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al-astakbar · 1 year

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☆ The Gift -- Thrawn x reader ☆

> title ☆ The Gift ☆part 6/?

> summary ☆ As congratulations for his recent promotion to Grand Admiral, Emperor Palpatine gives Thrawn a gift -- a young woman who has been trained as a pleasure companion.

> pairing ☆ Thrawn x reader ☆ word count [2.1k] ☆ warnings for this part ☆ none > series warnings ☆ dubious consent; sexual slavery; concubine/ sex slave AU; will add more warnings as more parts are posted. thank you so much @starwh0ers for beta of this part :)

> series navigation ☆ part 1 ☆ part 2 ☆ part 3 ☆ part 4 ☆ part 5 ☆ part 6 ☆ part 7

> posted on ao3

author note!! To be very clear, in this story reader is a concubine against her will and is gifted to Thrawn, but there is at no point any noncon between Thrawn and reader. Reader is never noncon with anyone, either referenced or explicitly, and there is never any explicit noncon. However, this is a darker take on Thrawn and he doesn't really have many hangups about putting his gift to use...

The two stormtroopers on either side of the wide double hatch come to attention as Thrawn strides towards them. “Good morning, gentlemen. Carry on,” he says, just as quickly, and you get the impression he greets whoever’s on shift this way every morning. He has to be the politest Imperial you’ve ever met. Most in his position, of his rank, would barely acknowledge anyone under his command outside his own bridge crew and cadre of senior officers.

Inside, the bridge hums with activity, even while the ship is in stationary orbit. The officer of the watch announces Thrawn’s arrival. The Grand Admiral quickly waves it off; there are more important things on his mind than protocol.

You walk in Thrawn’s shadow down the main corridor, all too aware of the questioning murmurs following you.

Once you’ve passed through a sort of foyer and mounted three short steps, a younger officer with neat, short cropped hair strides up, shoots a concerned glance at you, the non-Imperial interloper, and greets the Grand Admiral.

“Good morning, Admiral.”

“Good morning, Commodore Faro.”

“Shall I pass the word, sir?”

Thrawn’s nod is all the signal needed. A junior officer stands by some sort of ship-wide PA system and blows on a shrill pipe. Then she says into the mouthpiece: “All departments make readiness reports for getting underway to the Officer of the deck in the pilothouse.”

Quickly, the reports come in. Supply, Weapons, Engineering, Operations, Combat Systems. A lot of it is familiar to you, but with slight differences that make you turn your head when you hear them. Shouldn’t be surprising. Many rebellion personnel were former Imps after all.

“I’ve word from the Quartermaster. Fuel and rations replenishment completed, sir.”

“Thank you, Commodore. Munitions?”

“Ordnance chief confirmed complete last night, sir.”

“Very good.” When they are done, Thrawn looks to another officer, who is seated at a console. “Senior Captain Lomar,” he prompts, and the Senior Captain anticipates Thrawn’s order. “Fleet channel ready for you, Admiral.”

“Attention, Seventh Fleet.” He does not settle himself in the command chair, but crosses the command walkway to stand directly in front of the forward viewport, hands clasped behind his back. You hang back, and find yourself transfixed by his presence, unable to look away. “This is Grand Admiral Thrawn. I trust you have enjoyed your time in the capital.”

A round of appreciative, quiet laughter goes around the bridge, which you imagine is echoed on the hundreds of ships he’s addressing. Liberty calls on core planets, and especially Coruscant, were always popular, a chance for Imperial personnel to let loose and enjoy the best the Empire has to offer.

“Our mission,” he continues, “is simple. To eradicate piracy and insurrection in the Limian Sector of the Outer Rim. To accomplish this, we will bring to bear the full skill and power of this Fleet. You have your orders. Carry them out with focus and professionalism, and we will be successful.

… and, good hunting. That is all.” He looks to Lomar, who ends the connection.

Commodore Faro is at his side again, stance wide, hands clasped behind her back. You’ve been on ships before, but had never seen them orchestrated with quite such precision. “Sir, the ship is manned and ready to get underway. Permission to spin up, sir?”

Again, Thrawn nods and his crew react instantly.

“Calculations for the jump ready, sir. Hyperdrive is spun up.”

“At your convenience, Commodore.”

She nods to a black-uniformed technician at a console, who slowly and steadily opens a heavy throttle.

You can’t help your quiet gasp as starlines flare out from a point right in the center of the viewport and then give way to the tunnel of hyperspace. The sight of it is beautiful and unexpected, and you’ve never had such a clear view of a jump before. Suddenly, you’re glad you didn’t stay in Thrawn’s quarters to pout and sulk. More than likely you’d have been stuck there all day with nothing to do except peruse his art collection, and you can’t be sure if he would even permit you that.

If getting to watch Thrawn and the view of the hyperspace jump is the high point of your day so far, meeting Brierly Ronan has to be the lowest.

He strides onto the bridge late in the morning, and before you even know his name, you hear him chastising the stormtrooper guards before the hatch closes again.

In a huff, he nearly gets his flowing white cape caught in it.

Then, he notices you and loudly demands, to no one in particular, “who is this?!”

Thrawn looks up and comes over. “Good morning, Assistant Director. Is something the matter?”

The Assistant Director draws himself up, puffing his chest out and managing a little flourish with his cape, even though he’s standing still. “Yes! There is. I want to know who this is. She’s standing in my spot.”

