#Hoth - Limited

[alphamecha-mkii]

[pxstelmxsings]

I can't think of any specific topics aaa 😭, but do you have any NSFW headcanons about Hetalia Russia?

Of course I do 👀 I have been down bad for Russia from the age of 13.

Rating: 18+. Minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

Notes: I default to f!reader, so use of AFAB terms are used duch as clit, vagina, ect.

Also, this was written on mobile, so I am sorry for any weird spelling mistakes. Auto spell check has not been my friend lately.

1. The first few times Russia has sex with someone it is very simple. Kinks do not come into play until much later because he wants to learn your body. What makes you gasp, what makes you giggle, ect.

2. Something is always covering his neck, and it is the one part of his body that is off limits to being touched. He will hard stop sex if you touch his neck. Russia's neck scars are physically and mentally very sensitive.

3. Russia is the king of messy oral sex 👏 sit on his face and let him go to town. His tongue is perfectly frim yet still very flexible. He somehow reaches spots so deep inside you that your fingers can't even reach.

And yes, he knows where your clit is.

4. Everything about this man is thick, large, and strong. He was bulit for hard physical work and plowing you into the mattress. That being said, he doesn't move the fastest. His thrust are deep and have weight behind them that make choke on your moans, but it is done slowly.

5. For kinks, a big one is blindfolds and light bondage. I am talking about hands being tied with thin ribbon or very weak rope. And he enjoys it both ways, you blindfolding him or him blindfolding you; Because for him, the core pleasure of the kink is the trust needed to be tied up and how amazing it feels to be trusted like that.

6. He also loves fucking you in front or by a fire place. I am not sure why. Maybe a bit of temperature play or the pure aesthetic of it all.

7. Oh, and speaking of kinks mixed aesthetics, Russia loves having sex outside in his garden. He wants to spend as much time outside with you as possible before winter comes again. Plus, seeing you surrounded by beautiful flowers makes his heart flutter.

8. He hates teasing that goes on and on. Too much teasing is just mean, and he is there to please you.

9. He is great at taking care of you during sex but his after care is lacking. Russia knows that after care is important, yet he stumbles over what to do. Do you go get water first? Hoth bath? Food? Please help guide him by saying what you need.

10. Also, please ask what he needs in the way of aftercare. Russia often forgets about his own needs to focus on you.

[pedros-mustache]

nighthawks (20)

series masterlist || previous chapter

word count: 6k+

warnings: canon typical violence and weaponry, language, x fem!reader

a/n: wow - um, hey, guys. so after my year long hiatus, i am here. hello. i truthfully to not expect anyone to flock to this story again after how inconsistent i have been. but din & scout came to me fully formed almost four years ago, and i must finish the story within. you are, of course, welcome to come along for the ride. 💛

please forgive me if this is utter shite. it has been a long time since i wrote much of anything, so i am, as the kids say, pretty mid at this.

DAY ONE-HUNDRED-TEN—LOCATION: HOTH 

The wind whips and rages, stinging your cheeks with nettles of ice. 

From the bowels of the Sunder, Din unearthed a paltry speeder, hardly big enough to hold you and him, let alone any apprehension. That barbed, scared part of you stayed behind, and there it will remain, buried beneath mounting layers of snow and the shadow of the Sunder . You are resolute now, sure in your finely-tuned senses. Your heart thumps against your ribcage: Ren-dell Cr-ik, Ren-dell Cr-ik.

By the stars, you’ll get the bastard if it is the last thing you do. 

Hoth is exactly as your father said it would be: hostile, fierce. Downright predatory. A cold unlike anything you have ever known crawls beneath your outermost layers and settles on your skin like permafrost. The wind screams as it whistles through the frozen ends of your hair. If a decade-old rage did not simmer in your gut, you might feel the urge to shiver. Even so, you have a sneaking suspicion the planet has the means and the motive to end your life before Crik even gets the chance. If the cold doesn’t finish you first, then the Wampa (Maker forbid you should stumble across one) surely will.

You twist your fingers beneath the frosted metal of Din’s pauldrons. Figures the Sunder would come equipped with a single-rider speeder. Figures you’d end up behind Din on that bike, your face against his shoulder blade, your ass out for Hoth’s taking. Your leg muscles scream, pressed tight against Din’s hips.

The speeder races across the snow-covered landscape, current destination unfolding. 

Crik’s fob blinks like a heartbeat from the sloped dash of the speeder. He’s here—on Hoth—breathing the same atmosphere, feeling the sting of the same snow. Though the fob confirms it, you can feel his slimy presence to the marrow of your bones. He is a phantom, caged in the corner of your mind, screaming in the shadows, shaking the iron bars which have kept him confined for so long. An hour more, a day longer, and the rusted door will swing open. You will stand face to face. 

And he will be the first to fall. 

Din tilts the speeder to the right, and you shift with the motion, leaning into the slant. With so few sentient lifeforms on Hoth, the options for where to begin your hunt are limited. Outpost Beta, Gamma Base—you could start at either but with rumblings of growing tension between the Rebels and the Empire, neither you or Din are sure a Rebel outpost is the best place to start. Hoth is too expansive to meander in the hopes of stumbling upon Crik, and without the aid of a heat signature, Din’s tracking tech does you a fat lot of good. You are left with the path of least resistance for now, even if it seems to you the least effective: find the closest cantina and ask around without raising suspicion. No self-respecting planet, sparsely populated or not, can get by without a cantina, and Din seems confident Hoth is sure to have at least one. You’ll start there and work your way out, carving through the snow and the ice and the bitter cold with your sheer determination and his iron fist. 

“Cantina. Three klicks ahead.” Din’s voice filters through your ear, tinny and warped by ill-used ear pieces. “Karga found it.” 

As the speeder darts across the frigid terrain, you rest your forehead against the back of Din’s helmet. You cannot afford to let your mind wander on this mission; there is precious time, precious energy, precious resources, and ruminating on previous conversations is wasteful. You push the thoughts of Mandalore, of your father’s proclamation of marriage, away. You must be single-minded, a sharp edged knife against the world and all in it.

The speeder angles upward over a rise, and you pull your head away from the chilled metal of the helmet. There, in the distance, a dark brown speck amidst the sparkling ice and snow: the cantina. It develops, blooming larger, unfurling, as the speeder draws closer. 

Your temporary destination is a brown craggy rock set in the base of a larger hill, carved into an oblong mass. Discrete, easy to miss on a ship overhead as a simple geological formation, but the slate gray door etched in the center of the rock speaks otherwise. Laid in white stone above the door, small red lights blink in alternating patterns. If you thought it meant anything, you may pause and determine if the lights communicate anything other than a siren’s call.

Din brings the speeder to a halt alongside a four legged creature tied to a post beside the door. Snow tangles and matts between the animal’s blue-hued fur, and a rusted chain at the beast’s ankle jangles as a bitter wind gusts over the hilltop. The creature swings its head as you dismount, braying woefully, revealing a mouth of sawn-off teeth. Pockets of puss and blood line the animal’s jaw where its teeth should stand upright. You look away and check the blaster at your hip. 

Din lifts Crik’s fob from the speeder, hides it within his pocket, then nods at you. “Let’s go.”

The door to the cantina slides open on a hiss, internal mechanisms excreting plumes of white-gray chemicals. You’re glad for the scarf wrapped around your nose and mouth. Chemicals aside, the cantina smells like shit. A foul odor hangs in the air, rotted flesh and spoiled meat. You cringe beneath your mask and steel yourself against the pervasive fumes as you follow Din through the scattered tables and chairs. 

The cantina’s sole room is quiet save for the sound of the wind outside and a scanner beeping behind the curved bar. A few patrons, none of any interest to you, duck their heads as Din passes. You feel them shrink into themselves, and it is just as well. You have no time for them. 

Only Crik.

Behind the counter, a lone man watches your approach. He braces both gloved hands against the bar, his brow knit in a tight frown. His eyes slide from Din to you then back again. 

“You’re not from around here.” His voice is knotted and thick, as though he rarely speaks above a whisper. 

Din looks over his shoulder, and you feel him look at you, nudging you forward with a pointed stare. Your mission, your bounty—Crik is all yours, and Din will not deny you the pleasure of taking him in by your own merit.

Pushing forward, you move to stand in front of Din. He towers over you, the breadth of his chest a comfort against your back. His hand, the one not resting on the counter, settles at your hip, fingers tucking around the grip of your holstered blaster. 

“My partner and I… we are looking for someone willing to part with information in exchange for credits.”

The bartender’s frown deepens. “Credits won’t get you nowhere here.”

You expected as much, but refuse to let the momentary disappointment show on your face. You arch a brow. “Really? The brand new cycler rifle hanging on the wall there tells me otherwise.” The bartender does not glance in the direction of the weapon, but his eyes narrow. “We deal in credits, not weapons, but we are willing to be generous.”

Tilting his head back, the bartender studies you. “What makes you think I have what you need?”

A saccharine smile unwinds the terse pout of your lips. “Call it women’s intuition.”

The bartender huffs and drops his hands from the bar counter. “You can ask, but I can’t promise I have the answer.”

“That’s fine. Give us what you can.” It is the first time Din speaks in the dimly lit cantina. He is impatient in these middling moments, but you don’t mind them. You have always enjoyed the seemingly inconsequential decisions and conversations that ultimately propel you to bringing down a bounty. It is in the series of unknowns before the inevitable downfall of your mark that you find the greatest thrill.

Cocking his head to the side, the bartender shuffles for a room adjacent to the bar. You follow, two steps, three, then pause as the man orders the straggling customers to fend for themselves. Five minutes, he says. You inhale, swallowing the lump in your throat. Five minutes.

The storeroom of the cantina is reminiscent of the storeroom in which you first met the Mandalorian. The same cramped and crowded closet in a backwater cantina. The same smell of dust in the air and spice hidden within boxes. The same man, cloaked in gray, corded with power. If you had the time, you would pause to reflect on the change in you, the change in him, these past one-hundred-ten days, but as it stands: time is running thin. 

“Before I tell you anything”—The bartender turns around from the door, leveling an accusatory finger at you—“you tell me who you are.” 

“No.” Din stands with his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands set firmly on his hips. “The deal is information for credits. That’s it.”

“But I—”

“No info, no credits.”

Any further protest sours on the man’s tongue. His lips curl upward. “Fine.” He crosses his arms, shoulders hunched inward. “What do you want to know?”

You resist the urge to glance at Din for approval. It has been a long time since you took the lead on a bounty. Since the disaster with Breeth, you have felt uncertain about your abilities as a bounty hunter. But Din stands beside you, patient in his silence, so you will your thumping heart to settle. 

“What can you tell me about this man?” 

Reading your cue, Din unearths Crik’s blinking fob from his pocket. He presses the center button, revealing a holographic image of Rendell Crik that rotates in a circle. Pale blue illuminates the chrome of Din’s helmet as the bartender studies the image.

The bartender raises a finger to his chin in thought. His eyes narrow. His lips purse. A flash of impatience tightens your chest. How long does it take to string a thought together, for Maker’s sake? You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Yes,” he finally says. “I’ve heard tell…”

Impatience gives way to intrigue. You lean forward. “And?”

“About thirty klicks from here. There’s a camp.”

“What kind of camp?”

With a smirk, the man tilts his head. In his eye, a greedy twinkle. “That will cost you.”

Thud. The bartender’s back hits the wall, and a row of jars on a neighboring shelf clang as they jostle together. Din holds his forearm against the bartender’s neck. He angles the visor of his helm so that the bartender must look down, down into the face of destruction itself.

“Answer the fucking question.”

“I told you! A camp—thirty klicks away!” 

Din leans in, his forearm pressing, pressing into the man’s neck. The bartender’s face contorts into a pained grimace. His ankles bang against the wall behind him as he struggles against Din’s grip. You hold your breath.

“That’s not enough.” Din’s voice is terse, the swipe of a whip against the ground. “You know more.”

Shaking his head, the bartender sputters. “Not much! Only rumors from the other bounty hunters!”

Din’s feet shuffle as he steps closer to the wall, pushing further into the man’s already limited space. A flush begins to rise from the base of the man’s neck. His eyes grow larger, wider, rounder as they bulge outward from the leathery flesh of his face. 

“Only what? Say it!”

The bartender will be of no use to you dead or unwilling. You see the opportunity for information begin to fade like blood in a watery pool. Your five minutes are almost up.

Stepping forward, you place a hand on Din’s shoulder. He stills, and the man’s panicked eyes dart to you. He pants against Din’s forearm, sweat like a crown upon his brow.

“Tell me what you know of Rendell Crik and the camp,” you say, tone even, gaze soft. “And my partner won’t kill you.”

/ 

The bartender was not bluffing when he said thirty klicks to Crik’s camp. 

By the time the speeder sputters to a stop behind a jagged outcrop of ice one klick away from the camp, you are sure the blood in your veins is frozen. Despite the layers covering you head to foot, a cold unlike anything you have ever known has melded to your bones, chilled the breath in your lungs, squeezed the life from your very soul. You are tired, bone weary from the frigid air and unrelenting wind. 

Gods-teeth! Hardly a few hours into the hunt and already the elements have taken their toll. Your father’s warning rings loud in your ear: Hoth?! No one survives out there. Maybe he was right. Maybe, after everything that has transpired, Hoth is too much of a risk. After all, you have rekindled the relationship with your parents. Isn’t it enough to be returned to the family fold? 

No, it’s not. So long as Jeelia’s space at the table your father carved with his own hand is empty, it will never be enough. You cannot stop now, not when you have come this far. 

Leaning against the wide base of the ice block, you lift your head from the crook of your arm where you press your forehead into the dark and frigid abyss. Frost hangs at the end of your lashes. You blink, searching for Din and his stupid helmet between the swirling colors of gray sky and white snow. Panic grips the raw edges of your psyche, and for a moment, you are in Coruscant, alone and afraid.

But he is there, as he always is, beside you. He kneels at the edge of the ice block, one hand against the ice itself, the other tight around a pair of binoculars. 

“So, what now?” 

Din twists to look at you over his shoulder. Something in your face—perhaps the chapped skin at your cheeks, the glassy look that surely clouds your eyes—makes him turn away from the camp. He hooks the binoculars to his hip. 

“First we eat something.”

You frown and sit up as Din shuffles through the contents of a pannier draped over the speeder. “I can go on. We don’t need to stop. Not when that guy said he heard from others that—” 

“Forget what he said. We got the information we needed and we made it to the camp. Anything else he said was bullshit. Don’t let it fester.” Din passes you a cloth secured with a piece of twine. “Now eat. We won’t get to Crik on an empty stomach.”

You unwrap the cloth to reveal a triangle of tea-smoked silk bread. A lump forms in your throat. You skim your thumb across the flaky crust, layers of sugared and spiced silkwheat falling from the confection. Your favorite, your mother’s best recipe. Memories of afternoons beside the hearth, your fingers sticky with fresh dough, flood your mind.

“She gave it to me.” Din’s whisper cuts through your reverie. You look up to search the impassible gleam of his helm. “Before we left Inora. She said it was your favorite and I should keep it for the moment you need it most.”

With a rueful chuff, you tear off a corner of the bread. “Is this that moment?”

“You’re doubting yourself. I can see that much.”

You wince. His words ring true, clanging against the rising fear that clutches your throat. Somewhere in the back of your mind you cannot help but feel that your future rests in the outcome of this hunt. Is it worth it—to go on after catching Crik? Could you continue to skate through the stars on a whim and a prayer and the hope that you (or Din) don’t fall to a well-aimed blaster? Would the Mandalorian come with you if you asked him to shirk the Guild, or Mandalore, or his son?

You suppose the outcome of this hunt will answer the unanswerable. 

You hesitate before putting the bread in your mouth. “Am I really so obvious?”

“Usually.” Din’s voice glows, as much a warmth to your core as any fire. 

“I can hear your smile and I don’t like it.” Grin fading, you finish the silk bread. The flavor barely registers as you consider the hours before you. “I can do this,” you say.

“I know.” Din moves from his haunches to a crouch. He pulls his blaster from the holster at his side. “Ready?”

Ghosts of your mother’s tender touch seep through the bread cloth in your hand, warming you. Ghosts of your sister’s gentle spirit tangle within the memories dancing in your mind. Your mother, your sister—they urge you onward. 

You shove the bread cloth in your pocket. “Ready.”

/

Crik’s alleged-camp sits square in the middle of fuck nowhere. It stands in contrast with the rest of its surroundings: a hastily built circle of tan buildings, each connected by long rectangular passageways, like a spider sinking in a glass of bantha milk. A flickering orange light emanates from the center of the compound, creating a halo over a godless palace. 

Clearing your throat, you swipe the sleeve of your arm under your dripping nose. No more time to waste. No more moments of silence to descend into murky pits of the unknown. You told Din you were ready—and you are. Once and for all. 

“What’s our plan?” You cock your head in the direction of the camp. “We can’t just waltz up and knock on the door.”

Din huffs in amusement. “Looks like some already tried.” 

He passes you the heavy electrobinoculars. Pressing the lens to your eyes, you swing your gaze around the corner of the ice block. The world shifts to a hazy blue, lines of numbers and text bleeding across the top of and bottom of your vision, but you are able to make out the entrance of the camp in the distance. You zoom in. 

A head on a spike. Bloated, black tongue hanging from a broken jaw. Blood frozen in thick streams that never reached the ground. Above, dangling from a watchtower, a body. Neck snapped, head bowed, indistinguishable. Swaying, gently twisting in the harsh wind.

You push the binoculars away. “So the plan?”

Din considers your question before pointing to the right side of the compound. “We go in that way. A service entrance from what I can tell. A carrier went in not too long ago. Crik seems to be stocking up for the long haul.”

Before you stop yourself, you mumble, “Not if I can help it.”

Din pierces you with a sharp look. “Now isn’t the time to get cocky.” 

“I know. I just—”

“Take the binoculars again. Look up at the guard tower.” Ever the student, you do as he commands. “What do you see?”

“Guards.” You struggle to keep the bite out of your voice. 

“How many?”

“At least four.”

“Count them.”

Irritation tightens your jaw, but you obey, pausing long enough to count each individual stalking the length of the compound. “Five. And that’s only outside.” You lower the binoculars and pass them back with a none-too-gentle slap to the hand. “Point taken.”

“Good. So we go in through the service entrance and work our way closer to Crik from there. But before we go any further”—Din wrestles with the chest plate beneath his cloak—“put this on.” 

He offers his chest plate with little fanfare. It is merely a thing in his hand which he is presenting. The flight suit beneath his armor is dark. His uncovered chest rises and falls, patient, even breaths as he waits for you to accept the offering. 

