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dystopicjumpsuit · 5 months

Note

Hey! Can I please get 13 with Cal or Hunter? Here’s some context- the reader is having a bad day.

A/N: Thanks for the request @sleepycreativewriter! The prompt is "cuddles of consolation." I’ve never written Cal before, but I love him beyond reason, and I did my best. I hope you enjoy, and even more, I hope the day is kind to you. If you need to talk, my DMs are open. 🩶

Pairing: Cal Kestis x Reader (GN)

Rating: G (but as always, minors DNI)

Wordcount: 475

Warnings and tags: hurt comfort, cuddles, Cal’s love language is acts of service

Summary: Some days just suck. Cal understands, and he’s there for you.

Suggested Listening:

This fic smells like: Remarkable People by Etat Libre d'Orange (cardamom, jasmine, sandalwood)

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The Mantis was unusually, even suspiciously, quiet. If you had to guess, the rest of the crew were avoiding you like the blue shadow virus, and you didn’t blame them. In a way, it was a relief. After the day you’d just had, all you really wanted to do was sit alone in the dark and lick your metaphorical wounds. Your head ached, your throat felt raw, and the last thing you wanted to do was socialize, so when you heard a soft footfall behind you, you took a deep breath and braced yourself for an interaction that you desperately wished to avoid.

As it happened, though, the person who intruded on your solitude was the only one in the galaxy you actually wanted to see at the moment. Cal approached the sofa and sank down next to your huddled form. He reached for you slowly, giving you plenty of time to stop him, and when you made no move to do so, he grazed his knuckles down your cheek, then cupped his fingers beneath your chin and tilted your head toward him so he could look into your eyes. His concerned expression was almost more than you could bear, so you looked away, staring blankly at the table in front of you.

Please, please don’t ask how I’m doing, you mentally begged.

“Have you eaten anything today?” he asked instead.

You blinked, then gave a halfhearted smile. “Equinox Day candy.”

He kindly refrained from pointing out that Equinox Day had passed weeks earlier. Instead, he pulled a ration bar out of his pocket, unwrapped it, and handed it to you. You took a reluctant bite, then crammed half of it into your mouth, suddenly realizing you were famished.

“When was the last time you drank water?” he asked.

You finished chewing and swallowed, then admitted the truth somewhat hesitantly. “Uh... Yesterday.”

Without a word, he handed you a canteen of water and watched as you drank the entire bottle, then polished off your ration bar.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked quietly.

“Not really.”

“Okay,” he replied.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you close, not stopping until you were practically sitting in his lap with your head resting against his chest, then he began to rub tiny circles between your shoulder blades. He cradled your head with his free hand, then rested against your neck, his fingers grazing over your pulse.

“Today sucked,” you muttered with a choked, sardonic laugh.

“I know,” he replied. “I’ve got you.”

You didn’t even realize your tears had begun to fall until his thumb brushed across your cheek, smoothing them away. He didn’t say a word about it, just held you tightly, as long as you needed.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, and you knew he would never lie to you.

---

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#cal kestis #cal kestis x reader #jedi fallen order #jedi survivor #star wars #hurt comfort #x reader #gn reader #flashing gif #dystopicjumpsuit writes

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softsan · 2 years

Text

Eyes On Fire. (Pt. 4)

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen & Fem!Reader

CHAPTERS: | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

WORD COUNT: 3389

GENRE: Alternatively Universes/Canon Divergence, Alternative Ending, The Greens Win, Loosely based on the books/show, Made up House,

DESCRIPTION: After the Greens win the Dance of The Dragons, you a left alone navigating the dangers and woes of Kings Landing. You were one of the last survivors of House Vermillion with the expectation to restore your House to its former glory. Pressured to find yourself a husband, you unintentionally catch the eye of the dangerously, one-eye kingslayer—how will you ever survive amidst those who kill, those who take, and those who wish to eat you alive? Can also be read on AO3 here.

WARNINGS: Bodily Injury, Death, Graphic violence, Torture, Suspicion, Attempted murder, Murder, Poisoning, Possessive themes, Aemond in general

OPTIONAL PLAYLIST: Don’t Fear the Reaper by Denmark + Winter, When You Break by Bear’s Den, Hold On by Brooke Annibale,

Darkness clung to the four walls that kept you contained. The repugnant smell of rot was profuse, while the stone ground was covered in a thick layer of grime.

You had been held prisoner since the day after the tourney, ambushed the morning after whilst walking the Street of Flour, a famous street for its many twists and bends as well as its countless bakeries and dessert stalls. Two cloaked thugs had roughly manhandled you before throwing you into their carriage and speeding away.

You had verily considered, fending them off, breaking an arm or two, and continuing your day as if nothing had transpired but ultimately you decided not to.

It sort to reason that someone had their grievances with you, most likely due to Aemond's recent antic of crowning you the Queen of Love and Beauty. Therefore, you chose to play along. To unearth the question of who? You wouldn’t reveal your hand nor let on that you knew how to fight. You wouldn't risk such notions being spread by the wordlessly prying eyes of the city folk. For months you had tirelessly built an image of fragility and innocence. An image you intended to keep utilizing until you could successfully fulfill your duty to your House.