Thrawn’s eyes flick to the deck, as if trying to see where exactly the spots are delineated. “She was a gift from the Emperor.” He turns to you, making polite formal introductions. “This is Assistant Director Brierly Ronan. And may I present…”

At the utterance of your name, you feel an unpleasant jolt of shock. Companions like you were never supposed to be named in public. It just wasn’t done. Hearing your own name aloud feels vulgar, as if Thrawn had just announced to everyone how much he had enjoyed fucking you last night, and gone into explicit detail.

First he suggests you go without your veil, now he speaks your name. Perhaps he wants to humiliate you. This could be some game to him, but as you watch him, he does not show any sign of enjoying your discomfort. In fact, he seems oblivious to it.

Brierly Ronan, for his part, sputters and turns an ugly shade of red. “Do you really think this is an appropriate place to parade around your pet?” He spits. “Really, Thrawn, even with your famous disdain for the rules— or do you mean to share her with everyone here?”

A muscle in Thrawn’s jaw tics. He waits a moment in silence, a silence that attracts the attention of nearby crew.

“My pet?” He repeats. His tone is quiet and deadly, a trap inviting Ronan to try to explain himself.

Ronan draws himself up, unable to match Thrawn’s height. “Well, she’s obviously not a bodyguard--”

“Are you sure?” He waits for a response that doesn’t come, then continues. “They go through quite a lot of training, you know. She was in the capital for a year.”

“I know what the training entails!” Hisses Ronan.

“And why should I not make known our Emperor’s generosity and good will? I will remind you, Assistant Director, that you are here not as a civilian, but due to your position as an officer in the Imperial military department of advanced weapons research.”

You understand the implication a moment after Ronan does -- despite him apparently having a rank as a civilian, while aboard this ship, his military posting puts him under Thrawn’s command. And he is, after all, wearing a uniform.

Ronan stands a bit straighter, looking furious.

Thrawn again leaves room, a polite incline of his head, for Ronan to reply. When none comes, Thrawn excuses himself to attend to other matters that require his attention. You are left standing there with Ronan, and when you realize that your silent, faceless stare is unnerving him, you force yourself to show the deference that is expected of you. He gives a derisive snort, as if he doesn’t quite believe whatever act you’re putting on. The urge to persist, and entertain yourself by irritating him, is strong, but you know you shouldn’t-- not just to avoid trouble and punishment, but because out of everyone on the Chimaera, he could be the one who might be willing to get you off of it.

Yes. The idea strikes you like a bolt and you inhale sharply. Ronan is the one you need to befriend. He obviously doesn’t like Thrawn. Frankly, you’re surprised Thrawn had tolerated such disrespect, especially in public, in front of his crew. But any overture will need to come from Ronan himself; companions are forbidden from initiating conversations with anyone other than their masters.

You could ignore convention, of course. You eye Ronan again. After his outburst about Thrawn parading you around, you expect that wouldn’t go over well. All you can do is take to hovering near him, and hope that he starts talking to you first.

To your dismay, he says nothing more. He gives you another disdainful look and then turns away with a flourish of his cloak. He retreats to a corner where some officers are talking in low voices, and they hide grimaces when he intrudes on their space.

You are left standing alone, unsure of what to do, and rather self-conscious. Your veil helps somewhat.

Curious eyes follow you-- as professional as Thrawn’s bridge crew may be, you are a strange person encroaching on their space, and an interesting distraction during an uneventful long-haul hyperspace jump.

You watch the operations quietly, alert, not getting too close. There are about thirty people just in the forward section of the bridge, most busy with tasks at data terminals in the crew pits. When you had followed Thrawn down the main corridor, you had seen banks of comms stations, an array of scanners, a holo pod, and some pairs of large double hatches. Officers’ meeting rooms, maybe.

The scale of it all is enough to keep you entertained until Thrawn concludes his discussions and comes back over to you. You had been lingering near the starfighter operations alcove, listening for anything interesting, but of course in hyperspace there isn’t much activity.

Reading the bios last night had not quite conveyed the significance of the Grand Admiral’s rank. Of his extraordinary career.

As you follow him back down the main corridor, you ask how many ships he commands. Impertinent question maybe, but he answers. Nineteen capital ships and twenty-five cruisers.

He lists off more numbers, staggering numbers of ships and personnel, as if it’s the most commonplace thing in the galaxy. 1900 TIE model fighters, then of course there are all the complements of shuttles and troop transports, plus hundreds of smaller support craft.

It takes you a few paces to do the math in your head. “But then… altogether the crew must be over a million people…”

“One million, two hundred thousand and forty-two. Each one crucial, in his or her role, to the operational capability of the fleet.” “But I bet you don’t know all their names.” You grin up at him.

He merely raises an eyebrow at you.

“I apologize for that… scene,” says Thrawn in a low tone once you are in a quieter passageway-- close to his quarters, you think, though the halls are so easy to get lost in. The standard shift is not over, but there are still hours to go for the first leg of the hyperspace jumps. You had overheard from the navigation section on the bridge that this is the first of three. “I did not expect the Assistant Director to react so forcefully. And I can assure you, he does not have claim to any particular ‘spot’ on the bridge.”

“Who is he, exactly?”

Thrawn’s tone is just the slightest bit dry when he answers. If his sly antagonism of the man had been anything to go by, you’d bet Thrawn doesn’t particularly like him, or at least resents having to deal with him. “A mediator, of sorts. Assigned to the ship to ensure the terms of an agreement are upheld.”