“What?” You balk, spreading your hands in a sign of rejection. “Absolutely not! That’s yours! What are you even thinking?”

“Take it, Scout.” 

“Mando, I won’t take it.”

“Yes, you will.” Din grabs your hands, forcing them to wrap around the chilled metal. The outward facing side is cold, but the inside is still warm where it rested against his chest, where it covered his heart. “You will put it on and then maybe I will be able to fucking breathe through this thing.”

You look up, and not for the first time, you feel as though you are looking onto his naked face. The chest plate weighs heavy in your hands, but Din’s words weigh heavier. The warning signs posted around the camp are clear enough: this won’t be easy. It won’t be safe either. Din Djarin will do whatever it takes to get you the justice you so deserve. He will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, too.

You refuse to look at him as you press the chest plate to your body. He leans forward, reaching around your back to fold and adjust the clasps at either side. His touch is light. His movements are unsure. Reality hangs tenuous between you, fragile like thin glass. One wrong step, and Maker, you may break. 

He pulls back, chest plate secure, and his fingertips skim the rough fabric of your trousers. 

“Thanks.” Your whisper plumes in the air. You hold your hand to your armored chest. 

He nods. And then he is moving, reaching for you, and you cannot help but reach for him too. 

Your arms clutch his pauldrons, fingernails digging into the human flesh you find there. He is real. Right now he is real, and you are safe, and you can still touch him. Moisture lifts behind your eyes, but you push it down. There’s no time; not now.

“We’ll be fine.” You close your eyes, digging your teeth into the skin of your cheek to keep the mounting emotions at bay. “We will laugh about this on the other side.”

Hands clasped against either side of your face, Din presses his forehead to yours. “I lo—”

“No. Don’t say it.” You press your fingertips to his helm, to the shape of his mouth somewhere beneath layers of steel. “After. Tell me after.”

He hesitates then nods. “Okay.” A single finger catches in your hair, and you wonder if he is memorizing you. “After.”

You are the first to move, rising from your crouch to a battle-ready stance. 

By your rough estimate, the service entrance to the compound is one klick away. Five guards patrolling the perimeter, barely any natural formations to give you cover as you cross the terrain. With Din’s reduced armor, his black flight suit may as well be a beacon in this white tundra. You could go by foot and risk someone catching sight of Din’s flight suit, or you could use the speeder and take the chance that someone may hear the engine running as you approach. 

You decide to go on foot. Between the unrelenting wind and drifting snow, you will pray to the Maker the patrolmen are shortsighted. Once you get closer to the service entrance itself, you will transition to a crawl. From there—

You’ll figure it out if you manage to make it that far.

At his behest, Din walks in front of you. He is bigger and therefore blocks more of the wind. His footfalls create an easy path for you to follow through the mounting snow. Both combined will make for a shorter trek. 

Step after step, you trudge through the shin-deep blizzard. You clutch your scarf to your mouth, breathing hard as you slog. 

“Forty yards then we crawl.” Din’s voice crackles through the earpiece snug in your left ear.

Large flakes of snow catch in your eyelashes when you glance up to the battlement. The camp widens as you draw nearer. A well-camouflaged cancer, you think. Tucked away in some remote corner of the universe, silent but deadly, growing with every passing day. Sickness oozes from every crack and crevice of the stone facade. You can practically smell it. 

He’s there—in the camp—lounging or eating or fucking—and you are here, outside, waiting to strike.

Din lowers to his stomach when the camp’s shadow falls across his boots. Though the snowfall has picked up, adding another layer of cover, you can never be too careful. You follow his lead, crawling across the ground, using your knees and forearms to propel your movement.

Snow and ice gathers in the folds of your suit; the damp, moist feeling is quick to follow. The mineral-taste of fresh snow laden with atmospheric junk sours on your tongue. You spit, shaking your head free of the snow catching and freezing to your hair.

“Almost there.”

Your forearms ache, and you can feel the warm trickle of blood at your knee. Rugged ground beneath your arms and ice at every turn threatens to push you to injury before crossing the threshold of the camp. You suck in a breath and push forward. 

Finally, the service entrance pokes through the thickening wall of snow. The hangar door stands open, and a pale yellow light attempts to pierce the unrelenting white of the landscape.

When Din stands, you too rise on quaking limbs. “The snow,” you gasp. “I think it helped.”

He checks his vambrace. “Sensors read an incoming blizzard. We got here at the right time.”

You could say something about the total whiteout surrounding you already being of help, but you save your breath.

Din holds his blaster close, gesturing to the one at your hip with the muzzle of his weapon. “Be ready,” he says. “Whoever, whatever—take it out.”

You nod. 

He hesitates, as though he wants to say something more, and you think this would be the moment he could shed his helmet and kiss you. Man to woman. Human to human. You would readily accept the moment, bleed into his kiss, meld into his body, but—

He simply nods. 

Turning, Din hugs the wall as he stalks the length of the empty hangar. You keep to his shadow, footsteps light and practiced. At the other side of the room, there is a door which must enter the sanctity of the camp itself. After skirting workbenches and mislaid tools, you reach it. Din tries the handle. It swings open.

Warmth billows from the corridor like the breath of hell. You squint against the firelight that swallows the hallway and the meeting room beyond. No time for hesitation; no time for adjustment. You squeeze your eyes open and shut and follow Din into the hallway wrapping around a communal hall.

The hall, square and narrow beneath a triangular roof, is void of life. A fire roars in the center of the room, logs piled high, flames licking out like demon tongues. You step quietly, studying the crates and barrels cluttered around the fire. No discernible features on any of the wooden boxes. Still, you doubt anyone will be feeding them to the fire anytime soon. The compound is too silent, too distracted. You feel it in the air, the false security of an incoming storm. 

Only the storm is already here.

Din’s footfalls thud in the stone hallway. You grit your teeth, praying to the gods everyone is asleep or otherwise distracted. You are here for Crik and only Crik. 

You curl your trigger finger against the blaster’s sear. 

“Hey!”

A voice—behind you. 

Twisting at the hip, you shoot before you see, but it does not matter. Din said whoever, whatever and you agree. If it takes Crik down, if it gets your sister the eternal rest she deserves, you will tear the camp to pieces with your bare hands.

Your shot hits the shoulder of a guard at the opposite end of the hallway. He grabs his wound, doubling over with a shout of pain and alarm. Din pushes past you, moving fast, his blaster holstered, his hands free. He grabs the guard before he can right himself. The guard looks up, eyes wild, mouth open to shout a warning signal. 

But you are there before he can make a sound. Your blood runs hot. This is it. It is happening, unfolding before you in slow motion. Justice tastes sweet. 

You cram the muzzle of your blaster in the slack-jawed guard’s mouth. His eyes drop to you, and he grunts, his tongue flailing against the barrel of your blaster. You shoot, you retreat, the body hits the ground as Din steps back. 

Down the hall now—away from the fire and the body, into a darker part of the camp.

Music wafts from some secret corner of the compound. Din looks at you as if to ask the question: That way? You nod. 

Your footsteps are the only sound as you follow the stonework of the compound’s hallways. The music, some lilting birdsong, grows louder, and your blood runs thicker, hungrier as Crick draws nearer. 

Another guard steps out of a dark alcove, blaster raised. Din withdraws a throwing star from a compartment in his vambrace. He flicks it outward, catching the guard’s wrist. The blaster falls, and you scoop it from the ground. Din’s fist lands against the guard’s cheekbone. He falls back, holding his face in pain. You bring the blaster grip down on his temple. 

Onward. The music pulses now, or maybe it is just your heartbeat. Your sister’s face floats before you, some ghostly image or vision that buoys you forward.

“Wait.” Din holds out his arm, and you nearly run into it.  

You stand in the doorway of a new common area. Music spills into the hall. A singer you cannot see from your vantage point sings about love. Their voice lifts over the sound of conversation, each syllable a honeyed-tenor. The song builds, words of devotion and ardor, feelings of passion and desire. You do not allow yourself to fall prey to the heightening emotion; you keep your eyes fixed on the room within. On the man with the shaved head and the scar on his cheek.

The song hits its crescendo, the singer’s voice frozen in a high note.

Din snaps his fingers. “Now.”

Bursting into the room, you shoot blindly. You counted five men when in the doorway. Five of them, two of you. You like those odds. 

Blasterfire pings in every corner. You drop, rolling across the floor to swing your leg outward against a pudgy man’s knee. He curses as he falls, and you bring your dagger to his neck. You slice without thought. Blood gushes over your hand, staining your fingers, but you press on, knocking the man to his side.

On the other side of the room, Din carves his way through Crik’s sycophants. He moves with ease, throwing his elbow, bending to a twist when a blaster shot arcs over his head. He is heading for Crik, and you are eager to get there with him.

A female Twi’lek crosses your path. She bares teeth sharpened to a point. You raise your dagger, and she lifts a shortsword, grinning.

She thrusts first, and you parry. You whirl on your heel, bringing your blade in a wide arc over your head and shoulders. The Twi’lek ducks and catches the back of your leg with the point of her sword. You clench your jaw, but do no more to let the pain show on your face. Lurching forward, you grab the back of a nearby chair. The Twi’lek pauses for breath, pauses to watch her surroundings, pauses to watch the blood that streams down your leg. 

Big mistake.

You lift the chair in your hand and swing. It catches the Twi’lek in the stomach. She stumbles backward. You do not let go. You run, pushing against the Twi’lek with the seat of the chair. She frowns, fingers grabbing for the legs of the chair for some upperhand, but you push harder, forcing her across the floor until she hits the wall with a heavy thud. You drop the chair and bring your blaster up, eye level with your opponent. 

“Fucking bitch,” she mutters. 

You can’t help but grin. “Always.”

You slam your forehead against her face. Stars wash over your vision, but you feel her nose crack against your forehead. 

Stumbling backward, you shake your head free of the immediate pain of the headbutt. The Twi’lek curses as she clutches her nose, blood dripping from beneath her fingers. She looks up at you, rage like a steel trap in her eyes. 

She bolts. Blood flows from her nose, leaking onto the neck of her shirt, flinging in a shower of droplets onto the ground. Arms pumping, she advances on you. You stand your ground, dagger in one hand, blaster in the other. 

You’ll take her down. You know you can.

You brace for impact, but the Twi’lek veers for the right. You frown, stepping back to adjust your position. Only she is up, in the air, jumping, her foot hitting off a support beam in the center of the room. She pounces, and she is flying, circling over you like a predator over prey.

Now it is you who is stumbling. You card backward, glancing from the incoming Twi’lek to Din, who advances on Crik with one of the remaining guards at his back. Crik strikes outward with a shortsword. He hits Din’s unarmored stomach, and Din stops his advance, pausing long enough to show a moment of pain. 

Your attention slips. The Twi’lek descends. The hilt of her sword lands hard on the left side of your skull.

Pain explodes over your head in radiant bursts of light and fire. You fall, shouting out as you collapse. Your forearms break the fall as you catch yourself with whatever sense you have left, but you cannot rise to your feet. A bell clangs in your head; your mind feels sluggish. It is as if you have been rendered mute and immoveable. You have become a rock, and the stream of life flows all around you. The fight continues on, but you cannot join in. 

Blood pools in your mouth. A tooth? Your tongue? Perhaps neither. Perhaps both.

Tears well in your eyes as the clanging continues. Your head feels heavy, and your stomach heaves against the pain. You wretch, and the revolt in your stomach pushes you on to your hands and knees. You vomit, and somewhere overhead the Twi’lek laughs. 

“Yes,” she says. “Definitely a bitch.”

You stumble to your feet, eyes lazy as they swing from one side of the room to the other. You are underwater, surely. You cannot hear, and you cannot see, and you cannot think. You must be drowning. This is what drowning feels like.

You mumble something around a thick tongue. The Twi’lek cocks her head, laughing still. “What was that?” she asks. “I didn’t really hear you.”

There are two of her now, twins that ebb and flow like the tide, a double of evil. You cannot determine the true twin, the one who must have come first, but you see them both, and you hate them both, and that must be enough. 

With a cry, you fall forward, your dagger pointed and at the ready. The Twi’lek catches you, but she does not catch your dagger, the one hidden beneath your sleeve. It sinks into the juncture of her neck and shoulder. You grit your teeth as you push harder, harder, until the hilt seems to disappear within her oozing and bleeding flesh.

She is silent as she falls, her eyes bouncing between yours. Blood rises to the corners of her mouth, and she gasps for breath. You drop to your knees with her as the life floods from her face. You place her head on the ground, and you hover over her, watching as her soul slips.

“Fuck-k-ing bii-tchh,” she gargles. Blood spills over her lips as she gags. 

Gasping, sucking air into your throat and your lungs and your soul, you nod. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, that’s never been a question.”

Her head lolls to the side. 

You look up across the room to Din. He stands face to helmet, arm in arm, with Rendell Crik. Though your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, you cannot stop. He is near, at your fingertips. He is surrounded by the bodies of his stupid, oafish lackeys, and you are here, and he is held by the most powerful man on the planet. 

You rise on shaking legs. You swipe your hand over your mouth. Rendell Crik fills your vision. You take one step forward.

A shot rings out.

The Mandalorian falls.

NEXT CHAPTER (coming soon)

[edgeray]

Hi Ray! 🍅 Anon here~

Have fun on your holiday and enjoy it to the best you can! Be sure to stay hydrated, the weather is really mental these days.

Just wanted to share a bit of brainrot I had regarding soft Arle, whether or not you choose to make it into a fic is up to you!

Arle with her frame and demeanor is most definitely the Top + Dom in the relationship with reader, but how about when she’s insecure? Seeing reader take care of the children and feeling as though she doesn’t deserve to be as loved as said children, then reader after putting the kids to bed embraces Arle and puts her head against their chest so Arle can hear their heartbeat more clearly while patting Arle and assuring her that they love her for her and that she DEFINITELY deserves to be spoilt… (reader knows Arle too well to not pick up on her tells and knows that Arle’s being harsh on herself)

Or maybe reader writing in to the Tsaritsa (without Arle knowing) to ask if Arle can take a 2 week break just to take care of the children and spend time as a couple (What if!! Tsaritsa was the one who wed them!!! And just closes both eyes and approves time off). Then reader proceeds to spoil Arle in every way possible - breakfast in bed, a warm bath after sparring with the children (no, not that kind of bath, but a fluffy one where Arle gets a shoulder massage and scrubbed clean and gets lots of loving kisses everywhere she’s insecure of), a feast of sashimi and steak tartare for dinner and a soft bed and loving wife in the night. I wanna spoil Arle like that but 😭

Oh! And since Harbingers are like celebrities in Snezhnaya, do you think Arle would have a fanclub there? Think about it! She’s young, has a boatload of money (you CANNOT convince me #4 doesn’t have money when #11 has an unimaginable sum at the bank), can handle kids well (she runs the HotH), and as a Harbinger who fights she probably is ripped (RIP her actual body proportions, they’re limited by Hoyo’s models, nobody is convincing me her body type isn’t like Lady Maria’s from Bloodborne, with abs, guns and muscular. Thighs.)

0 chance that she doesn’t have a line of sapphics lining up for her in Snezhnaya, even with the rumors of her being ruthless and cruel (I mean. If the rumors worked in making people back off. Arle simps like us wouldn’t exist to begin with lmao)… Imagine Arle trying to placate Jealous!Teasing!Reader!! Like Arle coming home on Valentine’s day a bit late to find reader teasing her about having a new lover meanwhile Arle was actually out buying a new dagger for reader to protect themselves with… reader being melodramatic because she knows and trusts Arle enough that Arle would never do anything like that (and Arle knows but plays along)

R: “Oh, woe is me! My wife came home late on Valentine’s with a dagger to end our relationship, whatever should I do?”

Arle: “My love…”

And if the children are around? They’d be busy either pretending they didn’t see anything or resisting the urge to claw their eyes out or handing each other eye bleach. Sending condolences to Lyney when one of the younger children ask something along the lines of

“Brother Lyney, do you think we’ll have another sibling soon if Father and Mother are this loving with each other”

(I headcanon that Arle does teach them sexuality education but not until they’re 10 and before that the older children tell their younger siblings that children pop into existence when Papa and Mama love each other lots)

I’m so sorry this is getting really out of hand but Arle has me in a brainrot when I should be focusing elsewhere 💀

Rest Your Worries, Lax Your Heart

(Arlecchino x GN! Reader)

A/N - Thank you, I did have a fun vacation :). Wow that is a lot and I love every single bit of this ask 🍅 anon. It'd be unfair if I just wrote one part and not all of them, so what did I do? Combined all of them as best as I can, but of course some details had to be omitted/changed because of that–hopefully you don't mind. I'm a fucking genius. Also considering that Arle has an anime, but never got a beach episode, this is said beach episode. This took so long because this turned out to be pretty self-indulgent (I'm sure you know which scene it was). This is a long boi, way over what the request range is supposed to be, but hope this is worth it? Somehow, my brain was able to focus for at least like… 4 hours. Started this at 23:00 something, and it's nearly 04:00. 🍅 anon, I enjoy your asks, so I hope you personally enjoy this one :)  Content warnings / info - a bit of suggestiveness, reader is referred to as ‘Mother’ but is otherwise gn!, 3.2k words 

It took a lot of back and forth over the span of four months, writing to the Tsaritsa, but you had finally been able to arrange this without the knowledge of your husband. The Archon, generous as she is, approved of your proposal for a two week long break without much pushback or questioning, saying that loyalty was rewarded and as one of her more productive Harbingers, Arlecchino’s efforts warrant her a break. All the Tsaritsa asked for was the general details of the vacation: when, where, and the activities you would be doing, which was easy enough to answer to. Surprisingly, she bought an entire section of the Sumeru coast along with a sizable cabin for the two of you and the children for the duration of your respite when you told where you plan on the location being. You're not one to turn down such a gracious offer so you accepted it. As a Pyro user, she would surely enjoy somewhere as warm as Sumeru. 

Currently, you're holding the letter from the Tsaritsa, which contains a direct order from the Archon addressed to Arlecchino to stay at Sumeru. No matter how much you plead for her to rest, your husband only says that she can keep working and for you to not worry. Tracing the envelope stamp, you breathe in deeply before knocking on the door.

“Yes?” Called from beyond the door. 

“Can I come in, Arle?”

“Yes, my love,” she says with a lilt. 

You come in, striding towards her, holding up the back of the envelope while trying to suppress your smile. “This was addressed for you.”

Arlecchino takes it with a bit of suspicion at the crack in your facial expression. Turning it over, she notices the stamp, which is the mark of the word of the Archon. She narrows her brows and takes out a letter opener, taking out the letter with a bit more urgency. You watch her expression morph from confusion to mild shock to indifference again. 

