#meiloorun has an au

[starrylothcat]

♡ Home ♡

The Bad Batch Ask You to Live With Them Headcanons

Pairing: Individual Bad Batch x GN Reader.

Warnings: Fluff, fluff, fluff. Smooching. Everyone is happy on Pabu AU. 🫶

A/N: This is just some silly fluff I wrote at work today. It was hot AF and I’m still sweating so I apologize for any errors, not really proofread.

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Scenario: You and The Bad Batch have been settled on Pabu for some time. Long-held feelings between you and your Batcher finally had the opportunity to blossom as you eased into a peaceful island routine. You are happy, your love for one another secure and strong.

You’ve discussed moving in together, but island life is calm and your lives are no longer in a rush. You haven’t made that leap in your relationship quite yet, but little did you know your Batcher had plans…

Hunter

You were sitting on the beach, the sun’s last rays catching the calm sea as stars twinkled into view.

Hunter’s arm was wrapped around you, holding you close against him, his head leaning on yours.

“You know that cottage we walk by every day, the one with the garden?” Hunter mumbled, gently tracing his fingers up and down your arm.

“Yeah…I’m surprised no one has moved in there yet. It’s in a perfect location.” You murmured, his fingers putting you in a relaxed trance.

“It is perfect.” He said, his smokey voice lulling you further into a relaxed, carefree state. “I can’t wait to see what you do with the garden.”

You shifted your head to look at him, confusion in your expression, his fingers stopping their caress.

“Omega wants to try to plant meilooruns.” He met your gaze. “And she’s already picking out decorations for her room.”

“Hunter…” you started. “What are you saying?”

Hunter pressed his forehead to yours. “It’s ours. If you want.” He ghosted his lips across your own. “All I have to do is give the word to Shep.”

Your breath hitched.

“Hunter, you mean, that cottage…? It’s really ours?”

He nodded, gently tracing his fingertips across your cheek, the fading sun reflecting in his honeyed eyes.

“I love you, and Omega does too. We’ve spent so much time on the run, never knowing what comes next. It’s time…to put it behind us. Settle down for good. And I want you to be part of that. But if you’re not-“

You grabbed the collar of his shirt and tugged him in for a passionate kiss, his arms immediately pulling you close to him.

“Hunter, yes.“ You beamed, breaking the kiss. “I love you, too.”

Hunter smiled, nuzzling his nose against yours, never having felt so content in his entire life, excited for this next chapter in your relationship.

Echo

You had just closed up your shop and were waiting for Echo. He promised to take you out tonight and told you he was planning something special.

He met you at your shop, kissing you deeply as his hello.

“Hello to you, too.” You giggled, slightly flustered at his kiss as he looped his arm with yours. “Where are you taking me tonight?”

“It’s still a surprise, mesh’la.” He winked, leading you down a a few quiet roads.

“There aren’t any restaurants up here.” You gave him a look, having no idea what he had planned.

Echo didn’t say anything, the evening lights flickering on throughout the island, casting warm glows onto the street.

A few more turns and Echo stopped. You stood in front of a cottage, a soft glow of light coming from the front windows.

“Echo-“ He just smiled, leading you up the cobbled path to the home.

“Echo, if your idea of a date is breaking and entering…” you teased, still confused as to what was going on.

Echo chuckled, opening the door to the cottage, surprising you that it was open.

“Just trust me, mesh’la.”

You stepped inside, gasping slightly. The cottage was empty, save for a blanket that was spread on the ground in what would be the living room.

A few candles were the only light source, highlighting the picnic that was spread across the blanket, and two empty glasses for the bottle of wine that sat in the middle of the spread.

You looked at him, still just as lost as before.

“It’s not much, but I figured we should celebrate the first night in our house.”

You opened and closed your mouth, processing his words.

“Our…house? Echo, you mean…?”

He wrapped his arms around you, hugging you tight.

“I love you and…I want to spend every moment together. Build a life…together. I saw this cottage was available and talked to Shep. It’s ours if we want it.”

Tears clouded your vision as you kissed him, overwhelmed by his words. You nodded excitedly against his lips, your heart ready to burst with joy.

“Me too, Echo. I love you. I want to build a life with you, too.”

He smiled, wiping the tears from your cheeks.

“Let’s crack open that wine then, shall we?”

Tech

Tech had been busy as of late, which is normal. He always had some project or idea that was occupying his mind.

But you knew something strange was going on when he kept hiding his datapad from you, or quickly pushing flimis under other piles of half-worked on gadgets whenever you walked into his room.

Finally, you decided to ask what he was working on, and what has been so intensely engrossing his mind the last few weeks.

“Can I ask what it is you’re working on?” You queried as you lounged on his bed in his room, watching him work.

He turned to you, and it looked like he was hesitating, and almost nervous to say something.

He let out a breath and fully faced you.

“We’ve been together romantically for some time now…” he started. “And we are happy, correct?”

You raised you eyebrow, nodding. “Yes, of course Tech. I love you.”

“As I you.” He stated. “So I have been pondering of what should come next, and I determined it was time to begin the next phase of our relationship, if you agree.”

Tech held out his datapad toward you as you stared at him, wondering what he was going on about.

“I began investigating homes we could share. There are plenty of available cottages throughout the island which I have researched thoroughly, though none are up to my standards.”

Tech adjusted his goggles as heat began to flush your cheeks.

“So, I took it upon myself to explore ways on how to build one myself.”

Your heart fluttered at his words as you sat up completely. “Tech, you want to build us a house?”

“Precisely. If you want to cohabitate with me, that is.” The last part of his statement came out quiet, as if he wasn’t sure of what your answer would be.

You peeked at the datapad, which had blueprint schematics of a cottage, all designed by him.

You looked back at him, not stopping the large smile on your face as Tech fidgeted, waiting for your response.

“Tech…” you said softly. “Yes, I’d love to live with you. I want it more than anything.”

You watched as his shoulders seemed to relax as you set down the datapad, closing the distance between the two of you.

Tech took your hand, his thumb gently tracing over yours.

“Of course, I’ll need your input on the final design, but I think you’ll approve of what I have so far.”

You smiled, leaning into him, his other arm holding you close. “As long as I’m with you, it’ll be perfect.”

Wrecker

Wrecker was giddy, practically dragging you down the road as he picked up his pace.

“Wrecker, where are we going?! Wait a sec, you’re walking too fast!” You could barely match his strides.

“You’re gonna love it, I promise! We are almost there!”

After another turn down a street, Wrecker finally stopped at the end of a row of small cottages.

“Here!” He exclaimed loudly, gesturing to you to follow him.

“Wrecker, what is this?!” You gasped, out of breath.

“It’s our new house! I know we talked about having our own place awhile ago and…here it is!” Wrecker excitedly tugged you in through the front door, your mind trying to play catch up to what he was saying.

You stepped inside, Wrecker eagerly pointing to different areas of the cottage.

“The windows in the kitchen are big, so we can have a great view while we cook together. That was the first thing I thought of…” Wrecker blushed as he turned, pointing to the door that led to a back patio.

“Oh, and look at the porch! Ya can grow all the herbs you’ve been wanting to! And wait until you see the view out the bedroom window-“

Wrecker stopped, noticing how quiet you were being.

You were gazing around the empty house, your mind spinning with surprise and happiness.

You were moved at Wrecker’s excitement and having a home to call your own, with him, not expecting this in the slightest.

Tears were sliding down your cheeks, and you didn’t even notice until Wrecker’s large hand was gently wiping them away.

“Mesh’la, I’m sorry, I got carried away. If ya aren’t ready I understand, or if ya don’t like this cottage we can-“ Wrecker sighed, thinking he ruined everything. “I’m sorry if it’s too much.”

You looked up at him, smiling.

“Wrecker, this is more than I could have ever wanted. I love this. I love you.” You placed your hand over his that was now cradling your face. “I want this.”

Wrecker smiled, relief washing over him.

“Now, tell me again about the kitchen?” You laughed, happy tears still running down your face as Wrecker kissed your cheeks, laughing with you in your new home.

Crosshair

You were laying with your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as you almost drifted off to sleep, Crosshair’s arm keeping you close to him.

You noticed he had been a little on edge today, restless and fidgeting more than usual.

You suggested a nap, which he agreed to.

He continued to be restless, though, not able to get comfortable as you laid on him.

“Want to go for a walk?” He grunted, shifting under you.

You lifted your head, blinking a few times. “Sure.” You smiled sleepily, sitting up from your laying position.

You often went on walks in the evening, a ritual you began not long after you became a couple.

You walked quietly under the full moon, the streets silent. Crosshair’s hand found yours, enjoying one another’s presence as you strolled through the winding avenues.

You let Crosshair lead the way, and you walked up into a cluster of cottages that you often passed by on your walks.

You’ve mentioned before how you like this part of Pabu, this subset of cottages getting the best view of the sunset.

Crosshair suddenly stopped, still grasping your hand.

“Is everything ok?” You asked, wondering why he stopped so suddenly.

He looked at you as he lifted your hand, turning your palm up, his silver hair almost indistinguishable from the moonlight casting down on the two of you.

“I was going to wait until tomorrow, but here.”

Crosshair placed a small key in the center of your palm, closing your fingers around it.

“Crosshair, what is this?” You asked softly, confused as to what he was doing.

“It’s ours.” He stated. “The one with the blue door.” You glanced behind him at the cottage with said blue door.

You focused back on him, trying to piece together what he was saying, his expression unreadable.

“What do you mean?” Your voice quivered, clutching the key.

“You know what I mean, doll.” His tone was soft. “It has the best view of the sunset. I made sure of that.”

