#the once-dashing smuggler

[fallenlondonnpcfight]

Scandal is Increasing…

[letters-of-fire]

an attempt to picture once-dashing smuggler

[waterlogged-detective]

Some tomb colonists

[geraldofallon]

Romance in the Neath: Once-Dashing Smuggler

The Once-Dashing Smuggler is dangerous, maddening, and feels deep affection for you.

There’s something intriguing about his graceful brutality.

He is quite fetching. Probably. Under the bandages.

The Once-Dashing Smuggler might be smitten with you.

[frost-mothit]

reminds myself to migrate this guy over from cohost sighs...him <3

[the-dye-stained-socialite]

🌹- An in-game item that you imagine as a gift from the canon character(s) to the oc.

🐍- Do they ever see each other in dreams?

for Elias and Smuggler

oo, an in-game item you say?

your very own bandages!!! The Smuggler's first set of bandages, given to them as reassurance that they will be beloved still, when they join the Colonies. in their tomb-colonist timeline, these ones are worn close to their heart.

Do they ever see eachother in dreams?

Yes, though not frequently! For now, the two enjoy their distance, with sparse meetings. But if Elias has been behaving themself too much, and hasn't been sent to the Colonies recently, then they will arrange to meet together in Elias' base-camp. They showed him the route the first time they saw him after establishing it, with plenty of honey. Overall though, their meeting are rare and cherished.

[sith-shenanigans]

terribly disappointed that being married means I can’t flirt with the other potential spouses at all when the Infamous Mathematician and Roguish Semiotician clearly don’t mind me seducing basically whoever

if the Honey-Sipping Master Jewel Thief is going to approach me and slip me diamonds when I don’t bite then he shouldn’t object so much to me being a married individual of indeterminate gender

[tiredassmage]

Whadda heck are words? What’s dialogue? I’m struggling. Leo’s poor decisions on Nar Shadaa continue to be unraveled by our non-local agent adksfnlsaf

This is doing numbers on me emotionally and also cause good stars above how do people flirt I’ve suddenly never seen a romance in my life Tyr go easy on me dude (Cipher Nine kisses you and diagnoses you with Emotions, Would You Like to Talk About Them? more at 11?)

When he returns to the room, Leo’s curled up with one of the pillows, a hand twining idly in a long lock of dark hair with unfocused dark eyes settled somewhere along the wall.

Tyr props a shoulder in the doorway and flashes a grin. “Miss me?”

Leo blinks, brought back into the present before he smiles and tosses his hair back over his shoulder. “You stayed.”

Tyr bluffs a light huff of laughter. “‘Course I did, gorgeous,” he teases as he saunters over. “Y’don’t find goods like this just anywhere, right?” He momentarily caresses Leo’s ass before he falls back into bed with him, Leo rolling onto his back to let Tyr straddle him again.

Tyr brushes his hair back from his eyes. “Hey,” he says softly, “Wha’s a matter? Somethin’ on your mind?”

Leo shakes his head, but his gaze remains elusive. Tyr works fingers gently through his hair for a few more moments, carefully teasing out knots he comes across. Leo’s fingers tangle in his shirt at his sides, twisting slowly a few times until the fabric is pulled more taught across his back.

Tyr stops and looks back down at him. “If you’re uncomfortable, just say the word,” he says. “You owe me nothing, Captain.”

Leo’s head shakes again. “It’s… It’s not…”

Tyr’s hands settle on either side of his head, just enough to brace himself. “Drinks catchin’ up with you, handsome?”

Leo’s nose screws up in a mild frown that pulls a faint breath of a chuckle out of Tyr. He settles beside the smuggler, resting against one arm. “D’you wanna talk?”

Leo’s frown wavers for a moment as he shuffles to face him. “Awfully uh… awfully accommodation’ for a man I picked up at a cantina.”

Tyr offers him a softer smile before he reaches out and traces a finger softly down Leo’s nose. “Troubles are a credit a piece, Captain,” he says. “Sometimes cheaper. They ain’t so easy to solve, though.”

[hurricanek8art]

So! Update on my SWTOR woes! I figure putting it in the main tag makes it so everyone that helped me sees it. Thank you everyone for your advice! I was so nervous about asking and you guys are so cool!