“What does it say?” You inquire her, biting your lip to hide the smile.

“It says that I'm going to Sumeru in three days. For a respite.” She eyes you carefully, her eyes glinting red. “But you seem to know that already.” 

You nod, a smile forming . “I thought… you were working so hard, and you deserve a break. I asked the Tsaritsa if it was possible and she agreed to it, even paying for our stay there.” 

Arlecchino's face flicks to something indecipherable, like there was a hesitation, but it quickly disappears before you can think too much on it. She gets up from her desk chair, strutting to you before wrapping her arms around your midsection, pulling you into an embrace. She presses a tender kiss against your forehead. “Thank you, my dear, for your thinking of me. I'm sure the children would appreciate being out of the House. I'll tell the children about this, and we should begin packing.”  

But does she appreciate it? It's for her, after all. You chew on the inside of your cheek but your smile remains in place.

You tilt your head up to kiss her cheek. “I already packed for us. And I told the kids, already.”

“Hm, that's why they seem so antsy lately. Thank you,” Arlecchino hums. “You picked for us already?”

“Yes. Including your clothes,” you chuckle, deviously imagining her in the attires you picked out for her. At that, she raises her eyebrows.

“Oh? What are you planning, my love?” She teases, seizing your chin in her hands and tilting your head up to lock her eyes with yours. You can't stop the giggle that bubbles out. 

“Nothing too… scandalous…” you answer back. “Don't worry, it's nothing too bad. This is all for you to relax, remember? You've been working so hard, been such a good husband, so…”

You lean forward to kiss her on the mouth. Whispering against her lips, you say, “As your partner, it's my duty to make sure you're happy. Isn't that right?”

If she physically could at that moment, Arlecchino would melt underneath your words. 

—

Upon your arrival at Sumeru, you were glad you picked the outfits that you did. Travel with around twenty kids was difficult, but luckily the older kids, the twins and Freminet especially, helped a lot. Everyone was practically vibrating in excitement, with the exception of Arlecchino, though you knew it was mostly because of how inexpressive she usually was. 

Right? 

Currently, the two of you lay on the sand by the crystal clear waters, enjoying the sight of the children playing. The little ones are playing in the sand, presumably sculpting a castle, and the older ones are either engaging in a heated battle involving smacking a ball around or with Freminent in the ocean. Here, you forget that they’re a part of the Fatui, child soldiers for the Tsaritsa; here, they look like normal children and it makes your heart swell. 

Unfortunately, you're stuck in a dilemma–observe your children and take in their contagious laughter, or ogle your husband who is in the most delicious and mouth-watering attire possible. Underneath her short gray collarless jacket, was a cropped, sleeveless turtleneck that exposed her lower half of her toned stomach, including her v-line. Below are tight, black leggings which do little in hiding her muscular thighs. Everytime you look at her, a flush runs to your cheeks and you find yourself too flustered for your stare to linger because of the growing amount of indecent thoughts. You breathe deeply in an attempt to calm the raging storms of desire in your stomach, distracting yourself by observing the waves and digging your feet in the sand. For the sake of your children, you'd like for your mind to be as pure as possible. 

Blackened arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into a lap. You squeal at the sudden contact. Your husband's mouth hovers beside your ear, hot breath brushing against the shell of your ear. 

“Something interesting?” Arlecchino huskily whispers, making you shudder. One hand strokes over your stomach, invoking shivers from you. You inhale sharply before glancing at Arlecchino's face. 

“Just… watching the waves. It's calming,” you lie quickly, wondering if your racing heartbeat can be felt underneath her fingertips. 

“Your heart says otherwise,” she chuckles, turning your head over your shoulder so she can kiss you. 

After a few moments, you pull away from the kiss, and your eyes flick over to the children in the sand, still tossing around that ball over a net. “Why don't you join them? I'm sure they would love it if their Father joined their game.”

“My dear, I would destroy them,” Arlecchino bluntly remarks, and you chuckle. 

“Fair enough, I suppose.”

The two of you watch them in silence until Arlecchino breaks the silence. 

“I like what you picked for me.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Your reaction is adorable.” 

Something white-hot pricks the back of your neck. “I-I'm glad you like it. I like it too,” you stammer out, your abashment evident in your voice. 

“I can tell. Perhaps… you'd like to help me put on sun protection?” Arlecchino teases with a small smirk, removing her jacket off to reveal her lean biceps. “Over the pants, if that's alright.”

This handsome–sexy–woman is going to be the death of you, you’re sure of it. Your heart is going into overdrive, and you would be terrified of going into a stroke if you aren't more focused on your husband's physique. If it's not your heart that's going to kill you, it's the pending combustion inside of you. You squeeze your thighs against one another, pooling heat forming between your legs. 

“Y-yeah, sure,” you manage in between your laboring breathing, getting off of her lap to face her. Spreading the paste in your hand, you first venture over her neck, tenderly rubbing over her throat and then her nape, down to her sides. Her skin is hot to the touch, as expected of a Pyro user, but it somehow retains softness and flawlessness despite all the combat and harshness your husband deals with as a Fatui Harbinger. Still, unlike her composed facial features, you can feel that her pulse is as frenzied as yours–it gives you comfort that you’re not the only one feeling this. Your husband hums with contentment, watching you carefully. 

Next, you slide your hands over to her broad shoulders before feeling down her upper arm, deliberate attention to her biceps. A shuddering breath comes from you as she shifts, extending her arms more out towards you. You trace down the markings of her arm before caressing her inky elbow and forearms. Finally, you get to her wrists. An idea pops in your head as you bring her hands to your lips, kissing her knuckles and rings, giving special focus onto her engagement ring. An amused huff escapes from her, and you glance back at her. Her eyes gleam with such a rare fondness, reserved only for you. 

You glance down at the only part of her that's yet been touched, your stomach churning in itself when you're able to get a closer, longer look. You gulp considerably, your hands shaking slightly as they hover over it. 

A charcoal hand wraps around your wrist, gently guiding your palm to her until it's flushed against her skin. “Don't be shy now, love.” She smirks wickedly and you have the sense to kiss that smile off her face. 

“Shut up,” you murmur meekly, but place both hands on her stomach, your fingertips traversing over every dips created by her well-muscles stomach. It feels like your body will implode at any second now, as her body heat infects your fingers and spreads to the rest of your body. You coat her waist before your touch lingers lower, just above the waistband of her pants. You trace the indent of her v-line, your fingers nearly dip underneath her leggings. Before it can, she stops you, grasping both of your wrists with one hand as she leans in to whisper hotly near your ear.

“Let's save that for later, hm?” 

—

“Lyney, what are they doing?” One of the children inquires, as they point at Mother and Father still by the water. Father remains on top of Mother, seemingly applying sun protection, though Lyney isn't quite sure if their position is truly that… innocent. 

“Oh… Father is just helping Mother, like how I helped with the sun protection on your back,” Lyney quickly comes up with an explanation, looking away from them. 

The child remains silent, observing the older male's expression, before looking back at them once more. “Lyney, you said that when a mother and father love each other a lot, a new child comes right?” 

Lyney isn't sure if he was going to enjoy what comes next, though he has an inkling that he won't. “Yes…” 

“Does that mean Mother and Father will bring us a new sibling soon?”

Lyney sputters, looking to Lynette for assistance. 

—

After a nice day at the beach, Arlecchino takes you and the children to a local restaurant. Luckily, she was able to find one that was relatively empty, so there was no problem with fitting you and your twenty children inside. You find that the two of you rather enjoy Sumeru dishes; while you enjoy the variety of flavors, Arlecchino rather indulges in the spiciness of them. Your favorite is between the tandoori roast chicken and the lambad fish roll. Though, something bothers you during your time at the restaurant.

Arlecchino is an attractive woman; that much is undeniable, and you're well aware of the fact that she's pleasing to both men's and women's eyes. It is a common occurrence for her to attract the sights of those around her, for whatever the reason, though among the women, it is typically out of admiration. Here, this is the case as well, wandering eyes from other customers, and subtle flirting from the audacious waitress. 

After finishing your dinner, you excuse yourself to the bathroom, only to return to the two of them chatting up, although in reality it’s more like a one-sided conversation and Arlecchino is ignoring her– you're well aware of this, but you find the waitress’ presence pervasive. You approach your table quickly, kissing your husband on the cheek before glancing at the waitress.

“My husband and I would like to order dessert. Can you fetch us a menu, please?” You ask, disguising your ire with a practiced smile. Instantly, the waitress's flirtation dies and she walks away. 

You huff at the sight of the woman. “How could you, Arlecchino? After all we've been through? Talking so casually with her when I'm gone?” You jest with a gasp, faux jealousy in your tone once you notice the relieved sigh from her. Her claws release its hold on the tablecloth, leaving behind tattered sheets. 

“Oh, how I've been caught,” Arlecchino responds monotonously, playing along. “My affair with an unnamed, rather plain-featured woman has been discovered.” 

You giggle as her hand finds yours, interlocking with your fingers. “I'm in disbelief, betrayed by who I thought was my true love.”

“Oh hush now, love. Will Baklava buy your silence and heart again?” 

“Perhaps.” 

The House of the Hearth children gag as Mother and Father conciliate. 

—

“Mother, can't we stay up any longer? We're on vacation. Pleaseeeeee,” one of the children pleads as you usher them to bed, pulling the covers over them. 

“It's not healthy for you to stay up. Besides, you have plenty of time tomorrow and the rest of the two weeks to have fun. Your Father and I can't keep watch over you during the night,” you respond with, kissing them on the forehead. 

“What if Lyney or Lynette watches us?” 

“Lyney and Lynette are probably just as tired. When you wake up, we can go to the beach again, does that sound okay?” 

“Okay… good night Mother.”

You hum in delight, caressing their head. “Good night. Sweet dreams.” 

You silently walk towards the door. Arlecchino leans against the doorframe, observing you wordlessly–again, that unreadable expression appears over her, but this time it lingers. You shut the door as quietly as you can, before turning to your husband.

“Is there something you need, Arle?” You inquire. 

She shakes her head. You don't quite believe her, but you don't address it. “I'm going to go take a bath. Get all this sand off of me. Would you like to join me?” 

Arlecchino nods, and soon the two of you are in the bathroom. You let the faucet run, filling the bathtub with water as Arlecchino removes her clothing. It only takes a few moments before the two of you are seated in the bathtub, but it's a change of position this time. Arlecchino sits in between your legs, facing away from you.

“It's been a while since we've bathed like this, right?” You question softly, lightly carding your fingers through her untied hair. 

“It has been,” she merely replies, her voice almost far-away; like there’s something else on her mind. Even though you only face her back, you can tell from her lack of movement that she’s in deep contemplation.

“What are you thinking about, Arle?” Your husband bristles a bit at the question. Even after being married to you for a couple years, she's still unaccustomed to how you can read her so easily, especially when she prides herself in being incomprehensible to others, even her children. 

“Do you… not enjoy this?” You ask hesitantly with a lump in your throat. You know that she knows what you meant by ‘this’– the vacation; the entire notion of taking a break is foreign to Arlecchino, but you hope that she was able to find this beneficial. If she hates this and this vacation is supposed to be two weeks long… you don't want to say you'd be disappointed but you'd hope she'd at least be able to relax from her Harbinger duties. 

Arlecchino is silent for a few moments. “I admit… I am uneased by this, to be so vulnerable and open to assaults now that we're not in the House of the Hearth. I feel unproductive and restless without my usual work. However, at the same time, I can see how beneficial this is to the children, and it is a nice change for once to see them like this. Being able to spend time with you like this is also rather indulgent, but I cannot complain about it.” 

You smile, a weight lifted off your chest as you lean forward to press a kiss against her nape. “I’m glad. This was for you after all.”

“Although I am gratified that the children are able to experience this as well … I cannot see why you would put this much effort for me. After all, I am…” Arlecchino pauses, raising her blackened hands to her view. She doesn’t finish her sentence, but you're able to get a sense of what she’s trying to say, and another weight is placed heavy on your heart. For as confident and assured that Arlecchino likes to present herself, when it is just the two of you, she reveals a rawer, more unguarded side to her. Often, she confides in you how she grapples with why you can so fondly view her, and every time, your heart sinks. How could your husband think this way? 

Laying your chin over her shoulder, you gingerly place both of your hands underneath hers, stroking the inside of her palm with your thumb. “I know where your thoughts are leading to, Arlecchino, and they're wrong. I love you, Arlecchino. You deserve this. You deserve this treatment, you deserve a break, you deserve to be loved. Your curse, your past… it doesn't matter. These hands…” 

You continue caressing her hand with your fingers. “...They are not cursed. These hands are not unloveable. These are the same hands that protect and care for our children. The same hands that hold me. The same hands that please me. They are a part of you, and they aren't evidence that you are a monster. If you are, you wouldn't have me, and you wouldn't have the children.” 

You kiss down along her bare back, gaining shivers from the woman. “Enjoy this, my love, for me at the very least. You are my husband, so let me do my part in loving you. You've done an innumerable amount of things for me and the children, so consider this to be our repayment for you.” 

“That is why I am doing this for you, do you understand?” You whisper against her skin. 

Arlecchino nods, a shaky breath escaping from her. You finish your treatment around her shoulderblades and gesture for her to turn around. When she does, the first thing that you do is kiss her hands, peppering them with as much devotion as you can give them. To you, nothing is more beautiful. 

“You deserve everything and more. Don't forget that, Arlecchino. So let me do this for you.” It isn't an ask. It is a demand from the one person whose authority is higher than the Tsaritsa: you. 

Arlecchino closes her eyes, and lets herself melt into you. 

[glass-warehouse]

Saganu.... urrahhhggh

Saganu's actual name, and just himself in general, has been bugging me since I got around to cleaning up my Chiss Name-maker spreadsheet. I’m blaming the SWTOR writers (sorry guys) over this. I know they just needed to give him a name – no backstory required. 

In any case, I'm going to break it down myself. Through a poor hodgepodge combination of Legends and Canon. 

Unfortunately, this also involves me going over his position, a lot. I know it might seem irrelevant, but I hope you understand why I had to mention it by the end. 

This goes out to all the Saganu fans. I think there are only four of us...

Intro: 

When you first meet Saganu, he is both a commander in the CEDF/CDF and Aristocra of House Miurani. I cannot begin to tell you how difficult this makes things. First off, I don't think this is allowed. The whole deal with the CEDF is that they serve the Ascendancy as a whole, and not just one Family. Families tend to have their own fleets or Phalanxes for things like that. 

Right then, let's break this down. Get ready for a ramble. 

Rank: Aristocra 

Legends and Canon do not agree on the position of an Aristocra. 

In Canon, this is like, the lowest rank of political importance you can hold within a Family. I'm aware there is also 'The Aristocra', an organisation within the Syndicure (Parliament) that holds a lot of power. But, man, we are not getting into that. And I don't think that's what the writers meant when they made him an Aristocra. 

In Legends, Aristocra is a very high rank. To the point where they can represent themselves as the head on behalf of their Family. Is that not wild? They aren't officially the head of the Family, but they can just say they are and everyone accepts it. 

In Saganu's case, this is very hard to settle on. He is both more important than Canon rank but less than Legends. I'm more inclined to place him toward Legends, simply because of the promotion he receives later. But why the fuck is someone that important just kinda chilling on some secret Hoth base, with limited manpower, and asking Imperial Intelligence for assistance, I will never know. 

Rank: Commander 

In Canon, Commander isn't even a valid rank... There are four different versions of 'Commander' in the CEDF, and Saganu's is never specified. I think the writers just wanted him to sound important. 

In Legends, we have almost nothing to go off, especially at this point in history for the Ascendancy. I believe that when the story was written, the writers were basing the structure of the CEDF as if it was the same as the Imperial Navy - as there is a Commander rank. In the Navy, Commander is the 5th highest position, making it a little more than midway through the ranks. I'd say that about tracks with what we expect at this point in the story, our character's position, as well as how Saganu acts and is treated. 

Again, placing him is difficult. I'm just going to say that Saganu is a Senior Commander. At least this way he has a proper CEDF rank... and it’s the best option I can fit him into. 

Further Notes: 

I'm aware that in-game, Saganu is only ever mentioned to be the Base Commander of Zero Station - quite frankly, I'm already having a bad time with this as it is, so I'll be ignoring this entirely. 

There is nothing I can find that suggests that Saganu was a commander and then became an Aristocra, or vice versa. Both facts are presented at the same time as if they are both currently true. And besides, he's known as 'Aristocra' Saganu, not Commander. 

This would be a lot easier if both ranks were on equal standing - but they're not. 

Canon - Aristocra < Senior Commander 

Legends - Aristocra > Senior Commander 

Roles and Names: 

REGARDLESS of Saganu's rank when you meet him on Hoth, he should have introduced himself with his full name. And, as I'll get to at the end, his core name would've been different. 

Chiss naming convention, and all the ways it can change, is bad enough already to wrap your head around. What's important is that Saganu did NOT hold a high enough position either politically or in the CEDF, that it would have had an impact. 

Politically, it doesn't matter how important you are, whether that's being an Aristocra or Patriarch, your rank doesn't change your name. 

In the CEDF, only those who held the rank of Commodore or higher (all Flag Officer positions) would have their names altered. 

(For any that don't know - when Officers are promoted to a Flag rank, they are stripped of their Family name. This is to ensure that they serve the Ascendancy proper, and prevent any biases toward their Family ties.) 

Saganu's position of Senior Commander is not a Flag rank - therefore, his name should remain unchanged. 

HOWEVER! - this does change when you meet him again after Knights of the Eternal Throne. 

Traitor Arc: 

When Saganu visits the Alliance, he tells the Commander that he is now 'Supreme Commander of the CEDF', because of how he handled the invasion of the Eternal Empire. *** 

AGAIN, 'Supreme Commander' is NOT a rank in either the CEDF or the Imperial Navy - the writers really did pull this one out of their arse. 

Anyway, this rank signifies him as the head of the CEDF. He's the one who oversees all of the CEDF's military operations. To be more Canon accurate, this rank would be 'Supreme Admiral'. I'll continue to refer to it as such. 

Supreme Admiral is a FLAG OFFICER rank, so this WOULD alter his name. 

What I am going to ignore is that in-game, Saganu is still referred to as Aristocra and that the mail he sends the Commander once all is sorted is also under the same rank. At this point in time, he CANNOT be an Aristocra - as mentioned before, Supreme Admiral is a Flag rank, so he cannot hold any Family ties. 