You practically jumped at him, swinging your arms around him and crushing yourself into his chest, tears pricking at your eyes.

“Crosshair, I-“

He leaned his head on yours, his lips brushing against your forehead. You didn’t need to finish your sentence.

“It’s ours, now?” You whispered.

“As of yesterday.”

You looked up at him. “How did you know I’d say yes?”

Crosshair smirked, his lips close to yours. “You did, didn’t you?”

You smirked back, his lips capturing yours in the moonlight in front of your new home.

Taglist: @littlemissmanga @secondaryrealm @sinfulsalutations @anxiouspineapple99 @secretthegriffin @idontgetanysleep @starqueensthings @dystopicjumpsuit @wings-and-beskar @dreamie411 @aconstructofamind @coraex @multi-fan-dom-madness @freesia-writes @kashasenpai @wanderer-six @blueink-bluesoul @the-cantina @king-chaos-world @wolffegirlsunite @523rdrebel @dukeoftheblackstar @pb-jellybeans @sleepingsun501 @sunshinesdaydream @din-miller

[jessicas-pi]

Y'all said you wanted to know my new idea, so. Hear me out on this. Cracky fun-filled Rebels Superhero AU highkey based on the 1966 Batman show.

*narrator guy voice* At stately Syndulla Manor, home of millionaire Hera Syndulla and her youthful ward Ezra Bridger-

So yeah, Hera is a millionaire who does superhero work under the alias "Spectre." She has an invisible car called the Ghost (but Ezra always calls it the Ghostmobile.) Ezra is her adopted kid and sidekick. I'm thinking his superhero alter ego has a cat theme, just because. Maybe he goes by "Stray" or "Alley Cat" or something.

Now, enter Kanan!

Kanan also does superhero work, calling himself "Phantom." He, too, has a sidekick: Sabine! (I'm not sure if I want Sabine to go by "Nightowl" (referencing her Nite Owl helmet) or "Starbird.") Like Hera, Sabine is also pretty rich, but she tries to escape her life as the daughter of a famous politician by moonlighting as a superhero. She also refuses to be called Kanan's sidekick because she "works alone" (only she keeps showing up whenever he's investigating a crime because She's Lonely and he has Dad Vibes.)

Ahsoka is the "commisioner gordon" character, and she's in contact with all the heroes and often calls them both in for cases, but she also uses an alias (Fulcrum) so that the villains can't trace back to her and use her to get to the heroes. Zeb works at the police department and he's the one most often assigned to go work with the superheroes.

Hera and Ezra know each others' identities, since they're adopted family, but none of them know any other secret identities. Which leads to some pretty crazy shenanigans, because:

Hera and Kanan are engaged.

Spectre and Phantom are amiable coworkers.

Phantom very vocally admires Hera around Spectre.

Ezra is deeply suspicious of Phantom because he thinks Kanan is THE COOLEST and NOBODY ELSE should be acting all interested in Hera, especially if they don't even KNOW HER. SHE'S ENGAGED, BACK OFF BUDDY!

Ezra and Kanan have a great father-son relationship. The only strain is that Ezra will not shut up about how much Phantom annoys him.

Sabine and Ezra go to the same fancy school and they're best friends.

Ezra has the world's biggest crush on Nightowl/Starbird. Naturally, he confides in his best friend about it---minus the part where he's a superhero interacting with her regularly---completely unaware that she is Nightowl/Starbird.

Sabine thinks it's hilarious. (After all, it's just a celebrity crush---Ezra has never even met her as her superhero identity---and by the time he finds out her identity, he'll toooootally be over it! ...won't he?)

The only person to have everything figured out is Hera's butler Okadiah. He Is Amused.

So, yeah. Secret identity shenanigans.

Also, just funny stuff in general. There's lots of hilarious villains-of-the-week, among them such ridiculous characters as Commander Meiloorun. (Yes, Commander Meiloorun is an actual villain-of-the-week character here.) And the ridiculous costumes, too, obviously. I might have to draw them sooner or later.

Anyway, I've kinda expended my thoughts on this so far... yeah soooo that's all i have! (but stay tuned in case i do draw some art for it because i definitely might.)

[captainpains]

Carol of the Cookies (Captain Rex x reader)

For @diviluscorner in the @cloneficgiftexchange. I had so much fun writing this and I hope y'all enjoy it ❤️

