#it doesn't go to fives

[lifeofclonewars]

Sorry to anyone who was expecting to get Fives on the Domino quiz. For some reason, it's only given 1 person him as a result so far. Whenever there's a tie between him and another Domino, it doesn't go to him for some reason

[moonriase]

Losing a kid is hard on everybody.

[wandixx]

Seriously chaotic fashion misadventures

I realized I posted a teaser and never really followed up on it, so here is some more of that

“Hey, Dami?”

Boy hadn’t looked up from the kittens he was bottle feeding but let out a hum indicating he listened.

“I'm thinking about trying out a more girlish style. Do you think it would suit me?”

Well, Damian had no idea but if Dani wished to give it a chance, then, well, the only proper reaction was to offer his aid.

*-*-*

“Father, I require access to your rouge gallery.”

Bruce almost choked on his breakfast when his youngest made this announcement.

Rouge gallery, as his children playfully called it, was vast collection of lipsticks, which he collected to uphold his Brucie persona. Famous playboy with head constantly in the clouds couldn’t not show up with discreet signs of scandal from time to time. And it couldn’t always be the same shade. Or scent when he choose more subtle approach and used one of his more feminine perfumes.

In all honesty, he enjoyed this.

But that’s not the point, point was that Damian wanted to use it and Bruce needed to know what disaster would fall upon him if he agreed.

“Mind telling me why, chum?”

Dick, who visited Manor for a weekend, barely stifled his laughter while Tim stared at his empty coffee mug like it personally betrayed him. Cass just wore her usual knowing and mischievous smile.

Damian shifted in his chair, hands clenching on butter knife. He was nervous and suddenly Bruce dreaded the answer he was about to hear.

“I don’t see how me sharing this information would change anything. It won’t be used to cause harm to anyone but it’s necessary in the extracurricular project I just started.”

“Dami, what project?” Dick asked, voice oozing with genuine curiosity and excitement. He was almost bouncing.

“I don’t want to disclose it.”

“Is this a hero or civilian type of deal?”

Damian didn’t look any of them in the eyes, both hands clenching on his seat as he kept shifting. Bruce narrowed his eyes. Was his youngest… flustered?

“Civilian”

“Alright, great” Dick swung back with single clap, almost tripping his chair over “I think B won’t have anything against you using his rouge gallery, will he?” Man knew his oldest son well enough to recognize his ‘don’t you dare to disagree’ tone. He was confused but there wasn’t any harm so he nodded with affirmative hum.

“Thank you, Father”

Boy practically inhaled rest of his food and rushed outside. Despite all his training and all his efforts, they clearly saw his excitement. Tim pinched himself and returned to staring at his mug.

“Cass, have you seen what I’ve seen or am I overreacting?” Dick asked, barely restraining his enthusiasm. Girl nodded eagerly, shoving more crumbs into her mouth. Young man cheered, throwing his hands up.

“What have I missed?” Tim mumbled, frowning a little.

“BABY BAT HAS A CRUSH!”

Cass nodded again with wide smile.

Oh.

Oh no.

Who were they? What did he know about them? Was Protocol 3r0s started? Did someone run a background check already? What could they do if they somehow hurt Damian? Was this person a risk to their identities? Oh gods, oh no.

He probably will have to do The Talk™.

He always dreaded having The Talk, with any of his kids. He felt The Talk with Damian would be even worse. Understandably so.

“Also sleep in at least three da-”

“Fuck off, dick.”

“Was this insult or-”

His children remained obvious to how much work it meant, cheering and sassing each other like they often did.

*-*-*

Damian did not know how it was possible but he lowered his guard enough to get caught.

"What are you doing?" Brown choked out after they stared at each other for a long moment.

"It does not concern you–"

"You're rummaging through my wardrobe, not many things concern me more and also, that's frickin creepy don't do it to anyone outside of the family"

She did have a point however he was not convinced it would be the correct approach if he shared his plan. Father's wards (even unofficial like Brown) tended to make assumptions and overreact based on these conjectures. Dani wasn't easy to scare off but he didn't want to check if his family would manage. They often did things thought to be impossible.

He tried to get away but the blonde stood fiercely in a door, leaving the window as the only way out. He wasn't this desperate. Yet.

Girl looked more and more angry at his silence. He had to give her some answers.

Now that he actually considered it, she could be a useful asset. She was far better versed in women's fashion and if he phrased it correctly, he wouldn't even need to bribe her. Question was, how should he phrase it?

"I have an acquaintance- I have a friend," he corrected himself "from the animal shelter I volunteer at. She mentioned wanting to try out more 'girlish style' and asked for my opinion. I wanted to see if you had any clothes that would fit her. She is smaller than me so I thought that whatever I take, it wouldn't be missed." 

Brown grinned with an unsettling gleam in her eyes. He suddenly regretted opening his mouth if not coming to this room in the first place. 

"Say no more, I have a plan Demon Child"

[siriuslyobsessedwithfiction]

"Sunrise on the Reaping tried too hard to be sad and a tear-jerker" - congratulations, you have discovered the meaning of the word tragedy. It's exactly what it's supposed to be, a tragedy. I'm sorry, did you want a more colorful way of children getting killed? The whole point of the book is that this tragedy has been happening over and over again for decades and people have tried to stop it and failed but giving up is not an option. Haymitch got to fulfil his promise years later. The whole point is how that tragedy became a more and more refined and polished piece of entertainment, normalized, any resistance erased.

Seeing criticisms that Lenore Dove being related to Lucy Grey and Haymitch being friends with Katniss' dad is "too on the nose" and "cheapens the plot" is hilarious. Once again, the meaning of a tragedy, going right over some people's heads. Besides, District 12 was the smallest one, the population was only 8000. There were barely any Covey left. It was also an isolated environment with very few entertainments. Of course everybody knew everyone. How many kids did Haymitch have to mentor over the years? Of course one of those kids happened to be his friend's. Maybe he would have had other best friends over the years, y'know, if not for the hunger games.