Now, here's what you've been waiting for. 

Meeting on Hoth: 

Full name - Miurani'saga'nuru 

Core name - Isagan, Nisaganu, Nisagan, Isaganu 

I've listed all possible variations for his core name. So, you can decide what you like best, as they are all technically correct. 

After KOTET: 

Full name - Saga'nu 

Core name - Doesn't need one. 

If you are looking at 'nuru' and thinking, "Oh like, nuruodo? Like Thrawn?" the answer is YES. 

Nuru is the default spelling. The 'odo' part is an honorary suffix he received. 

Because I'm running out of steam, here's an excerpt about it:  

"The Stybla honouring ceremony, also known as the Stybla honouring ritual and the odo ceremony, was a ritual in which the Stybla family conferred the suffix "odo" onto the name of an honoured individual ... this was typically only awarded to those of House Stybla, though a few non-Stybla have gone through the ceremony." 

And, YES, this is considered Canon - though it originated from the books, so don't hold out any hope you'll ever hear it mentioned in Disney SW. 

Any Stybla Family SWTOR toons out there, take note! 

And that’s a wrap... phew... 

God, if you've read this all the way through you deserve a fucking pat on the back, seriously. 

*** I realise that it's roughly 12 years until you see Saganu again after Hoth, but this motherfucker only really got promoted around KOTFE, over the 5-year time skip. 

It's hard for me to write in words how OBSURD it is that he went from Senior Commander to fucking SUPREME ADMIRAL. IN FIVE YEARS. 

I realise that he may have had other promotions over the other 5, 6, or 7, years that are unaccounted for, but the jump he made to Supreme Admiral is ridiculous.

This is the equivalent of being an Area Manager in retail to becoming the CEO, in the space of 5 years. 

The SWTOR writers love to always go bigger and better. And then they have to write themselves back down again because they went too big. 

All they had to imply was that Saganu was promoted. We already know he's important, okay SWTOR? You can calm down. Nobody (other than me) is paying attention to what title he has. 

[lukesboyfriend]

Playing in the Snow

🔸 Masterlist

🔺 My AO3 Account

Summary: It's Luke's first day on Echo Base and he's never seen snow in his life! His boyfriend decides to show the Tatooine boy the wonders of playing in the snow.

Word Count: 2k

A/N: I find the lack of Luke x Male Reader stories in this fandom disturbing. Also, ignore my Star Wars fanboy side mentioning every single planet Luke visited before going to Hoth and specifying the ships and stuff. An important reminder: this story takes place before 'The Empire Strikes Back.'

A small fleet of rebel transport ships exits out of hyperspace just outside the frontier of the Hoth System. Ahead of the flotilla, Rogue Leader Luke Skywalker piloted his T-65B X-wing starfighter through the void of space towards the sixth planet of the System - Hoth.

The white and blue globe grows larger and larger by the second, and Luke can't help but be amazed by it. As a farm boy raised on Tatooine, all Luke's ever seen in the past 19 years of his life was sand, dust, and reddish rocks. When he first landed on Yavin 4, the boy's eyes sparkled in amazement. The moon was so green, so verdant, so different from Tatooine. He was sad when the Alliance had to abandon the place, but it's not like they had much of a choice, as the Empire knew they were there, and for the past three years, the Rebellion spent their limited resources on building their new home - Echo Base, so named due to its strange acoustics.

In his three years as a Rebel (and Jedi Padawan), Luke's seen a few planets and moons, like Yavin 4, Balnab, Rion, Rodia, Fex, Devaron, Hradreek, Bogano, Lotho Minor, Kudo, Cymoon 1, Nar Shaddaa, Tureen VII, Skorii-Lei, Horox III, Ktath'atn, Crait, Jedha, Mon Cala, and Strokill Prime. These planets varied from being verdant and forested to oceanic and desertic, with some even crystalline while others covered in swamps and humid jungles. But none is like Hoth - covered in ice and snow, bright white like a young star who just came to life in the ever-expanding universe. A small, white ball floating in the Outer Rim Territories, so small and insignificant no one knows it's there - a perfect spot for the Rebel Alliance to hide from the Empire and for Luke to continue his Jedi training.

"Wow. It's so beautiful." Luke comments to himself in a whisper, raising the orange-colored visor of his helmet to admire the snowy planet.

"Focus, Skywalker. No daydreaming in the cockpit." A teasing male voice called Luke out of his trance. The blonde boy rolled his eyes in response. He could even hear the other pilot's smirk through the comlink.

"Watch it, Rogue Three, or I'll put you to cleaning the astromechs again."

"And I'll put you to sleep on the floor."

"(Y/N)!" Luke immediately blushed upon hearing the teasing retort from Rogue Three, A.K.A., his boyfriend. He hated when (Y/N) said things like that through the comlink, where everyone could hear them. The bastard did that to ruin Luke's reputation as squad leader. Luke can already hear Wedge, Dak, and Zev teasing him once they land.

"Get a room, you two." Han's voice chimes in from the comms, the teasing tone making Luke grumble as he sees the Millennium Falcon passing through him and disappearing amidst the white clouds of the planet's atmosphere.

"Bite me, Solo." (Y/N) retorts as he flies by one of the Hammerhead Corvettes of the flotilla, flying wing-to-win with Luke's X-wing.

"Language, (N/N)." Luke gently admonishes his boyfriend, rolling his eyes but unable to suppress a smile. He finds his boyfriend's sharp tongue and quick wit quite admirable, even if Luke disapproves of foul language.

"Aye, aye, Commander Skywalker." The other pilot replies. Through the window of his cockpit, Luke sees the other boy saluting him from his close X-wing, making the squadron leader roll his eyes again. How he ends up with the most sarcastic, witty, and unserious pilot in all of the Alliance Starfleet Luke will never know. But damn, the boy's the most handsome pilot in all of the fleet, too.

Echo Base command permitted the ships to land in the large south hangar. Luke led the flotilla down to the surface, expertly maneuvering his starfighter into the in-cave-built base, breathing a sigh of relief once the landing gears made contact with the ground.

The boy took off his helmet and ran his hand through his blonde locks, untangling them and turning off the ship's engines. When the X-wing's in-built heater shut off, Luke was already feeling the cold air of Hoth creeping inside the cockpit.

The second R2 opened the transparisteel canopy, Luke immediately shivered and hugged himself. The orange flight suit provided Luke with a fairly decent amount of protection from harsh climates, but the boy wasn't used to the cold. Tatooine was cold during the nights, but not Hoth-level cold.

"Is the Hero of Yavin cold?" The teasing voice made Luke groan and roll his eyes again. He looks down on the floor to see (Y/N) leaning against the fuselage of Luke's X-wing, arms crossed and a smirk on his face, his helmet resting on top of his astromech companion, R4.

"Shut up, (Y/N)," Luke mutters as he climbs down the starship, and rebel mechanics help remove R2 from his socket. "I'm just not used to the cold, alright?"

"Wow. You blow up a big-ass space station, defeats Darth frigging Vader in a dogfight, frees the Mon Cala king from an underwater prison, but gets defeated by the cold, cold air of Hoth?" (Y/N) snickers, his eyes following Luke's every movement, noticing his cheeks blushing from both the cold and his teasing. "Oh, please, this is nothing compared to Rhen Var. You should have been there when the Empire ambushed us on those ancient Citadel ruins. Bastards even brought an AT-AT to crush us."

Luke rolled his eyes slightly while blowing air against his hands and rubbing them to try and keep them warm. (Y/N) always has a weird battle story to tell. The battle of Rhen Var, the hijacking of the Harbinger, and the assault on Thule are a few of the many stories he told Luke.

"Well, sorry, (N/N), but I was busy fixing moisture vaporators on Tatooine at the time."

"Aw, my poor little farm boy." (Y/N) coos teasingly/affectionately, wrapping his arms from behind Luke to help keep him warm.

The blonde boy's cheeks blush even more at the display of affection in the middle of the hangar, where everyone can see them but doesn't break away from the hug. Instead, Luke leans back against (Y/N)'s body, mumbling a soft "better" in response.

(Y/N) chuckles softly and nuzzles against Luke's soft blonde locks, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of his boyfriend's shampoo.

"Y'know." (Y/N) says, his voice slightly muffled by Luke's hair. "You've never seen snow before, right?"

"Hm," Luke denies with a tiny shake of his head, tilting his face up slightly to face his taller boyfriend. "Why?"

"Wanna play in the snow?"

"Play?" Luke echoes the question, raising an eyebrow in curiosity and confusion, his simple, naive mind unable to understand how one can play with frozen water.

(Y/N) smiles and nods in reply, brushing a strand of Luke's hair off the boy's face.

"Come with me."

Luke doesn't protest as (Y/N) interlocks his fingers with Luke's and starts guiding towards the slightly opened hangar door. He shivers a little at feeling the cold air against his body, unaccustomed to the frigid temperatures, and for a brief second, Luke considers running back inside the base and burying himself under the covers of his bed. But Luke is unable to say 'no' to his boyfriend - Obi-Wan would undoubtedly call him weak-minded and susceptible to mind tricks if he saw Luke right now.

"Brr, frigging cold air." Luke shudders, raising the collar of his orange jumpsuit to try and cover his mouth and nose.

"Oi, language, Rogue Leader!" His boyfriend mockingly scolds him. "You kiss your sister with that mouth?"

"I don't have a sister (Y/N)!" Luke retorts, frowning and making a disgusted face at the prospect of kissing a sibling if he had one.

(Y/N) merely chuckles at Luke's response and lets go of his hand to crouch down on the snow-covered terrain, using his hands to gather some snow and mold them into a small ball while Luke watches in curiosity.

"What are you doing, (N/N)?"

"A snowball!" (Y/N) proudly shows his work of art (the snowball) at Luke. "Come, try it, too!"

Luke blinks and cocks his head slightly to the right like a curious Loth-kitten, not understanding what's so fun in making balls of ice, but decides to humor (Y/N) and crouches down on the white terrain, mimicking the other boy's actions of gathering snow in his hands and molding it into a ball. He sticks his tongue out in concentration while trying to ensure the snow won't fall from between his fingers and wants to make it into a perfectly shaped ball like (Y/N)'s.

With some effort and a tiny bit of frustration, Luke manages to make a snowball. It is not perfect in shape, but Luke deems it a good result for his first try.

"(N/N)! I got it—"

POOF!

Luke blinks in surprise as a white, cold ball hits his face, spreading snow all over his hair, face, and clothes. It takes Luke a second longer to register it was a snowball thrown at him by (Y/N), who snickers a few feet away.

"HEY! What was that for?!" He pouts at the surprise attack.

"Oh, forgive me, o great Jedi Master." (Y/N) theatrically apologizes by bowing his head in mock shame, the corner of his lips twitching into a ghost of a smirk. "I thought you had your 'Luke tingling' thing."

"Don't call it that!" Luke's pout deepens as he removes some snow from his face. "And for your information, they're technically called 'Jedi senses.'"

"And yet your super senses didn't activate when I threw a snowball at you." (Y/N) teases, smirking and crossing his arms.

"Yeah, because they're used to detect threats (Y/N)! And my dummy boyfriend throwing snow at me is not considered a threat."

"Not a threat?" (Y/N) takes that as a challenge, his eyes narrowing and his competitive streak heightening. "We'll see, Skywalker."

"What are you— (Y/N), don't you dare." Luke points at his boyfriend when he sees the other boy leaning down to gather more snow in his hands and make more ammunition. "(Y/N), I'm telling you, don't— HEY! Stop— (Y/N)—!"

A barrage of snowballs is thrown at the Jedi padawan as (Y/N) laughs like a kid lighting candles for the Naboo Festival of Light. Luke uses his hands to shield himself from the snowy onslaught, but after getting hit square in the face for the third time in a row, he decides to retaliate and starts making his ammo.

Luke hurls four snowballs, one after the other, toward (Y/N). He dodges the first, but the second one hits his side, the third his knee and the fourth hits his forehead, covering (Y/N)'s hair in snow.

"Blargh! Son of a b—"

The boy has little time to finish his cursing as Luke lunges towards him, tackling (Y/N) to the ground as both boys roll down the snowy hill, laughing and getting themselves covered in snow.

Luke lands on top of (Y/N), holding him by the wrists and smirking triumphantly while blowing a strand of his blonde hair off his face.

"I win."

"Bite me, Skywalker!" (Y/N) retorts, his voice a mixture of playfulness and bruised ego at having lost in the snowball fight to his boyfriend.

Luke smirks at his words and leans down, "With pleasure."

"Huh—?" (Y/N) gets cut off by Luke's lips crashing against his in a kiss.

Damn, Skywalker got some rizz.

"ACHOO!"

"Force bless you."

"Amen or whatever."

(Y/N) blows his nose on a handkerchief handed to him by Luke, who sat next to him on the medical bay bed, both wrapped in blankets provided by the medical droids.

As it turns out, playing in the snow was not the brightest idea. But that's not even the worst.

"How could you two be so dim-witted to think it was smart to go outside with not enough protection against the cold, you laser brains?! Your flight jumpsuits are not suited for such weather!"

This is the worst part. Both boys grumbled and whined at the lecture and offense thrown at them, mumbling a "sorry, Leia" under their breaths.

Close by, leaning against the door with his arms crossed, was Han, snorting at the two Rebellion aces getting the scolding of their lives from the princess.

[mariacallous]

It's rough, and I need to refine it and do more work on it (I think I want to expand on some things more, because it both feels long and short), but here it is, for better or worse. Also, @notafain's sketch because I still think it's so neat and I love it.

As she adjusted to the unyielding firmness and cold of the shuttle deck (and grateful that her fur helped offset the latter at least), Solarna (better and more commonly known as Cipher Nine, the hardened and pragmatic top operative for the Sith Empire and of the former Imperial Intelligence, less commonly and privately nicknamed Shiv because of her proficiency with a vibroblade and the sharpness of her observation, and almost unknown as Legate the double agent working for the Republic) looked over at the man laying next to her after they finally finished ravaging each other and smiled softly before freezing. With a sickening lurch in her stomach, she realized she had been lying to herself for some time now, and that things had gone past fun to a place she’d never been before. Now that the passion of the moment had been sated, a stark clarity about what led to this moment cut through the past elisions. Theron Shan had not been like the usual fling. Even now, she ached to gently caress his temple and implants (if partly to better assess them and their potential origin), his nose, his lips; she felt slip a smile as she saw how mussed his hair had become in her grip. She could even see the now-faded pink traces where her nails had gotten enthusiastic with his skin. Her heart felt like it had been exposed on Hoth but her face burned like on Tatooine with embarrassment. She wasn’t some starry-eyed youngling barely out of the litter, in the flush of first romance. <Oh, aren’t you? Really, Agent, you’re normally much sharper about this sort of thing. You don’t yet see the connections?> With a grimace, Nine clenched her eyes shut. Of course, her internal voice (hiding behind the persona of Watcher X) chose now to speak up. But what connections? Wait…Watcher X…Quesh…breaking the conditioning…Black Codex…autonomy… “Oh stars,” she whispered. Ever since overcoming the castellan restraints and becoming independent, she’d become free of the previous limitations and influences or controls beyond what she had developed and chosen to retain. As close as she could get to free will and pre-Intelligence molding. Like a teenager. And so one of her biggest choices (composed of a thousand smaller steps, evasions, and leaps) had been to develop feelings for the man who was the closest to being her counterpart for the Republic. Theron Shan, SIS spy, former and soon to be current enemy. The worst possible option to be vulnerable to, and somehow the most natural result. As Nine let out a stabilizing exhale, her mind automatically and more fully mapping out the thread leading to this shatterpoint, Theron chose that moment to turn and face her, sleepily snuggling closer and pressing his face into her shoulder, his arm sliding over her waist and brushing against the scars  from her spinal implant surgery on Nar Shaddaa – Watcher X again, and how long ago it now feels – before pulling her closer and mumbling, the feeling of his lips and breath causing her skin to tingle and her fur to stand up a little. “’S nice, in spite of the shuttle and the Yavin jungle humidity.” “Least it’s not Manaan,” she managed to reply, before a small click locked the thread into place. Manaan, the first time we saw each other. Me, trying to escape that sinking death trap of a ruined lab after the Revanite leaders escaped. You, slicing remotely to aid that escape and snarking at the same time… And, in another of those steps, trying to hold off the inevitable separation and reversion to the status quo- (Theron: There’s no easy to way to say this, but we both knew this would have to end eventually You do know what this means, don’t you? Soon as we rejoin the fleet and make the jump to lightspeed, that’s it. No more truce. You and I…we probably won’t exchange another word ever again…) -she prolonged the moment and learned into the embrace, thinking back to that moment 2 minutes before crush depth.

[zingsthings]

@brynnmclean @jynjackets the very unready latest in the lesbian rebelcaptain fic for wip wednesday :)

Cassia is moving to bury her face in the curve of Jyn’s neck before the autodoor's even reached halfway along the threshold. Jyn grabs back at her stupid, lanky form and holds her fiercely, cataloguing the [ ]. Three weeks. Three weeks is too [SW swear]ing long. The relief of just having Cassia in her arms makes Jyn a little wobbly, which is all sorts of rude, but there’s nothing for it but to cling tighter and hope Cassia doesn’t notice the quick hitch in her breathing. Vain hope, probably, having chosen a singularly observant spy for a lover. Or—Jyn settles and smirks against Cassia’s chest. Cassia is busy enough breathing her in—she knew that post-fight sweat would come in handy—and based on [ ], she's well on her way to being properly distracted. Part of Jyn would be content to stand there, held and holding, all night. The other part, the part that's hoping they might spend more of the night unclothed, knows they’ve got tasks to complete before any of that, so with one last squeeze Jyn reluctantly extricates herself from Cassia's arms. Her skin's gone tacky from the dried sweat, and it's cold outside the embrace, and Cassia is just dust all over--washing will probably come first, then. Cassia drops her gear but doesn't move to unpack, having clearly come to the same practical conclusion. They haven't even spoken a word since the mess. They don't need to. It's brilliant. Jyn switches on the [space heater] Cassia had cobbled together out of spare [ ] parts, leaving Cassia to shake out her [outer coat]. Early in their Hoth days, Cassia had vetoed Jyn’s sliced [ —smth learned from Partisans that is potentially dangerous?]. Honestly, it was just a fifteen percent risk of [carbon monoxide or similar], and she's lived in enough [ ] to know the signs well enough. But paranoid, protective Cassia insisted [ ]. It can only run for [limit to explain why not overnight or widespread], but she supposes that’s more than enough time for washing and whatever minimally-clothed activities might follow. And, well. It's nice, having one less danger to keep track of in the night. So Jyn and Cassia take advantage of one of Hoth’s few charms—real water showers from heated glacial runoff—and of the rare gift of privacy, as Cassia’s rank affords her a small private 'fresher attached to her room. They strip quickly, efficiently, inured military instincts warring with sharp sparks of desire at seeing each other uncovered. Someday, Jyn thinks, they might learn to linger in the lead-up, or in the warm water, to turn eyes and hands on each other under the spray. But Jyn and Cassia are militia brats, ex-captives, simultaneously unselfconscious and fiercely protective of their naked bodies, and they face forward and wash in practiced [order].