I'm planning on just doing Voss and Corellia for now to keep from burning out! This is like attempt three at me making a Jedi Knight because I wanted her to be my Outlander and then I'd freeze up and panic because I wanted it to be "perfect" but y'know what? Perfect's overrated anyway, this is supposed to be fun! I'll keep the other planetary storylines on the backburner in case I need to level up any further, but since I hit level 50 before I was out of chapter one and I thiiiink I hit 54 last night finishing Maelstrom Prison, I don't think I need to worry about my level being too low for a while. 🤣🤣🤣

(side note—thank you so much @greyias I GOT THE STUPID WHATSHISFACE COLONEL GUY WITH THE EYEBEAMS FINALLY 🤣 I do not know why I didn't think of using those crates as a shield before, I am so dumb :P)

You guys were so helpful and nice and I don't know what else to say I'm so bad at this 🥴🤣 but thank you! All of this actually helped me work up the courage to maaaaaaybe share my stuff? At least screenshots and backstory rambles because I have to share it somehow. I can only yammer my brother's ear off about it for so long, and he's the only other person I know IRL that's as into all this as me, so y'know. 🤣 I might make a masterpost to introduce everyone but I gotta gather up all my screenshots first and I'm kinda meh about getting good ones, so :P we'll see. And condense about two and a half/three-ish years of my brain hurtling backstories at me faster than I can write when I'm supposed to be writing other stuff into readable paragraphs. Uh... yeah, maybe don't expect it too soon. 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 I'm queuing this for tomorrow because I only got the chance to actually sit down and write this at midnight here, it's been crazy. Thank you again, everyone! I'm so bad at social stuff I don't know what else to say but thanks!

I don't know how to end this, so uh... Here! Unnecessarily adding all my Republic side characters in because I love them and I constantly want to infodump when it's not the time or place! 🤣

Aja Verdona, my Jedi Knight; Reilly Hawkins, my Smuggler; Ataraxia Kestis, my Consular (and my smuggler's twin sister); and Ijaaka Ordo, my Trooper. They have permanently rewired parts of my brain and I love them all dearly even though I accidentally play favorites with Aja. 🥴

[caperingcryptid]

The Agent sat alone at her dining room table, as she often did. Even before coming down to the darkness of the Neath, she had been a decidedly solitary creature, preferring the company of a good book over those of other people. It worked to her favor when it came to her career, where quiet observation and deduction was a necessity, but her social life was more or less dead in the water.

Business came first. As it should, really. Between the intrigues that she had wound herself in and her duties to Clarabelle and the Doctor, she couldn't afford to let herself be distracted.

However. While the Agent worked to appear otherwise, she was still infallibly human. There were times such as now that allowed herself the luxury of losing herself in her thoughts. So much had happened since she had arrived, names and faces drifting in and out of her life like dust motes. 

Right now, as she rolled the stem of a dried rose between her finger and thumb, she found herself thinking of him. 

The Smuggler hadn't as much drifted into her life as he did saunter into it. It didn't take a master analyst to see how he'd gotten himself in bandages: the man had about as much self-preservation as a drunken squirrel. Danger was his dearest lover, and he'd taken pleasure in pulling her along to take part in it whenever he had the mind to.

The Agent initially went along with it out of courtesy's sake. It had been, after all, a trusted ally of hers that had put them in touch. As...astoundingly forward he had been in his dealings with her, she had enough faith in their judgement that she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

Given that she was relatively sure he had committed a murder to get them both into the Museum of Mistakes, she found herself quickly rethinking her decision. Even if death was about as much of an inconvenience to Londeners as the flu, it still struck her as being a somewhat drastic move to make for so little benefit. When she had confronted him about it over dinner, he had waved her off. He had, he claimed, only given the guard a "trifling" head wound.

After that point, what kept the Agent returning his messages was less out of politeness, and more out of morbid curiosity. A curiosity she felt would likely be the literal death of her, but curiosity nonetheless. Again, she was human, after all. 

There had been something strikingly earnest about the Smuggler, in his own peculiar way. Though he kept his secrets tucked up his sleeve (something she couldn't blame him for, given she was much the same way), he made no effort to hide what he was. He was brutal, careless in his actions. Petty, even. The Smuggler was a criminal, and he didn't hesitate to take pride in it. 

Strange as it was, the Agent found his unflinching nature somewhat refreshing. When one spent so long dealing in cloak-and-dagger, you came to prefer such frank behavior. Of course, if that had been all there was to him, she would have cut ties soon enough, but...

Well. It wasn't.