“Are you sure he wasn’t just jealous?”

Breaking his stride, Thrawn looks over at you, genuinely puzzled. “For what reason?”

You just pluck at your robe, holding up the fabric, and understanding dawns on his face.

“Ah, of course. A symbol of status.” He resumes walking. You aren’t sure how to feel about that-- reduced to being a rare prize-- nor do you mention the other reason Ronan might have reacted that way-- you are human, and Thrawn is not. “Regardless, I should have anticipated this. It should have been a private conversation. But in the end it was to our advantage, I think. Those who witnessed it will have gained some understanding of who you are and why you are with me.”

“And the rest of the crew will hear about it by supper,” you add. News travels fast on a ship, even one this big, where gossip will always be a favorite pastime.

He gives you a sideways glance, and you could swear he almost smiles.

☆ link to part 7 ☆

☆join tag list☆ <- this is the easiest way to make sure your request is recorded, however anyone is also welcome to dm me if they want to be added or removed.

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#thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #thrawn x reader #thrawn fic #thrawn x you #thrawn x y/n #thrawn fanfiction #thrawn fanfic #star wars

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ouradmiraldaala · 5 months

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Incomplete and a mix of canon and legend characters.

XO = Pallaeon or Faro

Sensors = Hammerly (Female, Human)

Weapons = Pyrondi (Female, Human)

Communications = Lomar (Male, Human)

Helm / Navigation = Agral (Male, Human)

Chief hanger master = Xoxtin (Female, Human)

Engineering= Geronti (Male, Human)

Security = Tibbale (Male, Human)

#thrawn #star wars #chimaera

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bdsmsub67 · 6 months

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dapurinthos · 1 year

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still staring at the numbers for the post-purrgil'ed chimaera, holding up different things like i'm matching paint swatches to dye formulations for fabric, going:

okay conceivably some of the populous might have managed to evacuate while still in lothal's atmosphere, i will allow for a generous amount there.

of course, the deaths from the initial assault, ones during transport, and arrival in the skeletal whale death ring around peridea.

but! i think there was an attempted mutiny at some point in the first two years simply because of the human-centric, xenophobic attitudes of the empire that a good amount of the various enlisted, noncom officers (possibly some of the junior ones, too, the ones without that much contact with thrawn, as opposed to, like, lts. pyrondi, lomar, watkin, etc.) would definitely have an undercurrent of: 'if we had a human commander this wouldn't have happened' (because people, in a crowd and scared, are stupid).

and some deserters well. deserting to go after ezra because: see previous reason re: stupidity, and a driving need of 'kill the jedi who got us into this mess'. pik and waffle are so ashamed of you guys. your dogtags ended up as a chainmail shirt for ezra! tsk.

the people sent out to explore peridea for resources (you need water! it's the immediate second things to do in a survival situation!) that just. didn't. come back (maybe even eaten by whatever presence the mortis gods have there. or whatever baylon is looking for). attrition via the natural inhabitants of peridea.

& the dathomiri fortress definitely ate some people because we all know what their architecture is like, probably with some defence zombies prior to whatever thrawn did to wake up the great mothers (possibly used whatever resources were available in the fortress [were there books there? WERE THERE BOOKS? dave answer me dave] and the chimaera's databanks to learn ur-kittât because he would).

look. someone has to figure out a decade of happenings, dave, and we all know it's not going to be you.

thank you for coming to my tedx talk.

#keeping up with the skywalkers #grand admiral bae #ahsoka series #thrawn #star wars #why in the first two years? because that's how much liquid food supply is laid in on an imperial i-class destroyer #something something also peridea with the mortis trio and the nightsisters having the winged goddess/fanged god #what level of canon are we classifying things on now?#i am COMING FOR YOUR HAT COLLECTION dave #fuck i need to make an ahsoka series tag that's not just 'ahsoka series'#one half of my brain: write it. WRITE THE EXILE DECADE. there's so much time before it could be jossed.#the other half of my brain: NO I KNOW HOW THIS ENDS. in TEARS. and PAIN.

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millsburyblueprint · 5 months

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Who is Maurice Hero Miller?

Hero is a remarkable artist and creator and leading face of Millsbury Media.

Based out of Charlotte NC. He is know. For his line work and illustrative skills. Freelance logo and graphic design pieces as well as his self published comics and web comics.

Well known and revolutionary young artist who has done web design for local churches and musical artists for their covers on albums and EP music seen on Spotify and Apple Music.

He has also been train through companies like Google and Lowes as well as worked with small businesses like Lomar Specialty Advertising, Tru Invitations, and many more.

He is mostly known for being featured in and hosting art shows for unconventional artists like himself. Showing a world where all cultures and differences can parade in their uniqueness and fun in different stories and mediums of art.

Maurice is a remarkable artist to get into. Visit www.millsburymedia.com

#art#blackartist#blackart#artwork#graphicdesign#illustration#cartoon#comic#fanart#anime

#art #artwork #comic #cartoon #anime #comics #comic book #webcomic #illustration #artist

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mayhaps-a-blog · 2 months

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It's Tuesday! Have another chapter :)

The action begins!

Summary:

Trapped in the Unknown Regions, Thrawn and the Chimaera stumble upon a secret, one with the power to destroy their enemies – or themselves. Searching for an answer to her nightmares, Che’ri sets off across the stars, discovering long-forgotten mysteries of the Chiss sky-walkers – and that those mysteries were not lost, but stolen. Once more, their paths will cross, and the path of the galaxy will be changed forever.