[sullustangin]

Up to Muster, Chapter 16: Blood in the Snow

SWTOR

Rating: M (T this chapter)

Pairing: Theron Shan/Smuggler

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62343637/chapters/170966095

Quick quote:

Lana threw a planetary map onto the intel screen.  “For example, I personally would have chosen Corellia for a star fortress, due to its industrial capacity, but there is only a communications blockade – people come and go, but that still limits what information reaches the wider galaxy.”

Theron let out a puff, then winced again at the cold.  “Maybe Arcann doesn’t want a planet with industrial capacity to threaten his toys.  Or maybe he doesn’t want to discourage Corellia’s factories from producing war materiel to be used against the Empire.”

“That would put a damper on his best distraction for the Empire and the Republic,” Lana agreed, no small bit of contempt in her voice for those parties.  “I think Hoth is our best chance at testing defenses with a minimal number of civilian casualties, if there is retaliation.   The military personnel on-planet signed up for this, and criminals are less sympathetic to the galactic audience.”

“Thanks, Lana, I love you, too,” Eva replied.  “But I get it.” 

Lana had the grace to roll her eyes but also smile, a little. 

[enkisstories]

Three days after the Damerons had departed from Three Lakes, Poe and Finn scanned the sky over New Hoth. They had gotten informed that the Steadfast had entered port at Yavin. Rika, Chloe and the toddler girl were on board and well, ready to board the already waiting helicopter, that would take care of the final stage of the journey to their new home.

Finn: "I see them! That's the chopper from Yavin!"

Poe: "Strange how I grew up there, then dad wanted me to have a life in Detroit, only for me to end up even further inland on this very continent."

Poe: "So according to Tina you're North's kid? Look Finn, not a trace of the cyborg virus - it cannot write itself into the host's dna!"

Lucy: "Papa!"

Finn: "How many of those do you think we can handle?"

Poe: "We already handle Kylo on a daily basis, so there's probably no upper limit other than available living space!"

[burnwater13]

Baylan Skoll (Ray Stevenson) walking down a corridor on Morgan Elsbeth's ship. Image from Ahsoka, Season 1, Episode 6, Far, Far Away.

Hello There

“Hello there!”

Grogu was startled by the sound of such a familiar voice and almost jumped behind the ship he’d been staring at rather vacantly as he’d been thinking about Hoth. Womp rats!

“I see that you have met my daughter, Ta’lan. I gather she and your father are discussing something fairly important. Perhaps you and I should find someplace comfortable to sit and have something to eat?”

It was Jedi Seb! Yippee! Grogu had never been so happy to be surprised by a friend unlooked for. Grogu chirped a greeting and asked why he was there.

“Ah, the Force sometimes tells me where something precious is, much like it does with my daughter. In this case it turned out to be all three of you. I take it you were able to teach her to be patient and trust herself?”

Seb was smiling at Grogu and Grogu nodded. He’d never really had a discussion as a master speaking about a padawan before. He wondered what the protocol was.

“I couldn’t tell you my young friend. I was grateful to never be a master. I was hard enough to instruct all on my own. My ship is over here. We can wait there in comfort while your father continues to try to apologize to her. I wish him luck. I have still not managed to make full amends for my failings as a father and I have been at it for many years.”

Grogu giggled at that. He couldn’t imagine his friend holding a grudge like that. He couldn’t imagine her holding a grudge at all. She was very balanced and he didn’t need to put her on a wire to test that. 

“Don’t worry, I know that she loves me with all her heart. That does not stop her from sharing her thoughts on my less becoming behaviors, including the ones I learned as a Jedi. You may have had a similar experience with your own father, from time to time.”

Grogu sighed. Seb wasn’t wrong. Din Djarin had annoyed him more than once, but he’d also made up for it. He supposed that was probably true for Seb and Ta’lan as well. He supposed that each of them advocated for the position they held most recently. Never having had children, Grogu could not advocate from a parent’s perspective and his only foray as a Master had resolved itself very well and he had no complaints about his padawan. 

“My daughter was well trained by my brother Kish. He infected her with a love of learning that will remain with her always. She was very fortunate in that outcome. Ah, here we are. My ship. Would you prefer to sit out here? I can set up a few seats and a table and we enjoy the fresh air and the view.”

Grogu chuckled at that. The view was either a stone wall or a bunch of ships. He supposed the air was fresher because it was clear that Seb had opened up another large ‘door’ when he brought his own ship in and hadn’t closed it up again.

“Fresh.”

Grogu used a precious word of Gal Basic to prove to Seb that he hadn’t stopped practicing it since they first met and to provide some perspective of his own. He could tell that Seb had been a handful for the Masters they had in common so long ago.

“Yes, but very few of my masters used that word as a compliment. I know you do not enjoy ration packs, but I have been told that you enjoy everything but vegetables. I think I can come up with something suitable for us. Does your father have any objections to eating vegetables?”

Grogu nodded at his friend. Din Djarin enjoyed whatever food was put in front of him, with limited exceptions. His preference for ration packs simply reflected the reality of his life as a bounty hunter. You couldn’t be fussy about food if you needed to wait out in the dark all night waiting for someone to come back to their lodgings. Ration packs were compact, cheap, and predictable. Nothing there for the Mandalorian not to like.

“Good. My daughter will eat whatever I put in front of her. While she still considers you her master, you might want to see if she would be willing to slow down, just a little, and actually taste the food. It would make her uncles very happy.”

That just made Grogu laugh. He didn’t know if Seb was talking about himself or someone else. He knew that Ta’lan had a brother, but did she have uncles? She had a lot of parents so it was always possible. He supposed if it would make Seb happy, he’d do his best. 

When Seb went into the small scout ship, Grogu decided to give the ship a good solid ‘Look/See’. Master Beq had described a ‘Look/See’ as a process that involved both your eyes and your mind. What was the surrounding environment like? What could you determine about the people who might be there? How long had things been this way? Were there any problems with how things were or how they might soon be? 

You didn’t just say ‘Looks like rain’. You said, ‘Given how those clouds have built up and how dark they are and the absence of birds and other small critters, I’m going to say, it’s likely to rain soon and when it does, it will likely rain a lot.’ Or words to that affect. 

You had to see how something or someone fit into the context of what you were looking at as well. When Grogu looked at Seb’s ship a few things were apparent. It had been there before he and his dad arrived. Dirt and other bits of debris had accumulated under the landing gear structures. But it wasn’t the ship that Ta’lan had brought to Dantooine. She always fitted her’s with an condenser to collect water from the atmosphere. There were no condensers operating under Seb’s ship. This ship had originally been built somewhere in Mandalorian space because all of the markings were in Mando’a. Despite the fact that the ship appeared to be a scout, Grogu was pretty sure that the turrets he noticed were not original to the ship. That meant this ship was not built for Seb, but Seb had obtained it. Somehow.  It was also well maintained because Grogu noticed none of the tell tale signs of oil leaks, repairs, dents, scoring, or non-original parts. No hard landings for this ship. 

Grogu smiled to himself as he went back to the access way Seb had used to enter the ship, then he caught himself and began to giggle. He had noticed a small pebble on the ground and trotted forward to collect it. Then he disappeared under the ship and only returned to the access way when Seb called his name. He put the pebble back in his pocket as he rounded the corner so it appeared that he had simply walked all the way around the ship. 

“If you don’t mind holding this for a moment, I’ll set up the chairs and table for us.”

Seb was holding a tray that had all sorts of delicious food on it as well as containers of liquids, no doubt the fruit concentrate that Ta’lan liked to drink. It took Grogu a moment to realize that Seb wanted him to hold the tray and when he did he realized that he was being tested. Could he hold the tray and not just eat all the food? Grogu was pretty sure that Seb would have made an excellent Jedi Master. 

Seb was back a minute later with two chairs, a table and a bench. Grogu liked that. He liked to combine sitting and eating on a bench because it was much easier for him to manage.

“My daughter feels the same way. Ah, here she is now with your father. Tell me Grogu, was there really that much water in temple? I would have thought that your father would have been safe standing outside it.”

Grogu glanced over at his dad and his mentor and just shook his head. Somehow Din Djarin had been drenched with water while Ta’lan was completely dry. It was strange, but then that was their way.

To be continued…

[yourneighborhoodporg]

The Guardian

Chapter 8: Blackened Water (Part 1)

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: graphic descriptions of migraines, mention of sleeplessness/loss of appetite, self-sacrifice (if ya squint), angst, fluff, banter, descriptions of violence.

Summary: It had been two weeks since you arrived on Coruscant when The Chosen One invited you to join him in an impromptu Starfighter piloting session. After reminiscing about the weeks prior, you, Anakin, Ahsoka, and R2-D2 decide to transform the lesson into a game. However, you are quick to learn that pushing this ship to its limit was sure to have unintended complications.

Song Inspo: Migraine — Twenty One Pilots

Words: 6k

A/n: Looks like things are about to get complicated... please comment/pm if you'd like to be on the Taglist! And lmk your thoughts on this chapter :)

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Series Masterlist

So much like the moon, we show the world only one and veil our many faces, even from the sun — Jason Versey

“It’s not that I don’t want to learn how to pilot a Starfighter, I’m just not sure if I want to learn from you.”

You spoke forcefully into the comlink headset, its rounded, copper microphone hovering inches from quarrelsome lips. You were currently situated in a Republic Starfighter’s Co-Pilot Forward Gunner’s cockpit, and its rushing drone was creating a deafening habitat that drove you to raise your voice had you any hope of communicating with Anakin, Ahsoka, or Anakin’s droid companion R2-D2 at any point during this flight. Still, the boundless rush failed to block you from continuing your exploration of the fighter’s gunnery controls, spelled out by the glaring interactive screen nestled in the jutted crook to your right.

“I’ll have you know that I’m the best pilot the Jedi have, if not, the Galaxy,” Anakin defended, his mechanically muffled voice crackling into your earpiece while he directed the fighter’s acceleration around Coruscant’s curvature.

You flexed a doubtful brow at his cockiness, despite his inability to see you from the main pilot’s cockpit stationed a meter ahead, just before the bird’s nose.

“Weren’t you the one who crash-landed that shuttle on Hoth in the first place?” You challenged.

“They’ve got you there,” Ahsoka piped up, the young voice spluttering through your headset from her perch in the tail gunner’s pit directly behind.

“That wasn’t my fault,” he huffed.

You shook your head at the exchange, levity conquering facial muscles that usually endured some semblance of placidity as you carried on with your analysis of the ship’s offensive capabilities.

In the seconds that followed, a brief silence unfolded across the fighter’s private comms channel, though that didn’t deter you from continuing to tap away at the informative screen just below your fingertips. Needless to say, despite focusing your mind on canons and proton torpedo launcher specifications, the prolonged lull in conversation streamlined your thoughts into deeper ruminations as your evolving muscle memory assumed control.

It had been nearly two weeks since your arrival on Coruscant, and you were finding that you had a knack for acclimating quickly to the drastically contrasting environment. The warmer weather, busier urban environment, and abundance of Jedi-specific resources were quite the staggering changes from your meager, solitary existence among boundless blizzards and bloodthirsty beasts.

So, it didn’t take much convincing to welcome the transition with open arms.

You were still settling in, so, rationally, you recognized that you weren’t as versed in the Jedi Temple’s daily happenings as its more veteran residents. However, from the behavior you observed alone, you could still tell that time dragged far more gradually than the status quo, even when compared to the beginning few days of your arrival.

At first, you noticed that meetings among the Jedi Council had become less frequent. There was little to discuss while they awaited news from Temple technicians who, sector-by-sector, continued their analysis of each minutia of the Jedi’s expansive communications array. And when they did convene, it was usually due to handfuls of temporarily visiting clones, dispatched from their units to deliver on-the-ground intelligence directly to assigned generals who would then liaise any necessary information to the Council for further instructions.

Generals, you sighed inwardly. The taste of that word being used to describe Jedi was still akin to the tangy expiration of blue milk. A sign of the times, you supposed. So, again, you pushed that thought away.

You continued your recollection, even harking back to that strange, incongruous feeling that overcame your senses when you spotted your first set of clones. Rationally, you knew what to expect. Beings that looked exactly like each other in most, if not every conceivable way. Though, despite that assumption, you’d found that even in the briefest of interactions, these clones seemed to be some of the most diverse and spirited individuals you’d ever met.

Sure, you hadn’t chanced upon that many beings in your lifetime. But of the few troopers you did encounter, they certainly stood in stark contrast against that backdrop of Coruscanti civilians and Jedi from your recent past.

They were dedicated to their craft and their generals, drove into the depths of battle without the protection of the Force, and supported each other like true brothers in arms.

And with all your being, you commended that.

Maybe that’s why you were looking forward to meeting more of their comrades and discovering how their relationship with the Jedi Order came to be. You could only learn so much from those few, fleeting conversations in a passing walkway. Especially because their presence was always so short-lived.

Once a new directive was assigned by the Council, the visiting batches were soon whisked away, once again into the strange, galaxy-wide relay race in the name of secure communications while the Council melted back into their brief slumber. You supposed it was the natural consequence of the Republic Army’s temporary reliance on snail mail, but it was all still so strange nonetheless.

You had to admit, though, that things had begun to pick up in the last week. You remembered hearing passively from a congregation of Masters moving through a large hall one afternoon, that a smattering of Jedi had been sent out alongside the most recent collection of clone drop-ins. Some of those named individuals returned after a few days, having spotted them in the Archives, a refractory, or even conversing with Master Windu.

But the ones you didn’t see again?

You could only assume that they were continuing to traverse the Galaxy on some unknown mission in the name of peace.

But word of mouth was not your only source of information regarding the curbed release of Jedi back to the Front. You had, at times, happened to see it for yourself. Like just the other day, when passing by one of the Temple’s main hangars on the way to another sparring session with Anakin. Just by chance, out of the corner of your eye, you’d caught a pair of Jedi preparing to depart alone. There was no clone in sight by their powered-up Nu-class attack shuttle, red and white markings trailing its spine as it gaily awaited the two passengers conversing lowly at the bottom of the boarding ramp. You remembered it was a duo of black-robbed, green-tinted Mirialans— Master and Padawan, their relative ages suggested. Off to another untold destination, but, this time, without a crew of troopers.

You recalled thinking at that moment: maybe the Council has grown more agreeable with the concept of dispatching Jedi alone to temporary assignments?

Then again, their sudden departure might have had more to do with the need to immediately transmit vital information to a distant battalion than anything else.

Either way, it was all a guess. You had learned fairly quickly in your time at the Temple that The Council considered most wartime information as need-to-know. Even Master Windu, in the few times you’d met with him, was reticent to share any news with you that didn’t directly concern your being.

At any rate, those instances of strategic departures were rare, leaving many Jedi to find a way to occupy themselves during this involuntary downtime.

You, personally, were utilizing this time the best way you could— as an opportunity to address the persistent migraines that’d been plaguing you for the past week and a half.

Even in the cockpit of a Starfighter, thousands of kilometers away from Coruscant’s golden inscriptions, you could still recall it all so perfectly.

They would start off imperceptibly stunted, pecking away at your senses so gently that you’d barely notice their presence until the draining aches inflamed into pounding thumps deep at the core of your brainstem.

The worst part was that you never knew when they were going to strike next. It was just all so…sporadic.

They’d crawl into your sinuses during early afternoon drills, nibbling at your attention mere minutes into attempting a particularly complicated, defensive acrobatic which would accordingly backfire from the ordeal’s impetuosity. Other times, it was in the evening, usually erupting in your skull halfway through supper, and, often, smack dab in the middle of a sentence aimed at one of the three Jedi who’d whisked you away from Hoth weeks ago.

Naturally, regardless of your hope to learn more about The Chosen One, his former Master, and Padawan during these times, this strange affliction’s consequences would routinely cut such moments short. The second that distinctive, rising thunder would rumble, you were pressed to conjure up some excuse to retire early, leaving most of your plain meal uneaten from the unexpected loss of appetite in each premature retreat to your quarters.

In addition to coping with the persistently tugging weights chained to the back of your eyeballs, you were, to the best of your ability, trying to keep its effects as discreet as possible. You’d keep your signature muted and expression neutral as the warning signs of an impending strike encroached on your senses, removing yourself from whichever training, social, or study activity may have fanned its flames.

But despite it all, these considerations were not enough to deter the occasional wisp of care that would flutter from Ahsoka’s brows following your early conclusion of a joint study session. Or the flare of worry that would spurt behind Anakin’s fiery eyes after you ended a spar prematurely, hand cradling your forehead the moment you’d retreated from his line of vision.

Your efforts to obscure any reflection of pain especially did little to dissuade the concern that rippled across Obi-Wan’s features last night, when in the middle of a teasing escapade with Anakin, your brilliant grin faltered into a thin, immutable line as a sudden spear to the base of your skull compelled you to briskly break off from the group before the impartial expression you strained to support wavered.

Discerningly, you understood that despite your efforts, the three of them knew something was transpiring. Still, you were confident enough that your exercise in representing these headaches as sudden fatigue would present these moments as too bland to warrant serious discussion.

You wanted, no, needed to keep any sense of severity to a minimum. You’d spent the last decade alone on a lethal, ice planet, your entire life being the sum experience of staring down danger’s sharpest teeth and shaving them blunt by yourself. All in all, you’d certainly dealt with threats far greater than the danger of a persistent set of migraines, you joked inwardly. So you knew that, with time, you’d figure out how to trim away this roadblock too.

And without involving The Chosen One.

You thought back to your first working theory of the issue, that your body was still adapting to its changed environment. Even though you felt energized by this new planet’s radiant sunlight, the heat could have still affected you more than you first realized. But even with this, you understood that only time would tell.

In the interim, you found it unnecessary to worry your Jedi acquaintances. They had no need for knowledge of your sleepless nights, fueled by mushrooming, stings bursting behind your forehead. Shattering you awake in a puddle of strenuous sweat and breathless utterances that disheveled your sheets.

“Just go away already,” you huffed one early morning.