He had surprised her with his tenderness. In the little time they spent together, he had been nothing short of a gentleman. He was mindful of her and her needs, always putting in an effort to get her to enjoy herself. Even in the times she had to turn him down, whether for work or some other reason, he took it with grace and wished her well. 

She wasn't sure when her feelings towards him shifted from bemusement to fondness. Perhaps it was when one of his wry little quips got a smile out of her. Perhaps it was when he turned to her, and those brilliant green eyes gleamed with mischief and delight.

All she could really say for sure was that one night as they sat together high above the city, quietly watching the bats flutter past, she didn't flinch when the Smuggler tucked her against his side. She had, at once, let herself relax, however slightly.

The Agent looked up. In the opposite side of the dining room, the clock had begun its toll. It was getting late.

She stood from the table, glancing down at the rose in her hand. Though most of the bouquet he'd sent had withered away by now, a few still held themselves stubbornly together. She brought it to her nose, inhaled deeply, and went to tuck it away with its brothers.

Maybe she would sit down and write a letter to an old friend of hers.

[highwayorgantrade]

Baptized By Fire (I)

Pairing: Ghost x (F)Reader

Request: Nope :)

Story Summary: Reader loses themselves to the mission - Ghost brings them back.

Chapter Summary: On your first specialized mission with Ghost and Soap, you were praying for everything to go right. Whether the idea was a sick joke or naivety, you did what you had to do to survive. Unfortunately, all actions have consequences.

Word Count: 2.8k

Song/Playlist:

Author's Note: Reader's callsign is Corpse! I got the idea for this fic by some ad I saw with these really cool titanium fangs, so I saw that and I was like yo lemme steal that rq so yeah I imagine reader having those but I don't really think it's necessary to the story! This is gonna be my first multi-chapter thing so I hope I can get everyone hooked bc LORRRDDDD the amount of stuff I have planned for this!

"When did intel say this guy was going to show up?" Soap grunted next to you, his rough voice teetering on the edge of being whiny. You knew the answer, everyone did. Three hours ago, a truck loaded with international weapons smugglers should have pulled outside of the house that you were sheltered in. The town had seen its last inhabitant months ago, right when this group began using it as a trading post. You were supposed to be in exfil by... Now, actually.

Ghost had parked himself in a barely-lit corner of the room, leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed. You wondered, every so often, if he was actually asleep, but when he ran through the motions of checking his gun, you were reminded of exactly who he was. Ghost would never fall asleep on a mission, no matter how late it was running.

"I'm going up to the second floor." You finally sighed. "Gonna see if I can scope anything out." You used to opportunity to stretch your legs - you had stayed crouched for so long, and the cold simply was not helping. And the longer you were in the presence of Ghost, the more your mind ran wild, and the overwhelming desire to impress him got worse and worse as time went on. Soap said nothing, and Ghost simply nodded at you.

Well, good enough.

The stairs were old, and it felt like they were screaming your presence when they creaked under your footsteps. As you walked past, the memories that this house once held were clear at every footstep. Picture frames of the family, forgotten behind, had dust collecting on the frames, and various pieces of artwork littered the walls, varying from classic Kahlo to children's messy fingerpainting. You pushed the door to each room open, trying to buy time by yourself. Each room was more or less the same - dresser, bed, window. Maybe a tapestry here and there.

You kneeled in front of a large, busted out window at the end of the hall, pulling binoculars out of your bag, and settling in. You held the binoculars up and sighed. Still the same landscape you've been staring at for the past three hours. The same faded market signs, dead outdoor plants and... Different SUV. You don't remember that being there, parked in an alleyway between two businesses. The windows were tinted dark, almost completely blacked out, so the hope of seeing anything inside was dashed.

The low, hushed voices of Soap and Ghost downstairs met your ears. You should tell them about the car. See something, say something, right? Part of you slightly resented the connection they had, but they've been working together for years. Countless missions and days together. These were your early days in Task Force 141, and this was your third mission with them. First mission using a specialized group like this, which is exactly why is was extra important that you didn't fuck up.

An uneasy feeling locked in your chest, and you stood, electing to rejoin the two of them. You shouldn't be alone, especially if a fight was about to break out.

"Contact!" Ghost's rough voice cut through the quiet, and almost as if on cue, a pair of gloved hands wrapped around your mouth and torso, setting off every single danger alarm your body had. Your vision darkened from the panic, and your desperate attempt to free yourself was going mostly unnoticed. The small point of pressure in your back told you that the barrel of a gun was pressed into your spine.