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callanthas · 4 months

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Antonio Lomar

#antonio lomar #male model #hot male #male body #handsome male #male beauty #male physique

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millsburymedianews · 5 months

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Who is Maurice Hero Miller?

Hero is a remarkable artist and creator and leading face of Millsbury Media.

Based out of Charlotte NC. He is know. For his line work and illustrative skills. Freelance logo and graphic design pieces as well as his self published comics and web comics.

Well known and revolutionary young artist who has done web design for local churches and musical artists for their covers on albums and EP music seen on Spotify and Apple Music.

He has also been train through companies like Google and Lowes as well as worked with small businesses like Lomar Specialty Advertising, Tru Invitations, and many more.

Maurice is a remarkable artist to get into. Visit www.millsburymedia.com

#art #blackartist #blackart #artwork #graphicdesign #illustration #cartoon #comic #fanart #anime

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 1 year

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Fool - a Malevolent Fanfic

The vagabonds wandering into The Rusty Nut looked tired, wet from the rain, wrinkled body and soul from storms and other horrors of the past week, and nobody paid them mind.

Everybody looked like that these days. Everybody who was still alive.

Of course, these aren't ordinary vagabonds - and they're not in the mood for empty boasting and cruel deeds.

A.K.A.: Sometimes, the bad guys don't get away with it.

Part of the Surrogate series.

AO3

---------

The vagabonds wandering into The Rusty Nut looked tired, wet from the rain, wrinkled body and soul from storms and other horrors of the past week, and nobody paid them mind.

Everybody looked like that these days. Everybody who was still alive.

Lomar had been through it. The “hurricane” (a word only used because there wasn’t a stronger one) had come down in the Middle Ocean, but the raw size of it spared no one. They said even the moon got wet. They said the suns briefly went out, extinguished like candles. They said the cities were all gone, and only the north remained, and that’s why so much stuff kept washing up on the shores.

They said a lot of things. Most of it was crap, but nobody cared. It was comforting to think about in a gristly, shivery-tale manner, taking it out of the realm of terror and into entertainment, and so, though fresh from tragedy, stories were already brewing.

No ships had survived. That much was clear, and the talk was that anyone who wanted a good job for years to come should seriously look into woodworking.

Shipwrights were in high demand.

Sailors were in high demand.

Salvagers were… there, and demonstrably crazy, because who the hell would want to go swimming in waters that stirred up looking for gold?

The vagabonds slopped their way to the bar, robes drooping, heads drooping, and the bartender snapped a warning: “Dry off or find someone to do it for you. And dry the floor, while you’re at it.”

The larger one muttered unpleasantly—a deep bass, ear-catching even in grumbling form—but snapped his strong, black fingers, and it was done. Dry robes, dry floor. It did nothing, however, to prevent their personal drooping.

The bartender was surprised when the smaller of them pushed his hood back and revealed himself to be a human. “Hello,” said the fellow, who was scarred in interesting ways and missing half an ear, whose strangely golden eyes didn’t quite focus right, but even still, he had that special something humans always did that made them such good fun to own. “I hope your night’s been better than ours.” He smiled crookedly (absolutely charmingly, which went well with that smooth voice) and slid a small iron coin across the bar top. “We’ll take anything on tap, if you have it, and if not, we’ll just take something warm. Thank you so much.”

This guy was going to get eaten alive.

“What’s that, Carcosan?” said the bartender’s left head at the coin on the bar.

“Means it’s still good,” said the right.

“That, it is.” Their right hand snatched it up. “Put your hood back up, boy. Someone’ll want you.”

The human blushed (that did not reduce his appeal), but stubbornly ignored the good advice. “It’s fine. I’m with him.” He jerked his thumb toward the larger hood.

The one with night-black skin sort of loomed, wrapped in an air of dire warning like his own small storm. He kept his hood up. He also didn’t curse, or grab anything, or start a fight, or slam his fists into anyone’s throats, so whatever. The bartender took it for what it was – a threat of retaliation, which was often the best kind of prevention.

“Don’t see too many of your kind around this area,” said the right head to the human, and they slid two large, froth-topped mugs across the counter.

The big guy took his, turned around, leaned on the counter, and drank with his hood still up, watching the room with wariness. Expected.

The human took his, smiled, and didn’t turn away. “Thank you.” He also didn’t drink. “So there aren’t a lot of humans here?”

“Not right here, no. We’re too close to the V’hro-na. Careful, little human. They’d like a friendly little thing like you.”

The big guy growled.

“Yes, yes. Just a warning,” said the right head. “Not a threat.”

“And it is appreciated,” said the human. “Does this… V’hro-na kidnap humans, then?”

“Sometimes,” said the left head. “They prefer to lure them, though.”

“With what kind of thing?” said the human, who still hadn’t touched his dr-

The big guy turned around, plonked the empty stein on the counter, took the human’s without a word, and turned back around.

The human gave the guy a dry look. “Really?”

A bass grunt.

“Sorry about him,” said the human.

Well, at least the nice human had a… whatever that was to look after him. “Kind of thing?” said the right head, picking the thread back up.

“What kind of thing do they use to lure humans? Promises of… wealth, or power… knowledge, answers, that sort of thing?”