"Haymitch was too much like Katniss" - of course he was like Katniss! Many children were like Katniss! Small town, isolation, dwindling resources, children left fatherless because of them having to do dangerous work, the coal mines, the casualties, seeing your sisters in someone else, no care from authorities...The whole point is that the same thing happened to many children. We're literally told Katniss was just somewhat luckier.

[calamitoustide]

jayvik hunger games au but in the end Jayce has to kill Viktor to win, there is no tricking the game makers, there is no way both of them can get out of there. Viktor has to die and Jayce has to be the one holding the other side of the blade.

Then Jayce has to become a mentor and take care of all the tributes who come after and he finds pieces of Viktor in all of them, because he can't help it, because that love has to go somewhere. And so every time they die it feels like he has to watch Viktor die all over again.

And then he mentors these two kids Jinx and Ekko and they come out alive, they both come out alive and Jayce is ecstatic, he is, but he can't help but think about what would've happened if he could've gotten Viktor out with him....

[iteratorsex]

I sorta want to rewrite FP's dialogue for gourmand, and I guess while thinking about it I drew this

[lil-lemon-snails]

🎠 what makes you so special? 🎠

a little late to the party but I cannot ignore the siren song of drawing my favourite characters riding carousels <3

[lukaherehelp]

Also, the spanish commentators went for the israeli throats before the actual programing started and after put this on the broadcast. Now the Eurovision Committee is pissed off.

So yeah. You tried, but people don't forget. Will never forget.

[whitestopper]

Yellowjackets and why they got sent to conversion therapy But I'm A Cheerleader style

Nat - Goth.

Misty - Weirdo... her parents wanted her out of the house...

Van - Her mum doesn't actually care but she still crocodile-teared her way into letting Van stay without cost for the whole summer, #freebabysitting

Laura Lee - She's just a volunteer there (for now).

Shauna - Flannel-wearing, soccer-playing, poet-wannabe introvert. Obvs.

Jackie - Shauna got sent there. Also she plays soccer.

Lottie - Kept talking about seeing women (she has unstoppable visions).

Tai - She's gay; incidentally, Tai sent herself there because she didn't want to deal with a gay crisis, and her parents currently think she's at a Model UN conference.

Mari - Tried invoking Girl On Girl Is Hot with the wrong crowd.

Melissa - Look at her fucking hat. Come on.

Crystal/Kristen - No sense of boundaries.

[ask-the-pioneer]

"Yes, I am now heading towards Five Pebbles, the local iterator. I find it funny how I was born and spent my first cycles in the shadow of his superstructure, while being completely oblivious to the existence of this demi-god. And now that I came back here... it feels even more uncanny."

"Though, I really... I really wish Hunter did not abandon me like that. I thought we were meant to go on that mission together? I'm not blind, I know something is wrong with him. We used to go on expeditions in the past, but now that he has a very important payload to deliver and could use some help, he suddenly doesn't need it? I don't understand... I'm more than capable in combat, we make a good team, I thought he was happy with my company?"

"We separated earlier at Farm Arrays. Hunter kept insisting he has to do it alone, despite my pleading. Instead, I was told to head straight to Five Pebbles. I thought we had to visit there anyway? Iterators often use slugcats as messengers, I've learned..."

"Sigh... I feel a little lost all on my own. I miss Hunter already. I hope that, despite everything, he's okay and we will return to NSH soon. But first, I need to pay the local iterator a visit. I'm hoping for some guidance in regards to... ahem... rot, yeah. I heard they've been affected by the disease, too. Maybe they've got an idea on how to manage it? It doesn't hurt to try. Maybe I'll hang around this area for a while to collect as many pearls as possible, then have Five Pebbles read them to me? One of those has to have some kind of instruction on how to treat rot, it has to... I refuse to believe that the disease which plagued iterators for countless cycles is untreatable."

"Uh... the Red One?"

[fictionadventurer]

From what I can see, all the commentary on the Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes movie thinks this story is trying to answer its philosopical questions, and completely overlooking the fact that all the answers these characters find are the wrong ones. The right answer is in The Hunger Games and Catching Fire and Mockingjay. You can tell because the main character of this story is the villain in the other ones.

[xoxoemynn]

Seeing how tickled Ed is when Stede is recognized, how he just sits back and lets him have that moment, warms my heart. More than anything, he loves him and is proud of him and just wants him to be happy.

I think a lot of shows would have taken the easy/predictable way out and have Ed bristle at that exchange, or be jealous or resentful, because how many times have we seen similar stories like that play out before? But not here! Ed's delighted. Because more than anything, he loves Stede

[nadas-dirthalen]

PSA for no reason: romanced davrin doesn't have to die to make a good story. i get the impulse to write a tragedy after the solavellan hell we all just endured for a decade.

if you must write an angsty romance, it is possible to write a story using everything we know from the datamining that's floated around tumblr, and from videos like this summary of what was excluded from the game by jackdaw, where it is clearly shown that there was content where the fallen companion from tearstride could be searched for (and even potentially rescued).

dragon age is ours now. you can fully write dragon age 5 and make manfred the protagonist. there's no reason you can't write veilguard's only black companion as being rescued—or even that he rescues himself, thanks to his knowledge of the blight and his expertise as a warden. this could lead to further plot threads having to do with what we know of the devouring storm. after all, we know the "mysterious substance" that hinted at the devouring storm was the same substance tied to ghilan'nain in horror of hormak.

anything is possible. anything at all.

you don't have to kill him if all you're after is a sad story.