"Stop fucking fighting. They're not coming for you." A low, vaguely Eastern European voice growled into your ear before pulling you back into a random room. It was familiar, one of the parent's rooms, you'd assumed.

How did they get in? How the fuck did they get in without you noticing?

The window. The busted out windows in every room of the house. They came around the back entrance, and Ghost and Soap are about to be ambushed. Your eyes widened at the realization, and the man in front you smiled. Your target. This was him. Along with three other men, your outlook did not look good.

Panic clawed its way into your throat, but nonetheless, you made an effort to keep your face as stoic as possible. Your target leaned against the now-shut door of the room, and the sound of gunshots was echoing throughout the house.

"You are the one they call Corpse?" He looked you up and down, and gestured to one of his men. "Take her gun. And the knife. Scream, and I'll kill you and your friends." They followed his direction immediately, and the hand that was once around your mouth was removed. "Do you understand the situation you're in?" He was speaking to you like you were a child, and anger licked at your chest. Yes, obviously you understood the situation. You were trapped, with no chance of fighting, no weapons, and no way to communicate. You felt like a cornered dog, surrounded by people you know would kill you in a heartbeat.

You simply nodded, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek so hard, the metallic taste of blood was leaking into your throat.

Your target walked around the room, almost casually, and he smiled at the floor.

"There is a way for you to walk out of this alive, you know." He stopped, his back to the window. "Your force is rather... Mysterious. You come with us, and answer my questions. Any question I have, willingly. You'll be answering either way. The only question is how I'll be able to get you there." He smiled at you, like you two were having a pleasant conversation about world affairs.

The memory of Ghost's voice echoed in your head. "Don't let anyone take you to a second location. No matter what they are promising, they will kill you."

They will kill you. They want to kill you. They will hurt you. They will hurt Ghost and Soap, and who knows who else. You felt like a cornered animal, and all you could hear were gunshots and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You spoke for the first time in a while, and your own voice was unrecognizable to you.

"Fine."

And with that, your vision went black.

"See any more?" Soap's ragged breathing cut through his words, and Ghost's eyes were still trained on the street. Enemy bodies littered the world outside, and his vision was still adjusting to the world outside the scope of his rifle.

"No movement." Ghost finally put his weapon down, slightly grateful that the mission was over so they could all finally go back to base.

"Would've been easier with some fuckin' help." Soap grumbled, and cast a glance up at the stairs where he last saw your retreating back. Ghost didn't take a second thought about you going to scope out the landscape, he knew you were nervous around him, and in his chest, he felt a pang of regret. He could've been nicer to you, talked to you a little bit more, but he simply had no idea how to navigate his feelings around you. You simply showed up to base one day, and that was that for him. At first, he thought you were... Slightly aggravating. How easily you became friends with the Task Force, the sunshine that radiated out of you... He figured that you must not have seen that much war if you were still that damn happy.

It was difficult for Ghost to accept that he was wrong about your skills. At the firing range, in hand to hand combat, in everything, you were just ever-so-slightly better than him, and he tried to let some of his feelings known through the small things, like allowing you to enter a room before him, or simply sitting next to you during debriefings.

A resounding thud pulled him out of his thoughts, and immediately, his head whipped toward the direction, his heart sinking in his chest.

"Corpse, status!" Soap shouted, and his command was only met with silence. Before Ghost could think, he was on his feet and creeping up the stairs silently, his weapon at the ready. Soap followed closely behind, knowing that if Ghost was doing this, it was for damn good reason. A noise echoed through the house, and out onto the street, and both men stopped dead in their tracks. A scream, so guttural, animalistic, and angry pierced the air, and it chilled Ghost to the bone. He had heard a lot of noises during war, but none he heard were like this.

Of all the doors in that hallway, only one was closed, and Ghost nodded toward it. Soap and him stood on opposite sides of the door, and Ghost's heartbeat was racing as he thought about what could be on the other side of this door. You could be injured, dead, or worst of all, gone altogether. The door creaked open, and the sight that lay in front of them caused Soap and Ghost to freeze.

You were standing over four dead bodies, carnage spread around the room. Your uniform was covered in blood, and your hands and face had the same fate. Blood dripped from your chin, and your teeth were bared, a low noise emitting from your mouth as your chest rose and fell rapidly. The one fact they couldn't ignore: Every single body in that room had their throats shredded into oblivion.