Prompt: Baking Cookies

Warnings: F reader, kids, family bonding, fluffy, domesticity, everyone lives au, not explicitly holiday but has the vibes

~~~~~~~

“Buir! Buir!”

Rex stopped taking off his snow boots and looked down the hallway to see his little girl, Mariel,  running towards him at full speed. She jumped into his arms, giggling when he caught her. He smiled at her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“What have you been up to my little trooper?” He asked her, attempting to remove his snow gear while still holding her.

“We went to the library and mama let us pick out some books!” The 6 year old ecstatically explained.

“Really? I hope you picked out something you really liked.” Rex hummed as he took off his scarf and hat.

“I did. I picked a book about stars!” 

“That sounds great sweetie. Hey, how about you go to mama while I finish taking off my boots?”

Mariel nodded before jumping down and taking off down the hall towards the kitchen. Rex finished taking off his boots as promised, then shrugged off his jacket. He took a moment to look at a picture hung on the wall, a picture of his family, something that he thought that he never had. He then moved down the hall, toward the kitchen, toward you.

You were like a saving grace for him.

 He’d met you at a bar called 79s one blurry night so long ago. You were working the bar and had somehow found his drunk flirting charming enough to give him your com. He remembered sending you an apology the day after, the embarrassment he felt when his brothers recounted what happened was soul crushing. He felt less bad about it when you ended up inviting him for a cup of caf. And the rest, as they say, was history.

The war ended, and he proposed. The two of you moved to Saleucami and got a small farm, trading the food you grew at the market. Then little Mariel was born. 

Rex walked into the kitchen and smiled at what he saw. You were trying to keep Mariel from eating the cookie dough that you were making. He watched as you gently pushed her hand away from the bowl, scolding her for trying to eat it. Rex went over and reached into the, taking just a little bit of the cookie dough and eating it.

“That is not for you either.” You playfully glared at him.

“Well then why is it so delicious?” Mariel refuted, arms crossed and face pouting.

“You can’t eat all the raw cookie dough, sweetie. Or there won’t be anything to decorate, later.” You told her as you took the bowl of cookie dough to another counter to roll it out.

Your daughter gave a gasp at the realization. Rex chuckled at it. It would be absolutely devastating if there were no cookies to decorate. 

“How about you go get your new book to show me?” Rex suggested to her.

“Okay!” Mariel rushed out of the kitchen.

“She was so happy to get that book.” You told your husband as you rolled out the cookie dough.

“I bet.” Rex grinned, then wrapped his arms around you. “So, how was your day?”

“Fine. She was very hyperactive after her nap. How was your trip to the market?”

“Good. Got a great price for those meilooruns.”

You hummed in response. Rex tightened his arms, resting his head on your shoulder. He watched as you rolled the dough, then grabbed one of the many cookie cutters on the counter. 

“I missed you while I was gone, cyare.” Your husband admitted, then placed a kiss on your cheek.

“You were only gone for a few hours, dear.” You mused, cutting a few cookies in the shape of a snowman.

“Yeah, but I still missed you and Mariel.”

“Well, we missed you too.” You smiled and turned your head, giving him a small kiss on the lips before returning to your task.

Mariel came running into the kitchen, her book in hand. She excitedly held it up for her father to see. Rex peeled himself off of you to attend to your daughter. She happily took her father to the living room, where they sat on the couch and she read the book to him. You finished cutting the cookies and put them in the oven. You smiled to yourself as you thought about how

You went to the living room and smiled when you saw your daughter sitting on the sofa reading her book to her father. Rex was paying all his attention to her as she read. He was patient and encouraging as she read, making sure she pronounced every word correctly. You decided to let them have this moment of bonding, going back into the kitchen to start some dishes while Rex kept the little one entertained. 

After around 15 minutes, the cookies were done. Mariel came running in when the timer went off. She pouted when you told she had to wait until the cookies cooled off to decorate them.

“You can decorate the cookies later. Now, how about you get your favorite pajamas on and then you pick out a holo movie to watch. When that’s done, the cookies will be ready to decorate.” You suggested to the 6 year old. 

She seemed content with the idea. She ran off to her room. Rex went into the kitchen to help with the dishes while you set up the holoscreen for Mariel to pick a holomovie to watch. Mariel came back rather quickly, dressed in her blue pajamas. She excitedly picked a film about a magic tooka, then ran to the kitchen to decorate cookies.

You helped her when she wanted it, but all in all left her to her vision of what the snowman should look like. You and your husband decorated about four cookies each, while your daughter decorated the majority of them. She made a colorful mess with the icing but was so happy with how the cookies turned out. 

“Buir! Momma! You have to try one!” Mariel insisted, handing a cookie to each of you. You took a bite, while Rex (with his massive sweet tooth) shoved the whole thing into his mouth.

You praised your daughter for how good the cookies looked and tasted. Rex watched and smiled to himself.

He wouldn’t trade this for anything. 

[phoenixyfriend]

THIS IS ABOUT FICS AND AUS, NOT WHAT YOU THINK IS REALISTIC FOR CANON

CANON HAS NO PLACE HERE

* It's more complicated than that, but basically it's met with suspicion unless the author has built up to it really well, or you already trust them to do interesting things with common fanon.

[meiloorun-notthefruit]

@d.isney fandom don’t tell me I’m the only one who is interested in a canon divergent take on Mickey’s 60th birthday special. Ya know the one; where Mickey gets cursed by a wizard for using Yen-Sid’s hat without his permission and so anyone who looks at Mickey is incapable of recognizing him. In the end this all solved when Mickey ‘unlocks his own magic’ through a disney-esque dance number but come on, that’s too easy.

Give me a story where Mickey has to go through the realities of life; he has to go through being easily ignored and forgotten. Through the effects of suddenly going from a star to a nobody overnight; he has to go through everything his brother Oswald the Lucky Rabbit went through.

And maybe at the end of the day he doesn’t get his magic back. Not even at the end of the year. The world goes through several years of no Mickey Mouse — despite the fact that their prized mouse camps out in front of their doors every night.

{I’m an angst monster so I’m going to add that maybe Mickey eventually loses hope that he’ll ever be recognized again, so he comes up with a new identity. And then the world comes a knock in’ again. But Things have changed; the mouse certainly has.

And a rabbit, who made his way out of the woodwork on his own, has decided to go looking for his missing family member. After all, it’s what he would have wanted back then.}

[aftergloom]

Six Sentence Sunday

New Dathomir AU below the cut. Feral's chapter's done, so I've started poking at Savage's just to get a sense of what his motivations look like. Three or four other WIPs on rotation until the end of the month, at which point I'm going to crawl back into Crown of Horns (which my husband is now calling Crown of Hornies 😩) and you probably won't see me until the spring.

Probably.

Caveats: I sort of suspect that this is only relevant for maybe two people who are tracking my work at this point, but you don't get the Fandom Cryptid badge without mysteriously disappearing for months at a time to work on something obscure that will only appeal the smallest sliver of a virtually non-existent readership. I love those two people, though. Y'all keep me from deleting.

Three Princes / Pt. II - The Shadow Hand (Savage x Reader)

“Mercenary,” he rumbles. “You’re the one that’s haunted me across six systems.” He leans in, scenting you. You give him what he wants: a pulse of fear, and in your confusion, a plume of terrified heat —

You feel the pulse of it as surely as you think your heart might explode at any moment: a choke of pressure between the legs, lit by a predator’s proximity and the way he so easily hefted you up.

Savage stops, his frown deepening into confusion, and withdraws — dropping you with a grunt like you were little more than a sack of meiloorun. Your soles connect with Dathomir stone, but your knees give out so you crumple, coughing.

Even his booted feet are karking enormous.

What the kark have they been feeding him?

[meiloorun-notthefruit]

Because I have no self control, I caved in and wrote almost 3.5k words to a fic I’m now calling Inky Footprints Don’t Fade in the Sand. It’s the forgotten Mickey AU i wanted to read but never found so I’m writing it now. The post I made about it can be found here.

@jswatson-holmes it’s the moment of truth, my friend; here’s the entire thing now. @analyticamethyst and @huebby-central cause the two of you seemed interested. Link to AO3 is here

“What are you doing here! There’s no one allowed backstage!” The ferocity of the man’s tone of voice is enough to have Mickey take a step back. He raises his hands, palms facing outwards. He hopes with all his heart that the wizard was lying. He has to be. “Charlie, it’s me — w-what’s goin’ on?” Charlie the stage hand only give the toon a once over glance, but it’s a nasty one at that. He’s holding a broom in a death grip; it isn’t helping Mickey’s thoughts of back away backawaynow. The human’s sweeping is awkward and at the rate he’s going, it doesn’t seem he’s going to finish by the time the park closes.. The thought must have occurred to Charlie too, because he squeezes the broom handle harder and throws a glare at Mickey. “I don’t know who you are but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Mickey flinches. 

———

He’s never been one to drink.

Really.

When he’d been younger yeah, but that was because Prohibition had been in full swing back in the very late 1920s and who didn’t take part of that.

He’d been a black and white toon back then; not much restriction in what he could and couldn’t do — what the Studio couldn’t do — with no agency hovering over their shoulder back then.  After all, if there had been, he wouldn’t have been forcefully thrown into the madhouse that one time. It’d been to get Pluto back, but the memories of fire flashing before his eyes and viscera hanging from the walls and scattered around the floor and skeletons dancing around him still haunt him.

The entire event in the short had been a dream, but it’d been anything but that during the production. The producers had wanted the real thing. The animators had wanted to see him screaming. They got it.

The Specter of the Mad Doctor still hangs around; the nightmares of him declaring he had one of his loved ones always have him shouting his lungs out. A pint every now and again warded those dreams away. Of course he couldn’t always have one, being the Studio’s poster boy and all, but a drink or two (or three) never hurt.

