE. I assume you bore witness to his entrance earlier today.” said the old officer, cutting you off. “Lord Vader’s ship is of utmost importance to the Empire, and we only assign our best to repair it when needed. We have already removed your previous assignment from your station and place Lord Vader’s TIE in its place.” 

Before you could get another word out, the officer turned on his heel to leave, only giving you a side glance over his shoulder as he continued, “You should be pleased, Miss (L/N). You just became one of our finest mechanics.” 

~~~

You only saw a heaping pile of garbage that was vaguely shaped like a TIE Advanced x1 at your station when you returned. The ship was mangled beyond repair. Aside from the gaping hole in the center of the fighter, the wings were gnashed beyond recognition, many of the metal plates lining the surface either gone or melted, the wires that snaked along the inside of the craft were now on the outside, and it still hadn’t stopped smoking completely. 

You couldn't hide your expression as you walked around the TIE. Why the hell would you even try and repair this hunk of shit? you thought to yourself, Just get a new TIE, I’m sure the Empire can afford it. 

You contemplated on going back and finding that old man that gave you the assignment and asking him to repeat it back to you. Whoever wanted this thing repaired was a madman at best. Sighing, you reminded yourself of your virtues. Do your job, don’t get in the way. And, this was your new job. 

You had no idea on where to start. 

~~~

It was long past quitting hours when you heard the doors to the hangar open. 

You were perched on top of the broken down TIE, your jacket long since discarded. You were left only in your boots, pants, tanktop, and goggles as you heard heavy footsteps draw closer to your station. 

You paused briefly from your welding to listen to the footsteps for a brief moment. You pondered for a short time on whether or not to address the person walking towards you, but decided against it. You figured that they were just some trooper or other mechanic sneaking out for a midnight walk or snack. Although you were loyal to the Empire, you were no snitch to your fellow troop. You resumed your welding after your judgement had ended. 

You continued to listen, however, and noticed how the footsteps had ended very close to your station. Listening past the sound of your welding, your heart almost jumped out your throat and hitched a ride to the outer-rim when you noticed an all-too-familiar sound. 

That breathing. 

To make sure that your ears were not playing tricks on you, you stopped your welding and peeked over the top of the TIE. Sure enough, there he was, staring up at you without a word, without even moving one muscle. Your blood ran cold. 

“L-Lord Vader!” You called down as you scurried to put down your tools, pushing your goggles up to rest on your sweat-gleamed forehead. You landed on the ground with a thunk as you slid down the TIE, hurriedly walking over to address the Dark Lord properly. 

Standing so close to him forced you to notice the height and size difference between the two of you. He was tall, so tall that you had to almost crane your neck to look him in the eyes of his mask. His frame dwarfed yours in every way, making you feel so, so small and weak compared to him. As the sith looked down at you, you couldn't help but feel his real eyes behind the mask bare into you, almost as if he were looking right into the fiber of your being. You swallowed thickly but silently, forgetting that you were out of uniform in front of the Emperor's right hand. 

“I-I apologize, my Lord, I did not hear you come in over the sound-” 

“Is it not past active hours for your department, mechanic?” He interjected, interrogating you. You felt your cheeks gain a touch of rouge out of embarrassment. You had barely even noticed that it was so late, that almost all of the lights in the hangar had gone dim. 

“Yes, my Lord, it is. But, I had-”

“You need not explain yourself to me, mechanic. I have come here for a report on the damage to my ship. If you will so generously supply me with that, perhaps I will overlook your discrepancies tonight.” He said to you, his head tilting to the side. The eyes of his helmet never left your frame as he spoke to you. His authority made a shiver run down your spine, your breath hitch. He could kill you at any moment's notice, and you both knew that. 

“Yes. Yes, of course, my Lord.” You responded quietly. It was then you finally dared to let your gaze fall off of the menacing, tall figure before you. Turning on your heel, you looked up at the broken down craft before you, pressing a hand against the cool metal. “Well, my Lord, I will not dare lie to you. This fighter is in real bad shape. Her left wing is almost completely non-existent, her guns are unrecognizable, and her central computer has been totally fried. Her engine received a great amount of damage as well, and it looks like all of her spark igniters and thrusters will need to be replaced. This is all, of course, not to mention the damage to her framework.” 

You had circled around the TIE absentmindedly as you spoke, your hand gliding over the jagged surface of the craft. Vader’s gaze followed your diminutive frame as you paced about. You could feel the eyes of his mask follow you with every footstep. Were it not for the continuous babbling on about damages, you would be shitting a brick right about now. 

“And how do you plan to proceed with these repairs, mechanic?” He asked you, a hint of his temper and curiosity poking through. 

“Well,” you retorted, looking at him once more, right in the face, “In order to proceed with anything, I have to get the central computer back online and running. That way, I will be able to talk to her better, and maybe even run a diagnostic for any damages that I haven’t caught yet. After that will be the repairs to the wing, which I will likely have to build from scratch from other scrapped TIEs. Once that is complete, repairs to the frame will begin, then onto the guns and engine. This may change, however, if I am able to run that diagnostic, my lord.” 

The way you held yourself in front of the sith lord was certainly a pleasant surprise. Lord Vader was used to his subordinates making a vain attempt to make the situation sound better to him so that he would be pleased. You, however, did not shy away from cutting to the chase and telling Vader how it was. He felt a twinge of appreciation bubble deep, deep down inside him. He always did value someone who truly knew their way around a ship or two. 

Vader took a glance at the mess of his TIE Advanced then back to you before he spoke again. You had refused to take your eyes off him again. 

“I understand,” he rumbled out, placing his large hands on their respective sides of his belt, “I presume that these repairs will take a small while.” 

His words were spoken as a statement, but you knew he was asking. 

“Yes, Lord Vader,” you said, nodding in affirmation, “They indeed will, but I will do all in my power to have her running again just like new.” You couldn't help but flash a small, quick smile at the end of your positivity. 

Vader stared down at you for a brief moment before speaking again, the sound of his steady breath winding around you once again. 

“Good,” he finally said, “I expect no less from you, mechanic. I will come here again periodically, and I expect a full report of progress for each of my visitations. Do I make myself clear? Do not fail me.” 

“Of course, my Lord. I will do exactly as you wish” you replied, giving him a firm nod as you stood at attention. Quickly, you relaxed your pose, letting your gaze fall once more and your body to turn to resume your work. 

Vader, however, stood completely still. He was not done with you quite yet. 

“Your name.” Vader said flatly, with a hint of demand. 

This sent a jolt through you. You shot your gaze back to the sith, your hand gently clutching one of your tools, applying just enough strength to keep it from falling. 

“P-pardon, my Lord?” 

“Your name, mechanic. I wish to know your name.”

You licked your bottom lip hurriedly. You prayed that he couldn't notice your cheeks tint pink. 

“It's (L/N), my Lord-”

“I know that, Miss (L/N). I wish to know your full name. Do not make me ask again.” 

You almost burst out laughing. He had to be joking. This was the first time in years that someone had asked you for your first name. You were surprised that you even still remembered it. 

“It’s… It’s (F/N), my Lord. (F/N) (L/N).” 

Another pause from him, along with another long staring contest between the two of you. Was his breathing always this loud?

After an eternity, he spoke once more, “I have full faith in you, Miss (F/N) (L/N). It is not everyday I have the privilege to converse with one of your skill level and courage.”

With that, he was done. He stepped to the right, turned, and walked to the door, leaving without another look or word. You stared at the door for a long moment before looking at the floor, replaying the past events in your head, letting his words plague your mind over and over like a broken record. 

Was that a compliment?

No, of course not, you had convinced a majority of  yourself. 

With a sigh, you climbed back up to the top of the broken TIE, seated on your perch again. You adorned your goggles once more, telling yourself just a little more before you retired for the night. 

Little did you know, this was only the first interesting night of many to come. 

[sailtoafarawayland]

The Things We Don’t Say (modern AU - Actors)

Summary:  No one is perfect, and sometimes, two people are just so perfectly flawed that those pieces fit together and make something beautiful. When sparks fly between two leads of a new hit show, is there a happy ending in sight, or will their own mistakes overshadow any chance they had at something worth fighting for.

Rated: Explicit    

Warnings:   This is a joyfully Captain Swan story, but there are a few warnings. It does start with Emma/Neal and Killian/Milah. I don't write non-CS, so there won't be any sexual anything happening 'on screen', so to speak, between those couples, but I won't guarantee there may not be a mention. This story contains numerous episodes of cheating. If any of these things make you squick or are not your bag, carry on.

AO3 - FF 

- or read below the cut - 

As always, let me know if you’d like to be tagged for further updates. 

Tag list: @xarandomdreamx @jrob64 @wefoundloveunderthelight @teamhook @tiganasummertree @pirateprincessofpizza @lfh1226-linda @kmomof4 

Chapter One

Emma scrolled through the email her manager had sent detailing the new role she was being offered. It was something fresh, something different from what she normally focused on—no hint of a police procedural in sight—and based on the tone, it sounded like they were very interested in getting her signed for one of the leads. She stretched her legs out along the couch, digging her cold toes underneath the pillows in search of some warmth, only to yank them back when she encountered something both crinkly and wet.

“Dammit, Neal! What the hell is this?” she growled, glaring at the brown sludge coating her foot.

She leaned forward, careful to angle her toes away from any other surface, and peeled the throw pillow from the couch. Smeared across the white fabric and the expensive leather was what looked like the remainder of a milky way bar, the wrapper still clinging to the puddle of caramel and chocolate.

“You have got to be kidding me. Neal!”

The only response she got was the sound of something hitting a pan full of oil in the kitchen, the apartment filled with the sizzling hiss of something frying. Dropping her phone and forgetting all about the email she’d just been reading, she hobbled down the hall into the bathroom to clean up, wondering how in the hell to get out a chocolate and caramel stain. Why he couldn’t just learn to clean up after himself was beyond understanding. Sometimes it felt like she was living with a teenager who never wanted to grow up, and she couldn’t help but long for the days when her apartment was clean and didn’t smell like whatever weird odor it was that Neal always brought home—grease and cigarette smoke, maybe.

Her foot finally clean enough to be walked on, she headed into the kitchen to get some paper towels only to be greeted by what looked like every dish she owned spread out on the counters and island. Every surface was dusted in flour and drips of batter, measuring spoons leaving trails of oil and sugar across the floor and counters alike.

“Oh my god,” she cringed, knowing the mess would be left for her. “What are you doing?”

“I was wondering when you’d get off the phone,” Neal poked, giving her a quick glance over his shoulder before motioning proudly over the mess that just seemed to get worse each time she looked at it. “I’m cooking.”

The casual way he always stabbed at her phone use was exactly what she didn’t want to hear right now. Maybe she wouldn’t have to spend so much time working if he bothered looking for something himself. He’d had a recurring role on a family comedy when they met, but he’d been fired not long after, and for the last six months, Emma was pretty sure he hadn’t even gone to any of the auditions she’d mentioned. In fact, she wasn’t even sure if he had an agent anymore. 

“When was the last time you had a Milky Way?” she asked, choosing to ignore his snide comment. She just wasn’t in the mood.

“That’s a weird question. I don’t know, maybe last week? You didn’t pick any up the last time you ran to the store.”

Emma nodded, her lips drawn tight as she tore paper towels from the rack and returned to the living room, pulling what she could of the melted mass from the couch and thinking she’d need to resort to Google to get the rest out. Her anger bubbled with every sticky string of caramel that wrapped around her fingers. Why couldn’t he go to the store on his day off? He only had seven of them. She stomped back into the kitchen, hitting the garbage can a little harder than necessary and tossing the mess of chocolate and paper inside.

There was just enough room in the overload sink—what had he used the colander for—that she could wash her hands.

“There’s leftovers in the fridge. What was so important that you had to turn the entire kitchen into a complete disaster?” she questioned, already adding up how much time it would take her to wash and wipe everything down.

She’d be lucky if she was able to get back to her manager before tomorrow as requested.

“You remember that travel show we watched the other night?” he prodded, his eyes glued to the pan as it hissed on the stovetop, a spatula held ready in his hand. “You mentioned you hadn’t had good churros since that trip to Mexico, so I thought maybe I’d make you some.”

The anger that had been just about to boil over slipped away to that place far enough below everything else that she could just go back to ignoring it.  

“Neal,” she sighed, suddenly more exhausted than anything else. “Thanks.”

“Of course, Ems—anything for you.”

In the living room her phone blared to life, the dark tones of The Imperial March echoing as it vibrated across the coffee table.

“Work calls,” Neal sniped, a trace of resentment running beneath the pleasant smile he fixed in her direction. “Wouldn’t want to keep Regina waiting.”

It was amazing how quickly that anger came right back to the top of everything, and she found her feet pushing her as far away from Neal as possible, snatching her phone from the table and forgetting entirely about the couch as she stormed into the bedroom.

“What?” she hissed, slamming the door behind her and clenching the cell like it was something she wanted to crush. “What is so important that you couldn’t give me a few more hours, Regina?”

The other end of the line was silent, as if Regina had either hung up, or was waiting for an apology. Well, she wasn’t getting one—not today.

“Is there something you needed, Regina?”

“Are you okay?” Regina asked, not as a friend, but as an employee that was curious to know how soon she would have to contact Emma’s PR team and inform them a mental breakdown was imminent.

“I’m fine. It’s just a bad time. I got the details you sent. I just haven’t read through everything yet.”

“Well, that explains why I haven’t heard from you. Honestly, I thought you cared more about your career than that. I was quite clear this was urgent. Don’t take your time with this one, Miss Swan—they want you, but they can’t wait much longer.”

The line went dead after Regina had delivered her scolding and Emma sighed, dropping to the bed and rolling onto her back as she flicked back into her email and started again from the top. It was an interesting premise with even more depth than she’d originally thought—a new series that centered on the mental health of a man who had developed delusions after a car accident that took his brother, leading him to believe everyone in the hospital was a character from a fairy tale world—but then she got the part that Regina really focused on, the money.

“Holy shit!” Emma gasped, double checking the figures and thinking how she’d never seen such a good offer—not for someone in her bracket. It was unheard of. “I guess they really do want me.”

It wasn’t until she read through the rest of the itinerary and details that she wondered if the big paycheck wasn’t recompense for the filming location and duration—the middle of Nowhere, Maine, as if Maine wasn’t already considered the middle of nowhere.

She read everything twice before she shot Regina a quick text.  

E: I’ll take it

The message had only just sent and there were already three ellipses following. Emma could practically hear her manager’s smug response.

R: I knew you would. I’ll be in touch.

There should have been nerves fluttering in her stomach, or at least a solid pit of dread at the prospect of having to walk into the kitchen and tell Neal, but there was nothing. It was a big decision to move across the country for what could be a long-term role, but it was still her decision to make.