[jetii]

Good Graces

Chapter Four

Tags/Warnings: we talk a bit about child soldiers here. and blood. and murder but casually. and there’s a brief Echo and Hardcase death mention

Chapter WC: 7,053

A/N: Idk how I ever thought this was going to be only a few chapters. Like me?? Making things short??? Be so for real. This is still night one. Good news is I think I have the whole thing outlined now.

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Esmé emerges from the Senator's rooms about twenty minutes later, her hands stained with blood and her hair mussed. She doesn't say anything as she strides down the stairs, heading for the kitchen.

The troopers had made quick work of cleaning up the mess, the bodies removed and the furniture left intact righted. The blood stains are still visible, but they can't do much about that. They can't fix the holes in the wall or the scorch marks or the cracked tile, but they'd tried.

There's still a lot to do, a lot of reports to write, and a lot of calls to be made, but the immediate threat has passed, and they have time to breathe.

The others are gathered in the living room, their armor piled neatly against the wall, and their helmets placed side by side on the table. They're sitting on the sofa, their posture relaxed, their shoulders slumped, though none of them dare to put their feet up on the table.

Jesse is the first to look up, and when he spots Esmé, he nudges Rex and tilts his head towards her. Rex follows his gaze, and a polite smile appears on his face.

"Ma'am," Rex greets.

"Captain," she replies. She gives him a nod, and then looks at the others, her eyes landing on each of them in turn. She smiles, but it's weak, the corners of her mouth strained. "Is everyone alright?"

"A little banged up," Jesse replies, "but we'll live."

Esmé nods.

"Good."

She stands there for a moment, her hand gripping the door frame, her gaze lingering on the spot where the bounty hunter had been lying. There's no trace of the fight, no hint that anything had ever happened. If it weren't for the broken glass and the missing furniture, they could have passed it off as a regular evening.

But it hadn't been a regular evening.

A bounty hunter had almost gotten past them. Had almost gotten the Senator. And the only reason they hadn't gotten away with it was because of Esmé.

"I'm going to start on dinner," Esmé announces, and she's already moving, her legs carrying her down the hall and towards the kitchen. "If you need me, I'll be in here."

And then she's gone, disappearing through the doorway. The men glance at each other, and Fives sighs.

"I'll talk to her," he says, climbing to his feet.

They don't protest. None of them say a word. They just nod, their eyes fixed on him, and give him encouraging smiles. He can't bring himself to return it.

He follows Esmé, his steps light. The kitchen is spacious, with an island in the middle and the countertops a polished gray stone. Esmé stands by the sink with her back angled toward him, her hands scrubbing at the stains, her face set in a grimace. She doesn't seem to notice his presence. She just keeps washing the blood from beneath her fingernails, her fingers pink and raw, her lips pursed.

He waits a moment before speaking, giving her a chance to react, but she seems oblivious to him. He clears his throat.

"Need a hand?"

"I'm fine," she replies without looking. Her voice is flat, professional, and she still hasn't turned around. "Thank you."

Fives leans against the door frame and crosses his arms. He watches her for a moment, his gaze sweeping over her body, his eyes tracing her shoulders, her spine, and the curve of her hips.

He's not really sure what to say. There's so much he wants to ask, and so much he wants to talk about, but none of it feels right. None of it feels like enough.

He settles on moving closer, taking a seat on a stool parked at the island, and he props his elbow on the counter, his chin resting in his palm. He watches her scrub her hands and then run them under the water, and he lets the silence hang between them.

"You know," Fives says, his tone light, "if you want to talk, I'm a good listener."

She pauses, and for a second, it seems like she might take him up on his offer. But then her expression hardens, her jaw tightening, and she shakes her head.

"I'm fine," she repeats, and this time, there's force behind it. She grabs a rag and dries off her hands, her fingers rubbing furiously at the stains. "I have nothing to say to you."

Well, that's unexpected.

He's not used to being dismissed so bluntly. He's used to being pushed away or ignored or laughed at, but this... he hadn't expected this. She's barely said more than a dozen words since she arrived, and none of them have been anything close to civil. He hadn't thought she could sound any colder, and yet, here she is. Proving him wrong. Again.

"Well, I have a lot to say to you," he snaps. He sits up straighter and rests both hands on the countertop. "So if you could put the attitude away for a few minutes, I'd appreciate it."

Esmé scoffs and tosses the towel aside. She braces herself on the edge of the sink, and he can see the muscles in her shoulders and arms flex, her knuckles turning white as she grips the countertop.

"Attitude? You have a lot of nerve," she snaps, and when she finally looks at him, there's fire in her eyes. "After everything that happened today, after what you did—"

"I was doing my job," Fives interrupts. He narrows his eyes and leans forward. "I was trying to protect you."

Esmé glares at him, and the look on her face makes him regret opening his mouth.

"I don't need you to protect me," she hisses, and the words are venom. "And even if I did, you're a terrible bodyguard."

His jaw drops open, and he feels like she's punched him in the gut.

"Excuse me?"

"You were supposed to protect Senator Amidala. You weren't supposed to abandon your post. You were supposed to have your helmet." Her eyes are dark and angry and filled with hatred. She shakes her head. "And instead, you let a bounty hunter into her home, and she was nearly killed. You did more harm than good."

"What, and you think you could have done better?"

"I did do better."

Her response is swift and brutal, her words cutting through him like a knife. It stings more than he expects it to. He knows that he made mistakes, that he screwed up, but it wasn't intentional. He'd just wanted to protect her. He'd wanted to keep her safe.

He hadn't expected her to be so hostile.

It hurts.

And it pisses him off.

