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ANDOR

1.06 | "The Eye"

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2007: old navy is having a sale on jeans so everyone should come on down to the old navy..

2016: #MyJeans keep me connected with the community while I do Activism. Identity

2025: these jeans were given to me by adolf hitlerrrr

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Britt Lower via Instagram April 5, 2025

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the most satisfying part of posting one of those ficlets is getting to close all the fucking wookieepedia tabs i've had open for it

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byron donalds gave his life to christ in a cracker barrel parking lot. now you too can learn what religion you can convert to in a fast food restaurant parking lot by spinning these handy links!

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8, Velcinta

8. Relief/Painless (gore/injury warning?)

They’re in hyperspace when Cinta wakes.

Vel had taken the Ghorman boy with them — the stupid, kriffing boy — for exactly this, dumping him into the pilot’s seat and demanding that he not touch anything this time, to just watch the readouts while she tends to Cinta.

No one else.

The medpack is almost depleted, only a few stims and a single bacta patch left before Vel has to resort to primitive gauze and antiseptic. She’s been holding out one last symoxin hypo, hoping the first would carry Cinta through to Chandrila— no such luck.

Cinta is drenched in sweat, newly short hair plastered to her forehead, sunken hollows under her eyes. She glances up at Vel when she perches on the edge of the bunk, tries to swallow, to speak, but Vel hushes her.

She reaches for Vel instead, fumbling, her fingers burning and slipping against Vel’s forearm.

Vel catches Cinta’s hand in both of hers, brings it to her lips.

“Where—”

“Hyperspace. Chandrila, soon.”

Cinta tries to shake her head, jostling her shoulder with the motion and failing to completely stifle the sharp, pained noise it prompts. Vel grips her hand harder, trying to get Cinta to squeeze back; she does, eventually, and Vel’s eyes burn. She blinks the tears away.

“I need to check—” she gestures towards Cinta’s shoulder, bacta patches layered over her blaster wound, cauterized but burning away underneath.

Bacta won’t be enough, not nearly.

They both know it.

Cinta swallows, shifts her chin just enough to register as a nod.

Vel is as gentle as possible, but the bacta sticks to singed flesh— Cinta grits her teeth, presses her head back against the cushion, trying not to cry out and failing. Vel’s hands shake, the bacta patches spent and discarded, and she places the last one to cover as much of the ugly, gaping burn as it can.

She reaches for the hypo next, but Cinta recoils.

“Vel—”

It’s worse than the injury, Vel thinks, hearing her fear.

Cinta has always hated them, despises being out of control of her body, unconscious and unknowing; Vel had given her one on Ghorman before she’d been cognizant enough to protest, and the guilt burns under her skin. It’s always been a point of contention between them, the idea that pain needed to be borne.

“Please,” she says, not attempting to hide her desperation. Cinta’s eyes meet hers. “Trust me.”

Vel holds her breath, waiting to be denied.

It doesn’t come. Instead—

“I do,” Cinta says.

The symoxin works fast, Cinta fading in seconds, eyes drifting shut without leaving Vel’s face. Her whole body relaxes, painkiller working through her system alongside the sedative, and Vel presses her head to Cinta’s good shoulder in relief.

Peace, for a moment.

[send me a ship + a number and i'll write you a ficlet]

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Challenging the mainstream world views every day

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me, every time I latch onto a character in a new series: so there's this saddest girl in the world

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What blue jacket are you referencing?

this blue and gray one:

frequently "acquired" by kleya in velkleya fics because she likes blue and it's like the only thing on yavin that's not a horrendous shade of khaki.

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🔫

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*dipping a dart into an unlabelled flask and loading it into my crossbow* you better not try anything stupid because i don't even remember what this one does

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Mon/Kleya anon here. Thank you SO much for the beautiful ficlet, I enjoyed it immensely. <3

thank you for the prompt, i'm so glad you enjoyed it! writing monkleya was a challenge for me, so glad to hear it landed for you.

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-what kind of spy are you? -yeah. hard to tell, really.

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17. Stealing or Sharing Clothes - Velkleya

17. Stealing or Sharing Clothes

“I didn’t know you could sew.”

Kleya shoots her a weary, withering look before turning back to her work, a slim needle held not unlike a weapon between her pointer finger and thumb, what looks to be a ratty oilskin laid over her lap. “I worked with antiquities.”

Vel deposits herself onto the edge of their bunk, hunching over to unlace her boots. “And that’s one of them?”

Ignoring her, Kleya bends over the old fabric, stitching slowly. In the low light, Vel can barely see the flush that starts to dust her cheeks.

Now Vel’s intrigued.

“What is it?”

Kleya continues to ignore her, clearly aiming for an air of focused detachment but leaning a little too close to embarrassment for Vel not to recognize it. She reaches out, catching a corner of the oilcloth in her fingers, and tugs it gently from Kleya’s grasp. Kleya huffs but doesn’t stop her.

It takes her a few moments to recognize the poncho— it's been years since she last saw it, or wore it herself; it had been useless on Hoth, and unnecessary onboard Home One. The last time it saw any use was—

“This was mine?”

Stiffening, Kleya takes it back. “You gave it to me—”

“On Yavin,” Vel finishes.

They’ve never talked about it, where Kleya was going, what she intended; how she felt about Vel finding her, stopping her, taking her home. An unspoken connection in the dark that had led them here, to whatever this is— they haven’t talked about that, either.

Not yet.

Vel clears her throat, an invisible weight settling in her chest. Kleya is folding the poncho back into place on her lap, reaching for her needle and thread, returning to work on a torn seam that would have caused Vel to throw it away.

She wants to offer Kleya something new, something finer.

It wouldn’t wear the same, she knows.

“Looks better on you,” Vel offers instead.

Kleya pulls a stitch tight, smiling to herself.

[send me a ship + a number and i'll write you a ficlet]

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