Well, well—what was the human seeking? “Nothing they can actually give,” said the left head, mildly surprised they were answering. “But mostly power. Revenge. Bog-standard dark stuff.”

“Now, I wouldn’t say they give nothing,” said the right head, who thought they were funny.

“Don’t be crude,” said the left head.

The human's eyes did not track which one was speaking; he was clearly paying attention, so there could be any reason. Maybe they were shared with his partner. Maybe they were dreaming. Maybe they could see the whole room without focusing. The bartender had witnessed just about everything humans could do to themselves, and didn’t much care.

“So what do they give, then?” said the human.

“Stretch marks,” said the right head, and laughed.

The left head rolled its eyes. “They’re parasitic. Lay their eggs in you. The spawn eventually eats its way out.”

“Ugh,” said the human, making a deliciously disgusted face.

“Definitely unpleasant,” the left head agreed. “So what do you actually want to drink?”

The human slid another coin onto the counter.

“Water’s free.”

“Are you sure? I’m taking up your time,” said the human.

Which was code for I’ll pay you to talk, and that was honestly a nice change. They were wasted in this place. “Well, I won’t say no if you’re really insistent.”

The human smiled. “Excellent service deserves its reward,” he said with warmth that was beginning to make the bartender reluctantly like him.

They laughed. “Hey. Big guy. You better watch this one. He’s a charmer.”

The big guy rumbled. “And he is owned.”

A truly magnificent scowl this time. “Quit it,” the human muttered to whatever this guy was to him.

“Of course, of course,” soothed the bartender, who was having a better time than they’d had in days.

“So how many strangers wandered through here in the past week? I’m betting it’s all been a little unstable,” said the human as if that possessiveness hadn’t happened, and slid another coin across.

They took the coin casually, while cleaning the counter. “A lot. You can imagine why.”

“I can,” said the human, grim. “A lot of humans, too?”

“No, they… tend to take care of themselves. Have their own little towns and caravan routes and all. I mean, they have to be, to survive this far north.”

“Of course. I’m assuming you saw a variety of ages, sexes, sizes. Families, loners…”

The human was obviously seeking someone. The bartender had the idea now: it was probably a family member or friend or lover, swept away in the storm, separated. Poor guy. At least his owner—or whatever tall, dark, and grumpy was—allowed searching.

Well. No harm in answering the nice human. “In the last week, I’ve seen eight humans come through here. Most were… I’m sorry, I’m very bad at human ages. What’s your age?”

“Forty-four.”

“Years?” said the left head.

The right head bonked them. “Sorry about that. They’re an idiot. Of course it’s years,” they added in a mutter.

“No, it’s fine,” said the human with that clever little smile. “Nobody around here seems to age quite the same way.”

“Or at all,” pointed out the right.

“Or at all, yes,” said the human, and rubbed his beard. “Anyway, you were saying?”

The big guy turned and put the empty stein down, then resumed watching the room.

“Oh. Well, most were your age or, I think, older? Skin looser, more lines, hair speckled with more white and silver than yours.”

“And the rest?” Asked so casually.

“A few about… I’m guessing half your physical maturity? Well into pubescence—not finished growing. That’s all, I’m afraid, so if whoever you’re looking for isn’t in that description, I can’t help you.”

“You’ve already been very helpful. Thank you.” Another coin. “This conversation doesn’t really need repeating, does it? Sort of a boring one, I’m sure.”

“Quite boring.” The coin disappeared. “Plenty of refugees here, searching for other refugees. All blends together.”

“I can imagine.” The human sipped his water. “Mm. That’s refreshing. Thank you.”

“Refill’s on the house,” the right head teased.

“I really appreciate it,” said the human, starting to ask something else.

And at that moment, another voice rose above the general din. “The Witch said, ‘You’ve seen too much… I can’t let you live!’ But did I panic?”

“Alan! Did you panic, Alan?” mocked someone in the crowd.

“I didn’t panic!” claimed Alan. “But it was close. She was terrifying, that Storm Witch. Worst, ugliest hag I’d ever seen, flashing ugly, like she got burned by her own lightning.”

The bartender sighed. Dagon’s brood were like cockroaches around these parts, of course, but this one in particular had begun to make them reconsider their open-door policy. This one’s bravado in the face of such tragedy, not to mention the vanity—

“Charles and Kevin suffered for it,” said Alan, sounding almost regretful. “It’s my fault. I knew it would be cruel to ask them to come on my assignment, and it was. The Storm Witch hesitated because of my beauty, but they… they wanted to come so badly…”

The vanity. The bartender sighed and resumed cleaning glasses.

“What happened, Alan?” said bored-guy-number-eleven.

“I jus’ had a job to do,” Alan said, crouching a little, arms out as if telling a rapt audience of children. “Going, checkin’ out the source of that power… and I never thought I’d meet no demigod in the middle of conjuration. Pretending to be a little human girl, like I wouldn’t see right through that shit.”

“Did the Storm Witch have the Storm Steed?” said one of the idiots who actually enjoyed this, while someone else grumbled, Shut up.

Today was going to end in a brawl again.

People had died. The damage was beyond measure. And this idiot kept pretending he’d tangled with the one responsible for a hurricane (as if some single being could be) and come out alive. Sighing, the bartender focused on their wards and spells, ready to protect the bar as soon as things got violent.