He's been trying all day to connect with her, and this is what he gets. This is how she treats him. And yeah, maybe she's had a rough day, but so has he, and so have the others. He'd almost gotten killed, and so had Tup. They'd all been through hell and back.

"That was low," Fives mutters. His jaw clenches. "You know I didn't mean for that to happen."

"I know," she agrees. Her voice softens a little, but she's still tense, her body coiled tight like a spring, her gaze fixed on him. She takes a breath and straightens. "But you still failed. And so did I."

Fives watches as she walks across the room and opens the fridge. She starts pulling things out, placing them on the counter, and he can't tell if she's ignoring him or just focused on something else. She hasn't even looked at him once since the conversation started.

It's like she's deliberately trying not to look at him. Like she can't bear to look at him.

Fives' mouth twists into a grimace. He's not sure how he feels about that.

"Why are you here, Fives?" she asks after a moment, her head buried in the fridge. She sounds tired, like the anger has drained from her, and all that's left is exhaustion. "What do you want from me?"

What does he want from her?

He's not sure he knows the answer to that question.

Fives has never been particularly good at talking to women. He's a shameless flirt and a hopeless romantic, and he likes the chase, likes the thrill of the hunt. He likes the feeling of being wanted. He likes making people smile. But when it comes to actually talking, to having an actual conversation, he's never been very good at that.

He's always been better at making jokes than dealing with real problems. And it's not like he's had much practice. It's not like any of the brothers do.

Esmé is different.

She's not interested in him. At least, not the way he wants. And even if she were, he's not sure she'd let him in. She's guarded and wary and closed off, and the walls she's built around herself are so high and so thick they might as well be a fortress.

But the thing is, Fives isn't a quitter. He's never given up on anything in his life, and he's not about to start now.

He's not going to let some pretty girl get the best of him. He's not going to let one rejection change the way he sees the world. And he's not going to walk away from this without giving it his all.

It's just a challenge. That's all. He's faced worse. He's fought harder.

"I just want to talk," Fives says with a shrug. He tries for a smile. "No ulterior motives."

She snorts and pulls her head out of the fridge, giving him a disbelieving look.

"Right."

"Hey, I'm serious," he protests, raising a hand. He shakes his head and looks down at the counter, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "Look, I know you're mad at me, and I don't blame you. What I did... It was stupid. But how was I supposed to know you're some kind of... some kind of assassin? Or a soldier. Whatever."

"What, exactly, did you think I was?" she asks, letting the door fall shut and dumping ingredients onto the counter.

Fives' brows shoot up, and he can't help but laugh.

"Oh, I don't know," he says, rolling his eyes. "How about a handmaiden?"

Esmé turns away from him and begins digging through the cabinets, her hands grabbing pots and pans and utensils, but he swears he sees a hint of a smirk on her lips. "So, what? You thought I was a secretary? A servant? You thought I was just sitting around, knitting sweaters and serving tea all day?"

"No, of course not," he protests quickly. "I just..."

He trails off. He hadn't really thought about it, honestly. He'd been more concerned with the fact that she'd been avoiding him and pretending he didn't exist. He'd been so focused on getting her to like him, he'd never really considered what she did with her time. Or what her job was. Or who she was.

Maybe he should have.

He sighs and scratches the back of his neck.

"I mean, yes. Kind of. I guess. I don't know. I didn't think about it. I just assumed..." Fives shrugs helplessly and gestures vaguely. "Well, that's what handmaidens do, isn't it? They serve."

Esmé makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, and he can't tell if it's amusement or irritation. It's hard to tell with her. She seems to switch between the two every other minute.

She lets out a deep breath, her head hanging, and she sets the pot on the stove and turns it on. She reaches for the cutting board and pulls a knife from the block with a loud shnick.

"That's a rather sexist thing to assume, isn't it?" she asks as she starts chopping the vegetables in front of her. Her movements are fluid and practiced, the blade flashing as it slices through the air. "Not very progressive."

"That's not what I—"

"I'm joking," she interrupts him, and he snaps his mouth shut. "Mostly."

Fives huffs and slumps forward, his chin propped in his hand. He watches her for a few seconds, his gaze flickering over her features.

He should have known, should have figured it out sooner. It had been obvious, really, once he'd gotten over the shock of watching her kill someone in front of him. The way she moves, the way she speaks, the way she holds herself. It's not the way most women carry themselves. Or any civilians, for that matter.

He wonders how he hadn't seen it before. How he hadn't noticed.

She's still holding a knife, her grip firm and her hand steady, her motions fluid and practiced. The blade moves with rhythmic precision as it slices through the vegetables in front of her, each cut precise and even. It's almost mesmerizing.

She's good. Good enough to make this all look effortless, like it's the easiest thing in the world. She's good enough to kill a man with a single, precise shot, and then move onto making dinner like it's nothing.

Like it's normal.

Eight.

Fives can't seem to wrap his head around it. Can't quite believe it.

She's so... normal. And yet, somehow, not.

She's not like anyone he's ever met before. Not like anyone he's ever known. Not a soldier, not a civilian. Something else entirely.

It's strange. And maybe a little exciting.

"So," he says slowly, his words deliberate, his voice low, "how long have you been doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Protecting the Senator. Taking out threats. You know," he says with a vague gesture. He pauses, and then adds, his tone casual, "Killing people."

"Since I was fourteen," she answers, her gaze still fixed on the cutting board. Her hand stills. She seems to consider it for a moment and then adds, "Give or take."

Fourteen.

He blinks.

"That's young," Fives mutters. "Isn't that young?"

"Not really," she says with a shrug. She continues chopping. "I started training when I was five. It was inevitable."

"That's—" He stops and shakes his head, something foreign twisting in his gut. "You were a child."