It’s why he walks into the Cheers bar in the first place -- he aiming for some alcohol in his system -- he needs to erase his anxieties and the ever growing pit in his stomach that started taking shape the moment the kid that found him sleeping on the bench in the park left him behind.

“I don’t think this plan is going to work anymore” Andy Keaton had said. Said plan was to pass him off as the ‘real’  Mickey Mouse. Mickey had tried to tell him that he was the real thing, but of course his attempts had failed.

“You’re no Mickey Mouse and it’s obvious; don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

The boy had then picked up his things, plucked Mickey up and kicked him to the curb. The only bright side the mouse had seen from this encounter was the new set of clothes he’d gotten; they were too big on him, but it was better than nothing.

He wandered around for a good few hours after that, one thought on his mind; god, he needed a drink.

*

Cheers is somewhat of a sanctuary; he’s distracted from his current situation when he’s made to sing and dance happy birthday to a complete stranger. The ol’ toon instincts must be kicking in, because Mickey’s actually able to stand on his feet after the performance, despite feeling completely drained. He sings her happy birthday and isn’t it ironic that his is so close by too? He doesn’t mention this to anyone; he doesn’t want to think about it. He can’t.

Sitting down at the bar again, he’s beginning to wonder if he should have ordered something to go along with his root beer float; a double is definitely something, but it’s not enough for one night, especially by itself. It’s too late now though; Mickey’s tab has already been settled, paid for by one Rebecca Howe.

He’s grateful.

*

Mickey is just on his way out to go looking for a suitable, out of the way hole-in-the-wall to sleep in -- conveniently located near a diner maybe -- when Rebecca invites him out to dinner and a movie with her. The way she spins around, with her coat seeming to float around her, all of a sudden reminds Mickey of Minnie; Ubbe Ert Iwwerks Almighty, he misses his wife so much it hurts. He’s gotta check his hammer space for a photograph later.

It starts to rain outside; his jacket isn’t made for this type of weather, so he says yes to the outing. He tries not to feel guilty about accidentally abandoning Minnie.

*

The news is shown right before the movie and it’s here that he gets a glimpse of the pandemonium back home: honestly, who in their right mind would believe Donald was the reason for his disappearance; his best friend might have a few issues with him at work, but it was nothing more than a silly rivalry. And sure, maybe Donald saw Mickey ‘being the star’ as a slight against him, but he wouldn’t go as far as to try and do him in. Hollywood is absolutely off it’s rocker, if it’s actually buying any of this; Mickey just about crushes his can of soda from the fury he feels on behalf of his friend. He’s going to need a new pair of gloves.

The theater’s news clip is also where he hears (and sees) Minnie for the first time since the curse took his recognition and whole world with it; her desperate crying for him for cuts him deep. So much so that Mickey excuses himself.

He rushes to the restroom and loses what little dinner he had. His sobs echo around the stall, and maybe Minnie can hear his lamentation from here; maybe his tears are the only connection he has to her now. He hopes she still isn’t crying, that the broadcast was a few hours old and that Daisy and Goofy and Donald and the rest of his family are with her. Mickey prays to Ub’s spirit that she’s not alone, that she’s not forsaken like he is right now.

He starts crying again at that thought.

*

A long while passes and eventually, he pulls himself together, wiping away the tears and the red from his face. The next twenty minutes in the bathroom are spent studying his reflection, meticulously looking for any changes the wizard might have caused in his appearance.

Despite everything, it’s still him; same old face, same old ears. Same old clothes too, just that they’re worn and dirty from all his roaming around and roughing it; they’re starting to smell a bit and Mickey is really wishing he at least had a few quarters on him to go to the laundromat.

He instead settles for washing his shirt and pants in the sink. His jacket is just going to get dirty again, with him using it as a makeshift cot when he can’t find a newspaper to lie down on, so he decides to wait until he can actually afford to pay for the service.

Which probably won’t be in a while. With that in mind, Mickey scrubs until his hands seems to be turning the water gray with ink. He drains the sink and starts again.  

*

It’s late into the night when Mickey finally emerges from the movie theater’s bathroom. His shirt is still a bit damp and smells more like wet paper towels than soap, but he ignores that and sets about scavenging for the cleanest newspaper he can find; it’s a task made difficult with all trash in the alleyway he’s in. He finally finds one, stuck to the bottom rungs of a fire-escape. Mickey tucks it into his hammer space and then he’s on his way.

The mouse has never felt so alone.

———

“H-hey uh, buddy. You okay there?” Mickey peels his face off from the sidewalk and he instantly regrets it. The mailbox he currently has his body curled up around reads D. F. Duck and of course it belongs to Donald; the universe wouldn’t have it any other way. Mickey almost bursts into tears at the sight of his best friend, but he holds it in; it’d be rather weird to cry in front of stranger. Because that’s all he is to the duck right now. The mouse hastily scrubs at his eyes; the sun is rather bright this morning. A shadow suddenly blocks out the light and everything around him is a tinted green for a few seconds. He rubs at his eyes harder and looks up. Personal space doesn’t seem to be a thing, because Donald is leaning down very closely and staring at him. Mickey blames his already falsetto voice for the shrill noise that comes out of mouth. He also blames the isolation for the flinch that shakes his body as Donald grabs his shoulder. “Look I don’t know ya bud, but no toon deserves this.” He points at Mickey’s weathered book bag and clothes. He picks up the shoes on the edge of the sidewalk; there’s a distinct hole on the bottom of the left sole from all the walking the mouse has done.

*

“Ya wanna come inside? Me and my friends were about to start something and they wo—”. They are arms suddenly wrapped around Donald’s shoulders; they don’t let him finish his sentence.

Oh. He’s being hugged. The mouse is holding on to him like his life depends on it. Without thinking, Donald hugs him back and maybe he shouldn’t be doing that — the shoes are probably digging into the other toon’s shoulder — but it feels natural, right even.

Eventually, he does let go. He has to.

*

Mickey takes a deep breath. He takes a few steps back. The blank look on Donald’s face makes him take another.

“Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. Thanks. Really. I- I appreciate it. But I can’t intrude — I don’t belong here — not anymore.”

It’s almost physically painful to say those words; it’s as if there’s a hole being burned into his throat. He takes the shoes from Donald and Mickey pretends that he didn’t let his hands linger on the duck’s.

Then he turns around and walks away. He doesn’t look back; Toontown won’t miss him anyways.

------

He doesn’t mean to do it, but it keeps happening; Mickey keeps ending up in front of the studio. Technically, it isn’t the actual studio; it’s really just a bunch of hangars, warehouses, and trailers inside an industrial park in Glendale.

The Grand Central Business Centre isn’t the nicest place -- the animators certainly don’t think so -- but it’s better than trying to get into Disneyland, where Mickey can’t even take a step without immediately being found; the security guards don’t like him anymore.

At least here, people and toons alike aren’t yelling at him to leave the premises. Especially if they can’t catch him.

So far, he’s been able to stay completely out of sight, but not without consequences; his last meal was three days ago and right now, stomach grumbling up a frenzy, he’s really craving some popcorn; he didn’t think to take a box before leaving the theater.

He’s regretting that decision immensely; he’s hungry, starving even, and he can’t do anything about it. For one, the animators are smart; there’s no food lying around that he can filch, and despite the department working in the building, pure black ink is surprisingly scarce.

Mickey’s looked in every room on this floor; he’s almost been unknowingly trapped by humans twice now and they’re none the wiser about anything sneaking around inside their office walls. He’s found nothing edible he can take without anyone noticing it being gone. He doesn’t want to be a thief, not yet; not unless he absolutely has to be.

*

Another two days pass and the mouse makes up his mind; legs trembling, he makes his way out of the loft of the trailer he’d been hiding in. Dust clings to his clothes, as does the musty smell of the old mildewy carpet. The light of the sun hurts his eyes; he’d been burrowed up in his jacket in a makeshift hammock made out of a stretched piece of canvas, trying to sleep off the hunger. That had been working somewhat well, until Mickey suddenly woke up to a coughing fit and ink streaming into his eyes and out of his throat.

He needs food. And fast.

Using the last of his strength, he sneaks into the main building through a window. The emaciated toon climbs into the vent he’d been using as his means of getting around and crawls  two hundred or so feet; he’s about to turn right when the ‘floor’ underneath him suddenly gives way. The room around him is a blur as he crashes down into a table. Papers, pencils, and spilled coffee litter the area. The surprised voices of a dozen humans can be heard.

Mickey doesn’t notice; his eyes flutter open once and then after a long moment, he succumbs to the darkness that had been calling to him for the past week.

*

For a horrible moment, Jesse Montoya and the rest of the people present in room B-231 think the toon who just slammed right onto their work table is dead. The toon’s chest is barely moving and fat drops of ink are defying the laws of gravity, as they float up off of him and disappear before they hit the ceiling.

Darnell Rigby may have been the only one brave enough to touch the mouse (is it a mouse? They’re not really sure) -- getting his hand and shirt stained in the process -- but it was Montoya who picks him up. When he does, the mouse(?) unconsciously curls into him. He pretends to not be freaked out by this and fails.

“Henry.” No response.

“Henry.” Lots of whistling and feigned innocence.

“Goddammit Henry, I’m talking to you! What do I do? Someone take him.”  No one volunteers. Montoya panics, swivels around with the load in his arms.

“Take him! I don’t wanna carry him anymore!” He then proceeds to dump the mouse in Henry’s arms and ducks out of the way before the other man can properly react.

“Uh..” Everyone else takes a step back. “Okay then” Henry sighs. “This is happening.”

------

Mickey Mouse’s 60th birthday is celebrated at Disneyland as a day of mourning. The park is closed. People leave flowers at the gate.

His cake is cut in the quiet of Minnie Mouse’s home, where she and her friends are all gathered together. Roger Rabbit makes sure to light the right candle this time and as the happy birthday song is kicked off by the one and only Jessica Rabbit, Eddie Valiant blames the tears he sees streaming down Roger’s face as old age messing with his eyesight.