You were The Guardian after all. Tasked with protecting The Chosen One. Roping in others to aid you in your own, comparably minuscule toils would have stood in quiet opposition to your title’s purpose.

Yes. You were convinced. You’d find a solution some other way.

Anyways, addressing your mind’s inner facets was only a small strand in the meadow of free time that had laid at your fingertips. You also took an appreciable advantage of the interim to explore your new home— The Jedi Temple.

You recalled finding it somewhat overwhelming, the Temple’s colossal model, constructed piece-by-piece over thousands of years with the building blocks of Jedi evolution and spirituality. But, in spite of its sweeping presence, you felt uninhibited to tour each nook and cranny like the labyrinth it was.

You’d encountered many Jedi this way, all in various training dojos, halls, gardens, and other, more secluded, areas as they too took advantage of the passing days to train, meditate, or study. It was actually how you, twice, inadvertently ran into Anakin and Ahsoka, during these cursory, investigative stints. Once, while they were in the midst of a spar, and the other, amid one of Anakin’s on-the-fly lessons about the reality of the battlefield.

Sitting here in this rumbling, Starfighter’s primary gunner cockpit, you had to admit that you were really delighted when you saw them like this. Working as Master and Padawan in their own, unique way. It proved to you that Anakin was taking his Mastership more seriously.

You remembered how he’d expressed to you his hesitancy with being assigned a Padawan last week as the two of you strolled down one of the Temple’s many walkways in search of an empty training room. Though you were not surprised, as it was something that you already learned from Obi-Wan, who had complained about this very issue to you over one of your evening meals. A plate of hawk-bat eggs, if you recalled correctly. He cited to you the young Jedi’s reluctance to attend several of Ahsoka’s training remote sessions, which, according to Master Kenobi, was an important, reoccurring exercise prescribed to all Padawans.

Separately, you’d happened to already know how the Jedi Order historically drove responsibility into its members. It was not just via off-world missions or Knighthood trials, but through the combined experience of guiding the young with one’s own expertise. Qui-Gon often mentioned how his mentorship years morphed him into the wise and capable man you’d known him to be. And you didn’t believe either that Anakin was immune to such windows into maturity.

So, at that moment, with the protesting, chestnut-haired Jedi strolling inches from your side, you were sure to remind the irresolute man that they wouldn’t have given him that duty had they not believed him to be ready.

“Now you’re starting to sound like Obi-Wan.” He huffed, crossing his arms as you both continued your brisk saunter. “I’m just not meant to have a Padawan!”

You eyed the insistent Jedi soberly. “Anakin, I’ll tell you one thing. For someone who I know hopes to grow as a Jedi, you certainly seem to tie your own feet together when the perfect opportunities to do so present themselves.”

That conversation must’ve knocked a bolt loose in that rigid mind of his, you supposed, after seeing with your own eyes his efforts to do more as her Master in the days that followed.

And that included today. In this bulky, ARC-170 Starfighter. The inspiration for Anakin’s decision to kill two buzzbirds with one stone.

After admitting to your limited, hands-on piloting experience over that same dinner you’d ended early the night before, Anakin posed the brilliant idea of teaching you himself. A proposition you’d have had better luck turning down had he not already been planning to take Ahsoka out into the exosphere to deliver his own set of ad-hoc tutorials.

If you could even call it that.

According to him, all he had to do was reserve a different Starfighter class and the three of you would be good to go. So, you accepted, hoping all the way up until you entered the secondary cockpit that maybe Anakin had a preplanned lesson that wouldn’t end in infamy.

That was, of course, until the actual flying started.

Refocusing your attention to continue inspecting the gunner controls to your right, you soon found greater ease in probing the laser canons’ maneuverability with time. In fact, you were able to quite quickly understand this new model’s updated variations, and how those tied into its modernized combative functions. This was most transparent earlier at the flight’s start, when, after a short brief from Anakin, you were comfortable enough to trigger the fighter’s new S-foil wing system, a state-of-the-art feature which supposedly allowed for greater heat dispersion between the ship’s engines and canons in high-speed situations.

Yes, you lacked the heuristic flying and gunner skills, but your studies on Hoth were not for naught. You had long ago memorized the user-based functionalities of older starships. Its parts, controls, functions, and capabilities, employing your own shelter as a dissectible specimen to fuel your understanding. So, while you didn’t have Anakin’s piloting experience or dexterity, you were still rather capable of exercising that garnered knowledge to pick up parallel operations fairly quickly.

It was also why, in reaching hour two of Anakin’s lesson, his sporadic, step-by-step sputterings of how and when he engaged elementary control functions did little to quench your parched alacrity.

So, you broke the silence.

“So…when are the gunners gonna become pilots?” You asked, both on your and Ahsoka’s behalf.

“You think you’re ready to take the reins?” Anakin raised, a hint of playfulness echoing behind the occasional pop of the radioed voice in your ear.

You smirked. “Only one way to find out.”

Just as you finished, a small, yellow window blinked open at the top of your screen. You briskly scanned it, recognizing the primary controls transfer confirmation request before gingerly tapping accept.

In half a second, the flight computer once shrouded in darkness directly in front of you flickered to life. It began by displaying various levels of system readiness in navy blue text on the left. Shield artillery, forward and aft stability, among others. On the opposite side shone the fighter’s coordinate plane, a graphed image depicting the ship’s location based on immediate surroundings that were divided by orange, sectional rings.

They all buzzed to life in conjunction with a control panel of glowing, kaleidoscopic buttons, switches, and several familiar levers, their color-coded rings now steadily blinking a range of unnatural reds, blues, and yellows by your fingertips.

“Let’s see what you got,” Anakin crackled through.

You hummed in concentration while wrapping a set of fingers around the navigation lever, feeling its give as you put your other hand to work adjusting the bird’s speed parameters on the animated control panel. Once the specifications were fixed, you lifted your head back toward the speckled darkness of space, gently nudging the lever forward to dip the fighter.

And you sensed the change immediately.

The modest pressure of your back suddenly tugging to the rear support infused your fingertips with dawning excitement. You pulled the lever toward you with greater confidence now in the directional shift, sensing the variation in the fighter’s ascent while absorbing your first taste of the craft’s feel, as well as its movement’s interaction with the Force.

Before long, your certainty swelled further, stirring you to twist the rapidly scaling fighter into a backward loop while listening to the metal grunt merrily around you.

Despite swiftly finishing that circle, you were reticent to give the bird a moment to rest. Instead, you directed the Starfighter to climb once more, adjusting the panel controls for a hammerhead descent. Even now, in this rapid ascent, you body still prickled at the fighter’s consistency with the imputed speed adjustments as you neared the desired pivot point.

Then, you felt it.

That minute weightlessness that commanded you to yank the navigational lever to the right, bringing the ship into another sharp, controlled dive for a few seconds before leveling it off into a normal flight pattern.

“Not bad,” Anakin began. “But those little tricks aren’t gonna do much good on the battlefield.”

“It’s not like we have any battle droids for target practice,” Ahsoka commented. “Or anything to train in defending against.”

She had a point, you considered inwardly.

But if your time on a deserted planet taught you anything, it was that even the most resourceless locales could be molded into an advantage.

“And isn’t this a clone ship?” She continued.

You glanced around at your surroundings beyond the compact cockpit as their conversation reigned unabated, hoping to catch sight of anything that could be put to use as you stuck to the fighter’s default flight path programmed to circulate Coruscant’s outer edge.

“Yeah,” Anakin irritatedly drew. “But it was the only model that could fit three beings. It’s similar enough to the Delta-7s anyways.”

A sudden, protesting flurry of high-pitched, sundry beeps sloped in pitch from your headset, but still failed to draw your preoccupied glare away from its scan of the region.

Though it did precipitate a sigh in the blue-eyed Jedi

“Sorry, Artoo. Three beings, and a droid.”

Then, you spotted it.

A few hundred kilometers to your right floated a scattered array of tiny meteors, traveling in an undefined shape at an imperceptible speed. Far enough away from Coruscant to avoid accidental atmospheric entry, and small enough to avoid causing any real damage to a fighter with as heavy shielding as this one.

“I may have a solution to that,” you voiced while veering the Starfighter’s nose toward the crumbly assemblage of hickory brown space rocks.

“Let’s hear it!” Ahsoka eagerly exclaimed, having had little else to do but listen to Anakin’s instructions in the rear gunner pod for the last few hours.

“You see that up ahead?” You asked, nodding to the nonspecific structure before remembering that your companions couldn’t see you.

“The meteors?” Anakin questioned.

You cognitively hummed, the formation expanding as the fighter quickly neared its destination.

“Nope,” you popped. “That, is an enemy starship.” You asserted. “Anakin, how’s your object manipulation?”

He scoffed. “Do you even need to ask?”

“Even in space?” You lightly teased, bringing the bird in to perpetually circumnavigate the ruble consortium.

“Especially in space.”

Somehow, you could almost taste his grin through your rumbling headset.

“I’m holding you to that,” you quipped, a small smile slipping by your lips.

Without skipping a beat, you leaned your head back to address Ahsoka. “Master Skywalker here is gonna be our intrepid, enemy gunner.”

You gesticulated toward the backdrop. “These rocks are his ammo. I’ll be the primary pilot, and, Ahsoka, you’re my gunner. Oh! And Artoo?”

You glanced up at the droid’s blue and white head, peeking out from his secured cavity in the center of a divider wall that separated you and Ahsoka.

“Do try to keep Anakin from accidentally destroying our way home.”

The droid buzzed in a rising chime of inspirited affirmation as his head danced into a spin.

“Don’t worry, Artoo,” Ahsoka reassured while the air of your cabin flooded with the fizzing whir of her dorsal canon elevating. “Silvey and I will make sure you don’t have much work to do.”

“It seems I must teach you a lesson in speaking too soon, my young Padawan,” Anakin sassed.

“Alright,” you interjected, keeping an eye on the meteor cluster to your left. “The battle starts now.”

“Let’s have it.”

Just as those final words fluttered from your dried lips, a fluctuation in the hovering mass caught your eye. You centered your vision, catching a knot of nearly twenty rocks assembling into a spearhead formation near the crowd’s outer rim. That was, before, without notice, those jagged rocks sharply launched toward the fighter’s closest flank.

“Hold on!” You called out instinctively before bringing the bird down into a sudden plunge.

The whizzing meteor configuration rushed after the Starfighter’s tail, giving Ahsoka the prime latitude to start shooting down the shard-like projectiles with the zapping hiss of her maneuverable canon.

While Anakin’s Padawan sustained her calculated assault on the cluster’s center bludgeoners, you, however, were beginning to sense a hairsplitting breakaway in their diving formation. Intending to investigate this further, you glanced at the coordinate plane to the right of your screen. There, you soon spotted two chaotic bundles of flashing red dots, rapidly approaching either wing at a speed that doubled their blinking rate.

This discovery was, naturally, followed by the occasional, yet abruptly swelling, clangs of eluding debris that bounced off the bird’s aft. Thankfully, Artoo was at the ready, already working to readjust the deflector shields to the rear as he emitted an arrangement of disapproving, bellowed beeps.

“I’m doing my best, Artoo!” Ahsoka droned.

You, on the other hand, were keeping careful attention on those threatening, crimson flecks. So much so, that your grip on the throttle mindlessly tightened as they relentlessly inched and inched ever so closer.

But you waited, relaying their distance internally from the screen’s navigation display as you formulated a plan on the fly.

100 meters…50 meters…15 meters.

This should work.

You wrenched the lever to the right, hard, bringing the fighter into a sudden tilt. The wings parked at 12 and 6 o’clock as the rocks once speedily approaching each end blindly whizzed over your head and by the ship’s belly.

You paused here for only a moment, permitting the last pebble to zoom past before righting the fighter.

Now, having brought the environment back into a gradual equilibrium, you’d believed the fore was secure enough for you to address the swelling pummeling you were receiving from behind. So you stretched your neck back, expecting to momentarily check in with Ahsoka’s progress.

But in that ever so brief twist away from the viewport, you just as suddenly sensed some whirlwind convergence in the path of the bird’s nose.

Having spun around, eyes searching, you were soon able to abruptly spy those same, once-dodged clusters presently returning with newfound vengeance.

“Anakin…” you chided, taking the fighter into another evading dip. “Last time I checked, laser bolts can’t redirect themselves.”

“These are…special laser bolts,” The Chosen One brightly justified as his dual-speared formations endured an unforgiving swoop and approach.

You huffed, once more returning to the panel to readjust the speed parameters before taking the ship up again in hopes of shaking these ‘Silvey-seeking lasers.’

The next twenty or so minutes of this little, spontaneous exercise protracted more of the same. Ahsoka primarily handled all the aft attacks. And any time a knot of projectiles came whistling toward the fighter’s flanks or fore, you retained a calculated quickness in twisting, looping, or diving away to elude the enemy.

You did this especially well when, at some point, Anakin guided his mineral minions into another full-frontal attack. With minimal latency, you rolled the ship into a small curve, swiftly pointing its tail at the hastily advancing masses so that Ahsoka could take over, all in an effort to tighten these battle-necessary skills.

It was all fun and games, of course, until Artoo erupted into a fit of jangling chirps, which you altogether roughly interpreted as a plea to pause.

It was in those following moments that, you too, started to notice the crater-like burrows that speckled the ship’s hull and nose, its cherry red, warpaint bands unreasonably chipped, and its canon arms dented.

And you could only imagine what the aft looked like.

It was clear that the three of you had certainly given this Starfighter a thorough beating.

“Sorry buddy,” you replied while gradually levying the ship to a standstill.

You assumed Anakin had also received the memo as the previously merciless bombardment of space debris clusters stalled like sleeping statues around you, blanketing back into the natural confines of the surrounding white-speckled vacuum.

“Guess the drill got away from us,” you continued, bringing up the command controls transfer menu on your screen before programming it to relay all functions to the main cockpit.

You endured in the same breath, powering down the canon engines with a deflated huff. “If you need any help with the repairs, my hands are yours.”

No matter his noticeable frustrations, the astromech must have still appreciated the offer as your headset swiftly resounded with spirited whistles of gratitude.

“Okay,” Anakin uttered, the secondary pilot screen, panel, and levers before you dimming back into the blackness of your cabin with a depleted drone as he accepted the changeover. “One more thing I want to try before we rotate positions.”

Your attentiveness toward Skywalker’s words was short-lived, however, as an unexpected, shrill blare resounded throughout your suffocating compartment.

“Um,” Ahsoka emitted.

Instinctively, you glanced at the single active interface to your right, only to register a flashing red warning plastered above the primary gunner controls. Then, just seconds into your efforts to detect the source, a female voice spilled into the exposed space, parroting the same admonition flashing before your eyes from interior speakers.

“Uh, Anakin?” You articulated, staring at the now, decidedly visible safety warning. “Why are you suppressing the inertial dampeners?”

“I want to test the terminal rotational velocity of this new model before it’s dispatched to my battalion,” he nonchalantly explained.

You peeked down at his cockpit, registering the ever-shifting essence of the back of his head as he seemingly prepped the ship for whatever stunt was next on the agenda.

“Isn’t that what the piloting screen’s for?” Ahsoka challenged. “To give you those numbers?”

“Yes,” he muttered, annoyed. “But I can’t get a good feel for its real maneuverability with the dampeners at max.”

“I don’t think I’m gonna like this,” you breathed while the batting crimson glow of the ship’s safety system dragged on its incessant screech.

“Don’t worry,” Anakin cheered seconds before a thrumming, mechanical purr sounded from either side of the ship. “It’s perfectly safe.”

Your head swiveled toward the hums, enabling you to notice the wings’ X formation slowly collapse into a thicker, horizontal line with a metallic snap.

“I think the warning lady disagrees with you,” Ahsoka deadpanned while Artoo chirped in with jumbled blips of agreement.

You exhaled. “I’m gonna have to jump in on this bandwagon, too, Anakin.”

You reflexively gesticulated to your right.

“Closing the wings will burn us up.”

“Only if the canon engines are on, which you turned off,” he reminded. “Besides, having them open will drag our rotational speed.”

Realizing that his mind was made up, you relented, leaning back into your cushioned backrest as you folded your arms in a mix of apprehension and quiet protest.

Logically, you knew Anakin was a talented pilot. But in the short time you’d known him, he always seemed to be one switch away from a reckless decision that couldn’t be rescinded. You could only rely on the Force to warn you otherwise but, for now, you took comfort instead in mumbling one reoccurring thought aloud.

“I’m gonna regret this.”

“Okay, prepare yourselves,” the blue-eyed Jedi declared as you felt the uniform pull of a Starfighter in motion.

Anakin was not one to dally, you knew that too. But you were also not quite expecting the speed or suddenness with which he instantly accelerated the craft.

Mere meters into the flight, the chestnut-haired Jedi launched the fighter with the momentum of a passionate lightning bolt, driving your entire being to squash back as the sudden force partially flattened your skin and burrowed in between chapped lips and suddenly exposed gums. Your hands shot impulsively out to either side of the cramped cockpit, flattened palms shoving against both engine-warmed walls for some semblance of balance.

But it was no use. The thrill-seeking man continued to drive the bird to newly discovered, exponential speeds.

Mind briefly flickering, you recalled your other Jedi companion while trying to catch your breath. You could only imagine what poor Ahsoka was experiencing on the opposite side of the craft as she was thrust forward by the inverse velocity.

But evidently, none of these worries had crossed Anakin’s mind. Instead, you imagined his eyes’ were thinly focused on the speedometer as he sensed the pulverizing oppressions around him.

That was, you guessed, until he found a tempo that finally suited his rotational needs because just as promptly as he accelerated, the adrenaline-addicted man sharply jerked the Starfighter mid-race into a tight, unyielding roll.

The only word you could use to describe the sensation, was uncanny.

There was something about the way it dragged you from your awareness. The feeling of being simultaneously smashed together and ripped apart across every point of your body not only blurred your vision, but it seemed to draw you far enough away from your senses that you could barely feel the comforting touch of the Force. It was as if it flowed inches from your fingernails, but not close enough to wet them.

Still there, but just out of reach.

Instead, your entire experience centered on the raw rush of a repressive speed’s disconnected passions as the fighter’s rotations puckered.

Then, you felt a familiar twinge rap at your forehead’s center.

You tried to thrust it away, refocusing your attention on the feel of the increasingly searing metal under outstretched fingertips to ground yourself. But even as you did so, a new wave of clamoring throbs smacked you upside the head, blasting you into a new realm of haziness.

You knew the drill. An unpleasant, yet manageable headache like this one was sure to last a long while. The rest of the morning, perhaps, if recent history had any say. But they hadn’t prevented you from addressing more pressing matters. Like those involved with gunning a Starfighter.