"Corpse?" Soap spoke softly, the horror in his voice being poorly masked, but Ghost couldn't take his eyes off you. You were shaking, and the usual light that was in your eyes was gone, replaced by brutality and viciousness. Ghost handed his gun to Soap, wanting it clear out of the way if you decided to attack him as well. He stepped forward, the bottom of his boots leaving bloody footprints on the way to you. His grip on your chin forced you to look at him.

"Corpse, snap to. Come back, soldier."

"Corpse, snap to. Come back, soldier." Ghost's voice was the only clear thing in your mind, and you felt like you had just woken up from a very long nap. Your mind was hazy, and you focused on Ghost's eyes searching yours for any hint of remaining humanity. The last thing you remember: The target advancing toward you with a knife. That was it.

"Ghost, I- The target-" Your voice shook, and you finally took note of your surroundings. The target in question was long dead, sat against his wall, and his neck- "Oh, my God." As soon as your eyes set on the carnage in the room, Ghost wrapped his hand around your arm and began pulling you.

"No, don't look. Don't look." His hand came around your eyes, so the only think you could see was a slight hint of the blood-stained floor. Soap said nothing as Ghost led you out of the room, down the stairs, and into the freezing air. When you were outside, Ghost unclipped your helmet, and Soap rounded the corner.

"What the fuck was that massacre, Corpse?"

You wracked your brain for a good explanation, a hint of any memory that would allow you to explain something that you simply cannot remember, and you came up dead empty.

"I- I don't know, I can't remember." Your voice was small, almost lost to the wind blowing through the town. You had never seen Soap upset, and his response certainly wasn't helping your confusion.

"You don't know?" He looked at you incredulously. "You don't know how you... You tore open their throats?"

"No! I don't know! I can't remember!" You wished you could lie to him. You wished you could remember any minor detail of what happened, but after the target came at you, the only thing you remember is Ghost bringing you back.

The bright headlights of a familiar van approached, and you jumped at the sudden brightness.

"Soap, that's exfil. Get in the car and tell them to wait." Ghost's low tone was commanding, and Soap could only sigh and place himself in the passenger seat, undoubtedly already coming up with a mission report.

"Corpse, focus on me." Your eyes left the van, and Ghost had placed himself directly in front of you, so there was nowhere to look but in his eyes. "Do you or do you not remember what happened?" The intensity at which he spoke made you want to cry, the fear of disappointing him feeling real.

"No, I- I don't remember anything. All I can remember is him coming at me with a knife, and the other three guys, they said they would hurt you and Soap, and they wanted to take me somewhere else, but you told me to never go to a second location, and I just... I don't know."

"Hush, love, I believe ya. Did they hurt you?" His hand moved to grasp your bicep, and you looked down at the ground.

"No, I don't think so. I'm not sure."

Ghost sighed, and looked back at the vehicle.

"Right, then. We'll get ya checked out, just in case, okay? Come on." He began walking, but stopped when he realized you weren't following him.

"Ghost, did I-" You took a shaky breath, your question stuck in your throat. "Did I fuck up? Am I going to be kicked out?" Ghost stared at you, your question hanging in the air, until he took a step toward you.

"Corpse, you killed our target. And then some. You won't be kicked out for completing a mission. Price might tell you have to see some kind of psychiatrist or therapist, but that's it. That's all, I promise. Now, you're going to get in the van, we're going to go back to base, and you're gonna shower. Get to."

There was no arguing with Ghost, you knew that. You knew he was right, but that still didn't stop the little fire of annoyance lighting in your chest, and it was made worse that you didn't know what you were annoyed more by - The fact that he was so confident about the hypothetical outcome, or the thought of having to re-explain the situation to your Captain. You sighed as you wrenched open the back door of the car, the copper scent of your actions filling the enclosed space.

The ride back to base was quiet, the radio occasionally tuning in to a random station, speaking in a language you had no hope of understanding. The sun had begun to rise on the horizon, an orange glow cast on the landscape, and you sighed at the sun hitting your face, the feeling unmatched after being submerged in darkness for what felt like forever.

A few hours had passed, and Soap's snoring in the front seat was almost peaceful. You hadn't dared sneak a look at your Lieutenant - you weren't sure what curdled your heart more, the thought of him staring at you in disgust or disappointment, or worse, not at all. When the car passed through the security checkpoint for the base you called home, you couldn't seem to focus on one problem or thought at a time. Finally, the car stopped, and the growling engine cut off. Ghost gave Soap a rough shove to his shoulder, startling the man awake.