"Weren't you a child, too?" Esmé asks, her brows raising. She pushes the diced onions to the side, and her gaze meeting his. Her eyes are soft, understanding, and he can't bring himself to look away. "You and your brothers."

He has no response to that. She's right. They were children. All of them.

Fives was barely five years old developmentally when the trainers had given him a blaster for the first time. It had felt heavy in his hands and awkward to hold, and he'd had no idea how to use it. But the trainers hadn't cared. They'd pushed him and prodded him and forced him to fire until he could hit the target without missing.

He'd missed a lot.

And even when he'd gotten it right, they'd make him do it again.

There was no such thing as a break or a pause or a time out. He'd had to keep going. No matter how tired he'd been or how much pain he was in. No matter what they'd asked him to do. And that was only the beginning.

"That's not the same," he protests anyway. "We're clones. We're bred for this. We didn't have a choice."

"Neither did I."

There's a moment of silence as her words hang in the air, the tension thick. Then the knife hits the cutting board again, and she's back to chopping vegetables, like nothing ever happened.

Fives scratches the back of his neck and sighs. He's not really sure what to say, where to go from here. He wants to ask more, wants to know more, but it feels like he's already pushed too hard. And the longer this goes on, the louder the part of him screaming to let it go gets.

But he can't.

He can't bring himself to turn his back on her.

And not just because he's stubborn. Not just because he likes her, and he can't stop thinking about her. But because it feels wrong.

Esmé been attacked more times than she wants to admit, and it's obvious to him now that she's been fighting a war on her own for a long time. Maybe not a war like the one he and the rest of the galaxy are fighting. But a war nonetheless. And she's done it alone. She's kept it hidden and private and hasn't said a word about it.

And there's no telling when the next attack will come. There's no telling how bad it will be.

She shouldn't have to do it alone. She shouldn't have to fight by herself.

No one should have to fight alone.

Fives takes a breath.

"It's not your fault," he says quietly. His hands are flat on the countertop, and he drums them against the surface. "What happened today, with the bounty hunter. That wasn't your fault."

The pot sizzles as Esmé drops a pad of butter into it before placing some cut of meat inside, covering it with a generous amount of spices. The heat intensifies, the flames burning brighter.

"I know that," she answers. Her tone is even, not a hint of emotion in her voice, but she isn't looking at him, either.

"Do you?" he asks. He leans forward. "Because you seem pretty upset about it."

"Of course I am," she snaps. She whirls around to face him, her hands on her hips. "Two men came into our home and tried to kill us. They tried to kill Padmé. How could I possibly not be upset?"

"Well," Fives begins, choosing his words carefully, "it's not your fault there were a bad guys. You can't blame yourself."

"I don't," she replies sharply, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips. "It's not my fault. But that doesn’t mean I’m not angry. That I don't want to make them pay."

"And do you?" he asks, his brows raising. "Make them pay?"

She shrugs.

"Sometimes," she admits. She looks away and sighs. "When I can. When I'm allowed."

Fives nods and leans back, and the stool creaks as he shifts his weight, his gaze drifting to the floor. He studies the tiles, the patterns on the floor, the small flecks of dust, and tries to make sense of the information swirling around in his brain.

They sit in silence for a few moments, neither of them saying a word. Esmé continues preparing dinner, her movements quick and efficient, her hands practiced. She's used to this. To working silently, to moving without drawing attention to herself. She's comfortable.

"Look," he says after a while, his voice quiet. He takes a deep breath. "I'm not gonna pretend like I get it. I don't. I'm not even going to try."

She turns towards him, and their eyes meet.

"But," Fives continues with a shrug, "I can't change your mind, either. So whatever. It's fine. Just... I want to help. If I can. So if you ever need someone to talk to, or just... someone to listen, or, well. You know. Whatever. I'm here."

Esmé opens her mouth, her lips moving as if she's going to protest, but she closes it just as quickly, her teeth catching her bottom lip. She looks at him for a long time, and he can feel the intensity of it, the way it burns through him.

He tries to keep his face neutral, his body relaxed, his posture casual. He's not sure how well it works, but it seems to satisfy her, and her shoulders fall, her hands dropping to her sides.

"I—" She breaks off, and she shakes her head. Her voice wavers as she speaks. "I should finish this. Dinner. It won't take long. Just..."

Fives nods and pushes himself to his feet. He hesitates and then steps closer, his hand reaching for her elbow. His palm presses against the curve of her arm, and he gives it a gentle squeeze. She tenses, but she doesn't pull away, and he lets himself enjoy the contact, his thumb rubbing a small circle on her skin.

“You sure you don't need any help?” he asks. He tries to keep the question light, teasing, but it comes out a little rougher than he intends, and he winces.

Her eyes drop to where he's touching her, a few strands of hair falling into her face, and she lets out a soft, shaky breath. She looks exhausted, and her eyes are still rimmed with red, but she still looks beautiful.

And the way she's looking at him right now, the way she's letting him touch her...

He'd do just about anything to keep her looking at him like that.

Esmé's mouth twitches into a faint smile, and she glances up at him through long, dark lashes. He's not sure what she's thinking, or what she's going to say, but he waits.

He can be patient.

For her, he'll wait.

”You can peel and cut the meilooruns,” she tells him after a moment. She jerks her head toward the fruits that she’d had him pick with her earlier, and her eyes sharpen. "Just don't eat any of them. We need them for the dessert."

He holds his hands up in surrender, his head tilting forward in a mock bow.

"Yes, ma'am."

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Stop calling me that.”

Fives' smile widens, and his hands fall back to his sides, his fingers curling into his palms.

"Yes, Esmé," he corrects, his tone light. "Whatever you say, Esmé."