The dank and dingy vault below the castle was void of sunlight. The only light source available came from the dull lantern, its transparent case protecting the faint flame from blowing out. Beside it stood a short wooden frame that they’d dubbed ‘the bed of tortures’. You were bent over the frame, ropes restraining your wrists behind your back. The twisted strips of hide gnawed at your skin, leaving cuts and burns behind. Exasperated, you blew the mattered strands of hair away from your face, your eyes trained on Lord Unwin Peake who sat on the opposite side of the cell observing how the interrogation progressed.

“Let me ask again,” The foul-breathed servant of Lord Peake tormented, “What kind of relationship do you have with Aemond Targaryen?”

You near rolled your eyes, spent by the same handful of questions the servant had repeatedly asked. You grappled with yourself whether you ought to just tear off the restraints you had managed to loosen over time and stab the servant with the knife you had hidden in the pockets of your undergarments.

Your limbs ached, your stomach famished and most pressingly your mind was bored. You had despised being held hostage during the war and the sentiment hadn’t since changed.

“I guess one can’t go ahead with killing Lord Peake’s servant without inferring further consequences for one’s self,” Your mumble was inaudible, neither Peake nor his servant catching what you had said.

The servant sneered, “What was that? Speak louder girl!” He chastised.

You said nothing, your lip curling in defiance.

It appeared you had made a powerful enemy out of Lord Unwin Peake, the hand to the king. Aemond’s declaration and favor towards you during the joust had foiled Lord Peake’s plans to propel his daughter, Myrielle Peake into Aemond’s arms (and eventually bind the two with marriage). You huffed. Your intentions were never to be thrust between such political affairs, your initial plans were but to attract a wealthy Lord to marry and to save your House. However, after being held captive for days, you were feeling particularly spiteful... Perhaps you would change those plans, perhaps you'd begin to embark on the dangerous political game you'd thus far avoided. A new plan, with a new goal—one which involved the Targaryen Prince after all.

“The relationship between Prince Aemond and I?” You toyed, prolonging your eye contact, “Would you care to hear that we’re close? Or would it make you feel safer if I said we weren’t?”

Lord Unwin Peake’s face soured, comprehending the underlying threat of your words. The conveyance was that if Aemond indeed considered you more than a plaything, more than a pastime then Lord Peake would be faced with the Prince’s unrelenting wrath.

A thick silence lingered as Lord Peake thought through his options.

“From this moment on you shall stay away from the Prince,” He calmly rose from his chair, dusting his trousers, “If you care for that life of yours, I’d advise you not meddle where you ought not to.” He then nudged his head toward one of the instruments that hung to the wall, “Finish off her punishment.” He ordered.

“It’d be my pleasure, my Lord,” The servant eagerly bowed.

You heard the crack of a whip, the distinctive sound of leather.

Lord Peake stopped before the cell’s exit, turning aback, “Her face is to remain untouched,” He soon left, the cold metal bars slamming loudly behind him.

The whip came lashing at your calves. You squeezed your eyes tight, balling your fists until your fingernails dug into your palms. A flurry of curses were stuck to your tongue as you tried to drown out the pain by thinking of happier thoughts, such as taking your sweet revenge and plunging your knife into the servant’s chest.

You felt the warmth of your blood streak down your legs and feet, a puddle of scarlet pooling on the ground below.

A manic laughter echoed throughout the dungeons, “Scream for me,” He sadistically urged.

You gritted your teeth. You wouldn’t oblige. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg. You held in any sound, swearing to yourself you’d inflict a pain tenfold worse onto both Lord Peake and his servant.

The fire burned, its flames licking the wood of the balsam fireplace in Helena’s study. Aemond was lent against the fireplace, absently watching Maelor play with his toys. The young boy roared aloud as he pretended his dragon carved from birch burned down the stick figures of men.

Helena had neglected her book, her violet eyes fixated on her brother. She was curious about what had brought on Aemond’s recent behavior. Aemond was not known to listen to just anyone… Even their dear mother struggled to put him in his place. Yet, during the joust he’d immediately caved to your demand, stopping just as you’d asked.

Helena knew this displeased her mother greatly. Aemond was handful enough for her to restrain but to have him now obey another? It threatened all she’d thus worked for, all she’d done to ensure Aemond wouldn’t rise up against Aegon and seize his brother’s crown.

Gaomagon ao hae zirȳla? Do you like her? Helena’s dreamlike voice inquired.

Qilōni? Who? Aemond grumbled, well aware of whom his sister was referring to.

Se riña lēda mele laesi. The lady with crimson eyes.

Before Aemond could answer, his mother Alicent came sauntering into the study, Ser Criston Cole following shortly behind.

Alicent's neck was flushed, her expression clearly vexed, “What do you think you’re doing?” She bellowed, the volume of her voice startling young Maelor.

Helena quickly attended to the boy, picking up Maelor as he began to wail.

“What does it matter?” Aemond countered, his arms firmly crossed against his chest.

“What does it matter?!" Alicent exclaimed, “It matter so, you’ve crowned a maiden from a lower House. A House insignificant in comparison to the great Houses we are hosting during the tourney.” She flailed her arms, “Great Houses we intend to forge allyship with.”