Hopefully, he would be happy for her, he would understand that this had the potential of lifting her out of her rut and providing great income for the foreseeable future. There were some great names attached, veterans of the industry that were looking to branch out into a new genre.

She was excited for the first time in a long time.  

She didn’t need to feel guilty, at least that was what she told herself as a niggling pang of guilt worked its way into her chest.

It would be good to break it to him gently though, to put a good spin on it.

The minutes ticked by and she finally realizing she couldn’t put it off any longer, she wandered into the kitchen, her arms crossed in front of her as she looked for him, but the apartment was empty. The stove was turned off and a plate, probably the last clean one, was waiting on the counter with a pile of golden churros perched on top of a greasy paper towel.

Next to it was another torn paper towel with a note scratched onto it in sharpie.

The boys called and I’m heading out for a few beers. Don’t wait up. Enjoy the churros.

She waited for the anger to bubble back to the top, but there was nothing—no anger, no guilt, just a deep, hollow nothingness that grew and yawned as she fingered the scrap of a note transparent with oily fingerprints. Feeling like maybe this job had come at the best possible time, she picked up the plate of churros and walked over to the trash, watching them slide in with the rest of the garbage.

[josefavomjaaga]

Helfert, Joachim Murat, Chapter 2, part 2

However, the British Congress Legation also used language very unfavourable to the King of Naples. When in the last days of September the Duke of Campochiaro appeared before Castlereagh to explain to him that "his monarch was prepared to let his troops clear all land beyond the borders of his kingdom, even the Marches promised to him by Austria, but that he would defend Naples itself to the last drop of blood, that he had at his command an armed force of 80,000 men, not counting the militia", the Lord replied evasively: "if King Joachim had intervened in earnest during the last war, his cause would have been different; but his dithering and vacillation had put all claims in suspense, and left open a question now to be decided solely from the standpoint of high policy; besides, he could only advise the King to keep as quiet as possible in the meantime, especially not to take any action against Sicily; any hostility on that side would be regarded by England as a case of war, and she would use all her strength against it" [Footnote 1]. The Duke of Wellington, then accredited to the court of Louis XVIII, and entirely drawn into its interests, most eagerly calculated where the troops could be obtained for a crusade against Naples: 10,000 Sicilians 10,000 Spaniards 12,000 Portuguese 15 to 20,000 from the British garrisons in the Mediterranean, "with such a force the enterprise might be ventured" [Footnote 2]. A pamphlet that appeared in London at this time defending Murat's claims seems to have made little impression in congressional circles.

One of the most ardent advocates in favour of the plan to expel the King of Naples was the representative of Great Britain in Palermo, who also received secret instructions from Castlereagh in the autumn of 1814, no doubt in accordance with Wellington's designs, to make enquiries about Murat's forces and about the mood prevailing in Naples on behalf of the Bourbons. A'Court's despatches spoke only of the "usurper" who should no longer be left on the throne, even though the envoy could not conceal the fact that "it would not be easy to give the matter a turn such that the dignity and faithfulness of the British Cabinet would not suffer shipwreck". Incidentally, it was thought in Palermo that nothing could be risked by an enterprise against Murat; every day, Ferdinand's ministers claimed, they received reports from the mainland saying that the impatience to see the ancestral king in possession of the country again could hardly be restrained. A'Court was furious when he heard that the British Consul Fagan, sent to Naples by Lord Bentinck, had assumed the position of Consul-General there, had gained admittance to the court, exchanged notes with the Minister Gallo, expressing a lively desire to strengthen the good understanding between the government of England and His Majesty's Majesty in Naples, and so on. He denounced him to Lord Castlereagh and at the same time recalled him to his former post in Palermo.

Already in the summer Castlereagh must already have uttered observations like the one mentioned earlier against King Joachim's representatives, which prompted the latter to draw up a memorandum on his attitude in the last campaign and to send it to the British First Secretary of State. This did little to improve his case. For Castlereagh obtained Nugent's and Bentinck's comments on the document, and each of them expressed himself more unfavourably about Murat than the other. "Once the allies had entered into certain obligations," the imperial general said, "they were obliged to fulfil them; but they were also relieved of all further considerations against Murat if he, for his part, had not observed them". Nugent now went through the Neapolitan account of the campaign of last spring point by point and everywhere came to the conclusion that King Joachim, by his strategic intervention, had not benefited but only harmed the allies in Upper Italy: "If the Neapolitan army had not moved, two Austrian battalions and a few squadrons would have sufficed to sweep the country clean, and if Murat, as he is pleased to claim, has conquered the country as far as the Po with his troops, this has been done at our expense, not that of our enemy".

Lord William considered the political rather than the military side, but came to similar conclusions as did the Austrian count. "Murat's policy," was Bentinck's brief opinion, "was calculated to save his crown, and so he always followed whoever seemed to emerge victorious from the struggle. At his court, as in his army, there were two parties at feud with each other and fighting for influence with him, a French and a Neapolitan one; he himself always remained a Frenchman at heart; he was of no use to the allies as a friend and, if fortune had turned his back on us, would have hastened our downfall as an enemy. Between the French and Neapolitan armies throughout the campaign there was obvious understanding; no hostile act was undertaken by either side against the other. A large part of the Neapolitan officers were burning with desire to compete with the French, but the King carefully avoided this. In the affair at Parma, March 6 to 8, the corps of General Nugent was, so to speak, sacrificed by Murat, and it has been said that a number of Neapolitan generals, because of the stain which this has placed on their militaristic character, have signed a letter to Murat" [Footnote 3].

To tell the truth, Murat's more than lax conduct of war in the last campaign was by no means the reason why people were speaking out against him more and more decidedly: it only offered a welcome excuse to be now able to turn away from him with decency, after he had been approached so often in the past. Even if, following the advice of his wise wife, he had been zealous in the interests of the Allies, he would not have been able to maintain the position he actually occupied. It must also be admitted that the "victrix causa", the cause which, after a quarter of a century of humiliations, defeats and losses of all kinds, was finally helped to victory, could have resulted in nothing else than Murat's removal from the throne, which he, too, owed only to the defeats and losses of his opponents at the time. Louis XVIII had hit the nail on the head when he exclaimed: "How can one tolerate a small usurpation after having put an end to a great one?

---

Footnote 1) Castlereagh to A’Court, Vienna October 2, 1814 X (III 2) p. 145 f.

Footnote 2) Wellington to Castlereagh September 12 and to Liverpool, December 25 1814, ibit, p.114 f., 226 — 228. „I concur very much in opinion with the King“, he writes to the First Lord of the Treasury, „that the chances of disturbance, particularly in this country, are very much increased by leaving Murat on the throne of Naples. If he were gone, Bonaparte in Elba would not be an object of great dread“. However, he asked the Minister of Foreign Affairs to not reveal anything about the entire plan for the time being: "The King is anxious that nothing should be said upon the subject at Vienna, until I shall receive an answer from England". In fact, the reply did not actually take the form the bellicose Duke had hoped for. Lord Liverpool agreed with Wellington completely on the main point; only, he said (Bath, 1 January 1815), it was necessary to wait for the time: "The only point which I wish to impress upon you is the absolute impossibility, in the present state of the circumstances and feelings in this country, of our engaging in military operations for the purpose of expelling Murat". Incidentally, in the unfavourable sentiment against Joachim, as in any question of British policy, there were also very material motives at play: "Si cette péninsule retombe dans les mains de la famille Buonaparte, le commerce anglais va à être gêné de nouveau dans cette péninsule, et certainement elle y tombera si de mesures rigoureuses et l'expulsion de Murat de l'Italie ne préviennent ce malheur"; Le Chevalier T. (Tinseau?) to Castlereagh 29 Nov. 1814; ibit p. 211, 243 f.

Footnote 3) Schöll, Recueil VI S. 364—394: Mémoire historique sur la conduite politique et militaire de S. M. le Roi de Naples etc.; S. 395—419 : Observations par le général comte Nugent etc.; S. 435—450: Dépêche de Lord William Bentinck au vicomte Castlereagh en date de Florence le 7 janvier 1815. The first two pieces are undated, but fall into the year 1814, and the memorandum into midsummer, since Castlereagh sent it to Count Bathurst on 6 September.

----

Just to add to this: Colonel Maceroni in his memoirs, as we have seen, had accused Eugène of having informed Austrian commander Bellegarde about the secret negotiations with Murat. This was obviously unnecessary, as Mier’s letters prove the Austrians to be very aware of what was going on anyway. But talked about it he surely had, as even in Paris the British had already taken note:

Lord Castlereagh to Lord Bathurst. Paris, May 3, 1814.

My Lord, I have delayed transmitting the enclosed correspondence for a few days, in the hope that I might be enabled to ascertain whether the Viceroy's assertions of Murat's treachery were supported by any documents on which the Allies could justify a change of policy towards him ; but none have as yet been received : I shall, however, take steps to ascertain the fact. The Austrian Government have no other reluctance on this point than what good faith imposes. As soon as I can learn anything further on this subject, your lordship shall hear from me.

I have, &c.,

CASTLEREAGH.

PS. Since this despatch was closed, I have received despatches from Sir R. Wilson, which throw further light upon Murat's conduct.

(taken from: »Memoirs and Correspondence of Viscount Castlereagh«, Volume X)

During that time, Eugène was still on his way to Munich; so he must have opened up quite a bit to Bellegarde before, when handing over Upper Italy to him. One can assume both commanders agreed heartily in their dislike for poor Murat.

(On a side note: As for the opinion of General Nugent cited above, I’ve recently come across an account of the battle of Raab which this gentleman apparently managed to loose singlehandedly. Not sure I’d put too much faith in his view of military matters.)

[soundwavefucker69]

I have been thinking about Tal’ika and baby Tal’ika specifically and I desperately need to write this, so have a time traveling mini Tal’ika rather than fully grown time traveling Tal’ika, because I love them.

---------------

There’s a very small child in the middle of a field, scowling up a storm with three dismantled B2 units around them. They’ve got fiery red hair in a curly mess that may have once been thoughtful and lovingly made braids and dark skin and they look about ready to punt the nearest patronizing face into the red sun that lights up this podunk world that really shouldn’t be as important as it is. There’s a familiar lightsaber hilt in their too-small hand, and they are brimming with the Force and potential and life and liberty and looking at them is like looking at a dying star and Obi-Wan can only think ‘oh no’.

There were already jokes about Cal Kestis, and this child looks like someone tossed him and Jango Fett in a Kaminoan blender and prayed for the best.

“Where’s Plo?” They demanded with all of the offense of a child left alone in a market, and Obi-Wan can only stare.

“Jedi Master Plo Koon?” He asked faintly, because this child certainly wasn’t dressed like an initiate, and yet here they were, showing signs of advanced training and practically screaming that they had been taught a lot more katas than someone should have taught a child their age.

“My Plo, yes,” they growled, and Obi-Wan stared down at them.

“Well, he’s certainly not on this planet,” he hedged. “Can you explain how you got here, young one?”

“Why are there clankers?” They demanded, glaring up at him like he had caused them personal offense, and he blinked, long and slow, before checking to make sure that he hadn’t dropped his lightsaber.

No. He hadn’t. It was right there on his belt, where it was normally supposed to be, and this child was still glaring at him.

“Because you’re in the middle of a warzone.”

“General Kenobi, come in,” a voice crackled out of his comm, and he tapped it.

“Commander Cody---”

“My Cody?” The child demanded, and Obi-Wan blinked again.

“I don’t think so?”

“Cody, why is Dad here?” The child demanded, loud and imperious, and Obi-Wan suddenly understood the urge to faint to get out of an uncomfortable situation.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sir, do you have a cadet with you? This planet is uninhabited,” Cody asked over the comms, confusion barely tinting his tone, and the child made a noise of pure offense.

“I’m not a cadet, and I’m not a boy or a girl, I’m a pain, because Rex said so!”

“I’ll meet you at the rendezvous,” Obi-Wan said quickly and ended the comm before turning to the child. “What is your name and how did you get here?”

“Plo put me in the temple and told me to hide so I hid!” The child answered angrily. “And you should know my name, Plo told you, my name is Tal’ika, because Wolffe named me before you could and---”

“Why would I give you a name?” Obi-Wan blurted, confusion rising, and Tal’ika, apparently, stared at him like he was stupid.

“Well, I couldn’t be OB-7 for the rest of my life! That would be tragic! And awful! Ex-specially because OB-7 means there should be other OBs and I was the only one left and Sinker said it was depressing when I wasn’t supposed to hear him!”

There wasn’t a temple here. Or, there shouldn’t be a temple here. At least, it wasn’t a Jedi one; it was a Zeffo temple, and...

And.

And, oh, oh dear Force, no.

“Tal’ika,” Obi-Wan said and went down onto one knee, looking at this tiny ball of rage that had ripped apart three battle droids without breaking a sweat and was dropping clone names from all manners of legions like they had met them all. “Can you tell me what Coruscanti year it is, please?”

Tal’ika huffed and crossed their arms.

“No such thing as Coruscant,” they said derisively. “It’s the Imperial year, cause the Emperor is a demagolka who can’t help but ruin things that don’t need fixing, and it’s 1,025. Two suns is no good for you if you don’t even know what year it is. You should have left Tatooine sooner. You’re all cooked in the head.”

Tatooine--- 1,025?

“Ah. I see,” Obi-Wan said carefully, and Tal’ika squinted at him, angry and upset, and something very uncomfortable began twisting in his gut under their scrutiny.

“What?” They demanded. “I want Plo. Did he send you to bring me back to him?”

“Tal’ika. Did you, perhaps, touch something you ought not to have touched in the temple?” Obi-Wan asked weakly, and Tal’ika screwed up their freckled nose.

“No. I don’t touch anything in any temple unless Plo tells me I can,” they replied firmly. “I just walked around the little stone in the center but then he didn’t come back and I got hungry.”

To punctuate their point, their little stomach growled angrily, and Obi-Wan tried to sift through the variety of thoughts spiraling around his brain helplessly.

“Well, Tal’ika, we have a bit of a conundrum. Because it’s not actually 1,025. It’s 1,010.”

Tal’ika stared at Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan stared back, and something very close to distress flickered in their Force presence before they just marched forward and abruptly smacked the back of their hand to his forehead.

“The suns cooked you, Dad,” they declared, and Obi-Wan realized he had a big, big problem on his entirely unqualified hands.

Anakin was going to go ballistic.

[detroitbydark]

Title: Play With Fire- Part 2

Characters: Migs Mayfeld/”Pockets” (OC)

Rating: T

Summary: First Impressions

Warning: Blood? but not gore

A/N: So apparently Pockets is now and OC and I have more ideas then I care to admit for this pairing. Thank you to @crimson-dxwn​ for being my beta extraordinaire and listening to my rants and raves. Anything ya'll wanna know about these two crazy kids? let me know and I might explore it. Also, 3 ABY is approximately one year before the battle of Endor and the second Death Star and their reunion ( the first part in this) takes place about 9 ABY sometime after the second season of The Mandalorian.