"Soap. Go." Ghost's voice seemed almost impossibly rougher after staying silent for hours. Soap cast you a remorseful look before exiting the vehicle, along with the driver. Anxiety held its place in the base of your throat, the scent of blood suddenly was drowning you, and your hands shook as you began to fidget with the seatbelt latch. "Corpse. Captain wants to speak with you."

Ha. You're fired. You're so fired. Your one passion, the one thing you know you were born to do-. "You're not in trouble. He just wants to know what happened." Ghost sighed, and pressed his thumb into the latch, releasing your seatbelt. "Damn it, soldier, fuckin' look at me when I talk to you." His voice immediately took on a harsher infliction, and you stared up at him, reminded of what exactly your relationship is to him - he is a Lieutenant, you are a Sergeant. Nothing more. "Obviously..." Ghost's eyes looked you up and down. "Get showered first." Your voice was barely above a whisper when you spoke.

"Yes, sir." When your boots made contact with the ground, it felt like the weight of... Everything collapsed on your shoulders. The sun felt too bright, your gear heavy and sticky, and Ghost's eyes boring holes into the back of your head all combined into the worst storm possible. You shook your head, your own eyes trained on the ground in front of you as you walked to your barracks. Just keep it together until you're alone. All you have to do is make it to your room. That's all. Don't fall apart until you're there.

Do not fall apart until you're there.

[failbettergames]

Out of curiosity, was there going to be more cards for the Once-Dashing Smuggler, or were the roses always going to go from 39 to 1-3?

If there were plans, they're lost to time; he was written a long time ago, and we're not currently planning on adding to his story. :)

[letters-of-fire]

a quiet evening

[askbensolo]

please tell me hows space mom

I had prepared myself for Mom to be worried about me. Usually, she wants to make sure that I haven't been hearing voices, and that I haven't been having disturbing dreams, and that I haven't been depressed or anxious, and that I haven't been participating in any weird fringe holonet politics (listen, I only fell down the What If Palpatine Didn't Die conspiracy theory rabbithole one time, and it was for research).

Anyway. I met Mom at the docking bay, where she was waiting outside the Falcon. She was leaning against the boarding ramp, dressed in casual wear but with her hair impeccably braided, scrolling rapidly on her datapad. Dad said she was always taking her work home with her, but that was just Mom. Always going.

"So. Dad let you take the Falcon out without him, huh?" I asked, causing her to look up. She smiled when she saw me, her eyes creasing, and I noticed her hair was starting to go gray near her ears. It reminded me of the mundane horror that had only begun to haunt me as an adult: the mortality of one’s parents.

I jettisoned that thought into space unknown.

"Oh, your father knows I'd never hurt his baby girl," Mom said, matching my playful tone and giving me a hug. "I'm only a little jealous."

She winked, then became more sincere as she looked at me fondly, no doubt seeing her little boy in front of her. "It's so good to see you, Ben."

"Great to see you too, Mom. Who’s your co-pilot?” I asked, leaning to the side to peer into the ship.

“You are, now,” she said, patting me on the back. “It was Threepio before.”

As if on cue, Threepio trotted out on the boarding ramp, his gold plating reflecting the late sunlight. "Oh! Young master Ben! What a pleasure to see you, sir!"

I gave him a salute. "'Sup, Threepio!"

He cocked his head and jittered his arms, flustered. "Oh, well, er...'sup, sir."

Mom and I snickered, and she gave me a smirk that I read perfectly. Threepio was an excellent protocol droid (if a little irritating), but he wasn’t a very good co-pilot.

We got situated in the cockpit. I ran my fingers over the dash…batted my hand at the golden dice that dangled from the ceiling. Took in the familiar musky scent of Wookiee hair and reformed smuggler. We started the Falcon up, and the hum of the engine was like a missing piece of my soul. The ship was a repair crew's nightmare, with so many janky modifications as to render the owner’s manual useless, and her hyperdrive failed half the time. But she was a part of us. A part of our family. Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep at night, I closed my eyes and imagined I was in a bunk on the Falcon.

“So…how are you doing, Ben?” Mom asked, once we had left Naboo behind and open space spread out before us.

"Fine. No voices, no dreams, no neuroses, no conspiracy theories or extremist politics," I rattled off dryly, doing a Reassure Mom speedrun.

Oh Ben, I didn't mean that, I imagined her saying. I meant: how is work going? Tell me about your friends! How much can you bench now? Are you still writing poems? Have you done anything fun recently?