“House Vermillion wasn’t always insignificant,” Helena softly corrected, “Despite, their small fleets they were unmatched in naval warfare. Their vessels were painted red as their sigil, their cargo carried a myriad of hibiscus’ which they threw into the sea to bribe the gods for their victories—”

"House Vermillion was a House which supported Rhaenyra’s false claim to the Iron Throne," The Dowager Queen Alicent cut off her daughter, her eyes narrowing, “A House which should have been wiped out completely.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched at his mother’s last sentiment, “A House, like many others Aegon pardoned,” He sternly rebutted, “An idea you proposed would unite the Seven Kingdoms.”

Alicent's bottom lip trembled, taken aback by Aemond's retort.

“If that’s all mother, I’ll excuse myself.” Aemond’s heavy boots stomped, the door slamming behind him as he left Helena’s study.

“I cannot believe it,” Alicent bespoke to Ser Criston Cole, “Of all the noble ladies in King's Landing why her?” She shook her head in objection.

“Perhaps, it is but a fleeting affection that will die when the controversy and excitement begins to wane.” Ser Criston offered.

Alicent peered upward, still riddled with doubt, “Do you truly think so?”

Ser Criston Cole opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Helena.

“Hair of silver. Eyes of crimson. Footsteps in a set of three,” Helena’s eyes glossed over, as she faded into a trance.

Alicent and Ser Criston exchanged looks, Alicent quickly bending down beside her daughter. She gently took Maelor off his mother’s lap, offering him to Ser Criston to hold while Alicent tried to regain Helena’s attention.

“What do you see?” Alicent had long learned to heed her daughter’s words, to pay mind to Helena’s prophecies, as frequent to none, they near always came to tuition.

“A mother’s beauty. A father’s temperament. All is sound, all is as it ought to be.” Helena finished her train of thought.

The Dowager Queen Alicent’s face hardened. What possibly did the gods have in store for her son Aemond?

“Keep an eye on Lady Y/N Vermillion,” She instructed Ser Criston Cole, “And report back to me. I want to know whom she interacts with, her goals, and her every intention.”

The midmorning offered your deprived and cold self a yearned warmth and solace. The sun's golden rays filtered themselves through the stained-glass windows, reflecting a merriment of colors on the ground beneath your bloody feet. Without assistance, you had managed to crawl up the stairs of the dungeons, trekking a trail of blood behind you.

Your torture had been drawn out the length of the night, Lord Unwin Peake's servant only leaving after the seventh hour. You couldn't discern how long you had stayed laying motionless on the bed of tortures, staring at the unlocked door to your cell. After what felt like an eternity, you dragged your rigid body off, your calves protesting as you forced yourself to stand.

The pain, however, grew too great, causing your vision to blur, and your head to spin. You stumbled, your knees buckling from underneath. You placed a hand on the wall beside you, stopping yourself from faceplanting into the tiles. Days without food and water had finally taken their toll and you hadn’t the energy to continue.

“Lady Y/N Vermillion!” A surprised voice called aloud.

You felt their hands immediately rope around your hips, in an attempt to keep your torso upright. You blinked a couple of times, trying to determine who had found you.

“Ser Criston Cole?” You croaked, your cracked lips turning downward. Surely, you were mistaken.

“Yes, it is I,” He said softly, brushing back your wayward hair that draped over your face.

He observed the terrible state you were in, deducing it to be in result of what had transpired with Aemond during the joust. Others besides the Dowager Queen Alicent would consider you a threat to their political agendas and wouldn’t think twice about taking their frustrations out on you.

Ser Criston Cole’s eyes momentarily flickered toward the sound of footsteps in the distance, “Let me help you back to your room,” He whispered, sounding almost as if he pitied you.

Without waiting for a response, he hurriedly lifted you off the ground and cradled you against his steel-plated chest. You were too frail to argue, allowing him to carry you throughout the rest of the castle.

Ser Criston took an alternative route to your chambers, sensing the footsteps he’d heard, belonged to the prince. Over the past day or two, he'd had been discreetly watching Aemond from afar, noting the numerous times he’d tried knocking on your chambers only to be turned away by Lady Alyssa Royce. Ser Criston Cole was weary of the scene Aemond would surely cause if he saw you in such a state.

As Ser Criston reached your door, his knuckles thumped on the wood.

It was Lady Alyssa Royce who answered, “I’m afraid my Prince, Lady Y/N, still hasn’t returned—" She abruptly paused, sighting you limply lying in Ser Criston Cole's arms.

“Y/N?” Horror replaced her usual unemotive persona, “What happened to her?”

“Let us lay her down first,” Ser Criston bypassed Alyssa without a further explanation.

He quickly lifted the furs and delicately placed you down on the bedspread, “We have to roll her over.” He directed.

Lady Royce obliged without complaint, aiding Ser Criston to roll you onto your stomach. You muffled a cry, the sudden movement aggravating your open lesions. Blood continued to hemorrhage, spilling onto your white linen sheets.

Lady Royce's brows furrowed as she hastily lifted your skirt and removed your torn petticoat. She gasped, once the true extent of your wounds was revealed. The soles of your feet had been mercilessly slashed, whilst the irate lacerations to your calves had cut deep into the muscle.