 3 ABY

Sometimes you made the shot of a lifetime. Sometimes you didn’t.

Sometimes you made that once in millennia shot as Rebel artillery was destroying your nest and you went tumbling ass over blaster down a ravine with half a ton of loose debris and rocks.

You couldn’t win them all.

Migs got this. He understood it like he understood his unfortunate short stature or the hairline that had receded for too early in life. Those were the breaks.

You either lived with it or died with it and he was fully set on living until he was old and shriveled.

Some days it just sucked.

Today was one of those days.

“We got a live one coming through. Clear a table, will ya?”

The voice of his squad mate, Crikes, was too loud on his right as his weight pressed heavily into Smitty on his left. The rough outer rim accent bounced around in his bucket like a stray blaster bolt.

Kriff his head hurt.

Everything hurt actually, from his head to the tips of his toes. The slide hadn’t been that bad. Seven meters? Maybe ten? It was the sharp obsidian stone that had come down with him that had done him in. The razor sharp black stone had bludgeoned and gouged his armor, weaseling its way into the cracks and under the plastoid plating. It cut at his skin with each move he made. If the stims hadn’t helped numb him up he’d probably have passed out when the assault droid had helped yank him from the rubble.  His gauntlets were both cracked and he could feel a cool breeze coming through the cracks in his back plate. He’d liked his armor. Command wasn’t gonna take to kindly with having to replace it.

It was nice to pretend his biggest concern was getting a new set of plastoid requisitioned. 

“Hey medic!” Crikes’ voice cuts through his thoughts, “I said we need a hand over here!”

“Maker… do you have to yell so fragging loud? I mean-“

“What are you going on about?” Looking back he’s never sure what it was that he noticed first, but he likes to think it was her voice. Like an holomodel fantasy out of a good spice trip, she shuts that Hutt humping Crikes up, marching over with her hands on her hips and scowl on her face.

“We got an Imperial war hero here.” Crikes sounds chastened, but Migs doesn’t bother to look over to see if his face matches what he’s hearing because he’s in the presence of a fragging angel.

“Yeah? Look around. Got a lot of heroes here.” Sarcasm flows from her pretty pouty lips like water from a fountain. She sweeps her arm toward the other beds and the piles of bloodied plastoid littering the small field hospital. “This one ain’t any better or worse.”

Migs frowns under cover of his helmet. For a while he’s been wondering if he might have some bleeding going on somewhere. He feels a bit woozy when he turns his head too quickly to follow the angel as she grabs a datapad off a nearby cart. He was better then a majority of the scum around him. He was a sharpshooter, best of the best, and the bastard who single-handedly brought down the pair of x-Wings decimating their ground troops.

He tries to tell her as such but the words don’t come out of his mouth in any coherent thought. Angel freezes, looking up from the datapad she barks to his squad mate and Migs suddenly feels his bucket being pulled from his head.

“Designation number trooper.”

It’s an order not a question. He didn’t like orders, even from his own superiors but she’s damn pretty and his head hurts…

“Trooper? A number?” Angel looks up from the datapad. There’s concern on her face. She’s scanning his injuries. The ones she can see. Were they that bad? Migs reaches up and feels something warm and sticky against his temple.

“FO-593” Smitty offers for him.

“593… got it���” she takes a step closer, setting the datapad down and pulling gloves from her pocket. She’s got the prettiest hazel eyes, long lashes. Migs wonders if she’s seeing anyone. It’s probably one of those civvie doctors that signed on…

“593-“

“Mayfeld. It’s Migs Mayfeld.” He clarifies, ‘cause a pretty girl like her should be saying his name.

“Alright, Mayfeld, what happened?”

“He saved our asses is what he did!”

Crikes again. Maker, if the bastard kept stealing his glory he was going to deck him. Once the room stopped spinning.

“You know what?” The Angel looks about as amused with Crikes as

Migs felt. “I think it’s high time you two go get some rations in you and leave Mayfeld and I to our own devices.”

Smitty elbows Crikes, the plastoid of armor clattering as he tips his head toward the entrance.

“I’m good boys,” Migs offers the other two field operatives, “Let me get some alone time with the pretty girl.”

He ignores the raised brow directed his way and the crossed arms that follow. Nausea rolls through him as his buddies wander back the way they came.

“Frag… I think I’m gonna be sick.”

She does well. Manages to miss the first splash of vomit. The second retch hits her shoe.

“Son of a bitch… Maker fragging-“ 

The angel has a mouth on her. He could get used to that. Migs uses the sleeve of his under armor, exposed by the shattered plastoid to wipe his mouth.

“Sorry about that, Sweetness.” 

Her eyes narrow as she reaches behind him. “My name is not Sweetness. I am FM-111 to you trooper. Specialist Coronette if you're lucky.”

The words slip out, some verbal diarrhea to go along with what he was starting to think was a concussion. “I am lucky and you’re beautiful.”

“That’s it-“

“Pockets? Have we got an issue?”

Wait- was that a-

“No Coric, I’m good.”

The older man looks at Migs and Migs looks right back. No shit. A clone. You didn’t see that everyday. Guy’s got a head of close cropped salt and pepper hair, looks real dignified. He’s also… glaring? Ok yeah, that wasn’t good.

“If he’s giving you trouble I can-“

Angel’s…. Specialist Coronette’s face softens as she looks at the clone. Migs feels a little jealousy percolate deep down - accompanied by the occasional flip of his stomach. She pats the other man’s cheek fondly and he gives her a soft look.

Some guys had all the luck.

Migs closes his eyes as the world takes a big spin. He doesn’t mean to groan but the axis has tilted and the poles have just flipped and… Fek… he really is starting to not feel good.

“Hey… Mayfeld?” The voice is soft and Migs focuses on the sweet, silvery words. Slowly he opens his eyes and notes that Coronette, is at his side looking more concerned then she has the entire time he’s been in the damn med bay. Over her shoulder the clone medic gives his own appraising look.

“You got this Pockets?”

Migs sees irritation flash in sharp green eyes, not just green but, like, Endor. So bright and alive there wasn’t any way he could think to describe them other than the greenest Kriffing place he’d ever seen in his life.

“I’ve got it, Sir.” Her tone is sharp but the clone, her superior, doesn’t seem to take offense to it. She must not just be blowing smoke. At this point he doesn’t give a wamp rat’s ass. He really just wants to call it a day, catch a cycle worth of sleep and lay in bed til the gut-rending nausea goes the fek away.

“Uh-uh,” she tuts, irritation melted away, “can’t fall asleep on me just yet. You haven’t even shown me a good time yet.” She teases and Migs wills his eyes wide open.

“You’re flirting.”

“Maybe… or maybe I’m trying to keep you awake because you’ve got a concussion. You’ll never know.”

Specialist Coronette pokes and prods, shuffling him toward the edge of the gurney. “Wanna go somewhere more private?”

“Trying to get me all alone, beautiful?”

She huffs. It sounds half amused. He can work with that.

“I’m trying,” she grunts, looping his arm around her shoulder and manhandling him into standing, “to get you in a private room so I can assess your wounds without the whole battalion seeing you stripped down.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” His head spins at the sudden change in momentum. “I’m not that kind of man. You gotta wine me and dine me before-“

She twists under his arm and sharp pain shoots through his side cutting off his words more effectively then any shushing ever could. 

“Easy Mayfeld.” He hears a familiar voice but can’t place which slimy barve he knew it came from. “You can’t handle that one.”

A pair of voices, masculine and feminine, grunt in agreement as he and his medic slowly hobble past and to a clean, empty ‘room’.

It’s a room about as much as a room as a troop transport is a luxury yacht. Four ceiling to floor curtained walls block it off from the other rooms and the larger, open floor of the hospital. He manages to collapse onto the exam table as the world takes another vicious whip around. This time he manages to spew in the bucket shoved under his nose.

He apologizes after he finishes. “Thanks. You know, you keep showing me basic human decency like this and you’ll never be able to get rid of me.”

Coronette is pulling clean gloves on and hunting in a shallow drawer. She arches a pretty brow in his direction as she finds a pair of shears. “I have to clean up whatever mess you make. Don’t confuse decency with laziness on my part.”

“Whatever you say, Pockets.”

Her shoulders tense for a moment and then she takes a deep breath and lets the bait he’s laying out go to waste.

“I’m getting this armor off you. ‘Fraid it ain’t doing you any good anymore.”

Migs glances down at the cracked plastoid. His pauldron is long gone and both pairs of vambrace and gauntlets are thrashed. There’s so much under armor and skin showing, Migs isn’t really sure how they're still even on him. Pockets manages to get them off without much to it and little input from the guy wearing them. She begins on his cuirass and Migs thinks of half a dozen smart ass remarks about getting his clothes off, but there’s something going on under the armor and each time she begins working at the cracked and twisted chest piece it steals the air from his lungs.

“Karking hells,” he curses lowly. 

“I’ve almost got it…” 

Migs takes a deep breath and holds as still as he can. It kriffing hurts, burns hotter than two suns over Tatooine. Just when he’s sure he can’t handle a second more of it, the plastoid falls away in two pieces. It’s like a pressure he hadn’t realized was on his chest has finally been removed and he can breathe-

“Son of a mudscuffer-“

Migs doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong. He can feel it. Warmth spreading and staining the under armor across the left side of his chest. 

“Karking thing was putting pressure on-“ she trails off again as she retrieves the shears from her pocket. She’s efficient and wastes no time slicing up the front of his under armor. The black fabric falls away from one side and clings to blood staining his other. Coronette doesn’t stop moving, flowing from one spot to the next. She doesn’t stop talking either.

“Fek. Fek. That’s not gonna fekking come out in the wash-“ 

He could laugh but she’s pulling the clinging fabric away from his chest and pressing bacta soaked gauze into the laceration. If that didn’t burn like the wrong end of a burner’s incinerator he didn’t know what did. 

“Damn it! Is your kriffing processor pickled?! Warn a guy!” He's all bark and no bite at the mercy of the medic who continues to press hard on the wound.

“Shut it 593.” It’s grunted out as she continues to press with one hand and reach across him with the other for Palps only knew what. Sharp words fizzle on his tongue as he catches a glimpse of pale flesh down the top of her scrubs. Fek. He really loved a pretty pair of tits and judging by the rounded tops he can see and the slight jiggle as they move, Coronette’s were perfect. It’s better then any painkiller he could imagine… until she’s leaning back and catches the cast of his eyes.

“So are so kriffing lucky. You slimy little nerfherder- if I had two free hands.”

He should feel bad about being caught but Migs has had a day and he really can’t find it in him.

“Not my fault, maker gave you a gorgeous rack and Imperial uniforms don’t hide it.”

He winces as she yanks the bacta soaked gauze away, blood beginning to well up again immediately. She doesn’t warn him before pressing the gun into the open wound and squeezing the trigger. Bacta foam fills in the area as he hisses, sealing the laceration. She doesn’t stop to make sure he’s ok before she’s spinning and grabbing more supplies. A bacta patch gets slapped over the quick dry foam.

“Weasly stormtrooper scum…” she continues under her breath.

“Aww come on now, I’m sorry.” He tries to offer a weak smile but her back is turned as she furiously enters data onto a pad. “I really am. When’s the end of your shift. I’ll buy you a drink?”

The anger that flashes in those forest eyes when she whips back is the sexiest thing he’s seen in a standard cycle. If the stims weren’t beginning to wear off and his body beginning to hurt to Malachor and back, he’d be getting stiff in what was left of his armor.

“You think I’d have a drink with you?”

“Come on sweets, what really matters is if you think you’d have a drink with me.”

Her eyebrows skim her hairline. “Are you kidding me? Give up already. Karking little-”

“Not the size of the aak in the fight but the fight in the aak, Sweetheart.”

“Not in your life, Buckethead.”

Her ass looks almost as good in her scrubs as her tits but she doesn’t give him a chance to say so before she storms out.

[chayacat]

Devil’s Sweet Star (3)

Fandom: Dead by Daylight

Ghostface x Female Reader  

Rated M for Violence, Language and Smut  

***

“Welcome to the Nebula! Where our pastries came from outer space! How can I help you?”

You smile as you look at the room full of people. You didn't imagine you had so many people for your grand opening, maybe a few curious. You can thank Jed for doing this article. How are you going to thank him after that? He didn't have to, and yet he did. The sign you ordered the day you received your coffee beans was in harmony with the rest and by far it wasn’t hard to spot you. You were lucky to find an artist who could make you such a sign in a short time. And he was graciously paid for his work.

“Have you made your choice Miss?” you said smiling.

“I hesitate between a slice of Neptune’s pie and your UFO Brownies... they look so delicious!” said the young girl switching her eyes between the two pastries.

“They are! it's an alien chef who gave me the recipe, you'll see in one bite you'll leave ... in a space travel of flavour!” you say jokingly.

“Ha ha that’s really funny! Well, I’ll take two brownies and a slice of Neptune’s pie then! And an espresso with a cloud of milk.”

You prepare the order of the girl, who pays before taking the bag where the two brownies are, the slice of blueberry pie and the espresso. She gave you a big smile before going to a table to enjoy her sweets freely.  

You'll still have to consider hiring someone to give you a boost, because you have to admit, that you'll have a little trouble dealing with it all. Especially if more and more people come over time. While you were writing all this down in your diary, so you wouldn't forget it, you hear another customer coming in and you turn again to the counter ready to serve him.

“Welcome to The Nebula! You said “Oh hey, It's you Jed!”  

Jed gives you a sweet smile while heading to the counter.  

"Well, my little finger tells me that your grand opening seems to be a great success." he said with a laugh.

“Good deduction, Jed Holmes. Thanks for your article, I didn't think I had so many people sincerely. I don't even know how to thank you.” you said embarrassed  

“No need. All pleasure was for me. And then if it can allow Roseville to energize a little ... Why not? With a pretty face like yours, this trade can only hold up well.”

You blush a little in front of his words which made him laugh. Definitely this boy has everything to please. How could his parents have considered him as a mistake? If they saw him today, they'd see that he's succeeding in his life.  

You've only known each other for a few days and you don't know why, but the runner went very well between the two of you, we'd think you'd be friends who've known each other since high school. You see two young girls looking at him and talking to each other.

“Well, well, my little finger tells me that you’ve attracted the attention of these two ladies. What a charmer you are.” you said with a wink.

“What?” he replied before looking towards the two young girls who turned around looking like nothing before sneering when he faced you again, cheeks slightly pink. “I... I know I'm not ugly, but I'm not a beauty cannon either. I'm just... Me. A little journalist, a little nerd on the edges.”

Hey don't say that! If you knew how cute you are... Don't lower yourself to the lower than you really are."