Donald and Goofy spend the rest of the night recounting stories about their misadventures with Mickey Mouse, with Donald providing sound effects and Goofy spinning the dramatics; Minnie’s crying, but no one can tell if it’s because she’s laughing so hard or because she’s missing her husband. No one bothers to ask.

The morning after, a small headstone is erected next to Walt Disney’s memorial.

*

Mickey Mouse celebrates his birthday near the brink of fading away. He almost wishes it were Dip; if it were Dip, it would be over by now. His heart is beating sluggishly and out of the corner of his eye, he can see ink -- his ink -- shifting around in a way it clearly shouldn’t. He’s scared.

The animators keep waking up him when he just wants to sleep. They’re asking him questions he can’t answer.

What’s your name..

Mickey Mouse he tries to say. His attempts sounds more like static.

M̨͏̞̲̩̠̜̙̪̗̼̗̺͈̗̬̱̪̯͔-͏̶͉͖̰̻̮̜͇̼̖͇̤̥͕͔̱͚̞̰̩̕M̵̴̞̳̦̖̥͎͍̞̦̖̼̭̻͎͓̳͟į̵̷͖̙͚̰̟̮͕̗̪̪̺̰͞ͅc̶̡҉̸̭̟̫̻̙͕̥̰̻̱͎͔̲̩̭̰̰̖͢k̶̨҉̢̜̦̲̣̝͍̗̀.̤͈̯̙̝̳͝͡ ̛͇͚͙̤͎̳̹̗̮E̗̦̬͉̭̻̥͚͓̪͙͙̭̕͘ͅȩ̡̢͏̬͕̱͙̜̜̰̭̥̺.̵̧͓̮̭̼̖̜͉͜ ̶̧͏͉̲̝̙͖͙͙̞̟̟͔̰̭̖̩ ͍̬̭̝̤͞͞M҉̹͕̩̥̯̪͈͓̖̻̯͉͇͎̦͢͟i̷͕̱͔̯͈̙̟͟͟͢c̶̀҉̣̺͔̫̲̜̻͇ͅͅk̰̩̪̪̥̱̼͕̮̫̭͕̤̘͓̠̻̥͙͜͞e͏̧͙̯̰͙̻͕͍̫̫y҉̷͓̟̣͚̖̮̩̀͟ ̶̤̘̬̼͍̬̞̗̰͚͉̦͝M̴̡̞̳̝̙̹̹̜̠̫̰͠ͅo҉͙͕̮̜̲̣͙̹͚̮͖͎̘̳̯͔̲ͅṵ̴͈͙̮͔̹̰͇͍̳͖̥̪͓͙͙͘ͅș̸̴͓͇̱̫̠̹͔̗͟͠͝ͅ��̠e̡͏̧̞̙̖̱͓̲͔̜̭̦̘̝̯. My name is ̵̡̭̺̠̺͐ͥ̊̐͡M̠̝̯̫͖̝̹ͩ͆ͨͤ͆͋ĩ̦͚̜̺ͫͣ̌̒c̸͓̭̝̗̯͙͙̫͑ͮͥ̉ͣ̏ͪ͟ͅk̸̤̺͇̝̖̞̜͉̀̚ͅē̛̗͍̣͓̠͂͒̍̊͌y̥̗̼̠͔̼̞̼͛͌͗ͫ͒͋̽̐ͫ͘͡ ̬͖̜̟͕͒͒́͟M̛͗ͮͦ͟͏̞͔̫ǫ̴͙̲̠̖͎͎̞͉̞͆͛́͐͘û̼̬̻̤ͧͦͯ͊̚̚s̮̲͙̞̩͎̈́͒̕eͤ͜͏̘̗̳͢

They don’t understand, which isn’t surprising; he almost can’t understand himself.

*

He wakes again to find himself strapped to an operating table, with a distinctly weird feeling in his chest; he can only move his head.

There’s a bright light shining in his face and there’s - there’s someone moving something around the inside of his rib cage. Mickey immediately start struggling, but someone else is holding him down and omigod it h u r t s.

He blacks out -- he must have -- because he doesn’t remember the moment his heart is pulled out of his body; all Mickey knows is that he looks up and there it is, shimmering above him.

The mouse’s shriek can be heard throughout the entire building. As it dies down, there’s a flash of light.

*

Oswald the Lucky Rabbit regains his body and the world’s remembrance on November 19th, 1988.

He opens his eyes to absolute chaos.

*

There are humans staring down at him. They look absolutely astonished and horrified, if he’s reading their faces right; Oswald hasn’t seen a human in a long, long time.

One steps forward and tries to pick him up, but he immediately hops right over him; no way in hell is going to let a human touch him. Especially not after the last time, when it was Walt Disney, a man he regarded as his own father, who tapped him on the nose and then left him at mercy of Mintz.

No, this rabbit has priorities; he touches down on the table and is met with a sight that is all too familiar to him; a toon, curled in on himself.

Looking closely, Oswald can see the skin on the toon’s wrists and ankles are a pale, ugly grey; clearly he’d been fighting his bonds to no avail. Panic and too tight restraints did that for ya.

The look on the mouse’s face is so much worse — it’s the face of someone who just realized they’ve lost their heart.

Feeling empathetic, Oswald pats his chest, bracing himself for the familiar stillness. Instead, he’s shocked to feel a tell tale heartbeat. A small sob shakes out of the rabbit’s lungs. A similar one echoes out of the mouse slumped next to him.

The pieces slowly start to falling into place.

*

Pulse beating loudly in his ears, Oswald leans over to get a good look at the mouse laying before him; if he’s right, then this poor toon is going to have to go through things he would never wish upon his worst enemy —not even on Charles Mintz — and that’s saying something. He reaches over and lays a hand on the mouse’s chest.

Or at least he tries to; a hand suddenly grabs at his wrist with surprising strength.

“Don’t. Please don’t do that.” The other’s voice doesn’t shake and neither does his hand; his other one is grasping at his front, clearly feeling the Dip inflicted scar. His eyes are on the humans standing in front of the room, following everyone one of their moves.

Oswald not so subtlety whirls around, standing in front of the injured toon. “If any of ya takes a step towards us, I will clobber ya with my foot.”

Humans aren’t good listeners, because one does steps forward; Oswald doesn’t hesitate.

What follows can be only described as something straight out of a cartoon, dust clouds and twirling fists included. Then, the human -- Henry -- is on the floor, Oswald standing on top of him; the others have fled the room.

“I warned you.”

*

Henry Franken looks at Oswald, clearly unamused; he doesn’t seem to be bothered by the turn of events.

“It was the only way to save him”, he says, pointing at what he now knows is clearly a rodent. The rabbit looks extremely skeptical, his brows bent in a heavy ‘v’.

“Really now, extracting his heart was the only way to save him? Listen here buddy, that’s a lie and I know it; I went through the exact same thing. And I died.”

The toon stops talking for a moment. His hands are gripping at Henry’s Hawaiian shirt tightly; they’re shaking. The rabbit clears his throat.

“So did my family” he continues. “Don’t try and sell me this crap.”

Henry doesn’t appear to moved by the confession. “Well you’re here now; take advantage of it.” He suddenly gets up, catching Oswald by surprise; he makes his way towards the mouse.

Except he isn’t there.

[meiloorun-notthefruit]

To be clear for my rare pair/crackship Delmick, Della and Mickey’s relationship takes place when Mickey is in his early adulthood; in the verse/AU, he’s an adrenaline junkie who was picked up by Scrooge after a bit of a hardknock life and Mick took one look at Della and fell head over heels. HARD. He’s 19 years old when they meet; Della and Donald are a year older than Mickey. Mickey is 25 and Della is 26 when Huey, Dewey, and Louie are hatched.

Mickey and Minnie were childhood friends who were separated from each other because of circumstances. Truth be told, Mickey only occasionally thinks of Minnie while he’s homeless and city hopping with Drake and Launchpad, and when he meets Della well,,,

It’s only years into Mickey’s mid-adulthood that he meets Minnie again and it’s a few years after Della. They end up together but well, Mickey looks up at the stars and occasionally thinks of Della.

“She wanted to give them the stars”✨ ⭐️

[headedtobandomeer]

Better AU where 66 never happens.

And on the night before Obi-Wan and Cody's wedding Bail comes to Cody and tells him every little secret that he's learned about Obi-Wan about the little spot just behind his left shoulder that always gets the worst knots in it. About how if he has meilooruns he'll be sick to his stomach within an hour. About how he always forgets that about meilooruns and eats them anyways. The little things he learned in the many years that he was friends with benefits with Obi-Wan.

That wasn't a secret Cody knew going in that Obi-Wan has had many partners over the years. But Bail was by far the longest lasting and to have him so readily and wholehearted to give his blessing to their marriage warms Cody's heart.

[littlemisspascal]

Fast Cars and Lightning Bolts Part 3

Pairing: Din x Female Reader

Word Count: 1200

Rating: T

Summary: “So…” Din says finally, and his voice is a magnet drawing your gaze helplessly back to him. He makes himself comfortable in the red leather booth by throwing an arm across its back and resting the other on the tabletop next to his empty plate where just a few crumbs of his bantha burger linger as evidence there was ever any food on it at all. “You’re going to build a car to beat Moff Gideon?”

Warnings: Helmetless Din, dialogue heavy, racing au, heavily inspired by Ford v Ferrari, language, worldbuilding

Author Note: EDITED AS OF 7/12/22

PART 2 // PART 4

A little after nine o’clock, the diner’s almost empty except for a young couple sitting three booths away, sharing a chocolate milkshake. It’s one of those disgustingly sappy public displays of affection that makes you feel vaguely nauseous to witness, but it’s currently the lesser of two evils considering the alternative is meeting Din’s gaze full of silent judgment. 

Not for the first time, you wonder if you’ve made a huge mistake meeting with him. It has been a long three months since your last encounter with him at Galma Raceway and while it hadn’t been particularly awkward per se, you wouldn’t describe it as pleasant either, so you weren’t sure what to expect from Din when he arrived. A part of you had wondered if he’d even show up. 

But he kept his end of the deal, if only for the free meal out of the arrangement, and he’d listened to your proposal without interrupting, though the critical wrinkling of his forehead grew further pronounced with every word, and really, that’s a hell of a lot more reaction from him than you could have ever anticipated. 

“So…” Din says finally, and his voice is a magnet drawing your gaze helplessly back to him. He makes himself comfortable in the red leather booth by throwing an arm across its back and resting the other on the tabletop next to his empty plate where just a few crumbs of his bantha burger linger as evidence there was ever any food on it at all. “You’re going to build a car to beat Moff Gideon?”

“Yeah,” you reply, popping a piece of meiloorun fruit into your mouth and praying he doesn’t catch the nervous trembling of your fingers. 

But of course he does, because those sharp brown eyes miss nothing, glancing down at your hand before meeting your eyes again in the span of a heartbeat. 

“Not just any car, but a Fett.” The scorn in his voice is so thick it presses down like a weight upon your shoulders and it takes all your self-confidence not to wince or duck your head. 

“Yeah.”

“Because Boba Fett asked you to do so.”

You nod, swiping your tongue over your bottom lip and ignoring the bloom of warmth in your stomach when brown eyes track the movement. 

Din’s quiet for a moment, running a hand through his dark curls. The background music playing through the diner’s jizz-box fills the void, but the low notes of the Barefoot Band do little to ease the tension digging into your chest and lower back. 

This is the first time in five years it’s just been you and him alone together, and his presence still captivates your soul, no denying it. You observe him in the faint red glow of the nearby neon light announcing the diner’s open status and marvel at how little he’s changed. He still wears the same long sleeve black t-shirt with matching suspenders holding up his dark brown cargo pants, still wears the same mythosaur pendant around his neck. There are a few new lines around his eyes and along his brow, some gray hairs peeking out amidst the dark stubble of his jawline—but he’ll always be beautiful to you. No amount of time or aging could ever change that.

“And how long did you tell them it would take you?” Din asks once he’s collected his thoughts. “A couple centuries at least?”

You can’t stop the rueful smile tugging at your lips. “Three months.”

Din laughs at that, a genuine one bubbling up out of his throat, brown eyes shining prettier than all the stars in the night sky. And there’s that warm sensation again, threatening to melt you into a puddle of affection right there where you sit. Maker, the effect this man has on you is unbelievable.

“Alright, sweetheart, let’s just break this down for a moment.” Din sits up straighter, the term of endearment slipping off his tongue honey-sweet and you don’t have the strength or the will to correct him. “Let’s pretend you don’t have a time or credit limit. That they’re actually going to give you that blank check to do with as you please.”