“There are some gauzes and string in the cupboard,” Lady Royce demanded forgetting her station, “I’ll find us some alcohol to disinfect her wounds.”

“Shouldn’t we call for a maester?” Ser Criston Cole questioned.

You grabbed Lady Royce’s hand with haste, squeezing it with all the strength you could muster, “No,” Alyssa Royce said firmly, apprehending what you were trying to communicate, “Otherwise, Lady Clarice Osgrey will be summoned. Let us keep this between ourselves.”

Sir Criston reluctantly nodded, undecided if he’d pass on what had occurred to the Dowager Queen.

Aemond stalked the corridors, his irritability only increasing by the hour. Over a week had since passed, and you had missed the chaos that was brought by the melee, an event where forty or so riders armed with blunt weaponry, fought to be prized as the next knight. Aemond disinterested how the contest unfolded, drowned himself in drink instead.

You were avoiding him, or so he thought…

As the afternoons passed, he began to grow dubious. Suspicious, why all the other ladies beside you and Lady Royce were in attendance at the Targaryen festivities? He'd also taken note that Lady Myrielle Peake was now serving his niece Princess Jaehaera in your stead.

He reached the large oval door of your chambers, reaching of its handle. However, Lady Alyssa Royce opened the door first, her body blocking Aemond’s view of the inside.

“Where is Y/N?” He sternly imposed, “She has not been in attendance to melee nor has she served my niece.” He drew a maddened breath, “Princess Jaehaera has naught been impressed by her replacement.”

“I’m afraid Lady Y/N is still unwell your highness,” Lady Alyssa Royce politely bowed, her voice ever so slightly trembling.

You listened from inside, overhearing another of Lady Royce’s fumbling excuses. You and Alyssa had always been civil but far from close. Nonetheless, she had aided you, stitched up your wounds, and kept your injuries secret. You owed the girl a great debt, one you’d hope to someday repay.

You were running a fever, your insides hot, your outsides cold. You were sat against the headboard of your bed, leaning on some flat pillows while your legs were covered in furs. A small smile crossed your lips as you continue to listen. In truth, you were gladdened by Aemond’s concern. Thankful, for the countless times he’d implored for you. It wasn’t something you were accustomed to, the worriment, the exertion. Nobody had ever put so much effort in for you.

Aemond’s exasperation was obvert, he was growing tired of the evasiveness of Lady Royce, “Step aside,” He, at last, demanded, the intensity in his tone, making Lady Royce cower.

Your smile faltered, conceding Aemond was going to barge in. You hurriedly unraveled your legs from underneath your furs and forced yourself to stand upright.

You silently yowled, it was as if lightning had struck your legs. It took a few seconds for you to regain your breath, the agony that pulsated from your calves immense. You used the bedside table for support, wincing as you slid on your cloth slippers.

You had made the short distance to your vanity when Aemond furiously pushed back the doors to your chambers, his violet orb narrowing as searched around your room.

“Prince Aemond,” Short of breath, you did your best to bow.

Aemond’s annoyance dissolved instantaneously. Yet, the creases on his forehead remained. He swiftly approached his silvery hair bouncing behind him as he moved. You took a short moment to admire how his hair glistened underneath the yellowish candlelight, how it only enhanced his fearsome beauty.

Aemond abruptly stopped before you, his large hands unexpectedly cupping both of your cheeks, drawing your face closer to his. You involuntarily shivered, as his thumb brushed across your cold lips.

"What is it you are ailed with?" He searched your face, his brows knitted.

Aemond studied your sickly pale hue and the shade of blue that replaced the color of your lips. He felt a protectiveness over you. A feeling which was foreign to him.

“I’ll send for a maester immediately,”

“No,” You shook your head, his hands still firmly resting on your cheeks, “I have no desire to cause a fuss. All I need is some rest.”

Aemond didn’t feel assured, in fact, it only strengthened his worry.

“You’ve had a week’s worth of rest” He pressed “You should be seen by a maester. What if your sickness gets all the worse?” His hands slowly slid from your face and down your arms until he grasped your two hands within his own. Aemond held you so gingerly as if he was afraid you’d break.

Your stomach fluttered, recalling the change of your plans. Lord Unwin Peake desired you to stay away from the Prince… And you’d do nothing of the sort.

“I won’t get worse”

“You couldn’t possibly be sure.” His face close, his breath hot.

You stifled a smile. Boldly you closed the distance, using your nose to gently nudge his, “I am,” You insisted, pulling away.

Aemond’s eye widened, the violet of his iris deepening. He was overwhelmed by the impulse to pull you back but to capture your lips this time.

“Just a few more days of rest and I’ll be back to my true self,” You wriggled your hands free, “But first you must go,” You incited, softly pushing his chest to leave, “You’ve caused me enough trouble. If someone catches you in my chambers, I’d never hear the last of it.”

“What trouble? I only crowed the one deserving of the title of the Queen of Love and Beauty,” Aemond smiled smugly “And showed King's Landing of my intentions,” He playfully tilted his head, his hair falling off his shoulder, “And what a mistake it would be if others were to approach what is mine,” He whispered the last part.