Jed smiles while Danny smiles widely. So innocent... And besides you confirm his incredible beauty. He knows how handsome he is, a real charmer when he wants to. But as Jed he has to hide it, playing the little nerd who doesn't know how attractive he is.  

“So, can I take your order?” you said.

“A long cup of coffee, with cream and sugar. And I’ll take a slice of your March cake please.” he responds putting his glasses back in place.

“Coming right up at the speed of light!”

You gathered his order and give it quickly and when he pulled out money to pay you, you gently give it back to him.

“Well... I didn't get yelled at yet...”

“it’s on the house. It's my way of thanking you for that.” you said with a sweet smile.

“I can’t, here take it” he replied.

“Jed.” you started taking softly his hand to put the money in it. “What you did was the nicest thing on earth that anyone I know has ever do for me. And we barely know each other. Friends I've known since kindergarten would never have done it for me. You can always pay next time. But not today.”

Jed blinked several times before putting his money in his wallet. Then he took his cup in his hand to lift it up in the air.

“To the Nebula. Hoping that he succeeds and brings a little joy to our city so bruised by the current events. Cheers.”

“Cheers” you said lifting up your bottle of ice tea to toast with him before each drinking a sip.

“Excuse me miss can I have a refill? And another slice of your blueberry pie?” said a young woman working on her computer.  

“Sure!” you answer. “Sorry I have to get back to work. But you can take a sit if you want! Unless you’ve still got some work to do?”  

“Well, I'm on a break. I would say that this time I took my time because I am often criticized for not resting. But don't tell anyone.”  

You smile at him and take a pot of coffee to refill the woman’s cup. Jed took a seat not far from the counter and discreetly look at you. For Jed, doing all this on your own must be difficult and he really wanted to help you, but for Danny it's a blessed bread to know that you’re alone. No one could help you if he wanted to pay you a courtesy visit.He’s not going to kill you right away, oh no... He's going to get to know you. To the smallest detail.  

While you served again other customers in coffee and pastries, another entered. And you could say that he was not an ordinary person in view of his clothes and his way of being, he could be defined as a snobbish but influential person. If even a snob like him comes into your business... That can only be a good thing, right?

“Welcome to the Nebula sir! How can I help you?”

“Do you have imperial tea or Vintage Narcissus tea?”

“Uhm...Sorry sir this kind of tea is rare to find and very expensive. I only have red fruit tea at the moment and green tea. I should receive more soon.”

“Tss. Give me a Latte Macchiato in this case.”

You force yourself to smile and start preparing his order. But you feel his gaze on you as if he was stabbing you in the back. Jed gave you a reassuring smile as you returned him and once the Latte was ready, you lay it on the counter.

“Will it be all sir?” you said with a forcing smile

“Your... cakes there... Are they industrial or homemade?” he said haughtily.

“homemade Sir! with only natural products for better taste and quality!”

“I doubt it very much.”

“Excuse me?”  

“I doubt that a girl like you can get "natural" products as easily and cheaply. Or you take the big game out of them. It won't surprise me when you see such a decoration, it's like a junkie club.”

“Who are you?” you said with a nervous laugh

“What ??”

“I said: Who are you? Where do you know me for talking to me in that tone? Just because you have money doesn't mean you can do all you want. Plus, you insult me as a whore.”

“How could you...This is not a way to treat your customers! You can't even handle orders from your customers!”

“Sir... If I am not mistaken, I didn’t force you into my establishment, you came on your own. In addition, you adopt a behaviour that, in another place, you will have been worth an immediate exit with, if the person wanted, a kick in the ass or even more. So, are you going to take something extra or just pay for your coffee?” you replied with an Olympian calm.

Vexed, the man took the cup and spilled his content on the ground before throwing the cup in your face. But for all that, you do not react and you are quite right, with a man like him, better not to blame yourself.

“You don't lose anything to wait, little bitch. I'm sure I'll find something that will make you close your slum.” he said before leaving.  

You take a deep breath, throw the cup in the trash and take the bucket and mop to clean up the still-hot coffee on the floor. You expected to have rough customers but like him and from day one... Not really. But you did the right thing, not to react, stay calm in all circumstances.  

“What a son of bitch. he's never had his mouth broken this dirty asshole rich.” you grunt as you finish wiping the floor.

“Unfortunately, not... and with the influence he has, it's hard to do anything to him.”

You startle slightly when you hear Jed's voice behind you, who had witnessed the whole scene.

“Who's that bastard? How can you let a guy like that treat people like shit honestly??”

“You know men like him... can easily afford to do everything when they can afford it. All they have to do is bribe some people and they're safe. They feel untouchable and only live that way. They know that most people have financial worries and they take advantage of them.” said Jed.  

“What a coward. Money can't save him forever.” you replied.

While you were tidying up the bucket and mop, some customers came to tip while supporting you, facing what had just happened. Some of them swore on this guy making fun of him openly which made you smile. The rest of the day passed quietly; Jed had gone back to work in the meantime wishing you good luck. You check several times that all the doors were closed before closing your café and heading to your apartment.

You suddenly feel someone following you and you turn around discreetly for a guy in a hood. You walk a little faster and you hear the man's footsteps go faster as well. As you feel it approaching to the point of touching you, a horn startled you both and when you turn your head, you recognize a familiar vehicle.

“Hey! Have you ever been taught to not attack a woman? I wonder what we're going to learn about you if I call the cops. Get in. I’ll take you home.” Said Jed opening the door while Danny discreetly shot your assailant with his eyes.  

Once you got on, you closed the door and Danny went back on the road. You're lucky that Danny finishes his job earlier taking advantage of his extra free time to stalk you without getting noticed. This allowed him to study the situation a little more and he now knows that you check everything several times before leaving. And you may do it more often and longer after his visit as Ghostface.

“Thanks. if you hadn't arrived he would surely have...”  

“Don't say anything. I'd rather not think about it. You don't have to thank me. Between neighbours it's normal to help each other, right? You would have done the same for me.” He responds without looking away from the road.

“I'm sure it was these bastard rich that hired him to scare me. I should have beat him like that, he would have gotten the message out to him.”

“And then he would have used his influence to sue you and make you lose your coffee. It's a technique as old as the world.”  

“He loses nothing to wait.”

Jed nods as a bad smile appears on Danny's face. Oh no he loses nothing to wait for sure. Thanks to you, involuntarily, you found a new victim for Danny. But not right away. You have to study your prey before you kill it.

***

(Phew! Finally finished! I'll hope you’ll enjoyed it! if I'm not often distracted, I’ll try to post a new chapter every Friday! This will give time for new readers to read the previous chapters! See ya !  )  

[capricornus-rex]

A Shadow of What You Used to Be (10)

Chapter 10: A Home Away | Cal Kestis x Irele Skywalker

Cal Kestis x Fem! OC

Requested by Anon

Summary: There is another! Years after young Anakin Skywalker departed Tatooine, his mother Shmi delivers a second child—this time, a daughter. Whilst the circumstance of the girl’s birth remains unexplained, Irele Skywalker has yet to choose the true path between those laid out for her.

Tags: Fem! OC, Irele Skywalker, Force-sensitive! OC, Anakin’s Younger Sister, Skywalker! OC, Darth Vader’s Secret Apprentice, Long-lost Sibling

Requesting to be tagged: @heavenly1927​

Also in AO3

Chapters: Prelude – 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 | Previous: Part 9 | Next: Part 11 | Masterlist

11 of ?

The maintenance droids only needed an hour to prepare a dorm for Irele within the command ship. Not that she would need a personal room in every ship she boards, but it would help if she did in the near future. The human guards did not need to wait for Irele to come to, they barged into the cell, pulled the poor girl by the arm to stand her up and then drag her out of the prison block while she could barely use her own two feet.

Irele’s eyes have not adjusted to the changing tones and gradients of lights of each part of the ship she passes through. She thought she said the question “Where are we going?” when the guards only heard an incoherent groaning at the throat.

The way from the prison block to her new chambers was a ten-minute walk, if one marched faster it would have been lesser. Upon reaching their destination, only one escorted her into her room and sat her down on the bed—to which she immediately fell limp and ended up lying down instead. While she was out cold, a nanny droid entered her bedroom to tend to whatever it can in the quarters; it took its time, in fact, until the girl came to. The droid’s sensors picked up the spike from Irele’s heart rate from slow to normal, it briskly turned around.

“It is fortunate that you’ve come to, milady. The serum from the probe has completely worn off. Should you feel slight nausea, do not be alarmed for it is normal as well. I can administer some painkillers to you with your choice of pill or syrup.”

The droid is programmed to speak in Basic and had a rather lulling, female voice—perhaps the most appropriate if you are to manufacture and program a droid for nursing.

“Milady? What are you talking about? Who are you? What are you?”

“You are here as a ward under the strict order of Master Vader. I am HY-L33, Nanny Droid,” it brought its head into a bow, “At your service, Milady Irele.”

“Why call me Milady when I’m kept hostage here?” she sits up and examines the room.

“Oh, you are mistaken, Milady. You are Lord Vader’s ward,” HY-L33 corrects. “And I have been tasked to take care of your basic needs and whims, if need be.”

“What I need is to go home! I don’t like being holed up in anywhere!”

The nurse droid lowered its head slowly, it stayed like so for a moment; with a rather sympathetic voice, HY-L33 responds, “I’m sorry, but I am incapable of fulfilling that whim, milady. I would suggest that you make yourself comfortable in this new one.”

Irele sighed, knowing that she’s talking to a wall here. She gave herself time to calm down and breathe. She passed her hands across her face and sighed.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be lashing out to you…” Irele inhaled. “What are you called again?”

“HY-L33, madam.”

Irele quietly parroted the name, “That’s a mouthful. How about I call you Haylee, is that alright?”

“If it proves to be more convenient for you, milady. Although personally, I do adore the name you’ve given me.”

Irele hummed as she managed a small smile, she hinted the chirp from the droid’s voice, relieved that she found some company out of the droid in this inorganic, cold room, she walked around to get a better feel of it now that the serum from the interrogation droid has worn off.

“Say, Haylee, do you know where we are?”

“We are aboard the command ship Anathema, the ship is within the Ulgoro system, and we are passing by the orbit of the planet Yelen.”

“How far are we from Tatooine?”

Haylee ran a quick scan from her processors, “We are approximately twenty-five parsecs away from the said Outer Rim planet.”

Irele breathed deeply, her heart sank, “That’s so far away…”

The droid’s photoreceptors picked up Irele’s increased heart rate and temperature. The girl was manifesting signs of anxiety: shivering hands, failing voice, and cold sweat.

“You are suffering from homesickness. Unfortunately, I do not have the appropriate medication for that, milady. Neither can I administer any medication for you. This is absolutely natural as you have been extracted from your real home to your current location.”

Irele took the deepest sigh and made a mantra.

Don’t lash out on the droid, you just screamed at it ten minutes ago.

She told this to herself mentally until she’s calmed herself down.

“Yeah, I am homesick. I left my family behind and…” she trailed off, realizing that the last people she was with were her friends. “My friends. They must be all worried sick about me.”

“You will be well taken care of here, Lady Irele.”

“Heh,” the girl huffed. “No need to be so formal. Just call me Irele.”

“As you wish… Mistress Irele.”

“Droids, gotta love ‘em…” she mumbled very quietly, knowing how acute droids’ hearing could be—depending on the model, that is.

–

Fortunately enough, Irele is indeed being taken care of.

Ever since she was moved to her own chambers in the Star Destroyer Anathema, she was thoroughly pampered—more or less—than anyone else in the ship, aside from Darth Vader. Never has she ever been well-fed in sixteen years! The serving portions were generous and they were quite tasty, but she had her moments where the food somewhat reminded her of home.

A uniformed officer enters Vader’s quarters to report of Irele’s adjustment to the new environment. Most of the officers feared that they’re speaking like a broken record, reporting the same thing to Vader every week—they had probably imagined it vexed him to be hearing the same thing over and over; it did them little comfort when adding their own personal observations of her such as asking for seconds with her food and interacting with the nanny droid, since she’s still shy and cautious from everyone else on board.Additionally, she was not yet allowed to wander off alone beyond her room. So, by all means, she is pretty much a hostage still—a rather pampered one, at the very least.

“Has she stopped her erratic behavior?”

“Fortunately so, Lord Vader, she has. Perhaps about a week and a half since her extraction, she had become somewhat… docile.”

Vader paused. He had presumed it was the effects of the interrogator droid’s syringe, but surely during the time the nanny droid was tending to the girl, the substance has flushed out since. Realizing that he truly knows nothing of what kind of person Irele is—compared from his earliest reference of her—he sighs with a quiet frustration under his mask.

“Very well. We are right on schedule. Carry on, captain.”

“Yes sir,” the captain bowed and dismissed himself militarily. His true posture showed when he rejoined his companion who had been waiting for him by the door. He hissed, “I didn’t conscript myself to the Imperial Fleet to be a babysitter!”

“Be more frustrated when Lord Vader does appoint you the official babysitter of the girl.”

“She’s quite a handful, don’t you think so?”

“Temperamental, to say the least,”

Only Vader and the droid, HY-L33, know what’s in store for Irele. Very soon, the plans for her life under the Empire’s wing—unknowingly under her brother’s care, or the walking shell of him perhaps—will be put into play.

For many weeks, HY-L33 patiently watched over Irele—especially in the medical aspect—and a mandate was programmed into her that once a diagnosis of the teenager would show optimum by the end of three weeks since her extraction from Tatooine, Irele would be considered physically eligible and be subjected to training. Eventually, HY-L33 was the only companion she has ever had in this ship since day one; so in exchange for medical knowledge and advice from HY-L33, Irele repays it with stories from her homeworld of Tatooine, but knowing that the droid is under Imperial property, she was cautious of what she ought to say, and rather told her adventures she had done on her own or with a friend instead of her family life.

“It seems as though your rigorous lifestyle has contributed to your increased stamina throughout your developmental stage.” HYL-33 commented once while listening to Irele recall one job she did where she would deliver goods door-to-door across the town of Mos Espa.

“Yeah well, I had to work. Because if I didn’t work, that just meant, I’ll be sleeping hungry—or if I’m lucky, with a half-full stomach.”

HY-L33, being the medical nanny droid that she is, went on to lecture Irele that it was ill-advised to sleep on an empty stomach for it will cause ulcers. The girl politely listened and heeded the advice, until she calmed down the droid that she had been fine for the rest of the time she was growing up.

She had only been staying for a week and a half. HY-L33’s sensors indicate a lesser trace of homesickness and anxiety within Irele, her body mass index has not changed drastically at all since her food intake was increased rather than imposing an eating strike—a few of HY-L33’s references cite that most human teenagers are more rebellious, especially when it comes to being fed after being thrown into a stressful situation. However, this was not the case with Irele, which made the nurse droid’s circuits cooler.