“Sounds wonderful,” you grin, indulging in his session of make believe.

Except Din tilts his head, expression suddenly serious, catching you off guard. “Do you really think the Fett Motor Company will let you make the car you want the way you want it? You do know Boba’s the Daimyo of Mos Espa, right? A title he killed to achieve?”

You take a long sip of your drink in lieu of responding. Not that you really need to. Din knows you always do thorough research on your competition—whether they’re racers or they’re in the automobile industry—especially new ones emerging out of nowhere like Fett had done. 

“Don’t let them fool you, cyar’ika,” Din continues, and you’d roll your eyes at his protective nature if you hadn’t missed it so much. “I’m sure they’ll seem nice and friendly when you visit them, probably will all form a line and ask for your autograph. Because you’re Lightning Bolt, the darling of the racing community.”

You snort a laugh, shaking your head at the stupid nickname forever bothering you like a fly wherever you go. And you know Din knows you hate it, catching a glimpse of his mischievous smirk before he carries on with his ranting.

“And all the while, hidden away in Fett’s palace, they’re coming up with a dozen ways to control you like a puppet. Because controlling people is their specialty. And because—I don’t know if you’ve ever been told this by anyone but—you’re a reckless idiot.”

“Hey!” you squawk indignantly.

He levels you with a flat look. “You set yourself on fire the night you won the BEC, sweetheart.”

Defensive anger fills your chest where affection used to be, but you keep it imprisoned there instead of setting it loose upon Din, not wanting to start an argument with him. “I acknowledge your concern,” you say slowly, gently. “But this is too big of an opportunity for me to turn down no matter how risky it is.”

Din sighs harshly through his nose, looking away out the window. Disapproval is practically radiating off of every muscle in his body, but he holds his tongue. And back when you were together, you remember loving that about him. How he’d never hold you back from accomplishing your goals even if he worried they’d kill you.

“This car could change the whole sport of racing forever.”

The noise he makes is half-scoff, half-hum of agreement. “If you’re the brains behind it, of course it will.” His eyes meet yours again, stealing the breath from your lungs with their heated intensity. “There isn’t anybody else in the galaxy with a creative mind like yours.”

You swallow against your suddenly dry mouth. “Din, I…”

“What is it, cyar’ika?”

I miss you.

I love you.

“I want you to drive it.”

[uwingdispatch]

Nights Spent Tender

Nights Spent Tender

Notes: Cassian Andor/Reader, everyone lives au, post-rebellion, mild hurt/comfort, chronically ill/disabled reader, domestic fluff

CW: chronic illness, chronic pain/unnamed physical disability or health issue, implied PTSD, implied sexual intimacy

Ao3 Link

★★★★★★★★

You always hear them before you see them when they come through the door of the caf bar. No matter how hard he tries, Kay can’t move quietly—and Cassian rarely goes anywhere without his droid companion.

You’re sitting at a small table in the back corner, hunched over a propped-up datapad, finishing up your work for today. You could be at home, but it gets monotonous, and it’s nice to walk to this little spot just a few blocks from your house and take a moment to chat with familiar faces.

Not to mention, this caf bar is where you met him, just a few years ago, though it does feel like you’ve known him for longer.

Cassian makes his way to your table, wraps his arms around you from behind, and leans in to kiss your cheek.

“You work too hard, my heart,” he says. “How long have you been here?”

In fact, you barely work part time, your health impairing your ability to take on a full-time job. Some days you can focus enough to get through hours’ worth of work. Some days you’re too fatigued and sore to even get out of bed. Cassian tells you often that you can quit your job at any time, that he makes enough to support the both of you comfortably. But, for now, you felt good being able to contribute a little.

“Only a few hours,” you say. “I’m almost finished. Give me a minute and we can go home.”

Kay is at the counter ordering caf for Cassian and probably water for you. He does this often—notices your water flask is empty, takes it upon himself to hydrate you. And since he and Cassian had begun meeting you at the caf bar on their way home from the office, it had become a ritual, usually with a remark along the lines of “Cassian says I have to help keep you alive.”

Other injured veterans you know were issued cute little ball droids for support after the war, but Cassian had Kay. Sometimes you think Cassian is as much a support for Kay as Kay is for him

Today the droid is wearing a blue scarf you made—one of the first you’d ever given him. Folks in the neighborhood were used to seeing him now, but in the months after he first appeared here—well, so many beings had seen droids that looked just like Kay commit atrocities during the war. Having an Imperial enforcer droid for a neighbor was understandably jarring. But an enforcer droid in a scarf? Much less scary. He had a little collection now—some you’d made for him, some he’d bought with his own credits.

“Are we leaving?” Kay asks, startling you.

You’d briefly closed your eyes to enjoy the pleasant pressure of your partner’s arms pulling your body towards him. He smells of his leather rebellion jacket, and of the bougie meiloorun shampoo he found on an off-world trip and now can’t give up.

You power down your datapad and put it in your shoulder bag, which Cassian insists on carrying for you. He takes your hand in his and helps you out of the chair where your body has stiffened over the hours you’ve been here. You wave goodbye to the staff and, as you walk to the landspeeder, Cassian has his steaming caf in one hand and your hand in the other.

*

Your first ride in that speeder had started with the imposing droid approaching you and blurting, “I told the captain he should talk to you. But he hasn’t.”

The droid was blunt, but seemingly sincere. You’d seen him coming and going in the caf bar for a couple of months—and, yes, you'd been frightened the first time you saw him. Like most Wookiees you knew, he was so tall that he had to duck to get through the door. And while you’d never seen an enforcer droid in person, like so many others, you’d seen the holos.

But the droid was always with a handsome man in a well-worn Rebel Alliance jacket. It had been a few years since the war, but you knew enough rebels here on Ralltiir to trust that a man wearing the rebel insignia had a good explanation for the droid. You wanted to introduce yourself, but a part of you was worried that an awkward encounter could ruin this quiet, comfortable place for the both of you.

So when Kay approached you on his person’s behalf, you laughed. And then started apologizing, because, well—who would want to be laughed at in this scenario?

“It’s okay,” Cassian said. “Kay says he’s an extrovert, but he doesn’t seem to like very many people. And not very many people tolerate him.”

Somehow the only response you could get out was, “Oh?”

“I have wanted to say hello, though,” he said. “And normally I would ask you out to get a cup of caf, but it seems we’ve both already done that.”

“Looks that way,” you said. Was this man asking you on a date? You didn’t date very often, and weren’t interested in most of the men who showed you attention. But his rich brown eyes radiated kindness—for some reason, you trusted him. “Captain…?”

“Andor,” he said—then caught himself with a short laugh. “But…I’m a civilian now. My name is Cassian,” He paused to take a deep breath, ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “Can I take you to dinner? If you’re not busy tonight?”

*

Today you return home and you’re so tired you think you might sink all the way into the couch and never move again. Cassian picks up on this immediately—he’s attentive in a way you’ve never known another person to be, in ways you weren’t even attentive to yourself. Sometimes it seems like he can use the Force to read your mind—but, no, he’s just an experienced spy. So he brings you a heating pad and places a pillow behind your back before he sits down on the couch, moving your legs so they’re over his lap.

“Let’s order take-out tonight,” he says, tipping your head back to press a sweet kiss to your lips. His hair tickles your face and you tuck it behind his ear. “I don’t feel like cooking, and you need to rest.”

He needs his rest, too. It’s been a long week and, while Cassian is no longer a spy, he is still working for the government, and it isn’t an uncomplicated job. Sometimes you worry that he isn’t letting himself slow down because slowing down would mean dealing with some really difficult things—things he’s told you he hasn’t even brought up with his therapist because he knows how hard unpacking that trauma will be.

But healing takes time—and patience. For now, Cassian is pulling up menus on his datapad, rattling off names of restaurants. He pauses at the menu for that little place you went on your first date, at the time a hole-in-the-wall, now a local favorite.

*

You left the caf bar with Cassian and his droid and got into a landspeeder—an older model, but one that had clearly been modified to accommodate the droid. You’d made it a rule for yourself not to do this sort of thing—getting into speeders with men you didn’t know—but you were strangely comfortable with Cassian as you made your way from coffee to dinner. At the restaurant, Kay moved into the driver’s seat and left, presumably for home.

You’d never heard of this place, but Cassian had promised it had “something for everyone.” And he’d been right. You were there for quite a while, somehow talking for hours, only leaving when you realized the entire staff was waiting for you to go.

Cassian walked you home, and a few blocks from your place, he took your hand in his, his palm softer than you’d expected for a man who had spent most of his life fighting. And while you had never once invited a man into your apartment on a first date, that night you did.

You’d barely stepped inside when Cassian said, “I hope this isn’t too bold of me, but I’d really like to kiss you.”

You smiled and reached to touch his shoulder, his linen shirt soft against your skin. “I’d like that, too,” you said.

He cupped your face in his hand before brushing his lips against yours, just a gentle touch at first, but soon deepening as you stumbled toward your sofa, the scruff of his short beard coarse against your skin, your hands lost in his hair.

The night was a pleasant kind of endless—you felt so relaxed, tenderly held in his arms. And between bouts of kissing, you talked over cups of jogan fruit tea. At dinner, talk had been casual. Now you told him about your health issues, about why you lived so far away from your family. And he told you about why he’d stayed on Ralltiir after the war, opening up about his closest friend, Jyn, who had stayed here as well. He told you about his relationship with Kay and how he owed the droid his life.

You’d later learn that this was unusual for him, that Cassian didn’t often offer so much of himself so readily, but he felt safe with you, too.

When the sun started to come up, he called Kay for a ride. And when Kay didn’t answer, you told Cassian he should stay—it was hard to find a taxi at this hour. He insisted on sleeping on the sofa rather than in your bed. “Let’s not rush things,” he said. “We have so much time.”