“I repeat,” You light-heartedly shook your head, “Trouble.”

Aemond laughed, relenting and taking a step back, “I’ll go but if you feel worse, promise me you’ll summon a maester?”

“I promise,” You nodded, “My Prince you may take your leave,”

“Not until you are tucked soundly under the covers,” He directed, lifting an arm towards your bed.

“You won’t leave otherwise?” You swallowed, dreading the walk from your vanity back to your bed.

“Yes,” He maintained, “Do you need some help?”

“No need,” You vigorously shook your head, exchanging a daunted look with Lady Royce who had been loitering by the door.

You tried your darndest to ignore the heat that radiated upward with each excruciating step. You just needed to make it to the bed without falling, you told yourself.

Aemond followed you with his gaze, his body stiffening as he caught the stain of red on the hem of your nightgown.

“Y/N,” He said, his tone spine-chillingly cold.

You hadn’t the chance to turn completely round when he wrapped a steel arm around your waist and carefully lifted the cotton of your nightgown to expose your calves.

You sucked in a breath.

Aemond’s face darkened, while an enraged snarl left his mouth. His playful disposition vanished, a seething fury coming to take its place.

“Y/N,” He growled, his arms shaking uncontrollably, “Who dared to harm you?”

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x reader #aemond #aemond targaryen reactions #aemond targaryen scenarios #aemond targaryen imagines #htod #aemond fanfiction #games of thrones #games of thrones fanfiction

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crudely-drawn-ben · 1 year

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Music Tag Game

I was tagged by @herecirmsims and it's nice to play a silly game like we did back on LiveJournal! 'Pick a song for each letter of your url'.

Carrion - Sea Power

River Man - Nick Drake

Upon 9th And Fairchild - The Boo Radleys

Death On A Beach - Spirit Of The West

Everything's Cool - Pop Will Eat Itself

Love Ire And Song - Frank Turner

You Hold Me Together - Brooke Annibale

Dominion / Mother Russia - Sisters Of Mercy

Runner's High - Muna

A Love You Can't Survive - Richard Thompson

When We Were Kings - I Like Trains

No Rest - Dry The River

Black Tie - Grace Petrie

End Of The Summer - Dar Williams

Nite And Fog - Mercury Rev

All those titles are links and if there are any songs here you're not familiar with you this is a great opportunity to find some banging tunes. I won't tag it forward because I'd hate to force homework on anyone, but if you want to pick it up, imagine I tagged you.

#music #tag game

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irunjt · 2 months

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#202 of 366: Hold On, Brooke Annibale

The first few lines of this sound feel like tip-toeing to me. Or how a cat walks down a hallway. Lithe. “You remind me, that there’s not enough time, for it to slow down, undefined, we put our flame upon ice, watch it burn out, all I want to do, all I want to do, feel the ache in my hands to hold on to you” Are you longing for anything? Check in with yourself. Be good, do good.

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allgrrl78 · 1 year

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#Spotify

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emmetrain · 1 year

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🎶 gib

Send 🎶 for me to make a five song playlist for our muses

For the ship/fic verse :3c

The Manic- Amarente

Beekeeper- Keaton Henson

Hold On- Brooke Annibale

No One to Nothing- Mother Mother

Always- Amarante

#gcdfcrsaken #gcd fcrsaken #ask;; suggestions and complaints #ooc;; out of station #//the last song is so so tragic if you see it through the trainwreck--like... they only have each other left in that verse....

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pierreism · 2 years

Video

youtube

'Things We Don't Believe Anymore (Official Visualizer)’ by Brooke Annibale

Taken from her latest album Better By Now. Available now.

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bringinbackpod · 2 years

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Interview with Brooke Annibale

#advice #betterbenow #brookeannibale #history #interview #lgbtq #lgbtq+#music #musicadvice #musichistory #musicinterview #musicpodcast #musicpodcastinterview #newmusic #podcast #pride #songwriterpodcast

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northcountrysounds · 2 years

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Top 20 Albums of 2022

Well, better late than never, right? I had planned to post my favorite albums of 2022 about a week ago, a little before Christmas in fact, but the busyness of the holiday season kept me busy. So, I will be posting my top albums of the past year today, I will try to post my top EP's of 2022 tomorrow, and hopefully post my favorite songs of 2022 in the next few days as well. I listened to 284 albums this year, and have narrowed it down to these 20 as my favorites.

20. Heavy Gus - Notions 19. Becky Kapell - In It to Win It 18. Leona Naess - Brood X 17. Aria - Confession 16. Emisunshine and the Rain - Universe 15. Ryan Adams - Devolver 14. Chastity Brown - Sing to the Walls 13. Brooke Annibale - Better by Now 12. Peter Doherty & Frédéric Lo - The Fantasy Life of Poetry & Crime 11. Ryan Adams - Romeo & Juliet