“Fuck yeah, she did,” said Alan, and laughed. “But I knew what’s what. That thing may’ve been pretending to be one of the Dark Young, but the guise didn’t fool me. It was just a fucked-up horse, or I’ll fuck my own gills!” he said for the millionth time, and like something out of a cheesy play, threw his head back and guffawed.

“What the fuck?” snapped the human, turning. The big guy gripped his arm. The human—clearly well-trained—immediately went still. “What the fuck is he talking about?” he said, lower.

“He’s been coming in here for the past week,” the left head murmured, “spinning increasingly stupid stories about how brave he was in the face of whatever killed his brothers.”

“Seems to me he’s trying to make up for being a coward, but what do I know?” said the right head, and they shrugged.

“Storm Witch?” said the human.

“It doesn’t exist. Relax. This idiot is just trying to sell the idea that some humanoid witch is behind the hurricane in order to make himself sound brave. It’s obvious bullshit.”

The human’s face was… well. He was clearly trying to be unreadable, as if none of this upset him, but just as clearly was terrible at lying. It was kind of adorable. “Humanoid?”

Poor little thing. Was forty-four old or young? They weren’t sure. Maybe he wasn’t fully grown yet. “It’s nothing to be concerned about,” soothed the bartender. “He’ll keep changing his lie until someone believes him, then cash in on it.” They shrugged. “Right now, he’s borrowing stories of that adopted human princess, which is too obvious even for this crowd. In a couple of days, he’ll swing to something else—the Cult of the Rising Dawn, or something. It’s just drunken shenanigans.”

“Drunken shenanigans,” repeated the human. “Those do seem like a real risk at a time like this.”

The big guy stood away from the bar. “Such a terrible tale to tell,” he said, and oh, that voice. That was one the bartender could feel in their hidden parts. “It seems to me someone who’d lost a great deal might take such claims… deeply personally.”

“Oh, no doubt,” replied the bartender, unable to completely hide their interested and responsive purr. “Someone’s going to just kill him, eventually.”

“I got balls of stone!” proclaimed Alan. “And the second she might’a slit my throat with her hand of sharpened wood, instead she goes, ‘Alan… Alan, you’re a jewel among cow dung, you are, and… killing you would be killing a work of art!”

This was a little much even for the people playing the game, and the scattered laughter was rude—but someone turned to the bartender anyway. “Another round in honor of our brave friend here!”

“Sure, sure,” said the bartender, purr well and truly stifled by that nonsense.

“What an invaluable experience,” rumbled the big guy (summoning their purr again).

“Certainly sounds like it,” said the human. “Such fucking courage, facing something obviously terrifying.”

“I think we could benefit from some one-on-one mentoring, perhaps,” said the big guy. “Improve our own struggling path.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said the human, and sipped his water. “I know I’d feel better. I’m in.”

“Then it wouldn’t be one-on-one,” murmured the big guy.

“So I’ll watch,” shrugged the human.

Oh, my. “Nobody ever hangs out behind this place,” the bartender said, apropos of nothing. “I mean, that’s where the stables get mucked. So absolutely don’t go back there. It’s gross.”

The big guy slid another coin across the counter. “Your cooperation will be remembered.”

Purr. “Well. I wouldn’t say no to a little… appreciation.”

The human choked.

The big guy smoothed down the front of his robe as if preening, then got it together and approached the loud group around Alan.

Alan was still describing what he’d seen, even though almost no one was properly listening now; they’d gotten what they wanted out of it, which was a free drink. “Ridin’ her false Storm Steed, the bitch was hideous! Just hideous! Pretending being all innocent, like a kid or something, but I knew the truth! I knew what was really in that bitch, and she said, she said, ‘You I will spare, for you have moved me, and I will spare your life!’”

The big guy slid his arm around Alan’s shoulders. Whatever he said was lost, though the bartender could still pick up some of those wonderful bass tones. Alan laughed; and the two of them headed toward the back door.

The human placed the glass on the bar. “Thanks. Have a terrific evening, won’t you?” And casually, he wandered after his partner.

The bartender watched them go, wiping off the bar where they’d leaned. “Don’t want to get involved in whatever’s going on there?” said the right head.

“Naw,” said the left head. “Though I can hope they do come back.”

“Wouldn’t mind being the meat in that sandwich,” agreed the right head, who was always more honest.

There were some noises starting out back that didn’t sound too happy.

“Big guy’s passionate about his work,” muttered the left head.

“You mean it sounds like he might be as good at fucking up as he is at fucking?” hoped the right.

“We don’t know that. Either of that. But still… let’s do them a favor, shall we?” said the left head. “Another round on the house!” they announced.

The crowd cheered, and—in a better mood than they’d known for a while—stayed noisy, welcoming the chance to escape the darkness of the past days.

The bartender cleaned glasses as fast as they were emptied, hummed in quiet harmony, and hoped those vagabonds found whoever it was they’d lost.

#arthur lester #john malevolent #kiy malevolent #malevolent podcast #malevolent fic #hastur malevolent #arthur malevolent #malevolent au #surrogate series

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contentment-of-cats · 1 year

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Characters: Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Karyn Faro, Hammerly (Star Wars), Pyrondi (Star Wars), Lomar (Star Wars), Agral (Star Wars), Eli Vanto

Additional Tags: shore leave universe

Just me kicking around on my pool noodle.

Once upon a time, there was a bridge nerd and her name was Pyrondi. A tale of the bridge crew's early days.

#thrawn #faro #hammerly #lomar #parondi #agral #vanto

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aeon2407 · 1 year

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Pyro's Pyrotechnic Love Life - Chapter 3

For @contentment-of-cats. Also on AO3.