When you woke you found Cassian still asleep in the living room, your tooka-cat curled up in a sunbeam on his belly. As you quietly made your way into the kitchen, there was a part of you that was surprised he was still here. But there was also a part of you that knew then that this was how it was supposed to be, the two of you at home, about to share breakfast.

When you finally had pancake batter ready to pour, you looked over the kitchen island to see Cassian gently petting the tooka, now belly-up in his lap and purring.

*

Tonight the sun sets over your little house as you clear the dishes from the table and place them in the sink. Kay has docked himself in his charging station for the night, having hung his scarf on one of the hooks on the back of his door. It’s just you and Cassian now, and he's luring you back to the sofa.

“Have you seen this holo?” he asks, bringing up an image on the viewscreen in your living room. “I can’t remember if we watched this yet. But someone mentioned it at the office today and it reminded me of you.”

“No,” you say. “We can put it on.”

You grab a blanket from the linen closet and join Cassian on the sofa where he guides your head into his lap. You reach up to caress his cheek and he takes your hand, kisses the inside of your wrist, and tells you, “Whenever we eat at this place,” he tips his head at a takeout container you both missed while cleaning up, “I think about the night I first kissed you.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tell Kay I said this, but I’m so glad he embarrassed me that day.”

“Are you sure?” you tease.

“Positive.” He pauses. “You know what…how’s your back?

“Better.”

“Forget the holo. Do you want to…” Cassian nods toward the bedroom.

“Yeah,” you say. “I really do.”

He turns off the screen and helps you up, leading you down the hall, his lips on yours. As you tumble into bed, you brush his hair out of his eyes and he whispers “My heart, I love you so much.” into the curve of your neck.

You could live in this moment forever, you think. The warmth and comfort of your partner, here in the home you’ve made together, both of you finally relaxed after years of uncertainty—it’s more than you’d ever dared to hope for. And certainly more than you thought you’d find at that little caf bar. As Cassian’s hands make their way under your shirt, you close your eyes and savor every touch, silently thanking the stars that, with every city on every planet in the galaxy, somehow this man ended up in your path.

★★★★★★★★

Thank you for reading! I hope you can see yourself in this comforting Cassian fic.

Tagging some folks:

@princessxkenobi @zinzinina @maul-ologue @operation-spot​ @waterpancakeao3​​

[shatterpoints-and-fractures]

Star Wars AU Ideas Masterpost(?)

Okay, I have a lot of ideas about how the Star Wars might be changed around to my interests, often inspired by other artists.

My Three Main AUs

Something Done to Change It: In which Anakin passes out after making his first Major Bad Decision of the Day, thus manages to prevent himself from making the next few Bad Decisions of the day. Vader-ized against his will, yet still soured against his would be allies, the Empire gains a much more dangerous enemy. 

(Main AU, based off @radioactivepeasant‘s Doomvader AU, but a massive Legends/Canon fusion starting at A New Hope and encompassing events up a modified Force Awakens/Fate of the Jedi event in 38 ABY).

To clarify, A New Hope begins normally, but begins to spiral rapidly when the twins reunite. Featuring earlier meeting of characters I like, A New Jedi Order that stands firm, and increased attention paid to the Eternals of Mortis.

By the Skin of their Teeth: Ahsoka raises concerns with Yoda, Yoda raises concerns with Mace Windu, Windu offers some reassurance to Anakin, Anakin stuns everyone by making A Good Choice. The Republic and Jedi Order survive by the skin of their teeth, and nineteen years later, the Twins Skywalker find themselves at the forefront of emerging threats new and old.

(Other Main AU, based off nickducoteart from instagram’s A New Darkness AU, where Anakin doesn’t interfere with Windu, but Palpatine escapes. Team SkyWindu manage to alert the Jedi about Order 66, so the lion’s share of the Purge’s damage is averted. Palpatine is thought dead, and certain...revelations leave the galaxy in chaos, and unstable nineteen years later.

Ft Luke-Ahsoka, Leia-Obi Wan, & Mara-Maul apprenticeships, High Republic fashion Leia, Ranger’s Apprentice references, Big Sis Katooni, MaraLuke otp, MaraLeia crush, and MaraEzra brotp.

Fractured Galaxy: Palpatine decides the Queen of Naboo needs to be under his thumb. Padme grows up a rebel, Anakin a Khyber monk, and the first Jedi to kill a Sith in an eon kickstarts a heresy. A third faction emerges in the Clone Wars, in which Palpatine holds no sway.

(Other other Main AU, based off some various ideas I’ve ran cross on this humble site. Padme isn’t elected Queen, rebels against the Trade Federation, and becomes much less willing to play ball with the Republic, two Jedi are accompanied to Naboo by a certain blind monk, who Anakin & Shmi end up following. When the Clone Wars arrive, the Seperatists are much more numerous, but divided between the CIS and the Free Systems Alliance, to whom Obi-Wan and an increasing number of Jedi begin to defect.)

Featuring Padme vs Dooku verbal duels, discussions about the morality surrounding the clones and the Jedi’s place in the military, zen Anakin, Zule Xiss and the Padawan Pack(look them up), and a Palpatine not in control of the situation.

Other AUs

Obi Wan raises the twins as Mandalorians

General situation swap between five post Order 66 potential Jedi (Luke Skywalker, Leia Organa, Ezra Bridger, Mara Jade, And Galen Marek/Starkiller)

Including situations where Luke and/or Leia are raised by Ahsoka, together in whatever location(Obi Wan, Alderaan, Tatooine, parents, or even Sith), Ezra and Mara as partnered imperial agents, and Galen Marek raised by/apprenticed to Luminara Unduli.

More Jedi survive Order 66/clones are more aware of chips/able to miss shots resist enough to allow more survivors.

Padme survives, but Anakin doesn’t. Possibly featuring Force Wraith Vader created from Anakin’s negative emotions.

Shmi was a Sith once, now a slave. Her hatred has faded, yet the fury remains. She may have once dedicated her life to the Jedi’s destruction, but now they may be each other’s salvation.

Young Jedi Knight Depa Billaba is dispatched to respond to a rebellion (slave uprising)  against the Hutts on the world of Tatooine. Things go meiloorun shaped, and Depa finds herself nose to blaster point with the rebellion’s leader, a very force sensitive, very pretty young woman with an even more powerful baby strapped to her back. A Depa/Shmi rarepair fic.

And my funniest, Luke is childhood friends with the Tusken warrior who kicks Boba Fett’s ass, saves him from the others to attack him, and generally just tags along when things get moving.

[willowcrowned]

Qui-Gon 17, Anakin 8, Obi-Wan 6, Ahsoka 10, Padme 15

[Headcanon Asks]

17. Technology Headcanon - Qui-Gon

Oh, this one's easy. In canon, technology is like breathing to everyone. He knows as much as everyone else, which is a decent bit.

In modern aus, he still knows how to operate technology (better than most people actually. Like hell is he existing in a world where he has to rely on something he can't even begin to understand) but he totally pretends he doesn't, because then he can say he forgot his email password or where the on button is if he accidentally on purpose didn't reply to someone's ~urgent missive.

8. Shopping Headcanon - Anakin

I think Anakin has never really stopped being amazed at everything you can get even at a corner store, let alone a proper market, on Coruscant. He grew up on Tatooine, where the main meals were a kind of rough grain that got mushy before it really cooked, and nutrient packs to make sure you didn't die of scurvy. Walking into a store and seeing muja next to meiloorun next to mango next to—well, anything, never stops being just a bit amazing, and more than a bit alienating.

6. Musical Headcanon - Obi-Wan

Okay I know I'm at odds with a good 95% of the fandom on this one, but I love an Obi-Wan who absolutely cannot sing. It's not just that he has a terrible voice (which he does in the worst way) it's that he has whatever the opposite of perfect pitch is. You give him a C sharp and he'll sing an A flat. If he could sing multiple notes at once, he would constantly be singing the equivalent of diminished ninths and augmented thirds and just. Whatever your least favorite chord is, he makes it worse.

10. Sleep Headcanon - Ahsoka

Ahsoka, when she's sick or tired or hurt or in any state where she isn't trying to be a Proper Padwan, sleeps curled up in a ball. She doesn't like admitting to having stuffed animals, but she can't quite bear to get rid of them, because some nights she needs to take them down from the back of the top shelf and curl herself around it until she feels safe enough to sleep.

15. School Headcanon - Padmé

I don't actually think Padmé had private tutors for most of her schooling. She definitely did when she was queen, though I imagine the lessons and grading were extremely relaxed—meant more to give her a slight feeling of normalcy and a base in things she didn't get experience in (see: calculus and engineering) as the ruler of Naboo.

Before she was queen, I imagine she went to a specialty school for future politicians starting at least at age six, if not younger. She had long, boring classes, and harsh teachers, and weird fake-wood desks that always had gum underneath them just like every other school.

[ilonga]

angstpril day 25

alt prompt used: So Close Yet So Far

ao3

continuation of the winter soldier/amnesia au, follow up to this and this

It's nearly a year into training Ahsoka when Obi-wan finally has his suspicions confirmed in the worst way. 

They're on a mission, him and Ahsoka—a reconnaissance mission on a jungle planet with only a few clones for backup. It had been his idea for them to scout ahead while the clones stood guard by the camp. He regrets it, now. They'd returned to the clones dead.

The work of a lightsaber.

The work of a Sith.

He's heard of the new Sith assassin, of course; the Sith Master, whoever he is, seems to be snatching up minions like meiloorun fruit. They're deadlier and quieter than Ventress, who seems to prefer making memorable impressions, but not quite as destructive as Grievous. 

Either way, it was a mystery Obi-wan was hoping not to get closer to. Especially not with his pada—new padawan in tow.

(He's very proud of Ahsoka. But he's still bitter at the circumstances of their union. The Council means well, he knows. But it still feels like he's spitting on Anakin's memory, irrational as the thought is.)

"Master," Ahsoka says shakily. "That doesn't look like Ventress's work."

"No," he agrees. "I believe we might be making a new acquaintance today." 

Escape is, unfortunately, not an option, considering that they're rather surrounded by trees shrubbery at the moment and that the ship is much too far to reach in time. They'll be cut down in minutes. Their only option is to stand and fight.

The assassin is near. Obi-wan can sense them. Their presence is—strange. Blank. Familiar, almost.

He and Ahsoka exchange an uneasy glance.

The shaky truce lasts for another two seconds before the assassin allegedly has enough and a saber ignites behind them. He and Ahsoka turn in unison, pulling out their own weapons, but the assassin is practically already on top of them.