"Good," Mom said in reality, satisfied and clearly relieved. Something burned inside of me, biting, snarling. I turned my face away.

Chill out, I told myself. She'll probably ask more later.

And she did. In fact, the next thing out of her mouth was a question about a project at work I had mentioned to Dad a couple weeks ago, when I'd asked him to visit.

See? I told myself. The little monster inside of me grumbled and curled up to sulk.

"Maybe I could come visit you for dinner sometime," Mom said, something weird in her voice, a kind of embarrassed hopefulness. "I'm so glad you and Dad hang out. You two seem to have a good time together."

And I wish that you wanted to spend time with me, too, was the part she didn't have to say out loud for me to understand.

"Yeah...maybe," I said, embarrassed as well. "Oh...I have a different roommate, though, if you do come over. Do you remember Fannie? She was one of Luke's students..."

"Oh! Yes, I remember," Mom said. "Sweet girl. When did she move in?"

"Like...a month ago or something."

Silence. I looked at her.

"...Mom? What’s up?”

"Oh, I'm just...a bit surprised you didn't tell me sooner," she said, sounding kind of weird again. My little monster bristled defensively.

"Well...you never ask about me," I said, also starting to feel kind of weird.

"What?" she protested, the whole ship jerking slightly as she snapped to look at me, her steering hand unstable for a moment. "Ben, how can you say that? I ask about you all the time. You never respond to my messages. You've ignored my calls. You have given me every indication that you want to be left alone. I practically gave up on trying to reach out to you."

She was absolutely correct, and I didn't know how to argue with that, or how to explain what I meant. That despite all of it, I still felt like she never really asked about me.

She stared at me for several seconds, expecting me to say something. When I merely disappointed her, she faced forward again with a huff.

I wondered if maybe it would have been easier to just have dinner with Fannie instead.

"...Sorry," I mumbled, feeling five years old.

“What are you sorry for?” Mom asked, correctly not buying it.

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling four-and-a-half.

“Well...all right, then.”

Silence stretched out, like the big blackness of space, and I started feeling…I don’t know. Scared. Lonely. Angry. All those ugly teenage feelings I had declared to be cringe.

Or maybe they weren't teenage feelings. Maybe they were just person feelings, and they never went away.

...Well, one thing that was different from being a teenager is that I knew how to handle those feelings better. Most of the time, anyway.

I took a slow, deep breath to calm myself down, and let it out in a sigh, not taking my eyes off the stars. "...Look, Mom, I...I'm sorry. Really. I shouldn't have said you never ask about me. And I'm sorry I've been so terrible at keeping in touch. It's just...still kind of difficult for me that you're so—" Paranoid? Wait, no. Delete. "—concerned about my safety. I know it's 'cause you love me, but...really, I'm fine."

Mom was quiet for a moment. I looked at her. Her brows were furrowed.

"Ben...of course I trust you," she said finally. "You've grown up to become such an intelligent young man. But...you have to understand that what happened to you with Snoke wasn't...normal. This family isn't normal. Part of it is the life I chose, that your father chose when he joined the Rebellion and when he married me...and part of it, we did not choose, and I often don't understand. I have seen too many things happen to too many people I've loved, and I will never, ever let anything happen to you. Never again." Her voice was strained, as if breaking under the weight of a hundred past experiences I couldn't imagine. She turned to look me in the eyes. "Do you understand?"

Yeah, I understand there's no getting through to you, said the sassy teen Ben who lounged on the couch inside my brain. I kicked him in the shins.

"I understand, Mom," said adult Ben, who was civil, if not always fully sincere. "You've been through so much. Thanks for always looking out for me."

"I'm sorry it's been difficult for you, Ben," she said. "I always wanted you to be able to have a normal life, as much as you could. But...I wish I had realized sooner—much sooner—that in some ways, that was never possible for you. If only I had known that...if only I had been more on guard..."

Then maybe Snoke would never have gotten his hands on you, was the part she didn't have to say out loud for me to understand.

"...Hey. Mom." I reached over to pat her hand, offering a hopeful smile. "It's okay. I'm okay. See? I'm here. I lived."

I meant it as a joke, but I forgot there was a part where I almost didn't.

"What I mean is, it wasn't your fault," I said quickly. "There's no way you could have prepared yourself for something like that. There's no way any of us could have."