10. The Cactus Blossoms - One Day

9. IV and the Strange Band - Southern Circus

8. Ryan Adams - Chris

7. Ondara - Spanish Villager No. 3

6. Zach Bryan - American Heartbreak

5. Alela Diane - Looking Glass

4. Caitlin Rose - Cazimi

3. Corey Medina & Brothers - Soak

2. Damien Jurado - Reggae Film Star

1. Hurray for the Riff Raff - Life on Earth

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mistermixmania · 2 years

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Brooke Annibale releast mit Spannung erwartetes neues Album “Better By Now” 📣 https://mister-mixmania.com/de/news/musik-news/brooke-annibale-releast-mit-spannung-erwartetes-neues-album-better-by-now/ Tagged as Brooke Annibale Die amerikanische Indie-Singer-Songwriterin Brooke Annibale hat heute ihr mit Spannung erwartetes neues Album “Better By Now” veröffentlicht. Als ihr erstes Album bei Nettwerk ist “Better By Now” eine furchtlose Sammlung von insgesamt zehn Songs, ..... : #musiknews #musik #BrookeAnnibale Foto Credits: Shervin Lainez

#Musik News #NEWS FLASH – MISTER MIXMANIA

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dystopicjumpsuit · 11 months

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Stars Beyond Number - Chapter 8

In the Wind's Singing

Rating: M - Minors DNI

Pairings: Echo x Riyo Chuchi; Gregor x OFC Cerra Kilian

Wordcount: 2.6k

Warnings and tags: fluff; bonding; discussions of autopsy/corpses; Coca-Cola is canon in Star Wars; no, I'm not joking; SMUT; masturbation

Suggested Listening:

Summary: The strike team returns from scouting Balmorra.

A/N: This story shares continuity with Martyrs and Kings and "Do It Again," but all three fics can be read as stand-alones.

Voices are in the wind's singing

More distant and more solemn than a fading star.

—T. S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

The hologram flickered off, and Rex stared thoughtfully at the empty space where it had projected. Slowly, he said, “I want you to start looking into the clone assassin’s identifying code. Find out how it was wiped, and see if you can replicate the process.”

Cerra wrinkled her nose. “Does that mean I’m going to have to dissect his arm?”

“That’s for you to find out. I know you’ll do whatever it takes,” Rex said. “In the meantime, I’m grounding you for a few days. No sparring, no supply runs, no missions until your hand is healed.”

She felt a surge of impatience, but his tone brooked no argument, so she simply nodded. Some battles were simply not worth fighting, and she knew Rex would win this one anyway.

“I need to leave this afternoon to meet with a contact,” Rex continued. “Will you be all right alone?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Hand isn’t that bad.”

“Good,” he said. “Then you can get started on that ID code today.”

“Aye, aye, Cap,” she said with a mock salute.

Once Rex was gone, Cerra opened the stasis pod and examined the dead clone assassin’s forearm. Unlike the inhibitor chips, the identifying codes were not an implant; instead, the data was coded directly into the clones’ wrists. Nothing on the surface indicated how the ID data had been wiped. There was no scar, no wound—nothing except cold, smooth, brown skin. When she scanned it, a hologram appeared, but the contents were empty. She had a sinking feeling that she was going to need to remove the skin and examine it under a microscope to learn more.

Mechanical repairs were no problem for Cerra, but she was wildly unqualified to undertake any kind of medical examination, let alone an autopsy. For the thousandth time, she wished Kix were there. She worried that she would compromise the evidence, and the longer she had the stasis pod open, the more the clone assassin’s body would degrade. With that in mind, she sealed the pod again and began researching autopsy techniques on the Holonet. She watched autopsy vids for what felt like hours with a kind of gruesome fascination, barely noticing when the proximity sensor alerted her that the freighter had returned.

Echo, Fireball, and Gregor entered the garage to find Cerra sitting cross-legged on the couch, utterly engrossed by a vid projected from the holotable as she ate from a promising-looking container. Echo’s stomach rumbled.

“Boys,” she greeted them without looking up.

“Something smells good,” Echo said.

“I got takeout from Dex’s,” she said. “There’s more in the kitchen.”

“Is that brualki brisket?” Gregor asked.

“Yeah, I got extra for you,” she said. “There’s also brakkenback stew, nerfburgers, and two orders of each kind of protato on the menu.”

A woman of taste, Echo thought, heading to the kitchen to examine the options.

“Ugh, what are you watching?” Fireball demanded.

“Autopsy vids,” she mumbled around a bite of brisket.

“While you’re eating? Gross,” Fireball said.

“Gotta figure out what to do with our friend over there,” Cerra said, pointing at the stasis pod. “Besides, it’s not like I’m eating directly off a corpse.”

Echo pulled a face. Gregor went to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets until he found a small medkit. Then he swiped the remaining container of brisket and a bag of fried protato wedges and flopped down next to Cerra on the sofa.

“Next time, you can buy dinner, and then you get to pick the holovid, Fireball,” Gregor said. “Cerra, did you take your antibiotics?”

“What antibiotics?” she asked distractedly.

“That’s what I thought,” Gregor said drily. He extracted a couple of pills from the medkit and handed them to her. “Take these.”

Cerra automatically took the pills and swallowed them, then handed Gregor a tub of glockaw sauce without taking her eyes off the holovid. “Ooh, look, they’re about to peel off the skin!”

Fireball gagged. Gregor dipped a protato wedge into the sauce and popped it into his mouth, chewing happily. Echo looked down at the container of stew he’d selected, and his stomach lurched, cheeks going even grayer than usual.