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Evergreen Forest, Krownest

“Actually, how did you two meet?”

It’s been two hours since Artur left, two hours since a Mandalorian wearing the most colorful armor she’s ever seen stripped his weapons and took him away in stuncuffs.

Sabine Wren, Sundari Academy defector and Phoenix Squadron’s weapons expert, took him away in cuffs.

Yana’s been keeping herself busy by helping with digging a trench for shelter and fortifications in case the Wrens decide to go for violence and rigging the Disciple’s databank with a generous amount of dentons. That and casual conversation. Odo’s question caught her attention, and she took a moment to decide if answering it now would cause her anxiety to show.

To Sith hell with it. Everyone here was family to her, anyway.

“Uh… he had to attend a full year at Royal after they left Terra, General Tagge’s orders. Apparently jumping straight from Lieutenant to Major required some extra leadership training.” A few chuckles. “Anyway, he was there my final year. We met in Professor Partagaz’s Criminal Psychology class. We got to know each other in the sparring ring and on the range, though. He went back to batt the day after Jashin and I commissioned.”

A smile crept onto her face at the memories, pushing the anxiety and stress back. The challenges, the banter, The Kiss, the sex.

Most of her paid leave for the next four years was spent taking his private shuttle to Coruscant or Spira or Bespin or wherever they could find real meat on the grill and a good, soundproofed hotel room. She loved being loud and a bottom and vulnerable with him, just like she loves doing it all with Yissa now. It was liberating, especially for someone with her upbringing.

“It was tough, you know?” Now that she was talking and comfortable doing it, everything started to spill unprompted. “Dating someone on the other end of the galaxy, working the jobs and the hours we did. But we made it work. We made it work for four years.”

Odo looked fascinated, Yissa was pointedly uncomfortable, Jashin knew all of this already, but it was Faro who asked the tough question. “Why did you two break things off? I’m not saying it’s anyone’s fault, but he was crying his eyes out that night.”

“We both needed more than what a long-distance relationship can offer.” Pyro automatically used the same reply she gave Jashin back then before she registered the rest of what was said. “Wait, how did you know he was crying? We broke up at Tagge Manor.”

Now it was Faro’s turn on the backfoot. She obviously hadn’t meant to let that slip. “Um… uh…”

Her mentor was uncharacteristically nervous, stumbling over her words like a new ensign, and it took Yana a few seconds of staring before it clicked.

“OH SHIT!”

Everyone jumped back at the volume, and some snow fell from the branches above. Yana was looking at Faro with an unmistakable mixture of surprise and disgust, the galactic expression for when one finds certain people in certain… situations.

Everyone waited with bated breaths for Pyro to finally spill whatever it was she figured out. And when she finally did, it was with an appropriate amount of horror in her voice.

“You kriffed Cassio Tagge?”

Karyn reminds herself, yet again, to cram a filter somewhere in her mentee’s vocal functions. Maybe Thrawn can help.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took another two hours of huddling around and bundling together in their little tarp-covered trench, with Karyn suffering and refusing to acknowledge the bombardment of questions aimed at her, before Artur came back with a Gauntlet starfighter and an escort of jetpacked Mando troops, just before his self-appointed deadline. There was blood splattering his face and coating his fingers, snow in his hair, a blaster burn on his right bicep, and a burnt right gauntlet.

He held his head high despite the injury though, his weapons were back where they belonged, and there weren’t cuffs on his wrists anymore. Something was different about his escorts too. Their stances were no longer hostile, more professional and in some cases even a little deferential if you squint and look from an angle.

Beside her, Pyro must’ve noticed the same thing and came to some sort of conclusion, because Karyn heard her let out a surprised gasp followed by a string of very colorful words, in multiple languages to boot, that would’ve made Marinith proud and Thrawn tell her things about herself.

It wasn’t until her surrogate son lifted the tarp and told them it was time to go that Karyn noticed what Pyro must’ve earlier. There was a lightsaber on his hip. More specifically, the fabled Darksaber, last known to be in the possession of Sabine Wren.

That would explain the escort. The questions now, however, would be whether Artur had to commit sororicide to become Mand’alor, and what he was going to do with the title.

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Hydian Way, Hyperspace

Artur took a detour close to Mandalore and launched the saber into orbit. “Ni jor'naycir te dha kad'au bal te gai be Mand'alor. Vercopa te projor verda alorir”, he had muttered to himself, voice as flat as when he was Vader’s left hand, then punched in the coordinates for Cantonica and all but yanked the lever. He didn’t want, or need, the title of Mand’alor. Someone else can have it.

A collective sigh of relief was let out from the bundle of people behind him as the familiar warped lights of hyperspace flushed the cockpit a shade of blue. The troop bay on a Gauntlet wasn’t small by any means, but between the number of people and storage cubes, four of them ended up having to sit on each other’s lap. Of course, with two couples among them it worked out perfectly.

He spent the next two hours or so in silence, checking everything from the navicomputer to the engine readings with the precision and decisiveness of someone who gave Soontir Fel and Han Solo a run for their credits during dogfights at Cliffside.

It was a shame Solo deserted on Mimban. He was looking forward to getting the man back into the Carida flight program, or maybe Skystrike would’ve been a better fit. He was definitely good enough to fly for the Empire, maybe even with SCAR Wing One.