Mom shook her head. "I suppose not. But...don't you understand? That's why I have to make sure I'm as prepared as possible—to the extent that I can be, at least—for anything that could happen to our family in the future. To you, to Rey, to Dad...even to Uncle Luke."

"Yes, Mom. I understand," I said quietly.

And I did. I didn't like it or agree with it, but I understood.

The Falcon whirred and hummed like a happy tooka.

Mom cleared her throat. "...So. Fannie. You're...roommates now?"

I rolled my eyes. But of course, how could the conversation not go this direction? It was part of why I hadn't told her for so long in the first place.

"Housemates," I corrected. "She's staying in the living room. Just for the summer. I have someone else moving in next fall—his name is Poe Dameron—"

"Oh my goodness! No way. Kes and Shara's son?"

"Uh. I don't know. Who?"

"Oh, just some friends from the old days. What a small galaxy. But—speaking of friends. Fannie...she's still just a friend, right?"

Normally I would have emitted a groan like a dying tauntaun and shouted "uh, yessssss" with the "yes" part having at least five syllables. But this time...I found myself horrifyingly speechless.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. The most disgusting awkward little chuckle came out of me, in lieu of actual words.

That was a terrible omen. I died inside.

"It's okay, sweetie, you don't have to answer," Mom said cheerfully, but it looked like she was probably formulating an answer of her own.

[geraldofallon]

O is for…

Osteology, Opera, Ostentatious Diamond, Ornate Typewriter, Opportunity Cards, Oneiric Pearl, Occasionally Seen at Mr Wines’ Revels, Once-Dashing Smuggler, Oof! That Reek is a Tannery, Old Fritz

[frost-mothit]

The Typical Composer

An comprehensive introduction to my GUY

The Typical Composer M. Atropos Saturni

Gender: Unknown Age: Unknown Nationality: Unknown Soul: Missing Ambition: Nemesis Profession: Composer (Author) Main Stats: Persuasive & Watchful Main Menaces: Scandal & Nightmares Quirks: Hedonistic, Steadfast...Ruthless? Major Storylines: Evolution

Closest to: Hell & the Tomb Colonies

Introduction:

Definitely normal. The most typical person you'll ever meet (Which they will claim, very loudly, to anyone who will listen). So normal that they're always smiling! Like a typical person would do, a person who definitely still possesses a working and normal soul and knows where it is and who has it...Definitely.

Atropos is a consistently nervous wreck, known for stalking their acquaintances from a distance and then running away from them when seen. They frequent the bars of London, the Rooftops of London, and the Rooftops of Bars in London. The rooftops of everyone else, too. The most normal thing a person can do is Observe Normalcy.

As well as the Tomb Colonies! Honestly, they should really just move there. It's a wonder society keeps letting them back.

They are...Perpetually anxious.

Work:

London's most prolific (and hated!) composer. Mostly composes famously raunchy ballets (sometimes about tigers, sometimes the same ballet about tigers 40 times in row) and music that incorporates the Correspondence (which for some reason people seem to hate...Violently). Bohemians love them and the court despises them. But not as much as the church does! Wonder why...

As of recent, the owner of the Portinari Dance Hall (which they have taken over from the Weary Debaucher). It's very successful and definitely on the verge of revolutionising (not like that) dance and music in the Neath (I know what we're all thinking, so say it with me "Someone needs to invent Ska in the Neath" that's right! And this weirdo could do that).

Plays many instruments, but their favourite is their Pyrophone. They also play the harpsichord, fiddle, bagpipes, and concertina. Experiments with weird percussion. 

Lovelife:

Has terrible taste in people. Literally seems to fall in love with every person they meet and has apparently slept without about half of London. Notably in a long-term relationship with a certain Once Dashing Smuggler, but

Some People 100% Atropos has smooched: -The Once Dashing Smuggler (obvi, longerterm yandere boifriend) -The Affectionate Devil (Which didn't…End…Well…) -Mr. Apples (only way they could have ever won that cardgame) -The Mathematician and Semiotician -The Fashion Flies (threeway smooch!) -The Beauty and Barbed Wit (at the same time! the scandal that was!) -The Minister of Culture (tiger boifriend uwu) -that one person at the royal beth who keeps showing me her fossils -The Stork-Masked Rival

Nightmares?:

Unclear why, but people who spend time around Atropos tend to get terrible nightmares all starring a man who Looks a Lot Like Atropos but wears a different mask and hates everyone. It's...Probably not an issue.