Or surviving one of Anakin’s test flights.

At least, not up until this point.

By some means, the keen pulse that was now branching into your sinuses and across the bridge of your nose suddenly developed a more piercing vigor. Each jab increasingly resembled the perforations of a bayonet, as if some invisible force was repeatedly impaling your skull like a pirate digging for lost treasures. Time became relative while your entire dome felt like a massive, gaping wound, unlatched to a world of acidic fingernails that hungrily tunneled through the gash.

You retracted both arms from the cockpit’s flanks, allowing your body to writhe to the rhythms of spinning g-forces as you slammed each flattened palm against the sides of your head. While the agony deepened at a rate comparable to the twisting ship’s bolt, you pressed down on your sinuses, harshly, charged with the secret desire to squeeze out the pain with your brain marching inches behind if need be.

Just as rapidly, you could tell that you were reaching a breaking point in your silent fortitude. With the caliber at which this was worsening, you knew that, very soon, it was going to be too strenuous to keep your involuntary, disturbed vocalizations to a minimum. You couldn’t take it. It was too much.

You just needed it to stop.

You needed everything to stop.

“Stop…” you croaked weakly.

But it was too soft for the headset to register as the fighter continued its twirling trek with no acknowledgment from any passengers.

So you tried again, with just a tad more energy.

“Please, stop…”

Your depleted voice was washed away by the dogged bawl of the earsplitting siren which kept drenching your vision in cycles of cerise.

Another shattering knife ran through your skull with a burning fire that combatted that of the ship’s engines as it steadily milked your eyes for brimming tears.

You gasped.

“Anakin, stop!”

The Starfighter abruptly decelerated, steadily relaxing into a leveled state as the deadening drone of easing engines devolved into a bass grunt.

You welcomed the instantaneous airlessness that invaded your bones and softened your skin as the cabin depressurized. Somehow, in the seconds that followed, it had even given you a momentary burst of vitality, supplying a few seconds for you to reach out to Force’s boundless flow.

Yet, despite quickly intertwining yourself with its reassuring brush, the exquisite ache that racked your head was hardly tempered by the change of pace.

“My bad,” Anakin chuckled lightly. “Got carried away.”

There was nothing you could do to block the shaky breath that trembled past drained lips.

“Silvey?” Anakin questioned stiffly, having seemingly heard your pained exhale.

“What’s wrong?” Ahsoka intently inquired through a headset that truly felt light years away. “Did something happen?”

Out of barely-centered vision, you caught a bushy-haired shape in the main cockpit contort toward your form as a soft voice invaded your ears.

“Hey, are you…?”

“I think it’s time for Ahsoka to take my place,” you shoved out, gravelly voice nearly betraying you before you relented, resting your eyelids in a temporary rest.

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[askbensolo]

Chapter 7: Welcome to Ryloth

Hi, I’m Ben, Nice to Meet You Masterlist

A couple of weeks after Fannie came to visit my family, I came to Ryloth to visit hers.

I’ve told you that I’ve lived all over. But my residences have been limited to metropolitan worlds—planets with the infrastructure to host the New Republic capital, and planets that are part of the New Republic to begin with. So, Ryloth is a little different than I’m used to.

Ryloth is located in the Outer Rim, beyond Tatooine and Geonosis. It is the homeworld of the Twi’lek people, and features both lush forests and rocky terrain. It is not like Hoth, or Dagobah, where the entire planet is comprised of a single biome.

The people of Ryloth are as diverse as the planet itself. Its villages and communities are much more isolated from one another, and have developed distinct societies with their own cultural quirks. Even the language—which is called Twi’leki in its spoken form, and Ryl in its written form—differs from area to area, and is made more complex by the addition of lekku gestures (which are sometimes indicated in Ryl with special accents). A word said in one Twi’leki dialect can mean something completely different in another dialect. Even within the same dialect, words can have different meanings depending on the tone with which they are spoken and the way one moves one’s lekku.

The Twi’lek people have suffered thousands of years of oppression, going all the way back to the Old Republic. Their women have been sought after as sex slaves—their men, as forced labor. During the Clone Wars, the Confederacy of Independent Systems invaded Ryloth, forcing them to seek alliance with the Galactic Republic. The Republic offered the Twi’lek people its protection…until, of course, the Republic turned into the Galactic Empire.

The Empire, though not stated explicitly, was a speciesist regime. They treated the Twi’leks like animals, and subjected them to the same injustices they had faced for centuries prior. The people of Ryloth rejoiced when the Rebel Alliance defeated the Empire at the Battle of Endor.

Sick of being controlled by outside governing systems, Ryloth is now an independent world, and belongs to no one but the Rylothians (though, this, of course, does not render it entirely free from outside influence).

But there has always been another type of power at play, in the lives of the Rylothian people—besides the warring governments and the despots at their helms—and those are the criminals and the outlaws: the Hutt gangs, the spice cartels, the slavers.

You have the pirates like the famed Hondo Ohnaka, reckless and cunning and lawless.

You have the bounty hunters like Cad Bane and Boba Fett, surprisingly professional despite their bloodlust.

You have the Han Solos—the “I’m just doing a job” sort of guys—who may only be in it for the money, but keep the machine of oppression running nonetheless. 

And then you have the Jabba the Hutts, the Dryden Voses—the ones who make you wonder how they ended up in such a position of power, when they even hardly seem to lift a finger—and yet, they are the ones who drive the game, and pay everyone else to keep on playing.

Ruut Pentarra is one of those men.

I asked Fannie what she knew about her father. Despite being his offspring, she knows very little about him.

Nor does she particularly wish to know.

Most of Ryloth is poor. Their economy is weak from centuries of exploitation. It is common to know Twi’leks on your own world who are sending credits back home to their families on Ryloth. Even free Twi’leks, you may often find, are sometimes suffering slavery under another name.

Ruut Pentarra, however, is not poor. And I would tell you why, and how—but again, I don’t know.

I don’t think he wishes for anyone to know.

The Pentarra estate is located in the dry, mountainous Tcha’buli region, surrounded by imposing red rockfaces and far away from any other surrounding villages. There is little rainfall in this area, and the ground is stone, veiled with a shallow layer of dry dust and crumbled shale—but the estate itself resembles an exotic oasis, encased in a green, vibrant garden, which is supported by an invisible climate control field surrounding the grounds. You cannot see the clime-con field, but you can immediately feel the rise in humidity when you step within the gates. It is as if Pentarra wished to thumb his nose at nature, and prove he could live quite luxuriously even in a place where nature had never intended him to.

When my taxi speeder dropped me off outside the grounds, Fannie was waiting for me—along with three other women: one older, and two younger. I recognized them from Fannie’s holos as her mother and two of her sisters. I waved, feeling nervous all of a sudden—but Fannie came at me, and hugged me, and then I felt better.

“Oh, Ben, you made it!” she said, beaming.

“Sure did,” I said, kissing her on the cheek, and patted her on the back with my free hand—but over the top of her head I was looking at her family, who, well…did not seem very happy to see me.

I glanced down at Fannie. She seemed unaware of this.

“Ben, I’d like you to meet my mother, Fashha,” Fannie said, stepping back and gesturing toward her mother, who was staring at me, and not kindly.

Fashha looked to be in her late thirties. She had pale blue skin—a cooler tone than Fannie’s seafoam green—with dark blue stripes on her lekku, like the design on a fish’s scales. She was dressed in a deep violet outfit that covered all of her, yet did not conceal much. It wrapped snugly around her frame, unlike the flowing tunics that Fannie liked to wear. And I also noticed she wore a headdress of little seashells.

She was also looking at me with a great deal of surprise…and suspicion.

Fashha turned to Fannie, and urgently whispered something I didn’t understand while Fannie’s sisters exchanged glances and wry smirks. Fannie whispered back, doing her best to smile—but I could tell something was off.

Finally, Fannie took her mother’s arm and pulled her a couple of steps toward me. “Mamaa, this is Ben Solo.”

Fashha did not seem interested in knowing who I was.

I tried to assume the best, and carry on like normal. She was my girlfriend’s mom, after all.

“Hi, Fashha. I’m Ben,” I said, putting out my hand for a handshake. “Nice to meet you.” I was thankful to have remembered what handshakes were this time, unlike when I had first met Fannie.

But…Fashha only stared at my hand distrustfully.

I stared, hand out, helpless.

Fannie chuckled, embarrassed, and took my hand, giving it a squeeze.

“On Ryloth,” she told me in a hushed voice, “men bow.”

“Bow?”

Fannie demonstrated for me—she crossed her right arm over her chest and put her left arm behind her back, and then she crossed her left ankle behind her right, and bent over at the waist.

“You couldn’t have shown me that earlier?” I muttered, trying clumsily to copy her.

“Sorry,” she said apologetically. “Would you have remembered to teach me how to give a handshake, if I didn’t know?”

That was fair. I guessed I wouldn’t have.

I bowed toward Fashha, and only wobbled a little.

Fashha placed both hands behind her back and inclined her head to me, and said something I didn’t understand.

“She says she’s pleased to meet you,” Fannie translated.

Could’ve fooled me, I thought to myself. The woman wouldn’t smile, or even look my way.

I supposed I could forgive that Fashha didn’t speak much to me. After all, she didn’t speak Basic.

But I knew Fannie’s sisters did—and they wouldn’t speak to me, either.

“Ben, this is Connie,” Fannie said amiably, gesturing toward the sister with blue skin. “Connie, this is Ben.”

Connie said something in Twi’leki that I couldn’t understand—but I’ve had a younger sister long enough to know sass when I hear it, regardless of language. Connie seemed to have the most attitude out of the four sisters (I hadn’t met Pennie, yet, but Fannie had described her as quiet and timid and shy.).

“Yes, Connie, I know you know who he is,” said Fannie patiently. “I’m just introducing you formally.”

Connie was taller than Fannie, but not as tall as Ginnie. She had deep blue skin that was a little darker than her mother’s complexion, and deep-set brown eyes, sharply lined and with thick, dark lashes. She had the same full lips as Fannie, which often quirked up in a smile that seemed to be at your expense. She had the same striped lekku as her mother and a shapely figure: narrow at the waist but rounded elsewhere, and she dressed to complement these features. She wore a crop top with a low, square neckline and long, slender sleeves, and low-rise trousers that were open at the sides and revealed the full length of her legs.

I bowed to Connie. She did not make any gesture in reciprocation—though she did at least put in the effort to glare at me.

Awesome. Cool.

“Ben, this is my other sister, Ginnie,” Fannie went on, seemingly unperturbed. “Ginnie, this is Ben.”

Ginnie, in contrast to her two other sisters, was tall and thin, with an angular face and a yellow-green complexion. Her lekku, also narrow, had the same dappled pattern that Fannie’s had—that pale green spotting near the top of her head. The expression on her face hardly ever changed, and she didn’t speak often. Her eyes were set in a squint that reminded me of my dad, or Rey. She was dressed in a one-piece outfit: a halter top connected to long, flowing pants.

Actually, neither Connie nor Ginnie’s clothing would have looked particularly out of place at a shopping mall on my world. I wondered if, even here in the Outer Rim, fashion was still mostly dictated by those on the Core Worlds. They looked even trendier than Fannie—even though Fannie had been offworld, and they hadn’t.

…Then again, perhaps that wasn’t a good metric. It’s not difficult to be trendier than Fannie. She doesn’t pay attention to any of that stuff.

Ginnie seemed about as thrilled to meet me as Connie and Fashha were. “May we go now?” she said—which was the one thing she said at all during the entire course of our introduction. She had a low, earthy voice—in contrast to Fannie’s delicate tones, Connie’s melodic croon, or Fashha’s hushed utterances.

“I…I suppose,” Fannie said, sounding disappointed, and hurt, while also trying to sound grateful and accommodating. The resulting mix was a strange cocktail of wounded sweetness that failed to hide her true feelings, and I felt bad for her.

But if her family noticed, they didn’t seem to care. Fashha and Connie and Ginnie turned swiftly away from us, and walked off toward the house. Fannie sighed as they left.

I put my hand on her shoulder to comfort her…but she seemed to think I did it because I needed her to comfort me. She lifted her head to give me an apologetic smile.

“Don’t worry, Ben,” she assured me. “They’ll warm up to you.”

“You don’t need to promise me that,” I told her, then paused. “Hey, uh…what was your mom saying to you? When you were first introducing us?”

“Oh, ah…” Fannie said, sounding embarrassed. She fiddled with her skirts, and then reached out her hand toward my suitcase, as if looking for something to do.

I swatted her hand away affectionately. She was so much smaller than me—I wasn’t about to let her carry it.

We began to walk toward the house.

“Well…” said Fannie slowly, “I…I think my mother was expecting you to be Twi’lek.”

I looked at her, surprised. “You hadn’t told her before I was a human?”

“I shouldn’t have had to,” Fannie said stubbornly. “What difference does it make?”

“Well…you’re right that it shouldn’t make a difference,” I said. “But…that doesn’t change the fact that it is, for some people.”

Interracial relationships aren’t uncommon in our galaxy, but it depends where you go. On the more cosmopolitan worlds, where all kinds of sentients mix, it’s a given—although, there remains a tendency for people to choose partners of species that are similar to their own (and if you want to have biological offspring, that’s your only option). You don’t see a lot of humans and Hutts, for example; unless we’re talking about Jabba the Hutt—but Jabba was pretty well-known for being a little eccentric in his attractions.

But…on a more culturally-insulated planet like Ryloth, I guess I can see why they’d be less ready to accept it.

Twi’lek-human relationships are actually the most common type of interspecies relationship in our galaxy—especially human guy, Twi’lek girl relationships. I’m not sure why…though there’s probably some sociological explanation. People make jokes about it: Rylothian fever, it’s called, when a guy seems to be on a Twi’lek-only dating streak.

Well: I’ve only had one girlfriend, so far. I don’t think we can make a call at this point.

I had never thought about race having a significant impact on our relationship. To be honest, I’d never even thought about Fannie being different from me at all. And maybe part of that was because when she wasn’t on Ryloth, she blended in with the larger galactic melting pot that surrounded her—but whatever the reason, the fact that she was Twi’lek and I was human didn’t matter to me any more than the fact that she was short and I was tall.

But clearly, it mattered to her family.

And…especially to her mother, apparently.

“It’s ironic that my mother and sisters have no problem with my father pursuing Pennie, and yet, this is where they draw the line,” Fannie sighed.

“Well…I can understand why,” I told her. “Ryloth has been invaded by other worlds, especially human-dominated ones, for centuries. I mean…you know that. You’re from here. I know you know that.” I looked at her curiously. “Were you hoping that, when your mom saw me, she’d be too focused on being polite to make a scene?”

Fannie looked embarrassed. “Perhaps I had made such a wish.”

“Aw, c’mon, Fan, you know better than that.” I spread my fingers over the top of her head so that they spanned the entire round part of her skull, and playfully rubbed her head around. (She hates it when I do that.)

“Yes…you’re right. I’m sorry,” she apologized, ducking away and grasping my hand so she could prevent me from annoying her again. She dropped her hand to her side, and we held hands as we walked.

“Y’know…come to think of it, Deirak’s a human, too,” I said. “Did he ever meet your family, when you two were together?”

“No, he never met them,” Fannie replied. “I had told my family beforehand that he was a human, and because of that, they refused to meet him. Which was why, this time, I did not tell my mother what you were. I thought I was making the best decision, given the circumstances…but I suppose it was not the most honest of me.”

That was the second time this month I had become aware of Fannie being less-than-honest. It was strange.

“Well…don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s not your fault. Though…it does feel weird, I guess, to feel  like an outsider. Humans are the dominant species on most worlds where I’ve lived.”

“Yes, that would feel odd for you, wouldn’t it?” Fannie said, with genuine compassion, and I almost laughed—she was too sweet.

“Geez, sister, you don’t need to give me sympathy,” I teased. “You encounter a heck of a lot more speciesism than I do.”

Fannie smiled demurely. “Well. Not really. The only other place I’ve lived besides Ryloth was the Jedi school. I am used to being thought strange by the people around me…but not for my species.”

“Yeah, I guess not, huh,” I said. “But—it’s not just how they treat me that makes me feel weird. It’s also the concept in general, that anyone could be so openly discriminatory. Where I come from, speciesism is seen as a thing of the past. A problem that’s been fixed—though, perhaps we shouldn’t be so quick to think so…but that’s another topic. Anyway. It’s pretty much ingrained in us that all species are equal. We have a mandatory unit on species relations in the New Republic education system.”

“Are all of the schools in the New Republic controlled by the government?” Fannie asked incredulously.

“Well…kinda,” I said. “I mean—obviously there’s thousands of schools per planet, and thousands of planets in the New Republic, so there’s, like, different levels of authority. There’s the galactic level, and the system level, and the planetary level, and the district level—”

“With so many levels, I doubt whoever’s in charge at the largest level would be able to accurately assess what is needed at the smallest levels,” Fannie mused.

That was a good point.

Not that I was gonna give it to her.

“But you don’t even have an organized education system on Ryloth,” I pointed out. “Nor did Luke’s school actually teach you anything, besides how to lift rocks with your mind, or whatever. I mean, the sheer amount of galactic history that I’ve had to teach you—”

“What are you talking about? We learned history at Luke’s school,” Fannie protested.

“Well, yeah—Jedi history—”

“Oh, do be charitable, Ben Solo; Luke taught us about things besides the Jedi—”

“All right then, pop quiz: in what year was the Rimma Trade Route established?”

“Well—I don’t know—that hardly sounds like something I would need to know—”

She was getting so worked up, I found it kind of funny.

I laughed and bent over and kissed the top of her head, and she made a face at me.

“Well, anyway,” I said. “Returning back to the previous subject: I’m always on worlds where everyone looks like me. So it’s probably good for me to get away from that, sometimes. Cultural enrichment. That kind of thing.”

And right as I said that, we entered through the large swinging doors into the house, and I stopped short…and stared.

The Pentarra house is very magnificent, and very large. So large, you’d almost need a mouse droid to help you navigate, if they used those here—but Pentarra does not own droids. He owns people.

And there were people everywhere. Because the Pentarra house was almost like its own mini-city, and his family not just a family, but a clan: a tribe made up of women he had married and some he had not, children he had fathered and some he only claimed he had, slaves that he had purchased and slaves that had been born to him. All of them lived there. I didn’t know if they were all happy there, but I assume they didn’t have much other alternative.

The mansion’s massive atrium had all the grandeur of the ancient historical Nabooian buildings I had toured in Theed. But while the style of Nabooian architecture was light and windowed and flourished, Pentarra’s house was dim and moody and austere, with exotic archways that resembled lotus petals—round at the sides, pointed at the top.