“I, uh, think I’ll hit the shower,” he said, setting the stew back on the countertop.

Cerra and Gregor didn’t respond, too immersed in the holovid. Despite himself, Fireball drifted closer, leaning over the back of the sofa with his eyes glued to the vid. He absentmindedly reached for a protato wedge, and Gregor slapped his hand away. Cerra wordlessly handed her half-empty bag of shoestring fries to Fireball.

Echo shrugged and headed to the refresher. He took his time in the shower, knowing that the rest of the group was likely to be distracted. The hot water relaxed the muscles in his back and soothed his aching limbs where his prosthetics connected. His mind drifted to Senator Chuchi—Riyo, as she’d insisted he call her. He couldn’t imagine the beautiful, gentle Pantoran watching holovids of corpse dissections. When Rex had opened the stasis pod to show Echo and the Batch the clone assassin, Riyo had carefully avoided looking at the man’s face. She hadn’t become desensitized to death and violence the way Cerra and his fellow clones had, but she was fearless, even in the face of Rampart’s attempts on her life.

She was so lovely. Sweet, but strong. As he pictured her smooth, cerulean skin, her soft lilac hair, and the subtle curves of her body, he felt his cock stiffen. Seizing the rare moment of privacy, Echo soaped up his hand and began to stroke himself, careful to keep silent. He braced himself against the shower stall with his scomp arm, tilting his head back to let the warm water flow over his neck and chest.

He envisioned Riyo around him—her mouth, her body, her sighs of passion and her enveloping warmth, her wide golden eyes glazed with need. His breath became ragged. It had been months since he’d been with a woman, he was acutely conscious that any of the team could walk in at any moment. Gritting his teeth to hold back his groans, he squeezed harder and increased the speed of his hand. Before long, the surging pleasure overwhelmed his control, and he spilled hot, white jets of cum onto the shower floor.

All his breath left him in a rush, and his head sagged to rest on the arm that braced against the shower wall. The water started to run cold, so he finished washing and toweled off, dressing quickly and returning to join the others.

Echo suppressed a laugh when he saw Fireball sprawled on the sofa with the other two. The two clones had removed their armor and now wore only their black body gloves. The holotable was cluttered with empty wrappers and takeout containers, and somebody had filled a bucket with ice and several bottles of ale, two of which Gregor and Fireball were already drinking. Echo noticed that the bulky bandage on Cerra’s hand had been replaced with a neat bacta patch, and the medkit had been put away. The group had turned raucous, and Fireball kept up a running commentary on the vid.

“You call that a primary incision?” he jeered. “I could do better blindfolded, with a vibrosword!”

“If you’re so confident, maybe you should do the autopsy,” Cerra said.

“No thanks,” Fireball said. “It’s one thing to watch a holovid. It’s something else when it’s a brother.”

“I know,” Cerra said. “That’s why I’m not drinking. Gotta keep my head clear so I can focus on the techniques.”

Echo grunted as he heated up a bowl of stew. “I can’t believe you’re still watching that. Why not put on something like the Great Galactic Bake Off instead?”

Cerra twisted around to look at him. “You’re a Bake Off fan? Have you seen this week’s episode yet?”

“No. I usually watch it with Omega,” Echo replied.

“Hmph, Charo Intan was robbed last week,” Gregor grumbled.

“You’re just saying that because the Sullustan got Galaxy Baker,” Cerra teased.

“His technical bake was a disaster!” Gregor exclaimed. “The judges are out of their minds.”

Fireball listened to the exchange with a look of utter bewilderment. “What are you even talking about?”

Three heads swiveled to stare at Fireball.

“You haven’t heard of the Bake Off?” Gregor asked incredulously. “Do you live under an asteroid?”

Fireball shrugged.

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” Cerra said, punching the control panel of the holotable. “Prepare to lose your sanity and any hope of a social life.”

Echo was surprised at how nonchalant Cerra seemed, especially after the previous night’s disaster. He took his bowl of stew to the sofa and nudged Fireball out of the way as he sat down. It was a tight squeeze with the four of them, so Cerra scooted onto Gregor’s lap to make room. Fireball picked up her legs to drape across his thighs.

Echo couldn’t quite figure out what was going on between Cerra and Gregor. He had assumed they were a couple when he’d first arrived, but he had second-guessed himself when their obvious affection for each other never seemed to go beyond platonic demonstrations. But Gregor’s reaction to Cerra’s distress the previous night; the tender, intimate words he’d whispered as he comforted her; and in particular his anomalous hostility toward Rex made Echo reevaluate his assumptions yet again. But now the commando seemed utterly unfazed as Fireball joined their little snuggle pile, even as the younger clone settled in cozily beneath Cerra’s calves.

Fireball rolled up one of Cerra’s pant legs and began to doodle on her skin with a marker, drawing complex, abstract swirls in black ink. The familiar opening jingle of the Bake Off started to play, and Echo gave up on trying to unravel the complexities of—kriff—whatever was going on at the other end of the sofa, turning his attention instead to the holovid.