Eventually, the three weeks were over. Irele noticed HY-L33 seeming to be in full preparation. She did not mind this, but kept a close eye, until she could find the right timing to ask. After lunch, Irele went to the bath by rote, and quickly dressed herself in a dark gray shirt, black pants, and low boots.

Irele could truly sense something different in their routine.

“Haylee?”

“Yes, Miss Irele?”

“Is there something new added into the routine?”

“Yes, Miss Irele, we are about to perform a full health assessment on you. Please follow me and I will escort you to the medical ward.”

This was the first time Irele had been outside of her bedroom. For three weeks, she had been holed up in that metal room with no one and nothing else but HY-L33—to which she had grown fond of anyway—and then she finally comes out for a medical check-up.

Along the way, she could not look into the eyes of the crew, although she perfectly blended in with her gray and black clothes. She was nervous and afraid of what they’re thinking of her—because she felt like she knows what they’re saying about her, it’s a feeling that she can’t explain but it still manifests in her. Eager to avoid the stares and attention, Irele walked directly behind HY-L33 until they got to the said medical ward.

When they got there, the interior of the medical ward was a little bit brighter than most of the rooms in the ship. The walls were still metal, of course, but it was a cooler shade of gray which somewhat eased the people who are admitted and confined here—instead of the intimidating dark grays and blacks on other parts of the ship. At the center of operations was a 2-1B surgical droid stationed by a medical bed; it was approached by HY-L33 and Irele, when the droid’s photoreceptors saw the girl’s face, a deep male tone started speaking in a monotonous, continuous fashion.

“Irele Skywalker, human female, age is sixteen standard years, height stands at five feet and three inches…”

“Okay, okay, I think we got enough of my vitals already!” Irele interrupted.

“Were you briefed of your purpose here?”

Irele made a side-eyed glance at HY-L33, who didn’t move at all, “I was only told I was getting a check-up.”

“Correct.”

The surgical droid cleared out what HY-L33 failed to when they were still in the bedroom. It started with the physical examination—taking down her age, height, and weight, until it pored into analyzing the fluid levels and vitals of her organs to see if they were normal. It was all strange for little Irele, but she held up and did as she was told. She wasn’t getting hurt by the droids anyway, save the one pinprick that they had to do in order to conduct a blood test.

From Vader’s chamber, he was receiving real-time transmissions of the medical ward’s database. Whatever diagnosis the droids encode into the database under Irele’s profile, Vader saw it all firsthand—every revision, every new entry, every number.

Midichlorian count: 20,598.

Seeing this number and then recalling his impression on Irele baffled Darth Vader.

This child has lived sixteen years in a backwater planet, with a high midichlorian count… and yet her sensitivity is dormant.

[mommymooze]

Premonition

Since you were young you’ve dreamed of your death. You watch yourself being stabbed in your stomach. Your eyes follow the dagger coming for you. At first it is from your point of view. As you get older, you watch from the views of others watching your death. You don’t see your whole self nor your clothes. Just your skin, you know its your skin, your stomach, and the knife. Everything else is misty.

You sign up for the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach to learn how to defend yourself and fight bandits, useful as you come from a family of merchants in Conand territory.  You are welcomed into the Blue Lions, becoming good friends with everyone in the house. You love having professor Byleth as your teacher. Then the war begins, and everyone goes home. You reunite briefly with your parents. They are too old to fight, so they leave for Morfis or Almyra, somewhere not in the middle of a war. You take what they cannot sell, returning to the ruins of Garreg Mach, and descend into Abyss.

The Ashen Wolves are happy to have you. Yuri sells and trades the goods from your parents for essentials to keep Abyss fed and healthy. The Wolves are still fighting alongside the kingdom, having joined their house once they were discovered. Their war is underground and in the shadows. You frequently are out with one if not all of them running a covert operation to disrupt Imperial forces, stealing enemy supplies and generally make things difficult for Edelgard.  

Several times a month you dream of the dagger slicing into your stomach. The vision has changed since you were younger. You watch skin being sliced, the blood quickly flowing like a waterfall down your abdomen. You stand in the grass outside on an overcast day. You can identify the angle of the dagger. You think the wielder is right handed and aiming straight for your heart.

Yuri is contacted by a small band of fighters from Duscur. You assist sneaking them through the kingdom, helping to get them into the dungeons of Fhirdiad before the enemy can execute Dimitri. You escort them until they are out of the city. Dedue is hurt in the mission, you must leave before you know how serious his injuries were. Dimitri is in the worst shape of any of them, but his injuries aren’t all physical.

Yuri then sends you and Balthus out to Riegan territory to work with Claude on a mission. It is good to see the Deer’s leader and even better to hear that he feels he owes something to the kingdom.

You are sent on fighting missions, spying missions, covert missions, trading and food recovery operations. The imperials killed the local chicken farmer. You think it’s a terrible shame to leave all of those chickens to starve. Trying to hide from the Empire’s army in a heavily wooded forest with bags of noisy chickens is one of the more challenging recent jobs. It’s worth it. Abyss now has a chicken coop well below the cathedral, under the long high bridge. Bandits don’t make it down there frequently, so they have a good steady supply of eggs for feeding the residents.

Five years is a long time when you look back at it. This war seems to never end. There is always fighting, fires, thefts, murders. The borders of the countries on maps are blurred, constantly moving, yet not moving at all.

Yuri has the wolves +1 head topside. Today is the day of the Millennium festival. You run up a hill and are thrilled to see a mop of red hair coming into view as you maneuver over the rise. You run to stand alongside Felix and Sylvain just as they are being attacked by bandits. Everyone’s showing off their new skills, taking down enemies with ease. Quickly Annette and Mercedes join the group, Hapi bringing them into view. In a matter of minutes bandits are dead and the group is reunited. The most surprising detail is that Byleth is back! There are tears of joy and grateful sighs. Dimitri is there, but he’s doing worse than the last time you had seen him. He stomps off to the remains of the Cathedral. There is a huge presence missing as you all are still standing in the grass and weeds of the fields. Dedue has not returned.

 The Blue Lions make the monastery their base. They clean up and begin to rebuild Garreg Mach. As soon as the training grounds are functional, Felix is after you to spar with him. You always had a great time fighting with him. He was always serious, so intense. You had laughed at him then, always telling him to loosen up. Now honing your skills is absolutely necessary. There are no requests to go easy. Only to fight, to learn, to get better and be better than the next enemy that could stand before you.

Both of you have changed greatly over the time spent apart. You are both stronger, faster than you were so long ago. He looks more muscular than he was in the past. He’s also taller. As the fight continues his strikes are still strong, straight and true. Your strikes become more ruthless, fighting more with your survival instincts than beauty and finesse, just like your enemies have been fighting you for all these years.

Felix forces you backwards and you suddenly find yourself against a wall. His sword is at your throat.

“Hah.” You smirk, glancing to your left.

“Yield.” The master swordsman nearly spits, shoving the point of the sword into your chin.

You smack him on the shoulder with a ball of fire in your hand, flames flashing out in every direction, breaking his concentration. You then cast lightning at him, the shock of the electricity forcing him to let go of his sword. You hit him with mire just as he hits you with lightning, the force of the spells crashing and sending you both flying backwards a few feet, landing flat on your asses.

He looks angry enough to spit nails. You start to giggle then give a full hearty laugh. You smile because you haven’t laughed like that in a long time.

Begrudgingly he walks over and offers a hand to help you off the ground.

Just as you pick up your sword you hear the word that makes your heart leap.

“Again!”

  The day is overcast when the Empire attacks the monastery again. It is a difficult fight, so many are injured, however Byleth & Dimitri’s army is successful in defending the academy. Byleth’s presence makes a huge difference for everyone.

Your dreams are every 2 or 3 days now. They have transitioned again, becoming longer and more detailed. You can tell that there are two larger shapes around you. You see your hands reaching for your stomach, your fingers are already bruised and bloodied. It hurts, starting with a sting then feeling the blade go deeper and pain is completely washing over you. The pain is what wakes you. You cannot go back to sleep with this going on inside your head.

Dimitri is a mess holed up in the Cathedral, you decide go to visit him after your premonition.

“Have you come to stare and mock the beast?” The Prince growls.

“No. But quite often you refer to yourself as a dead man. I understand that. I will be dead soon too. I’ve always dreamed of my death. The older I get, the more frequently I dream of it. I’m getting close. Figured the dead should hang out together.”

“I need no others to die for me.” The giant man mumbles.

“I believe in what we are fighting for. I believed in your father. I wont haunt you Dimitri. If I get a choice to haunt anyone, I’ll go to Enbarr and torment Hubert and Edelgard.”

Dimitri doesn’t laugh. He only stands before you quietly as you get up to leave him. You recognize him as one of the figures in your dreams. Silently you remove yourself, walking aimlessly around the grounds.

 As per the orders of the War Council, everyone marches to Ailell to gain more troops. They are attacked by Gwendal, the Gray lion. Fighting in battles is hard enough, but when the ground is hot enough to cook a steak, it’s nearly impossible. Your sword feels like it is red hot through your gloves. Still you hold on to your weapon tightly, bringing the enemies to their knees. Rodrigue arrives just in time to assist in taking down Gwendal. The old knight looks relieved at finally finding death. The Duke and his additional troops are sorely needed and join Dimitri’s army. It takes days to get the smell of burnt flesh out of your nostrils.

 Everyone heads back to the monastery. You are walking among the wagons when Rodrigue rides by on his horse. You glance his way and nod. Then you stop. Looking at the Duke of Fraldarius, seeing his shadow revealed by the light of the setting sun, you recognize another shape from your dreams.

 You are up early every day now. Felix spars with you all morning. Sometimes you spar with him in the afternoon, or head to Abyss to work out with the Wolves. You become more restless with each passing day. If you can’t train with your sword you run, run until your lungs are on fire. Anything to keep yourself moving. You eat, you sleep, or at least try to. Sometimes you fall asleep while eating. Nobody really notices, it seems to be a common occurrence. The joys of war.

 The next battle is for the great bridge at Myrrdin over the Aramid river. Ladislava holds control of the bridge and taunts the Blue Lions. Dimitri is screaming for her head in addition to Edelgard’s. The fight has barely begun, you are in the back sending magic after enemy forces when the sound of heavy knights came from behind. You turn to see…Dedue!!! He runs up to Dimtiri, ready to fight for his side. The Blue Lions are extremely energized, they decimate the enemy troops on the bridge. Ladislava is defeated in record time. Everyone is overjoyed that they have cut off the Empire from obtaining any further supplies from the north. Most importantly, they are whole and happily celebrate Dedue’s return.

 Every night. Every freaking night the dreams are tormenting you. You dream of an overcast day. They are there, standing on the grass-- Dimitri, Rodrigue, and one other person in front of you. You are out of breath. The dagger appears, you reach for your stomach, a gash in your shirt, pulling at the dagger with your bruised and bloody hands, blood flowing out of you like a river. You scream…and wake up.

 You head to the training grounds to practice with Felix. He notices. Your swings are careless, ruthless, the look in your eyes is wild.

“Hey!” He grabs you by your collar, choking you slightly. “Don’t go full boar on me. We need you.”

You spit and stare at the ground. Taking a deep breath you finally answer, “Okay.”

You spar with him but hold yourself back. You need to keep yourself in control. It’s so difficult when the end is so near.

 You join Annette and Mercedes in the kitchens baking cookies. You pay way too much for spices for cookies, but it’s not like you need the money much longer. You leave a small box of the not too sweet, heavily spiced cookies at Felix’s door. You hand out a few cookies to each of the Blue Lions that you meet. You can’t forget your friends in Abyss and send a box of cookies their way as well.

Running to the Cathedral you see Dimitri standing at his pile of rubble. He even acknowledges your presence. You are grateful that Dedue and Rodrigue are here for him. You thank him for his leadership and for everything he has done for you and the Lions. You leave as suddenly as you appeared. He looks a bit confused.

Heading to the marketplace, you stop by the armorer and pick up your custom chainmail shirt. It is heavy and goes past your hips. You wear it under your tunic everywhere you go. You even start running with it on, it becomes your second skin.

 The army is on the march. They are prepared for the encounter with the Empire’s forces. They have good intel that the Alliance may be sending their army to meet with them as well. You hope that Dimitri and Claude can talk before so that they can work together to take down Edelgard, however the Alliance Lord has not responded to any of Byleth’s requests. You think that there is a spy that must have intercepted them. Claude would have joined you, you know that.

The army stops for a break. There is a large stream nearby and you bathe quickly to get some of the dirt and dust of the road removed. The call to resume marching is much too quick, you grab your clothes and struggle into them as you take your place in the procession.

The three armies converge on a single point. How appropriate that it should be Gronder Field. Just as you are heading to take your position, you realize something is missing. Your vest is hanging on a branch back at the stream. You remind yourself to pick it up on the way back.

The horns of battle sound and you are running towards the enemy, teeth gritted and sword at the ready. The Empire’s soldiers are getting closer by the second. The battle is a blur. You take out enemy soldiers left and right with the flash of your blade. If you can’t cut through their armor, you cook them inside it with fire or electrocute them with lightning. You are part of the main surge of fighters, creeping closer and closer to Edelgard. You hear Dimitri screaming for his revenge. To help him you fire spells at Hubert while stabbing Empire fighters, hoping that your spells can break his concentration away from defending the Emperor.

Dimitri screams as Edelgard retreats, Hubert warping the pair of them away. There are still a few Empire soldiers and you strike them with lightning. Rodrigue rides up to the Prince, dismounting so he can check his wounds. Just as Rodrigue stands next to Dimitri, you look to the right and a young girl is screaming and breaking free from a kingdom knight. She runs towards the two men, screaming about getting even and revenge. Your feet are moving before your mind can catch up, you can’t let her get to them. She sounds insane with rage, demanding revenge for her brother’s death. You drop your weapons to help you gain more speed, she is pulling out a dagger. You’re not sure if she is targeting the prince or the duke. She takes a swing at Rodrigue, slicing into his coat, then pulling her weapon back again to thrust it into his side. You are there, putting yourself between the dark haired man and the ruthless girl. You are grabbing at the weapon, however her deathgrip on the dagger doesn’t loosen, she’s going to kill someone, anyone and she thrusts the dagger into you.  Dimitri quickly reacts, bringing Ahredbahr down upon the enraged girl, ending her life.

You reach for the blade with your already bloody hands having fought all day in the battle, you are trying to remove the knif, your fingers slick with your own blood flowing out from your side like a river. You suddenly feel too weak to pull it out. Your legs are giving out underneath you. You feel your body falling. Dimitri and Rodrigue are yelling. There is so much noise, then the buzzing in your ears takes over, the darkness begins to cloud your vision, you recall only a little light in the center showing Rodrigue’s pleading face before everything is black.