He swears he sees the corners of her mouth curl up, but it's gone so fast he can't be sure. She turns back to the stove to flip the meat, her back towards him.

"And don't touch anything else," she adds.

"Anything else," he repeats with a chuckle. "Got it."

Fives takes up his seat in the kitchen with a knife and the meilooruns, and starts peeling. The rhythmic thunk of the blade hitting the wood is soothing, and he lets his mind wander, his thoughts drifting from one subject to the next.

The conversation had been a bit... odd. Not what he'd expected. But it hadn't gone as badly as he'd feared.

He hadn't gotten the answers he'd wanted. Not really. But she'd spoken to him. And that was something. At least they'd gotten somewhere. And at least she'd listened.

The silence between them is starting to drag on too long, though, and he can't quite tamp down the urge to fill the quiet with sound. How often is he going to get the opportunity to talk with a pretty girl about nothing and everything?

How often is he going to get to have a conversation with Esmé?

He's not going to waste it.

"So," Fives starts, his tone careful, his eyes fixed on the fruit in front of him, "Eight, huh?"

She doesn't respond. He keeps peeling, the blade slicing through the skin, the flesh revealed beneath.

"Eight is a lot."

A large container of stock goes into the pot, and a cloud of steam erupts from the surface, rising toward the ceiling. He watches the smoke rise and twist and disappear into the air. He swallows.

"You're really good at it," he says, and when he glances at Esmé, there's a slight flush to her cheeks from the heat of the stove. He takes a breath. "You'd give any brother a run for their money. I'd say you've got the skills to be a commando."

She sighs and turns around.

"Are you going to help me," she begins, her tone flat, her gaze hard, "or are you going to keep asking stupid questions?"

“I’m a great multitasker," he replies with a smirk, undeterred. "I can do both."

Esmé rolls her eyes and makes a show of turning her back on him. But her shoulders relax, and she lets out a quiet huff of amusement.

Fives can't help the wide smile that appears on his face, or the warmth that spreads through his chest, or the fluttering in his stomach. He probably shouldn’t be feeling this way about a woman who could very well kill him in a hundred different ways without breaking a sweat. He should probably be scared. Or at the very least, a little worried.

But he's not.

Because he trusts her. And he's pretty sure she trusts him.

That has to count for something.

"Besides," he says as he slices into the last meiloorun, "I think I'm entitled to some answers."

Esmé lets out a quiet sound in the back of her throat, her voice barely audible. It's almost like a laugh. Or maybe a snort. He can't tell which, but it sounds amused, so he'll take it.

"Fine," she says with a sigh. "What do you want to know?"

"I dunno," Fives answers with a shrug. He's done peeling, and his fingers are sticky, so he wipes them on his armor. "Everything, I guess. Where did you learn how to shoot? Who trained you? How many other handmaidens can fight? Is there anyone else? I mean, are you the only one? Or are there more like you? Like—"

"Are you always this chatty?" Esmé interrupts.

"Only when I'm excited," Fives replies, his eyes glued to her back, his hands clasped together. "Or curious. Or—"

"Nervous," she finishes for him. She looks over her shoulder and gives him a pointed look, tilting her head. "Do I make you nervous, Fives?"

Fives feels a surge of heat rise up the back of his neck and into his cheeks, his mouth suddenly dry.

Kriff.

Yes.

He swallows thickly and looks away, scratching the back of his head and chuckling nervously. He forces his expression into something resembling a smirk and hopes she can't see how flushed he is.

"Nope," he lies. "Not at all."

"Uh-huh."

"Seriously," he insists. He can't quite meet her gaze, his eyes focusing on a spot on the cabinet beside her, and his fingers tap against his arm. "I'm totally calm. Never been calmer."

She looks skeptical, but she doesn't call him out on his bluff, and he's grateful. She just shakes her head, her hair swaying, and turns back to the pot.

Fives lets out a shaky breath and wipes his sweaty palms against his thighs, grimacing when they come away sticky. He'll need to clean his armor after this. The stuff is a nightmare to get off.

But first things first.

"So?"

Esmé stirs the soup and lifts the lid off the pot, releasing another burst of steam. She reaches for a spoon and scoops up a mouthful of the stew, blowing on it before she tastes it. She frowns, her brows pulling together, and adds more spice.

"So what?"

“Esmé. Come on," he whines. "Stop stalling."

"Fine," she mutters, her voice tight. She sets the spoon down and crosses her arms over her chest. "My father taught me to shoot. I joined the NSF when I was twelve, and then I was pulled out to become Padmé’s handmaiden when she became queen. I wasn’t the only one, I was just the one who lasted the longest. And no, we're not all like that. Not anymore, anyway. Most handmaidens are more... traditional."

She's looking at him over her shoulder again, her eyes narrowed, and he gets the sense that she's testing him, daring him to make a joke, waiting for him to say something stupid or inappropriate. But he won't.

He wants answers. And not just the ones he thinks are obvious. He wants all of them. Even the boring ones. Even the ones that seem mundane and insignificant and stupid.

But he'll settle for the basics. For now.

"Traditional," Fives repeats. "As in..."

"Not trained to fight."

"Right," he says slowly. "What happened to the others? Who were like you?”

“They went back to their lives. Most of them have families. Husbands. Children. Jobs. They don’t want to fight anymore. They got out. I didn’t. So here I am."

"Do you miss it? Your old life?"

"Sometimes," she admits. She shrugs. "Mostly not."

"So why didn't you get out? Why stay?"

Esmé looks away.

"Padmé needs me," she says simply. She shakes her head. "She's my family. The closest thing I have to one. If I left..."

Fives nods.

He understands. He'd do anything for his brothers. They're his family. He's loyal to them, and they're loyal to him. He knows they have his back, and he knows that they trust him, that they'd lay their lives down for each other. And if one of them needed him, he'd be there. No question. No hesitation.