Once again, it seemed Echo was the odd man out. It seemed strange and wrong to watch the show without Omega, and he missed his brothers’ familiar camaraderie. He didn’t think Cerra was intentionally excluding him, but he couldn’t help feeling a little stab of envy at how easily she and Gregor had allowed Fireball into their little circle. The younger clone hadn’t needed to work for it at all; they’d simply absorbed him. Echo frowned as he wondered if he had done something to make Cerra hold him at a distance.

As if on cue, she rummaged through the bucket of ice, retrieving two bottles of ale and cracking them open. To Echo’s surprise, though, she held one out to him, and when he took it with a silent nod of thanks, she clinked her bottle against his and took a sip. Echo reflexively drank his as well, watching out of the corner of his eye as Cerra settled back against Gregor. The commando shifted to wrap his arm around her, tugging her closer to him and easing her head onto his shoulder.

“This is the week that useless Garr Tevv goes home,” Gregor declared. “I can feel it.”

“I don’t know, buddy,” Cerra said. “The judges don’t seem to share your opinion of Sullustans. I think he’ll make it to the finale.”

“What’s wrong with Sullustans?” Fireball asked.

“Heh, it’s a long story,” Gregor chuckled.

“You can’t judge all Sullustans by what Borkus did,” Echo said.

“Oh, can’t I?” Gregor asked. “How do you feel about Skakoans?”

“Fair point,” Echo conceded.

“Why are there so many contestants from Separatist worlds?” Fireball asked.

“Something about bringing the galaxy together after the turmoil of war,” Gregor said.

“By making them compete against each other?” Fireball sounded confused.

“Friendly competition,” Echo clarified. “Although it hardly seemed friendly when Timi Riniath stole Runa Mone’s conservator and left her custard out to curdle.”

“Ugh, I can’t believe they let Timi stay in after that,” Cerra complained. “Such a cheater.”

“I still think it was an honest mistake,” Gregor said.

“No way,” Echo and Cerra retorted in unison.

“Jinx, you owe me a Coke,” Cerra said automatically.

Echo inhaled sharply, and Cerra’s face went rigid as they both realized what she’d said. How many times had Fives repeated that sentence? He and Echo spoke jointly so often that it was practically their catchphrase. Fives and Cerra must have shared the same tendency for her to have picked up the habit.

“Kriff,” she whispered. “Sorry, Echo. I wasn’t thinking. It just slipped out.”

“That’s all right,” Echo said uncomfortably. “It was bound to happen sometime.”

Gregor rubbed a soothing hand on Cerra’s back. Fireball looked more confused than ever, but he wisely didn’t ask questions and went back to his drawing.

“Good to know you shared the same brain cell with Fives as I did,” Echo said to diffuse the tension. “Feels like there’s still part of him with us.”

For once, it seemed he’d said the right thing, because Cerra visibly relaxed, and a small smile crept over her face. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”

The recap segment of the show ended, and they all turned to the holovid. Fireball occasionally asked questions about how the competition worked, which Gregor answered enthusiastically, and soon the group became fully captivated. They cheered for their favorites and booed the contestants they disliked. At some point, a second round of beers was passed around, and by the end of the show, Fireball had already downloaded the old episodes onto his datapad so he could watch them next time he was on a long hyperspace jump.

Cerra looked haggard and was probably feeling the lingering effects of the sedative Gregor had administered as well as the aftermath of everything else that had happened the previous night. She didn’t manage to stay awake through the whole episode, lulled to sleep by the way Gregor absentmindedly rubbed her shoulders and the soft drag of Fireball’s marker against her leg.

“I’ll take first watch,” Fireball said quietly.

Gregor nodded, standing cautiously with Cerra in his arms and staggering a little under their combined weight. Cerra jostled awake with a startled grunt.

“Shh, go back to sleep,” Gregor said. “I’ve got you.”

She blinked owlishly at him and looked around.

“Good night, Cerra,” Fireball said.

“G’night, Tup,” she murmured as she burrowed her face into Gregor’s shoulder.

Fireball and Echo exchanged confused looks with Gregor, who just shrugged and turned away to carry Cerra to the barracks. Echo and Fireball cleaned up the detritus of their impromptu watch party, and then Echo headed for the barracks as well.

“I’ll take the second watch,” Echo told Fireball. “I don’t think Gregor has slept at all in the last two days.”

Inside the barracks, Gregor had already tucked Cerra into her bunk and was changing out of his body glove into a pair of sweatpants. Echo eased down onto his bunk and detached his leg prosthetics with a sigh of relief. Gregor climbed into his own bunk, and the barracks descended into silence.

By some miracle of fate or the Force, Echo slept. When Fireball shook him awake to stand watch, Echo flinched away, his heart racing. Fireball held up his hands placatingly and returned to the main room. Echo dressed quickly and reattached his legs, then went to join him.

“All quiet?” Echo asked.

“So far,” Fireball said. “But I got a comm from my brother Nemec. He wants out. Do you think Rex will help?”

“I know he will,” Echo said firmly. “We’ll start planning the extraction as soon as Rex gets back.”

The anxiety in the younger clone’s face eased, and he nodded gratefully when Echo told him to get some rest. Before he returned to the barracks, though, Fireball had one more question.

“Echo?” he asked hesitantly. “Who’s Tup?”

“No idea,” Echo said.

---

Next chapter

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