 You open your eyes but they do not want to focus. You lift your head and it falls back to the pillow, being overcome with dizzyness. There are a multitude of voices, some are shouting, all of them speaking all at once. You want to cover your head and make it all go away, its too much. You lift your hands but they are so weak you drop them. You welcome the darkness as it takes you in.

 Things are quieter now. A woman’s voice softly speaks. “Are you awake dear. Nod for yes.”

You pull your chin down, you can’t lift your head much, you feel so incredibly weak. You want to open your eyes but that feels impossibly difficult.

The voice says we’re going to prop you up so you can drink something. It will make you feel better.

Hands from both sides lift your shoulders to tuck a pillow beneath you and then under your head. You grimace at the pain but it stops quickly. You feel a small bottle brought to your lips. You take a little sip, your mouth is so dry it feels cool and wet.

She is telling you to swallow. Ohh, cool on your throat. You open your mouth for more.  They let you have a few more sips.

You fall back into a deep sleep.

You waken the next morning hearing the deep voice of Rodrigue advising the healers that you are awake.

“It is good to see that you are still with us.” The Duke smiles.

“How.. how am I not dead?” You gasp, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Since she was prevented from killing me, I was able to heal you. I am a Holy Knight of the Kingdom you know. I was able to heal you, stopping your bleeding as quickly as I could. We then brought you back here. I will notify Dimitri of your recovery, he will be most pleased.

“Thank you for saving me.” You whisper.

“It is I who must thank you. If it wasn’t for your quick intervention, I would not be here.” Duke Fraldarius smiles widely at you.

The clerics check you over, allowing you to sit up. Eventually you feel well enough to clean up and even have visitors.

One by one the lions come to visit. A pile of gifts and flowers begins to accumulate on the table next to the bed.

Felix arrives and shoos everyone away bringing you dinner, which is thin oatmeal. Bestest oatmeal you have had in a long time. While you eat Felix stays to keep you company.

“Oh. I talked to my old man.” Felix says as he fiddles with a piece of loose leather on a belt. “We’re going to try to talk to each other more. That’s a start right?” He asks as he looks at you.

“That’s great. I think you guys are lucky to get a second chance. Not that things will be perfect, but better.”  You say as you finish your dinner.

“Have you had that weird dream any more?” The swordsman wonders out loud.

You think, “No. It was every single day and now nothing. I thought for sure it was my death.” Your voice trails off.

“Maybe you get a second chance too.” Felix almost smiles as he takes your empty bowl away.

[captainseaweedbrains]

The Dance of the Color Guard, Op. 64: Chapter 2

Katniss and Peeta used to be best friends when they were kids, but now in high school, they're barely on speaking terms. It isn't until they are forced together as the titular star-crossed lovers for their marching band's field show that they will have to face their past mistakes and try to get along if they ever hope of defeating the notorious Capitol Height's Imperial Marching Crusaders in competition.

It's all about winning and if that means pretending to be in love with Peeta Mellark, so be it.

But a lot can happen in six months.

Tumblr: x x

Ao3: x x x

May

Tryouts came and went with an excellent turnout, the best Katniss had seen ever. And in true Miss Trinket fashion, the assistant director had sought out the theatre and dance kids with the promise of getting to perform such an iconic story on the biggest stage they’ll ever have the privilege to perform on. Miss Trinket wanted the drama, the flair, and she didn’t have to go far to get it.

Even more surprising was that they actually showed up and were actually pretty good. Katniss had had her doubts when seeing the likes of musical star extraordinaire Finnick Odair saunter into the gym where auditions were being held, wearing that arrogant smile she always saw on him, but after seeing what he and the other theatre and dance kids could do with a flag, she admitted she was wrong and focused her energy on earning her place as captain.

Between her and Miss Trinket’s determination, Athens Ridge Marching Gladiators might have a good chance of finally beating Capitol Heights this year at PSU!

“We’re looking promising,” she told Leevy as they put together their instruments. It was the day after final rounds of auditions and she couldn’t stop thinking how at the end of today, Miss Trinket would post who was on the team and Katniss would finally know if she was made captain or not. She had done her best, she kept telling herself, and now it was out of her hands. The wait was killing her, though, and her poor bladder was taking most of the brunt, the constant need to pee every two minutes distracting her in all her classes today.

Had she proven to Miss Trinket that she was enough to be captain?

Her legs twitched closed, the need to pee returning.

“You should have seen Finnick Odair twirl a rifle,” Katniss said to distract herself. “It was insane how good he is! I always thought he was a bit full of himself, but maybe he has a right to brag. I’m pretty sure Miss Trinket’s going to use him as one of the spotlight guards.”

Leevy’s eyes widened, her thick-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose a bit. Her crush on the performer was not an unknown fact to Katniss. “Oh, do you think she’d have him play Romeo? I bet he’ll be Romeo. He’d make an incredible Romeo.”

Katniss snorted. “I’m sure he’d be up to the challenge.” Finnick Odair not wanting the titular role would come as more of a shock to her. Miss Trinket hadn’t revealed much about how she wanted to choreograph the show, but if last season’s Cirque du Soleil and Alice Through the Looking Glass the season before were any indications of how she envisioned next season’s show, she would be using color guard to visually tell the story of the star-crossed lovers. Miss Trinket always had “big big big plans” for them all. There was no way she’d pass up on someone talented like Finnick.

Mr. Abernathy gave the two minute warning before rehearsal started up and the girls leaned toward each other to tune their flutes. As they made adjustments, Katniss wondered who would play Finnick’s Juliet. Madge, maybe? She was a good height and her years of ballet served her well, being the lead spotlight guard two years in a row. Or Glimmer? She grimaced at the thought of Glimmer Macklemore being the lead spotlight, believing it would go straight to her head. Glimmer was by far one of the worst human beings Katniss has had the misfortune of knowing all these years, but the girl was graceful. “Like a swan on water,” Miss Trinket was known for saying about Glimmer’s talent.

I hope it’s Madge, Katniss thought, glancing slightly over at her friend who sat further down the row from her, Madge’s cheeks slightly puffed as she tuned her oboe. Yes, Madge would make an incredible Juliet.

*******

All her thoughts and worry over color guard went away during what ended up being a long and brutal rehearsal. It was hard worrying over who’d play Juliet to Finnick’s Romeo when Mr. Abernathy was out for blood. He was yelling at everyone today, not pleased that they had a concert in another week and sounded like a beginning band. What made the rehearsal even worse was much of his agitation was directed at her and the two solos she had. Over and over he made her play in front of the whole band, walking her through the notes, asking her snidely who controlled the tempo. By the time he threw up his arms in defeat, her face was a completely different shade.

“Sign up for a practice room, Everdeen,” Mr. Abernathy told her after her sixth attempt at a difficult run. “And maybe work on your fingerings instead of drooling over Finnick Odair, huh?” He moved his attention to his next victims and was just as merciless.

Slumping low in her seat, her throat tight with choked back tears, Katniss focused hard on her music, pretending she was just practicing when really it took all her strength not to cry. Snickers from the brass section could be heard, or maybe she was just paranoid that the whole band was laughing at her. Either way, no matter how hard she kept her attention on her music, forcing back tears from spilling over, she couldn’t hide how dark her face must look right now. Mr. Abernathy’s words played over in her head, causing her cheeks to warm even more. From embarrassment or anger, she wasn’t sure. The man was never one to mince words and was known for his sour temper, but this was the first time he’d ever taken it out on her. And he thought her, one of his most dedicated players, as nothing more than a teenage girl drooling over boys. 

She’d never hated the man more than in this moment.

“Hey,” Leevy nudged her, face sympathetic. “You okay?” 

Katniss stiffly nodded, afraid if she said anything, she’d break and start to cry, and that was definitely something she didn’t want to do in front of the whole band. 

“He’s being an ass today,” her friend whispered in comfort, playfully bumping their knees together. “You’re his best player and he knows it. He’s probably just mad because Coin took away the pizza buffet in the cafeteria.” Katniss gave a halfhearted smile, knowing her friend was just trying to make her feel better, but Mr. Abernathy was at least right about her playing. She really did need to practice more.

“Okay, we’re calling it today,” Mr. Abernathy sighed, slamming his scorebook closed. “It’s clear no one’s practiced since yesterday and it’s wasting my time. I better hear improvement tomorrow, or I’m going to have everyone play their part and have your whole semester grade be based off that.” 

“Practice, practice, practice!” Miss Trinket trilled from the back of the room, typing at the computer. “We want to be the best, don’t we?” Mr. Abernathy gave her the stink eye, like he wanted to argue her statement, but waved his hand, reminding everyone not to leave the band room until the bell rang.

“Well that was brutal,” Leevy joked halfheartedly, her eyes still looking at Katniss with pity. Katniss looked away, unable to stomach her friend’s obvious sympathies. She’d received enough of  that look to last an entire lifetime.

“Can’t wait until he starts threatening laps,” Katniss mumbled, her throat still tight. She just wanted to leave. Run to a bathroom stall to collect herself, but it’d be too obvious and the likes of Cato and Marvel calling her a crybaby kept her seated.

*******

They didn’t often have so much time to lounge around, especially before a concert, but Katniss took the opportunity to catch up on homework she’d been neglecting, too stressed about tryouts to bother with algebra and chemistry. Feeling like everyone was still watching her, waiting for her to crack, she tucked herself in the back locker room, between two instrument lockers, out of sight from her classmates. The space was tight and not the most ideal of places to hide, but it blocked out a lot of the noise from out front and let her take a few deep breaths in. She couldn’t cry until she got home, but at least it didn’t feel like her tears were strangling her any more. 

Taking out the beat up copy of A Tale of Two Cities from her bag, Katniss began scouring the chapters they were assigned to read (or sparknoted, in her case) for political symbolisms Mr. Heavensbee, her English teacher, was always quizzing them on during his infamous rapid fire quizzes. English had never been a strong subject for her, finding the books they read incredibly dull and full of nothing but tales about old white guys bemoaning about their manhoods, but grades was the one thing her mom actually paid attention to and hers were slipping in Heavensbee’s class due to these stupid quizzes. Her pencil circled another example, not feeling confident about it, but if her index card wasn’t pulled early on, all the obvious examples would be taken and this would be all she had to argue. 

“Good book?” She jumped, her head hitting the wall behind her, pencil stabbing her in the gums. Peeta Mellark stood in front of her, looking all casual in his dark denim jeans and grey shirt, his hands stuffed in his back pockets. He smiled at her scowl. “Sorry,” he said, and to her astonishment, it sounded like he actually meant it. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“You didn’t,” she quickly informed, tucking her pencil in the book as a bookmark. “Just preparing to be publicly humiliated in English, that’s all. ”

“Heavensbee’s quizzes are brutal,” he agreed, still standing there, trying to be nonchalant, but his shoulders were way too tight to pull it off. It looked like it was taking all he had to be standing in front of her like this. Her hackles rose. Why should he look uncomfortable?  He sought her out. If anything, she should be the one uncomfortable, caged in a corner like this. “I think I almost cried during one last week,” he continued, not even looking at her now but at the locker next to her head. “Marvel wouldn’t stop making fun of me after that.” That didn’t surprise her, but it felt rude to point out what a shit person she thought Marvel Baxter was to Peeta’s face. 

“Yeah.” Katniss tapped her book, unsure what else to say. “Listen, I’m kind of busy trying not to fail and all, Peeta, so unless you have a question…?”

Peeta rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at his Converse, taking a deep breath in. It was a little unsettling seeing him like this, she realized, still confused why he was talking to her to begin with. Normally he knew exactly what to say, in any given situation she’d ever seen him in. 

“Okay, seriously,” she said at last, a bit more snappish than she meant. “What do you want? I don’t have time watching you sputter like a dead fish.” 

“I want to see how you’re doing,” he said in one breath. It was a totally innocent question to ask, but it felt more like a punch to the stomach, sending her back to when she was 11 years old and standing next to her mother and Prim as strangers she barely knew came up and smothered her in tight, smelly hugs. They cried over how young Sage was, still in his prime, and poor Cary, having to raise those two young girls on her own. The funeral had felt so surreal, her movements stiff and disjointed. Her voice hollow as she thanked the strangers for coming, trying not to cry in front of them as they passed. Her father’s death still hadn’t fully hit her yet and the only thing she wanted was to crawl into the casket with him and shake him awake, tell him this joke wasn’t funny any more.  Ha ha. He got her. Now could he please get up so they could go home?

 Katniss’ throat tightened at the sudden memory and she shoved her book in her bag, really needing to go before she did something stupid, like cry in front of Peeta Mellark.

“I’m fine,” she said, trying to push past him. Peeta wasn’t only tall, but his wide frame stopped her from escaping as easily as she’d like. “Really.” 

“Katniss.” He grabbed her hand to stop her, but pulled away instantly, realizing he had no right to touch her. “You looked like you were about to cry out there and then you bolted—I wanted to see if you’re okay.” 

“I  wasn’t going to cry!” she snapped, her vision red now. There were only so many punches she could take in one class period, but it seemed the universe kept wanting to come for more. “I was doing homework, Peeta, and then you waltzed in, wanting to rub it in my face that I’m a terrible player. Were you hoping I’d cry? Is Cato secretly filming this?” She looked around the small room for Golden Ass’ burley frame. 

“Cato isn’t in here, Katniss,” he snapped back, then winced, realizing his mistake. “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. What I meant was: Abernathy is a complete asshole and he shouldn’t have said those things to you. Katniss, you’re the best player in the band and he knows it.��� Any other day, hearing the sweet sentiment twice in one period would have been a real confidence booster for her, but today, it just felt like pity. Leevy felt sorry for her and now freaking Peeta Mellark felt sorry for her, too. What a blow  that felt, looking into his sad blue eyes right now. 

“I don’t want your pity,” she sneered, not knowing what else to say, but if he kept looking at her like that, she was definitely going to break down crying. Then he’d just look at her with that pathetic sad expression, feeling even more sorry for her.  “Abernathy was right about my runs and I can handle his criticism like I do with everything else in my life: alone. So if you don’t mind.” And she tried to push past him. 

In typical Peeta fashion, he blocked her only exit. “I wasn’t pitying you, Katniss.” His tone sounded as sharp and annoyed as hers now. “I was being nice. I know you don’t know what that is because you think the whole world is out to get you, but it means caring about other people and being there for them.” She looked down at her feet at the sudden weight of his accusation, her hand tightening around the strap of her backpack.

They were so engrossed in their argument, neither heard the familiar clap clap clap of Miss Trinket’s heels before the small woman announced herself, causing them both to jump and turn to the small woman. 

“There you are!” the assistant director smiled. “Peeta, I have been calling your name. Didn’t you hear me?” 

Peeta glanced down at Katniss, his eyes still hard, before looking over at his teacher. “Sorry, Miss Trinket. Katniss and I were just...talking.” Why did he say it like that? He made it sound like they weren’t talking and by the twinkle of amusement in Miss Trinket’s eyes, she suspected nothing else from two teenagers hiding in a back room. 