It's the same for them.

And it's the same for her.

Esmé would do anything for Padmé. Fives is pretty sure she'd die for her. She'd sacrifice her life to save hers, and he would too, if he was in her place. It's not a hard choice. Echo did the same for him once, so did Hardcase, and as much as their deaths still haunt him, he knows that if came down to it, he would make the same decision. In a heartbeat.

That's just what they do.

The rest of the meal preparation is quiet. They work in silence, the only sound the crackle of the stove and the hum of the ventilation system. Esmé seems lost in thought, her brow furrowed and her eyes distant, and he can tell that her mind is elsewhere, her focus turned inward.

It's nice, though. To just sit here with her, side by side. To share a space, and to let her take care of him, and to take care of her. He's never felt this comfortable around a civilian before, never been so at ease. It's peaceful, and he can feel the tension leaving his body, his shoulders relaxing, the knot in his chest easing. He's almost forgotten about the attack, the fight and the chaos and the bloodshed.

But then he sees the splatter of red on the side of her tunic, and his hand stops, the knife halting.

"Is..." he begins, his voice hesitant. His gaze darts to her face and then back to her tunic, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "Is Senator Amidala okay?"

"She'll be fine," Esmé assures him, her tone firm. "She'll be in pain, but the wound wasn't serious. She'll live."

Fives releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and nods, his shoulders slumping.

"That's good," he murmurs. "Really good."

Esmé nods. She's leaning against the island, her palms flat against the countertop, her arms spread wide. Her head is bowed, her hair falling into her face, and she doesn't speak for a long time. He doesn't press her. He just keeps working, slicing the bread and placing it in a basket.

When she finally does speak, her voice is quiet, her tone cautious.

"Thank you," she says softly. She pushes herself upright and looks at him, her eyes searching his. "For today. For what you did. For what you were trying to do."

"No problem," Fives replies, and he he shrugs and slides the basket towards her. "That's what I'm here for."

Her expression is unreadable as she studies him. Her gaze is intense, her eyes dark, and he feels like he's being inspected, like she's trying to see right through him, her eyes boring into his.

He waits, his heart hammering in his chest.

Then, finally, she nods, her chin dropping.

"Alright."

Her voice is soft, her tone light. The corner of her mouth quirks upward, and he smiles, his lips curling into a grin.

"Alright," he replies.

The moment is interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hall, and General Skywalker appears a few seconds later, his robe draped over his arm. He stops in the doorway and looks around, his brows raising, his gaze lingering on the pot.

"Something smells good,” he says. He steps toward the stove, reaching for a spoon, but Esmé is there before him, slapping his hand away.

"Ani," she warns. She gives him a pointed look, her eyes narrowing. "Don't even think about it."

"Hey," Anakin protests, his eyes wide, his palms held up in surrender. "I wasn't going to. I was just—"

"You're never 'just,'" she interrupts. She shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest, her foot tapping against the floor. "And the food is ready. Go get Padmé."

Anakin huffs and rolls his eyes, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he does as he's told. He turns around and disappears back through the door, his robes flowing behind him, and Fives watches him go with a stunned expression.

Esmé turns back to the stove and stirs the stew, her movements brisk, her face blank.

"Did you just...?" he begins, his brows raised, his lips parted. He blinks and looks at the door. "Was that—Did the General just listen to you?"

She shrugs and continues stirring.

"He knows better than to mess with me," she says with a sniff. She glances over her shoulder and meets his gaze, her expression smug. "You should too."

"Oh, I know,” Fives replies quickly. He holds up both hands. "Believe me, I'm learning."

Esmé smiles. It's small and faint, barely visible, but it's there, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

The warmth that had begun to fade comes roaring back to life, fluttering in his chest and burning in his cheeks. He ducks his head and tries to hide the grin that threatens to split his face in half. He's not very successful.

They finish cooking in silence. Fives ropes Jesse into helping him set the table, and by the time they're lining up, bowls and plates piled high, the Senator and General are seated at the head of the table, the former looking much better than she had earlier. The wound on her shoulder is visible, a white bandage wrapped tightly around her arm, but she's sitting straight, her shoulders squared and her head held high.

General Skywalker looks less comfortable. He's sitting stiffly, his expression pinched, and he's watching her closely for any signs of distress. She doesn't appear bothered. She just looks amused, her gaze meeting his, and a small smile tugging at her lips.

Fives tries not to stare.

It's clear that there's something going on between the two of them. They're close, closer than they should be, and it's obvious that the General cares deeply for her. The way he keeps glancing at her, his eyes filled with concern, his body angled towards her, his hand resting lightly on the back of her chair. It's more than just affection. It's devotion.

But it’s none of his business. He’s much more concerned with his own romantic prospects.

Esmé places the last dish on the table, an array of the fruits he’d picked for her earlier and some sort of cake. The Senator's eyes light up when she sees the dessert, and the General looks impressed, his mouth curving into a smile.

"Well," Esmé starts, glowering, her hands clasped in front of her, "are we going to eat, or are we just going to sit here and stare at each other?"

The men snicker, and Senator Amidala sighs.

"Esmé," she scolds. She gives her a pointed look. "Be nice."

Esmé gestures to the spread of food.

"I was nice. That's what this is,” she explains. She takes her seat next to the Senator and gives her a look that could almost be described as a pout. "I've been nice all day. I'd like to be done with it now."

The Senator rolls her eyes fondly and shakes her head.

"You're impossible," she says with a huff. She looks around the table and smiles. "Dig in, everyone. It's going to get cold."

The men need no further prompting.