And immediately I felt strange here, in my “Go Shaaks!” college hoodie and my skinny jeans—in this place that was somehow both more wealthy and more destitute than anywhere I was accustomed to.

And I didn’t just feel strange. I was strange. I was strange in this place, and I knew it by the way the other people in the hall looked at me. The way women eyed me with fear and distrust or curiosity and intrigue. The way children stared at me and pointed and made remarks about me to their companions. The way grown men did not think it rude to do exactly the same.

And then I cast my eyes upward, and saw a very large mosaic portrait in a gilded frame on the upper wall, directly facing me from where I stood at the entrance. I squinted against the sunlight—the only sources of natural light in the great hall were the two skylight windows on either side of the portrait, and right now they were shining directly into my eyes. Through the little specks of dust that caught the light, floating in and out of my line of vision, I observed the likeness—a Twi’lek man, as magnificent-looking as the hall in which I stood, portrayed from the waist up: in rich crimson robes, and with one of his long lekku wrapped around his neck like a scarf. His hands, bejeweled with many rings, were folded serenely before him, and a placid, yet somehow cruel expression rested on his rounded face. He had sage-green skin that resembled Ginnie Pentarra’s, and his lekku darkened at the ends like Fannie Pentarra’s, and he had Connie Pentarra’s deep-set brown eyes…but the look of savage mirth in his smile was all his own.

I felt a chill run down my spine, and my skin prickled.

The portrait was not labeled with a name. But I did not need one to know who the subject was.

And as I lowered my gaze to the people bustling around or milling below the picture’s watchful presence, I realized that many of this man’s features were reflected in the younger Twi’leks I saw in the hall around me. Not in all of them, but in enough of them so as to be disconcerting—like something out of a thriller holofilm. And they continued to stare at me, and point at me, and whisper—or not even bother to lower their voices at all.

Fannie noticed my discomfort, and drew me aside to a bench against the wall, away from the others’ prying eyes.

“Ben. Are you all right, dear?”

“Yeah. Fine,” I said. “Just feelin’ a bit like I’m in a zoo.”

Her face fell sympathetically, and she drew up the hood of my hoodie for me.

It was a small gesture. But for some reason it made me feel very loved.

“Here,” she said. “I will draw you a map, so you can find your quarters and get settled—and hopefully find a bit of reprieve in which to gather yourself. You can come back and find me when you’re ready. Do you have your notebook with you?”

“Oh—yeah,” I said, and slung my knapsack off of my shoulder, and fished out my paper notebook and my fountain pen. (I know, I know—call me a mythosaur.)

I flipped to a blank page, and handed her both of them. Usually people have to ask how my pen works, but Fannie didn’t need to—she had grown up using paper and ink at Luke’s school. I watched as she began to sketch out a rough map.

“So—this is where we are, down here, in the entrance hall,” she said as she drew. “The sleeping quarters are all on the upper floor, up those stairs—either staircase will do. The men’s quarters are on the west, and the women’s to the east. The dining hall is through that archway right ahead, on the bottom floor, in the center atrium. I think that’s all you need to remember. And your room is going to be right here—” She circled a spot in the men’s wing, and wrote a number in the circle, first in Basic numerals and then again in Ryl. “Room Twenty-Three—and here is the key.” And she fished in her pocket, and handed me a phys-key.

“Thanks,” I said. “Want to come up with me and help me find the room?”

“Oh—but that’s why I drew you the map,” Fannie said. “So you could find it.”

I tilted my head at her. “But…you could still come, though.”

“But…those are the men’s quarters,” she said, with a serious stare, like there was something here I was supposed to be understanding.

“Well…you don’t have to come into the room with me, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I said with an awkward laugh. “You could just…you know…help me find it.”

“It’s—it’s best that I stay out of the west wing,” Fannie said firmly, with an embarrassed laugh of her own. “It’s…simply the way things are, here. But—you can go and get settled, and put your things away, and then meet me right out here again when you’re ready.”

“Are you gonna show me your room?” I asked.

“Not unless my mother and sisters are also there,” she said quickly.

I rolled my eyes. “Fan. We lived together for like, three months last summer. Why are you being so fussy?”

“We were friends then,” Fannie insisted. “It was different.”

“Well, if we were friends back on Naboo, we must’ve been the special type of friends,” I said, shouldering my knapsack again, and gripping the handle of my suitcase. “‘Cause you and I? Sure got pre-tty friendly.”

Fannie blushed. “Well—we didn’t mean for things to happen that way; it simply—turned out that way. But…that was Naboo, Ben. This is Ryloth. Things are different here. And…I don’t want people to assume.”

As we began to ascend the staircase, I looked up just in time to watch a teenage boy slap a servant girl right on the ass. The nature of her garments allowed him to strike flesh—the sound echoed on the polished stone, and the boy laughed and skirted away.

I turned to Fannie—she had seen it too.

“...Well, I don’t know what you’re afraid of people assuming, Fannie,” I told her, watching as the girl turned her back to the wall and tried to discreetly rub her sore bottom. “People here sure do a lot out in the open.”

“Which is why it’s very important to me to demonstrate quite the opposite,” she said with resolve. “Pardon me.” She rushed back down to the foot of the stairs to ask the girl if she was okay, and I watched the way Fannie approached so carefully—the way she had always been with me, when I had found myself in dark places—and I noticed, too, how the girl did not seem as disturbed as I would have expected her to be.

…As if what had just happened was commonplace, here—if not expected.

I waited for Fannie to come back, and then we walked together to the top of the stairs. The scene I had witnessed had given me some pause.

“...Hey,” I said gently, and she looked up at me. “Sorry for givin’ you a hard time. You know this place better than I do, and I want to make sure you feel okay, so—yeah, you can wait and show me your room when your family is there.”

Fannie smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Ben.”

“Will Pennie be there?” I asked. “I still haven’t met her—though, I’m not holdin’ out much hope she’ll like me any more than the rest of your family does.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear,” Fannie said. “I think Pennie will like you much more easily than the rest. I think she has always felt left out, in a similar way that you have. And she always was the sweetest one out of all of us.”

I stared at her curiously. “Sweeter than you?”

Fannie giggled. “I told you. I used to be, ah…spunky, when I was young. But…Pennie was always such an angel.” Her face lit up with fond memories of her younger sister…and then she looked up at the portrait of Pentarra, which was now directly above our heads, and looked even larger than ever—and her face grew ashen.

“I…I am not sure when you will be able to meet Pennie,” she said sadly. “She…does not often come home.”

And then she stopped, and corrected herself. 

“Well—she is always in this house, of course,” she murmured. “In fact, I can often sense her presence when I close my eyes. But…she rarely comes back home to us.” Her full lips twitched, and her shoulders sank.

My heart went out to her.

I dropped my bags immediately, and pulled her into me.

“I’m so sorry, Fan,” I whispered.

“Thank you, Ben,” she said, wrapping her arms around me tight, and burying her face in my chest.

“Of course,” I told her, rubbing my hand over her back. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

And as I held her, I looked up again at that massive portrait, holding surveillance over the entire hall with those piercing yellow eyes.

I had mentioned before that I could see Pentarra’s features reflected in his many offspring. But perhaps most chilling of all was that, now that I had seen him (or at least, a rendering of him)...I could see his face in Fannie’s. The round shapes of her jaw and her nose were his.

I wondered if that ever bothered her. To carry with her always, in every holo of herself and in every mirror she looked at, the reminder of from whom she had come.

I held Fannie closer to me, and cradled the back of her head in my hand.

I’m not a super Force-sensitive person, despite my family background—probably due to a lack of practice. But…even I could sense something in this place; something bad: a dark, ominous energy that pervaded the whole house like a dense, low fog.

I heard a snuffle coming from my chest region—I pulled Fannie up, alarmed.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I said softly.

“Sorry,” she apologized. “Sorry…”

“No, don’t say that—you don’t need to be sorry, sister,” I said. “But: I do want you to be brave.”

“That’s just it, Ben,” she said, her lashes damp. “I’m always having to be brave. It gets so tiring after a while.”

I gazed at her quietly, wiping the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs.

When I had first met her, she had always seemed so strong and so self-assured. And well, she was…but I knew now that her strength was something she was able to project in spite of her sadness, not in absence of it.

“...Well, how about this,” I said, holding her by the shoulders. “Be brave a little while longer. I’m here now. I’ll put my stuff away—and then, I’ll come back and find you.”

“I think I’ll be okay by then,” Fannie said with an apologetic laugh, wiping the heel of her hand against her eyes. “I just—need a minute or two.”

“Be brave for five minutes,” I said. “Then, I’ll come find you, and I’ll be brave for you for a while, and you can let it out, for a bit. Okay?”

She smiled, her wet eyes glistening. “Okay.”

“Atta girl.” I kissed her on the top of the head, and gave her one last squeeze.

And then I picked up my bags again, and turned, and entered the archway leading into the west wing, casting one last glance up at the enormous portrait as I left.

I knew it was facing away from me, as I departed down the hall.

But…somehow…I could still feel those gleaming yellow eyes on my back.

[miraakulous-cloud-district]

HOTHS character list

Welcome abord! This post is meant to show all of my ocs from my Deathbrand fic (and WYGTYA prequel) Hymn of the HIgh Seas. Meet the pirates!

Since Tumblr has a photo limit, I will present them in order of appearance in the fic, dividing this into more posts

First and foremost, the captain herself, Signe, later known as Deathbrand ;). She still has her eye in this screenshot, but in the beginning of the story she loses one of her eyes completely, and keeps that eye either shut or covered with an eyepatch for a while

2. Captain is nothing without her first mate, Rhaim, a natural-born werewolf, who truly is as passionate, protective and loyal as a wolf. Also, he has the biggest tits on the crew

3. Can't forget about best girl and professional yearner Anne. We don't see her for a while in the fic, and I miss her already. She's got her own sidequest

4. Marcus, my beloved Imperial short king, who is very good with maps and being annoying <3

5. Arvyvel, this fic's crazy wizard. No one knows how old he is and bets are going around and people keep guessing (he will never tell them)

6. Renjiro, the mysterious Akaviri swordsman and occasionally, awkward teenager. He's the baby of the crew :'). (Okay please forgive my lack of competence to make him in Skyrim, I only have it on my old laptop and it cannot handle any more mods, which makes everything impossible. HOWEVER,,, I found this actor and this guy is EXACTLY Renji! That's it, the perfect face claim, it's just as I pictured him while writing)

[ct7567scyarika]

Alright, I got my first One-Shot done for the “12 Days of Life Day” event, hosted by pickleprickle which you can find here!

Day 1: Mittens

Era: Star Wars the Old Republic (SWtOR), sometime shortly after Class Story ends but before the expansions.

Pairing: Vim “Wildfi’re” (Female Trooper OC) / Aric Jorgan

You can click the Ao3 or read below! Super short, but these will get longer as I get back into my “groove”, so to speak.

Also, during writing this, I thought about starting to try to reference Christmas specials during this and thought about “It’s Christmas Again, Charlie Brown.” The scene where Charlie Brown talks about getting gloves for Peggy-Jean because he wants her hands tied stay warm. (And she’s red-headed so accidental big brain)

Death’s cold fingers brushed against Aric’s face. He jerked back from the tender motion and his wife, also his commanding officer, furrowed her brows and pressed her lips.

“What’s up with you?” she asked, taking full offense.

“What’s up with me,” he responded, grabbing her hands before they could fully retreat and tightening his hold a little when she effortlessly tried to withdraw more, “is that the last time my face felt something so cold was when the snow was sticking on it back on Hoth.” Like other cathar, his body was covered in short hair. While it did provide him with more warmth than some other sentients, it could not shield him from the frigid touch of the human flesh. He shifted pressure through his fingers against her smaller hands, catching how her body relaxed in a silent sigh. “How can someone go by the nickname ‘Wildfi’re’ and have skin like ice?”

“Balance,” was her matter-of-fact answer as she laced her fingers with his. “Sort of applying what the Jedi teach, yeah?”

“How does balance relate to having cold hands?”

“Well, there’s the whole light and dark parts of the Force, bringing balance. In my case, firey nickname, temper, weapon,” she nodded to her meticulously placed flamethrowers on her nightstand, “something’s got to help me keep my cool. Until you showed your Pretty Face, I guess that was my body regulation.”

He rolled his eyes both at the nickname and the reason. Granted she did have more encounters with the Jedi than he did and she had close relationships with those who understood or used the Force; however, all that time conversing with those experts did not aid in presenting her case. It was an astounding puzzle that she could find the right words to rally allies, create a clear plan for an operation, sometimes sway the mindsets of opponents, or find sharp words in verbal combat, but that eloquence was often lost when on the defensive side of a trivial argument.

“Right… I don’t believe they mean it in the way that you described it.” His amused half-smile softened as she brought his hands to her face, planting gentle kisses on his knuckles as she continued the casual conversation.

“Regardless, what we can agree on is that I wear my armored gloves the majority of the time. Physical contact with my skin in our line of work is usually limited between any downtime or hand-to-hand training. You don’t seem to complain about how cold I am very often during either of those activities.”

“I don’t complain much because both activities usually involve some sort of physical exertion that increases body temperature, Vim.” He gave her a look in response to her sheepish grin, caught in trying to redirect her first poor point with another. “Any other time, like when I’m just trying to hold your hands, I say something because it feels like I’m grabbing a snowball.” At this, she brought his hands from her lips to nuzzle them with her cheek. Part of him wondered if she was trying to use her affections as a distraction.

This kiss on his wrist confirmed that, yes, she was doing it with the partial intention that she knew it worked. He lost track of his thoughts as her emerald gaze flashed up toward him, the Coruscant sun, nearing its setting, reflected a warm glow. The golden light highlighted both her hair and the ochre fur on his hands, but while it merely emphasized lighter tones on him, it haloed her wavy red locks in a flaming radiance. The sleeveless turtleneck revealed her skin, scarred by many battles and sprinkled with freckles. Arms that were firmly toned and soft to the touch. His wife, a marvelous blend of beauty and strength.

“Aric.”

He blinked, raising his brows. She repeated her question. “What do you recommend, then? Keep my gloves on?” Her eyes were searching him, she leaned in a little more to catch his answer.

“No, but, I have an occasional solution.” He eased his hands away from her hold, moving to grab a very small bag he had tucked away in one of the nightstands. “A Life Day gift.” Upon receiving the gift, her expression shifted from curiosity to a confused smile.

“Mittens?” she rubbed her thumbs against the soft, fuzzy texture. “I appreciate it Aric, but how are these really different than gloves, other than the material and being almost completely fingerless?”

“The difference,” he began as he reached to start sliding one of the mittens on her (reword), “is that those gloves are to protect your hands. The sole purpose of these is to keep your hands warm.” Once the mittens were on, a muffled clap sounded as he clasped his hands over hers.

“And to protect your face?”

“Maybe,” he smirked. “The goal is to retain enough heat so when you do remove them to touch me, there’s less risk of frostbite.” His smirk grew as she scrunched her nose.

“Taking every chance to tease your commanding officer? Very unprofessional.”

“Sure, among all the unprofessional actions going between us, that’s the top offender.” He paused to gather his thoughts. Frequently, Aric had no trouble finding the right words when he wanted to speak his mind, nor did he find it hard to be blunt. When it came to more… sentimental matters, that was where he struggled. His way of showcasing fondness spoke in his actions and a lot of that involved making sure to stay on top of those he cared about to make sure they were to fight and defend; to survive. He had gotten better with Vim, getting more comfortable with using more tender words, however, he still needed a moment to ponder how he wanted to say this. Thankfully, Vim was patient.

The sarcasm melted into a softer tone as he continued to speak. “In this line of work, it’s a call to a life of fighting, hardships, getting messy, taking lives, there’s nothing soft or warm about it.” He took a few steps towards her, guiding her to take a couple of careful steps backward until she sat at the foot of the bed, all while he still held to her hands. “But hey, consider this a small comfort to bring on journeys between missions.”

He reached a hand to brush his knuckles against her cheek, to which she responded by tilting her head against it, and then he curled his fingers into a light fist to tuck under her cheek, lifting her head slightly. The somber, steady sniper felt butterflies in his stomach at the look of adoration in her eyes. They had grown mutual respect as they had worked together, rebuilding Havoc Squad, but he would never know what he did to earn such affection.

“I also want something to keep your hands warm when I’m not around,” he whispered. The implications were dark, but this was their reality. She sighed, and he furrowed her brows as she pressed her lips together.

“Aw, Aric, this gift may give small comfort but it takes my excuse to hold your hand.” She couldn’t keep the disappointed facade, her smiling breaking free again. He smirked again.

“I doubt it has. By all means, keep trying to make those excuses. Just do so before grabbing my face.”

“Fine, fine I got the point,” she rolled her eyes. Her hands slid from the mittens, reaching up in a second attempt to cradle his cheeks; this time he allowed the touch and to be lured downward. Half-opened gazes were shared before closing, their hovering lips closing the distance.

[from-a-legends-pov]

Is this going to be set up like the FACPOV books where each character has only one story per movie? Or could say, someone write about Mara on Tatooine at the beginning of RotJ, and then someone else also write about her at the end of RotJ after the destruction of the Death Star?

Great question! The short answer is that while we don’t have any rules that are that hard and fast (e.g. “only one story per character per movie”), we purposely designed our pitch guidelines so that we would have a variety of time periods within the OT timeframe, characters, and events to choose from in determining which pitches folks would write for the event and building a diverse collection of stories. As much as we’d probably all enjoy 20 stories about the same four pilots on Hoth right before ESB (we have a very talented fandom, they could make that work), part of the spirit of the event is to read a lot of different points of view.

That said, a lot depends on what the whole universe of signups looks like. If we had two writers, each of whose first choice was a pitch about Mara Jade at different points of ROTJ, we might assign one writer their second or third choice pitch (or fourth or fifth, if they’ve chosen to pitch more than three ideas) instead. Or, if the pitches really did offer different perspectives (a lot has changed for Mara by the end of ROTJ!) and there weren’t a lot of other stories with Mara as the point-of-view character already, we might assign both writers their first choice.

You didn’t ask for advice, but our advice is to pitch what you most want to write as your first choice, no matter who else might be pitching the same character and/or timeframe. And make sure your other pitches are ones you would also enjoy writing, too. But the collection is going to be best when we have a lot of writers who are really excited about what they’re contributing — so as long as you’re following the pitch and story guidelines, don’t feel the need to limit yourself before you begin.

Thank you so much for the ask!