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your... talking” —Katniss’ cheeks darkened again, wondering how fast it’d take for the rumors to start going around that she and Peeta were caught making out in the instrument locker room by Miss Trinket—“but I need to speak with you for a moment, Peeta. If you don’t mind?” She motioned for him to proceed ahead. 

Peeta’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Am I in trouble, ma’am?” 

“No, no!” their teacher assured. “Mr. Abernathy and I need to discuss something with you about this upcoming season. Nothing scary, I promise.” He went ahead with no further comment, his hands stuffed in his front pockets, as Miss Trinket hurried ahead to unlock the band office door. He didn’t look back at her as she stood there, hand still gripping her backpack, and somehow, that felt worse than his pity. 

Katniss, I’m so sorry about your dad. It’s so not fair. How are you doing? 

Katniss? 

Katniss? 

Are you there, Katniss? Hey, how are you doing?

[knightsimp]

Consequences (Part One)

Pairing: Ulfric Stormcloak x Dragonborn!Reader

Summery: You were Ulfric’s lover before the war started, but the war seemed to have turned him into someone different from the man you fell in love with.

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 1,000+

Part: 1/2

Date Posted: March 17, 2020

Note: This fic starts before the events of Skyrim, when Ulfric killed the High King. And for the sake of this fic, the reader has a neutral stance in the war.

Another note: Me? Writing for Ulfric Stormcloak first and not Farkas? Who knew this was a reality.

Ulfric watched you pace as he leaned onto the backrest of his throne. 

“To kill the High King with the Voice... Ulfric you’ve taken this too far!”  Ulfric sighed, annoyed by your rambling.

“(Y.N), please.” He held his head in his hand. “This was a victory!”

“This was a stupid move!” Ulfric stood as you quickly approached him. “All of Skyrim will be speaking of this and you may have started a war with Cyrodiil!”

“Good!” Ulfric knew he was yelling now, but his pride kept him from calming down. “Let the people of Skyrim know that I, Ulfric Stormcloak, was the one who killed the High King with my mere voice! Let those damn Imperials know the power I hold.” Those in the throne room besides the fighting couple did not know what to do. 

“This damn war is getting out of hand!” You yelled back. “Do you not see what you’ve done in the grand scheme of this land?”

“For someone who is supposed to be on my side, you seem to sympathize with those filthy Imperials.” Your eyes widened, the rage inside you visibly growing, and you said,

“Be careful, Ulfric.” You voice was heavy. “Be careful with what you’re implying.”

“Or what?” He knew he had gone too far, but nothing was stopping him. “You’ll go running to the High King. Oh wait, he’s dead!” Not wanting to be there in the heavy air any longer, you scoffed and turned away sharply towards your shared bedroom. After hearing the heavy metal door slam, Ulfric slumped back down on his throne and let out the breath he did not know he was holding. Galmar took the chance to approach him.

“I’’m sorry, Ulfric, but we need to plan our next move. With the empire in shambles with the death of their king, we need to take this to our advantage.” Ulfric looked up at him. Though he tried to hide it, Galmar could tell he also felt the impact of that fight. Ulfric stood, needing a distraction.

“Alright.” He grumbled. 

----

It was late at night. The sun had set hours ago. Ulfric made his was to his bedroom, wanting only to sleep.

He did feel bad. While you were there, hiding from everyone, probably questioning his love for you, he chose to plan the Stormcloaks’ next move. He was thinking of the bigger picture. In his mind, once the Stormcloaks win the war, you two would be able to relax and enjoy life in Skyrim a little more. No more would you need to chase after him and he would no longer have to be so urgent about what to do next. 

He entered the bedroom. There were no candles lit. He assumed you had fallen asleep.

“Love?” He mumbled, only loud enough for you to hear. He approached the bed and, in the pale moonlight, he could see you were not in bed. Slightly panicking, he took the candle on the small desk, next to the dress, and lit it. He then used the flame to light the candles which stood next to the large bed. With more light filling the room, he could see no sign of you. “(Y/N)? (Y/N)!” He walked out and went up to the guard on duty in the corridor. “Where is my wife?” The guard thought for a moment.

“I am not sure, sire.” He replied. “I have not seen her leave her bedroom after...” The guard was too afraid to apeak of that afternoon’s occurence, but Ulfric understood. 

Ulfric wandered the halls with a fast pace, trying to find any sign of you. From those who he asked, no one had seen you. 

You could not have sneaked out. 

Could you?

You would have not left undetected. Did you leave him? Was the fight you had in the throne room the final straw for you? Surely, you knew it was a momentary thing. You had your fights before, but it would always end with you in his arms. 

Quickly, he sped back to your bedroom, and realized the details he missed were the details of which were not there anymore. Your belongings were gone. Ulfric opened the wardrobe and found some, but not all, of your clothing gone. He notice how it was just enough for you to leave and be able to travel light. 

Ulfric was unable to fathom the thought of you leaving. He sat on his bed, on your side, thinking of what was happening. He leaned back on his hands, but felt something under the green covers. He lifted the blanket and found your journal. A page was marked by a dry quill. Ulfric brought his leg onto the bed and opened the leather book. The page which was saved was today’s entry.

I can’t stand it anymore. He read, hearing your voice as his eyes skimmed over the words. I love Ulfric. I love him with all of my heart, but this war is too much for us. I want to be with him and stand by his side, but my heart can’t take the violence any longer. In a war where I don’t pledge my allegiance to a side, even when I am married to the leader of the Stormclocks, there is too much for me. I plan to leave. Ulfric’s heart sank deeper. Not forever, but long enough for there things to calm down and for Skyrim to move past the death of the High King. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I want to leave Skyrim. But who knows? If I find a better life elsewhere, nothing is forcing me to come home to the chaos of Skyrim. I will miss Ulfric, no matter what I chose.

Whether you forgot your notebook or left it for him to read, he will never know.

One part of him wanted to be relieved that you did not plan to leave forever and you did plan on coming back, but the other part of him was louder and told him that you may never come back. Tamriel was not a safe world. The loneliness was setting in for him. Recalling the fight you had earlier in the day and all the other fights you have had, the stress you have had to endure due to his role in the war, he had a feeling you were not coming back.

---

There is a part two I am working on! This is not the end! However, I don’t know if I want a happy ending or a sad ending.

Also, I actually went into Ulfric’s bedroom to see what it looks like for this fic lmao.

[krysalla-archive]

lost stars. - chapter 1

relationship: din djarin x reader word count: 2.4k a/n: the was supposed to be a oneshot but then it kind of got out of control and grew into a short series! it is also posted on my ao3 account! series summary: You live on Eadu, a small planet with nothing of note except for its Imperial kyber refinery and the never-ending rain, as a nerf herder who desperately wants to leave and get a glimpse of the sky that has been hidden from you your entire life. The only marked importance about you is that your brother is a Resistance fighter pilot, your husband is a gambler and the distrust your village has had for you and your family since you were born. Then, one day, a Mandalorian washes up on your front door, injured and looking for his bounty. After his arrival, your whole world is shaken to the core, and you're sure you will never be able to go back to what your life was like before him. preview: He wakes up sometime in the night. He panics once he realizes his armor is gone and that his helmet might be too, but the weight of the beskar still sits on his head. There’s not much he remembers, just the shoot out with the stormtroopers and losing his footing and falling and sliding down the face of the mountain. He dragged himself two miles before seeing the lights of a hut but collapsed before he could reach it. No. He remembers you. You helped him.

You lug pelts of dyed nerf wool and packages of nerf meat onto the table of a Twi’lek trader, Cham. He’s one of the few people who can provide an actual income as he owns one of the biggest import and export business in the southern hemisphere of Eadu. Some of the herders don’t come to him for exactly one reason: he’s an outsider, and one with intricate ties to the Empire. To them, he can not be trusted despite the fact that his fate of working in the Empire’s kyber refinery was forced upon him and he had no option in the matter. You are one of the smart ones who do business with him. You get far more from him than any of the small traders in your village, so the half a day it takes you to get to his base of operations is well worth it.

He smiles at the load you bring him but scrunches his nose in disgust when the wind catches the scent of the nerf. Cham doesn’t deal with nerfs daily so he never gets fully accustomed to it.

“Is this everything?” He counts your load and ticks off information on a tablet and proceeds to have someone count through the pelts.

You wait patiently as he calculates the total in his head. This season has been kind to you. There wasn’t an influenza this year and a few of your nerfs even had twins. A healthy blessing to hopefully follow you into next year. “Yes.”

***

The air is changing, you have felt it and so have your nerfs. They bleat and bleat until you think your ears might bleed at the sound of them. Each day it gets harder for you to wrangle them out to feed and back into the stables, and you can’t blame them—for the past week, you’ve been on high alert for the start of storm season.

You check to see that the nerfs are locked securely in the barn. The last thing you need is to lose one out in the storm; you wouldn’t be able to take the hit of that financially. It already costs too much as it is to keep your farm going by yourself but with the debts you owe, that’s the real killer.

Under the dull yellow light of your lantern, something reflects the light back into your eyes. You startle at it and begin walking away until you hear the groan. It isn’t unusual to come across Imperial weapons and waste on your property, after all you live downhill from one of their many kyber refinery bases on this planet. You’ve learned to avoid anything that may wash up. You like to keep your plausible deniability when the stormtroopers come marching across your farm after whatever incident occurred at the refinery for damage control.

“Hello?”

A hand grabs your ankle and yanks you down to the ground and the other points a blaster at your face. The T-line visor on the helmet instills more fear into your blood than any amount of stormtroopers could ever accomplish. They can’t shoot worth a damn, but he is a Mandalorian. He is a force to be reckoned with.

He says just a single word. Help. It’s not a question or an attempt to plead with your humanity, it’s a command. You’ve only ever heard stories about them, their bloodlust and warrior code. They are dangerous and will kill anyone that gets in their way. His armor has scorch marks from a shootout. The villagers don’t use blasters and don’t have any weapon more advanced than knives. It must have been stormtroopers.

He’s armed to the teeth: blasters strapped to his thigh and side, a rifle slung around his back and gauntlets with what looks like a flamethrower and a whipcord. Your options are limited: hide him in your hut for when the stormtroopers come or leave him out there and let the goons take him. Either way, there’s a chance that they will see it like you are involved with whatever he got himself into. You will deal with the consequences of this later. You roll up your sleeves and try to ignore the blaster being pointed at you.

He’s heavier than he looks, even with the amount of weaponry and armor attached to him, and he’s no help to you when you try to pull him up. The moment he puts weight on his right ankle, he falls back to the ground, nearly taking you down with him. You cut the palm of your left hand when you catch yourself from the fall.

“Mandalorian, you need to help me out.” You push yourself back up and bite the inside of your cheek when you examine your cut. The rock has cut you deep, tearing through the first and second layer of skin. It’s going to scar and possibly leave some kind of nerve damage, you don’t need a medical droid to tell you that.

You take a deep breath and pull yourself together, fighting back the formation of tears and the gasp that gets caught in your throat. You have a job to do.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper and distorted from the modulator and the thrumming of the rain. The Mandalorian holsters his blaster. “Please, help.”

You try again, circling around to the right side of his body and hoisting him up with one hand under his arm and the other on his waist. He leans against you and breathes heavily. Your home has never seemed so far away than right now. It’s only a few hundred feet away but with his ankle and how he seems to be swaying, it will be the longest walk of your life.

Each step sends a shock of pain through him and with each one, the longer he has to stop to catch his breath. He wheezes through it and when you reach the small divot in the path to your home, he nearly falls again, but you catch him. You bite back your own pain when the cut on your hand catches on the edge of his pauldron. It’s covered in blood at this point and your fingers had struggled to find a grip on the pauldron. You pivot towards him and catch his waist in your other hand, “Come on. We’re almost there.”

By the time you reach your hut, you’re practically dragging him. You aren’t sure if he’s passed out, but he’s still breathing. You try to put him down on the bed carefully but it’s hard with the way your arms ache and shake from carrying him all that way. You lose your grip on him and he drops unceremoniously onto your bed. He groans. Good. A sign of life from him finally.

“Do what you need to do,” he wheezes, “but don’t take off my helmet.”

Your first priority right now is to patch up your own hand. It’s an easy process in theory—clean the wound and spread bacta onto it—but your nausea and low tolerance for pain get in the way. The sooner you get it over with the quicker it will heal.

When you’re all patched up, only suffering now from teary-eyes and a small bite on the inside of your cheek, you begin the task of disarming him and carefully removing the armor. From what you can tell, the only piece or beskar he has is his helmet, the rest of his armor is a washed-out red with splotches of tan and blue. When it comes to his clothes, you have no idea where to start or what to do. You know he said do what you have to but it still feels like an invasion of privacy.

“Hey, where does it hurt?”

The Mandalorian groans and mumbles in a foreign language. Great.

You poke and prod and push up his sleeves and pull his shirt up. His chest and left arm are both swollen and bruised and his arm has a noticeable bump along the outside.

There’s not much you can do for broken bones, but you do your best with a splint. You can’t do anything for his ribs and his ankle hopefully isn’t broken. You can’t tell how bad the sprain is or if anything is broken, and without a medical droid around, you won’t be able to tell until he wakes up.

***

He wakes up sometime in the night. He panics once he realizes his armor is gone and that his helmet might be too, but the weight of the beskar still sits on his head. There’s not much he remembers, just the shoot out with the stormtroopers and losing his footing and falling and sliding down the face of the mountain. He dragged himself two miles before seeing the lights of a hut but collapsed before he could reach it. No. He remembers you. You helped him.

Din looks around and sees you, hair in a loose braid and a sad expression on your face, only illuminated by a lantern at your side. You work on a leather jacket, stitching a rip at the shoulder. He has no idea what to make of you. He knows that most of the population of the village are farmers and traders, but there’s also the Imperial occupation. He’s seen populations corrupted and turned to side with the Empire.

“Thank you.”

You peer at him and only shrug, “Don’t mention it.” You carefully place the jacket on the seat of the rocking chair you had just occupied and disappear behind the curtain separating this room from another.

Din just barely makes out the insignia on the jacket—the symbol of the Resistance—and breathes a sigh of relief.

He props himself up on his elbows to get a better view of his surroundings but there isn’t much to look at. A few baskets of clothing and a Resistance pilot helmet sitting on your desk, a simple rug and a small portrait of a couple on their wedding day. Presumably yours, but he can’t make the faces out on it clearly. The rocking chair in the corner and a small pale blue blanket—perhaps made for a child—draped over the back of it and wool in a basket next to the chair waiting to become a new blanket or sweater. No, the blanket is too small for a child, maybe for a toddler or an infant. An old keepsake? There’s no sign of a child living there. No toys and no proud displays of pictures painted by one. The house is too quiet and too clean. There are small hints of who you are throughout the room, but nothing tangible or real that he can gather and his inferences can only take him so far with the information available to him.