Everyone digs in with enthusiasm, and the table is soon filled with the sounds of chewing and the scrape of silverware. Fives grabs his plate and takes his first bite, the meat and vegetables melting on his tongue, the spices coating his mouth. It's delicious, and he can't help the moan that escapes him, the sound low and appreciative. He closes his eyes and takes another bite, and then another, and another.

When he opens his eyes, Esmé is watching him from her seat across from Rex. She doesn't say a word, her eyes glued to his face, her lips twitching.

He grins and winks at her.

Her cheeks turn pink, and she looks away, but not before he catches a glimpse of a small smile. It fades as she reaches for her glass of wine and drinks deeply, her attention fixed on the Senator.

Fives watches in fascination as the hand she places flat on the table contorts into a series of rapid, fluttering movements. Senator Amidala’s eyebrows raise, and she tilts her head to the side, her face twisting into a thoughtful frown. Then she shakes her head and makes a motion with her fingers, and Esmé frowns and responds, her hand moving quicker, the movements sharper, more intense. It’s apparent that neither of them is paying attention to the food anymore.

He glances around the table, his eyes flicking from one man to the next, and he realizes that no one is watching them. No one seems to be paying them any mind at all. Except him.

Fives can’t help but notice how similar the two women are, despite the obvious personality differences. Similar facial structure, the same sharp chin and high cheekbones, and the same shape of the mouth, the same curve of the jaw. The Senator has a soft, rounder look to her, and Esmé’s skin and hair are darker, but the similarities are striking.

They sit the same way, too. They hold their utensils the same, their backs straight and their chins held high. They eat the same food in the same way, sip their wine with the same delicate movement. They even make the same expressions and gesture with their hands the same way. It's uncanny.

He hadn't noticed it before, hadn't paid attention, but now he can see the similarities unfolding in front of him, the way their expressions shift and change, the tilt of their heads, the arch of their brows, the set of their mouths.

It’s almost like looking at two of his brothers. One is more stoic than the other, one a bit softer and sweeter, but still the same. Still family. Still a clone.

Fives stares, his fork halfway to his mouth, his food forgotten.

They're not sisters. They're not even related. And yet...

What?

Senator Amidala's hand drops, and Esmé's eyes narrow, her fingers curling into a fist. She stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor.

"Excuse me," she mutters, her words rushed. "I have something I need to do."

"Where are you going?" Fives asks before he can stop himself. He cringes as her eyes land on him, but he stands his ground and meets her gaze, ignoring the look of disbelief and irritation she gives him. “You haven't eaten."

“I’m not hungry,” she replies flatly.

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffs, and he gestures to her empty plate, his hand sweeping towards the table. "You made all this food, and you're not going to eat any of it?"

"Fives," she says, her voice strained, "I'm not—"

"Please," he interrupts. He can feel his face growing hot, and he forces himself to keep his eyes on hers, to not look away. "Eat something. At least try it."

Esmé hesitates. She doesn't sit, but she doesn't leave, either. She just stands there, her jaw clenched and her hand gripping the back of her chair, her knuckles white. Her expression is tense, her teeth grit, and he can see the muscles in her arm flexing. She looks angry. No, not angry. Something else. Upset.

He swallows and forces a smile, and after a few seconds, she releases a breath, her shoulders slumping, her head bowing.

"Fine," she snaps. She releases her iron grip on the chair in favor of swiping some of the bread from the center of the table. She holds the slice aloft, her brow raised. "Happy?"

"Yes," he says with a nod, his smile widening, and he picks up his fork. "Very."

Esmé lets out a huff and turns on her heel. She leaves without another word, disappearing through the doorway. Somewhere upstairs, a door slams, and a chunk of plaster falls from the ceiling. It lands on the table with a loud thunk in front of his plate.

Fives snorts and takes a sip of his drink, his gaze still fixed on the place where she'd disappeared from view. He's not sure if he's managed to charm her or if she's just too tired to argue. Either way, he'll take it.

He turns his attention back to the table, and he freezes at the sight of everyone staring at him, their expressions ranging from shocked to impressed. Even Senator Amidala is watching him, a curious look on her face, her mouth curved into a small smile.

"What?" he asks defensively. "She needs to eat."

The others exchange amused glances, and Fives shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flickering from one to the other, trying to fight the flush creeping up his neck.

“You’re a brave man, Fives,” General Skywalker says after a moment. He leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest, his eyebrows raised.

Fives snorts.

"What's the worst she can do? Shoot me?" he jokes, and then immediately regrets it. He grimaces and shakes his head. "Right. Don’t answer that."

That gets a laugh from the others, and he relaxes, the tension easing from his shoulders, his smile returning. The conversation turns back to the mission and the day's events, and Fives settles into his seat and picks up his fork again, doing his best to ignore the pointed and the not-so-subtle comments about how brave he is.

Despite the jokes and the teasing and the knowing looks, he feels a little proud. A little smug. A little pleased with himself.

Maybe he's getting somewhere after all.

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[mytimeinthesun]

Colored some Mike Wozniak inspired Harveys based on these doodles I did the other night

Transcript of handwriting below the cut:

From top to bottom left to right:

-got goaded into starting a village-wide snowball fight at the Festival of Ice by spouse and isn't sure yet if this is fun or terrifying

-<-Reaction to tasteless (but complimentary) innuendo from spouse

-*bemused skepticism*

-Results of having to take children to the toy store ->

(pose reference: Taskmaster Series 11 E5 13:32)

-"Um, darling? I don't think this is how bondage is supposed to go, even on a budget..."

(he is definitely being pranked)

<-duct tape

(for context: Taskmaster Series 11 Ep5 10:30)

[minhmynchi]

hi guys. have this with no explanation except these drawings are about my fursona isekai'd into isat. thank u

and drawings i did the other day too