The battle is quick and furious. The assassin, whoever they are, has only one goal—killing them.

Or, well, as the blank, soulless blue eyes bore into him, it occurs to Obi-wan that he might be the primary target. The assassin spares hardly a glance for Ahsoka at all. 

The figure behind all of those mysterious Jedi killings is targeting him. Specifically. 

He deflects another blow that would have taken his arm off if he hadn't been paying attention. He's aggressive, certainly. The mask—muzzle?—covering half his face doesn't seem to hinder him at all.  

But his eyes are so. . . empty. Not like Ventress, or Dooku, or even Grievous, tiresome as the cyborg is. It's as if Obi-wan is fighting a puppet, not a person.

(But why does something seem so familiar?)

A very dangerous puppet, Obi-wan remembers, when his distraction nearly loses him his eye. Good grief, he can't let his curiosity get him and his padawan killed. What sort of Jedi is he?

"Master!" Ahsoka shouts, and suddenly she leaps, aiming for the assassin's head—

The assassin turns to meet her attacks—

Obi-wan moves from behind—

And catches the mask. Which now has a massive gash through the middle, from the upper cheek to the chin. 

And shows the assassin's face.

"Anakin?"

What in the galaxy—how could this have happened? Anakin is dead, has been since the Battle of Geonosis, but—

You always knew something was off, a vicious voice in his head whispers, Didn't you find it strange that there was no body?

 Anakin, what have they done to you?

 Anakin's eyes widen at that, though they're still frighteningly blank. He presses forward but it's more hesitant, now. His brows are furrowed.

Ahsoka has no such qualms.

"This is your old Padawan?" she shouts incredulously and parries another swipe only to return with a strong one of her own. "Why is he trying to kill us?"

Those words also seem to strike some sort of chord in him, because Anakin slows even more, blinking rapidly. 

And then Ahsoka catches him with her shoto across the face.

"Ahsoka," he shouts, something in him twisting at the sight of Anakin injured. But it's no use. Anakin scrambles back into the woods, pulling the force tightly around him and practically vanishing, force wise and sightwise.

No. Obi-wan has to find him.

Ahsoka holds him back. "Unless you want to be fried bantha meat, Master, we've got to get out of here now."

"I have to find him," he says blankly. "We have to bring him back."

"We can't do anything if we're dead." She jerks her head in the other direction and—oh. Obi-wan senses it too, now.

Droids.

Too many droids.

They don't have time.

Heart in his throat, Obi-wan takes one last glance back before they leave the jungle—and Anakin—behind for good.

*

"Am I to understand," Sidious says from above him, anger reined in tightly. "that not only did you fail to kill Kenobi, you allowed both him and his apprentice to discover your identity?"

Identity. That's a funny word, isn't it. Before his encounter with the Jedi and his apprentice he didn't even know he'd had one. 

Anakin, Kenobi had said. Your padawan, the younger girl had said. 

So he was the man from his strange dreams, then. Obi-wan Kenobi. It's a relief, to finally have a name to put to the face. But what in the galaxy does it mean?

Had they known him? Had he known them? 

But his life has always been just this. The cell, the missions, the darkness. His Master. Unless—

"Answer me, Vader."

He drags his gaze back upwards. To any of Sidious's questions, there is only one correct answer. "Yes, Master."

The smell of ozone hits before the pain registers. 

He's burning, he's burning, he's burning alive from the inside out— 

Electricity crackles through his flesh, his bones, his veins. It lights up the room in strange hues as the sharp pain digs into him relentlessly, not giving up even as his throat tears in two. The metal arm dangles uselessly beside him, spasming as someone far away screams.

"I am giving you one last chance," his Master says, finally granting him a reprieve from the lightning. He crumples to his knees, gasping against the blessedly cool floor.

"Fail again to kill Kenobi, and you will be disposed of."

[meiloorun-notthefruit]

Beginnings

Donald Duck is eight years old when he decides he's had enough.

Using the money his ever elusive Uncle Scrooge sends on birthdays (the only thing Scrooge McDuck bothers doing for his family at the moment), he buys a plane ticket to the most interesting place he can think of: Rio de Janeiro.  Donald takes the bus, his worldly possessions tucked away in a duffel bag he found in Grandma Elvira's closet; the duckling's pretty sure it belonged to his father and he doesn't really know what to do with this information, so he ignores it. When he finally arrives at Mouseton Airport, he stops for a second, suddenly wary of his decision to run away, but it last only for a moment and then he's off, running towards the gate.

Running towards a new life.

At least that's what he hopes it is.

~*~

If this had been any other universe, Donald Duckling would have not made it very far because one: his cousin Gladstone would have caught him straight away and, in fear of Donald's impending doom and death, would have ratted him out immediately.

Or two: after only a few hours out, Donald would have returned to the farm by himself, realizing he wouldn't get very far with his current plan. He would tell his twin sister Della and his cousins Fethry and Gladstone that he was only back because he needed time to think up of a new plan.

You'll see; I'll be gone before you know what hits ya.  

He never would end up leaving, not until high school, when Grandma Elvira ships the twins off to Uncle Scrooge. It would only be then that Donald would have remembered that childhood vow, but it would be too late for him to try again.

A third peek into outcomes would have been Uncle Scrooge finally proving his net worth: spending as much as he possibly could tracking down his wayward nephew (his sister's only son). It wouldn't be easy - Donald would make sure of it - but eventually, Scrooge would find him.

Finally, it would have just been that Donald Duckling, age eight, would have turned right around, walking the seven miles back to the farm from the airport, simply because he missed home. Either ways, a happy family reunion would have taken place in each of these scenarios, one with messy tears and scoldings and hugs.

But this is not these instances; fate, luck, Donald Duck himself, did not intervene and so, the eight year old got on the bus and then he got on the plane that would eventually take him to Rio de Janeiro.

~*~

Thirteen hours and fifteen minutes.

Donald spends thirteen hours and fifteen minutes borrowed deep in his chair, duffel bag in his arms, because it's the only thing on the plane he can hold in a death grip without getting a dirty look. The old lady next to him - who in a moment of desperate panic as the plane took off, looked like Grandma Elvira (but acted nothing like her) - had shook off Donald's little hand, despite it's trembling.

Donald's other seatmate had noticed his distress and tried his best to calm him, but it seemed after the first five minutes of conversation, his attempts at understanding the child had tapered off, and after twenty minutes, he had cut Donald off, his patience gone.

Look buddy, it was great talking to you and all but I really can't understand what you're saying. I hope you have a nice trip, wherever you do end up going.

Donald stays silent the rest of the trip, choosing to stare down at the brochure in his lap. He doesn't make an attempt at reading what it says; he's not able to, not with the mess on his face, the one currently streaming down his bill. His seat is just big enough to let him curl up on his side; he'd be an indistinguishable lump, if he stays still long enough. The duckling pulls a quilt (the family one) out of the duffel bag and does just that.

He's dead to the world in minutes.

~*~

Donald is awakened by two things: one, the plane jerking about and two, his need to use the bathroom - drinking all the orange juice in the fridge before he left had been liberating, but his bladder is about to explode - the plane's decision to do the macarena at the moment is not helping either.

He's pretty sure this the turbulence Della's always talking about, when throwing her little red plane up into the air every five seconds. He hopes there's no crashing involved; Della always did her best to catch the plane each time afterwards. Maybe the pilot is trying to do the same.

The announcement a minute later calms him immensely; he had slept through the worst of the turbulence, only waking up at the tail end of it.

Everything is fine.

Reassured, he gets up. The old lady is giving him another dirty look as he crosses her, but he ignores it. A flight attendant is watching him closely and Donald pretends not to be bothered by the extra attention. The walk down the aisle seems to take forever, but he finally reaches the back -

- where the other flight attendants are staring at him.

He slams the door closed.

~*~

He's in the bathroom longer than he should be, but he can't help it; it reminds him of Uncle Ludwig's buggy: small, an ugly mint green, loud whenever used, and a terrible hiding place; Donald doesn't know how long he's been reminiscing spacing out, when he hears a hurried knock on the door, followed by several muttered curses.

Donald, feigning ignorance, washes his hands for the third time and only then does he step out. He shakes water at the person waiting next in line - to throw off his pursuers - and then he runs. He may or may not have also accidentally stepped on the man's foot for good measures. He turns around once as he makes his way to his seat (can't leave his back unprotected) and -

- there's no one chasing after him.

~*~

Turns out the flight attendants had only been watching out for him because he's a child currently flying alone to another country. Donald decides not to tell them that he's going to be a child staying alone in another country.

~*~

After shaking off the attendant that was supposed to be watching him - all he had had to do was walk towards a group of parents with their kids and remain within walking distance of them - Donald goes straight to a currency exchange machine. Once most of his dollars are cruzado novos (he keeps twenty-five american dollars, just in case), Donald buys himself two ham sandwiches - one of which he eats on his way out - eight candy bars, and three bottles of water. The ham sandwich is only a little terrible; the bread seems dry, but it's probably only because nothing can beat Gladstone's sandwiches (lucky Gladstone, who always manages to snag the best of the few ingredient needed), and because he doesn't have any orange juice.

Donald decides to save the candy bars for when he has absolutely nothing else.

Notes: So I headcanon Donald to be maybe 35-36 ish years old in DT2017 (i know I know, maybe that's too old(?) but eh). He's eight years old during this little trip, so the year is 1989. I have no idea what the Galeão International Airport looked like in 1989 (I tried searching it up, but I couldn't really find any relevant information without falling down a rabbit hole) sooooo artistic licencing if anything is wrong..? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

oh yeah, the airport Don's at is Galeão International Airport, In the North Zone of Rio de Janeiro.

BONUS:

THE OLD LADY WAS MEAN TO THIS HERE CHILD.

precious little duckling child.

[meiloorun-notthefruit]

@jswatson-holmes

“I thought you said you didn't have a tattoo?”

“I don’t.”