You part the curtain and smile at him. “You ought to be more careful. You’re gonna be out of commission for a while. Your ankle is sprained, but not too bad from what I can tell. Some swelling but there's no bruising which is very good news for you. Ankle fractures are a pain to heal. Your arm and a few of your ribs, on the other hand, are broken.” You set down a tray of food and water on the side table as well as a pouch of bacta. “There isn’t much I can do for you besides a splint for your arm. Everything is just going to heal on its own.”

He doesn’t answer. There isn’t anything he can say.

“So, are you going to tell me why a bounty hunter washed up on my doorstep?” You sit next to him on the bed and take his right arm, the one that isn’t broken, into your hands and roll up his sleeve, “Is this okay?”

He nods. “I have a bounty. Someone in the village.”

You open the bacta packet and begin smoothing it over the various cuts and scrapes over his forearm. He can only stare. It’s been a long time since he was touched this softly, not to mention the skin to skin contact. He’s used to a barrier.

“Who is it? I’m sure I can direct you to them. Your tracking fob was crushed.”

“Cratloc. Shriv Cratloc.”

Your hands stop smoothing bacta on his wounds and he can see you stiffen. “I’m afraid you won’t be getting a payday, Mandalorian.” You draw your hands into your lap and wipe your hands clean on a small dishrag. He watches your eyes go glassy. You start carefully, fingers tapping against your thigh, and with a low voice, “Shriv is dead.”

“What?”

“He died last night.”

The air becomes palpable around you from the turn the conversation has taken. You continue your task of playing nurse, gingerly taking his broken arm into your hands, and undo the splint. The sharp intake of breath surprises him—he didn’t quite expect something so simple to hurt like that—and if you heard it, you ignored the noise and smear the bacta over where he assumes the break is.

“It won’t heal it in one application, but it will help speed up the healing process.”

He curls his hand into the sheets when you put the splint back on. You’re too calm considering you’ve just buried your husband and found out that there was a bounty on his head, in fact, you didn’t seem surprised by that fact in the slightest. You knew about his debts and probably shared in them. He was too young to die of natural causes, but maybe not on this planet where the cold and rain seem to bite into its occupants. Shriv obviously had some enemies, and all Din knows about him is the gambling debts that came with the bounty puck he received from Greef Carga. Maybe someone got overzealous and decided that killing him would be better than paying for a bounty.

“What killed him?”

Your eyes flash to him as you put the bacta packet back on the tray you brought in, “Why do you ask?”

Din straightens up. Your behavior has done a complete one-eighty. He wonders, briefly, if it is grief or the rashness of his question, “He was my bounty.”

His answer only amplifies that change in you.

“And he was my husband. I fail to see how the two can even compare,” you stand, all concerns of carefulness and softness gone as you rise from the mattress, jostling him and sending shocks of pain through his body as his injuries are jostled. On the way to the door with heavy footsteps, you grab the leather jacket you were working on, and part the curtain. You pause, halfway into the main room and the bedroom and turn to him, “It’s best not to pry into things that are none of your business, Mandalorian.”

[otterandterrierwrites]

{Hungry hearts} XI. Chowder and fortune cookies

A/N: Hungry Hearts is back! This is my loose interpretation of the March prompt at @hanleiachallenge​: luck. It’s set during the EU novel Razor's Edge by Martha Wells, one of my favourites. I’ve always wanted to write something set in this little getaway. I'm thinking there might be one more chapter set on Hoth before ESB, then we'd move to the trip to Bespin very briefly and then jump to post RotJ, but I'm open to suggestions!

also on Ao3 // FFN

***

From the main hold, Chewie growled that there was food now but there wouldn't be for much longer so everyone better hurried up. Han rolled his eyes at the threat as he wiped the worst of the grime off his hands and face before taking a quick detour to the 'fresher. Like the big fuzzball would ever let the princess starve.

He ran into Her Worship herself on his way out of the cabin as she waited for her turn to wash her hands, Threepio tottering behind her. Thankfully, the usually oblivious droid marched on.

'Excited to see what he brought this time?' Han asked, dawdling by the open hatch.

'So far, yes,' Leia said from the 'fresher, 'although I'm a bit concerned he might start to push it soon, you know? Raise the stakes?'

'Oh yeah, I hear ya. That's definitely a concern.'

She raised an eyebrow as she joined him back in the corridor. 'Thanks, that makes me feel better.'

'Well, hey, he's never fed me anything I couldn't keep down,' he reassured her.

'Has anyone ever told you you're possibly the worst motivational speaker in the galaxy?'

The smell that greeted them as they gathered around the Dejarik table told them that, once again, Chewie had hit the mark.

They had taken a short time away from the hustle and bustle of the Rebel Alliance's fleet, hoping that the crew of the Aegis —a gunship of surviving Alderaanians who had turned to piracy after the planet's destruction—would rendezvous with them to join the cause. Two days ago, the Millennium Falcon had landed on a small trading port in Wroona, one of the Alliance's message drop points, and waited.

Han was very much okay with that. After the craziness of their last mission—nearly blown to space dust by Imperials, fighting a killer mining droid, being captured by a sadistic Lorddian pirate, nearly blown to space dust by the Imps again , all in the span of a couple days—he thought a vacation was long overdue. They couldn't go out sightseeing, or motosurfing, but he was happy to just spend some time not being shot at. Leia had probably figured that out when she'd asked him and Chewie to come with her. That, and the fact that they didn't have any duties lined up, since they were not part of the Alliance.

Chewie had taken out three round styrofoam containers out of a bag and set them on the small checkered table.

'[I hope you like Wroonian seafood chowder,]' he told them as Han and Leia slid onto the bench. '[You can go get food yourselves next time if you don't.]'

The creamy broth had chunks of frella fish and shucked nyorks with diced vegetables, and it was so delicious that nobody was in any hurry to relieve the Wookiee of his food-picking duties.

'Gotta love sea ports,' Han commented between mouthfuls. 'It could be the poorest, murkiest place, but they'll know their seafood.'

'[Oh yeah? Here I thought you would never forget about Venonduri,]' Chewie said with a titter, making Han moan with chagrin.

'What happened?' Leia asked, looking between the two friends.

'Not a story you wanna hear at lunch, Princess, trust me.'

Leia made a face. 'Oh. Got it.'

'But Princess Leia, perhaps it would be useful to know more about Venonduri!' Threepio chimed in. 'What if we visit it in the future?'

'We'll just refrain from ordering any seafood, Threepio,' Leia told him seriously, making Han and Chewie laugh.

Leia seemed to be in good spirits so far, but Han wondered how much that would last if the Aegis failed to show up today again. He knew she would act like it was no big deal in front of everyone else, but it'd be eating at her inside that she had personally failed to sway them over to her cause. Han was good at being the subject of Leia's disappointment in that department.

At least they had come to an unspoken truce after their trip to Odona, although that was another thing Han didn't know for how long it would hold. That mission, just the two of them scouting the planet's unpredictable polar continent as a potential new base, had also been kind of a mess. Not only had that one featured multi-eyed monsters and old acquaintances with a grudge, but Odona had turned out to be non-viable for the base. Also, he and Leia had snapped at each other most of the time. That wasn't anything new; they had been snapping at each other since the moment they had met—but then, for a while, they hadn't, or not as seriously and constantly, at least, and it had been nice. Then they started doing it again, but things were different from what it had been like in the beginning, and their fights took longer to digest, and while they did, they corroded Han's insides a bit, like acid. It wasn't like he set out to fight with her, either, but that's where they seemed to land anyway.

Han knew where this ended if they chose the alternative to fighting. He'd been there a couple of times, and sworn he never would again.

'We certainly don't get much fresh fish these days,' Leia said with a sigh then, dabbing her mouth with a paper napkin.

'We can get some before we go,' Han offered. 'It'll keep for one meal at least, for when we get back.'

'Oh, I could ask but I don't think they will clear an expense like that. Fresh fish for the whole fleet… that's not going to be cheap.'

Han frowned. Who said anything about fish for the fleet?

'Right. I wasn't—never mind. Fish ain't that expensive here, Princess, especially if you buy in bulk. Wouldn't hurt to ask.'

After lunch, Leia went back to her work followed by Threepio, Chewie to his tinkering (he always found something to "improve" on the Falcon ), and Han decided it was a good time to delete outdated and damaged files in the ship's navicomputer, a task he always thought he should do one day but never really wanted to. An hour later, he was bored out of his mind.

Getting up from his chair, he stretched his arms up with a groan. He took the long way back to the main hold, peeking into the crew quarters as he passed by. No sign of Leia there. She was not working in the communal area, either, but he did find C-3PO uttering suggestions nobody had asked for. That was weird: Leia had brought him along to help her with work and kept the droid with her at all times. Even though Han knew she grew tired of his constant chatter sometimes, she had promised him and Chewbacca that Threepio wouldn't get in their way.

As Han walked in, he caught the droid jumping back as Chewie roared in annoyance from inside a maintenance hatch.

'Oh dear, there is no need to get so worked up, Chewbacca,' Threepio said. 'I was merely saying—'

'Goldenrod,' Han interrupted, 'd'you know where's Leia?'

'Why, yes. The Princess said she was going out to get some fresh air.'

Alarms set off in Han's brain. 'Outside?'

'That is correct. She said not to worry, she would stay quite close to the freighter.'

'Yeah, alright. Better go check on her anyway.' Thinking it would be better for all if he kept his friend from tearing off the droid's arms during this trip, Han said, 'Are you any good with computers, Goldenrod?'

He didn't have to worry: Leia was sitting on the dock just outside the Falcon , the pant legs of her jumpsuit rolled up as she dipped her feet in the water. She was leaning back on her elbows, basking in the sun, and when Han walked closer, he realized she had her eyes shut and a peaceful look on her face. Despite himself, his stomach felt as if he'd skipped a step, and for a moment he just stood there, staring at Leia.

She rarely looked that relaxed and content, seemingly free of worries, of pain. Anyone who walked by could have mistaken her for a regular crew member, catching a bit of sunlight before rocketing back to the stars and to the next port. Not a princess. Not a survivor, an enemy of the Empire, a rebel leader. Just a young woman enjoying the sea.

She deserves this , Han thought, even though he generally didn't think much about who deserved what because he knew the galaxy didn't work that way. What he could do was grant her the solitude she had sought out, though, so he stepped back. He didn't think a single board had creaked under his boots, but it wasn't the first time Leia's hearing appeared to be better than most humans. She opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him.

'Is everything okay?' she asked, sitting up straight. Han knew what she was hoping to hear.

'Yeah. Sorry, didn't mean to get in your way.'

'You're not,' Leia told him. Her shoulders sagged a little before she leaned back and closed her eyes again. 'Come here and take your boots off, the water is so lovely.'

'Uh, if you're sure.'

Boots and socks were ditched, and Han joined Leia on the dock, pulling up his trousers. The coolness of the water felt wonderful on his bare feet; it was no wonder it had been enough to make Leia at ease.

'Oh hey, Chewie got us these,' he said, suddenly remembering. From one of his vest pockets, he took out two crisp-looking cookies and handed one to Leia. She gave the treat a small, delighted smile.

'Fortune cookies. I haven't had one of these in years.' She took the wrapper off the folded wafer and tucked it in her pocket, then looked expectantly at Han. 'Go on, let's crack it together.'

Han held the cookie between his thumb and index fingers and broke it, catching the crumbs in his other hand. He pulled out a thin strip of flimsi from the wreckage. As he cleared his throat, Leia cried, 'Wait, wait!' and covered his fortune with her hand.

'I'll read yours and you read mine,' she said at his confused look. Han had never heard of people doing it that way, but he swapped with her. Leia nodded for him to go on.

'"You will take a pleasant journey to a place far away",' Han read. He looked at the view around them, then raised his eyebrows at Leia. 'I think this prediction came a little late.'

'Maybe it's talking about my upcoming expedition to Hoth.'

'Oh no. Please tell me you're jokin', Princess,' Han begged.

'Better start airing those warm layers, flyboy. Okay, now yours.' Leia cleared her throat and squared her shoulders, looking at him for a few seconds with a pretend air of wisdom. '"You may want to run, but you should stay and fight."'

There was a pause.

'What?' Han watched her face, and caught her tell: a subtle flaring of her nostrils that meant she was bluffing. He narrowed his eyes at her. 'That what it says, huh?'

He dove to wrest the strip of flimsi out of Leia's hand; she shrieked and pushed a hand against his chest, and they struggled for several seconds until Leia gave it up. She laughed, her cheeks red from the effort. The last time she had blushed that badly, they had been crammed in the Aegis ' refresher, the only place that had been private enough for them to discuss sensitive information. He hadn't been very relaxed, either, as the warmth of their bodies had made the tiny hiding place suffocating. In spite of the uncertainty and danger of their situation, it had been near impossible not to follow the trail of a drop of perspiration down her collar, the movement of her lips as she talked, the curve of her falling braid as it fell on her shoulder. He had been nearly jumping out of his skin with the increasing need to kiss her, to touch her.

Realizing he had been staring at her for too long, he looked away as Leia brushed some wisps of hair behind her ear, and read his fortune aloud.

'"Enjoy yourself while you can".' Han frowned and looked at Leia again. 'That sounds like a threat.'

She shrugged, popping a piece of cookie into her mouth.

'Should have stuck with mine.'

'Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't ya?' Han muttered. He picked apart his wafer, the tiny printed messages still clutched in one hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Leia finished the rest of hers, swinging her feet in the clear water.

It had been three years since a farmboy and an old wizard had hired him for discrete passage to Alderaan. Where would he be now if he hadn't taken that gig? Dead, if he hadn't managed to get anything else to pay off his debt. Even if he had, Jabba would have dropped him anyway, as he was not in the way of giving second chances. Then he would have looked for jobs somewhere else, gone back to his old haunts. Made new friends that he wouldn't trust as far as he could throw them. Found someone to warm his bed at night, someone who wouldn't care that he didn't care one way or another to overthrow the Empire. He could have kept doing what he had been doing for the rest of his life.

But he had met Luke, and he had met Leia, and no matter how hard he'd tried—although, if he was honest with himself, which he wasn't, he had not even tried that hard to forget about them and leave them behind. And he didn't exactly hate the Rebellion—the pay was basically nothing, there were people who didn't like him much, and as the latest mission had proved, it wasn't free of backstabbers—but he had to admit it felt good to stick it to the Empire. It gave him a purpose like he hadn't had in a long time.

Mothma had offered him a colonelship some time ago. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to quit the games and take it. He'd have to ask Chewie before he made any decisions, but he knew how that conversation would go.

It would be one hell of a peace treaty, for him and Leia. It would be one more gamble.

For now, Han lay back on the dock and closed his eyes, soaking in the sun's warmth. He would enjoy himself, while he could.