The cockpit door sealed shut as Pyro lean against his shoulder from behind. A hand trailed down to his chest in a comforting hug, and he instinctively covered it with his own, lightly squeezing and rubbing her calloused palm with his thumb.

Yana felt a mangled mix of emotions slam into her heart at the touch. Safety came first, then love. Peace. Vulnerability. Longing. Guilt.

She didn’t pull away.

“Did you…”

“No.”

“Are you still…”

“Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, Yana.”

…

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

…

“It’ll crush you whether you talk about it or not, Artur. Better here and now than on the job.”

An acknowledging hum. Pyro knew the man well enough to leave it be.

“Does Faro know?”

…

“She does.”

“You told her?”

“Dad did.”

“Wasn’t his place.”

“It was, actually.”

“Says who?”

“Me. Gave him permission and everything.”

“Oh.”

…

“Still can’t believe they…”

A grimace from her. A chuckle from him.

“How’d you think we met?”

…

“Fair enough. Was it as gross for you as it is for me?”

“I’m in the Army, Pyro. Unit morale is basically contingent on sex, and we don’t usually have the privacy you sailors do.”

A deadpan and slightly confused stare.

“No, it wasn’t gross to me. They both liked each other, they both seemed to have enjoyed it, and it didn’t affect any careers, so I didn’t care either way.”

“Huh. Haven’t thought about it that way.”

“I can tell.”

A light smack on the head. “Asshole.”

A shared chuckle.

“In her defense he was quite charming back then, and…”

“I really don’t want to think about it more than necessary.”

“Fair enough.”

“Thank you.”

“Everyone else asleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Not you though.”

“Wanted to check up on you.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The conversation lulled into silence from there, but neither of them minded it, Pyro content with leaning against the man who had once made her of all people happy at the thought of marriage, Artur content to keep holding her hand and rubbing her knuckles. It was a pale reflection of what they once had, but it was the best he’d get.

The navicomputer chimed, signally their imminent exit from hyperspace. With a noticeable amount of reluctance, Yana pulled her hand out from under his and made her way back.

Don’t say it, Tagge. For all that’s good and proper, don’t say it.

“You know, if it wasn’t for Hammerly, I would’ve asked if you wanted to try again, now that we’re posted on the same ship.”

Damn it.

Yana paused, her hand hovering above the door control.

“If it wasn’t for Yissa, I would’ve said yes in a heartbeat.”

She opened the door and walked away.

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Hyperspace Penthouse, 49th – 53rd Floor, Mon’t Car’l Tower, Canto Bight, Cantonica

“So this is what owning a whole region of Space gets you.”

“No, this is what the War Mantle contract gets you.”

“Nah, this is Founder money right here.”

“Can’t be. The Hammerlies were Founders too, and they’re rich, but not this kriffing rich.”

“Tarkin has the one below us, though. Must be an exclusivity thing.”

“You say that like the Tarkins didn’t own Eriadu pre-Empire.”

Karyn and Yissa quietly found seats for their sore and tired bodies, letting the junior officers gush to their hearts’ content while Artur hauled their cubes into the kitchen. To be completely fair to the looies, it was one hell of an apartment. Curved, floor-to-ceiling transparisteel windows on either side and an open concept balcony allowed plenty of light into the living room and provided one of the most spectacular views any of them had ever seen, overlooking a glistening ocean as the dimming lights of sunset caught the waters just right.

Circular living rooms haven’t been in style since the Clone Wars, but this one walked the line between modern and classic and looking no less classy doing it. Couches, armchairs, and pouf couches lined the windows, balcony, and around the large wooden caf table, circular of course, placed in front of the fireplace.

Oh right, there was an actual fireplace here.

The circular, glass-bottomed infinity pool on the second floor led into a decorative waterfall down to the balcony that can double as a refresher, and there were lounge chairs and parasols nearby.

The kitchen was open, only separated from the living room by a marble island and the change in flooring from hardwood and plush carpets to polished stone tiles. Every kitchen appliance under any sun in the galaxy can be seen, sometimes more than once, and Artur had said that there were service droids available for restocking any foodstuff they wanted, whenever they wanted it.

Bedrooms lay spread across the five floors, and Odo joked that he could finally sleep soundly without the others’ ‘nightly activities’ disrupting him. Unfortunately, Jashin and Phyrre seemed to have taken that as a challenge.

“So, is this good or no?” Artur asked from the kitchen, a warm yet amused smile on his face as he watched the lieutenants acting like a clowder given a new shiny toy, which wasn’t all that far from the truth. Honestly, the behavior reminded him of getting Pyro that MM9 for their third anniversary.

Hammerly turned to him from the pouf couch, noticeably more relaxed. “Yeah, this is good.”

Her answer came out in breathy whispers, which got a giggle out of Yana as she curled up on her wyf’s lap, falling asleep in seconds as her daily allocation of manic energy is spent.

They came to Canto Bight for the nightlife, but tonight will be strictly recuperation, either physically or, in some cases, mentally. They have a month. They can waste a day.

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Medical Ward, Wren Stronghold, Krownest

Ursa hasn’t slept for two days, despite her son’s urging, despite her husband’s kind but sobering words saying that there was nothing she could’ve done. Despite that darasuum dar’manda and his cutting accusations.

Bridger sat on the ground next to her, meditating like the proper jetii child that she knew he wasn’t. Or maybe he was praying, she could never tell with his kind. Sabine floated in a bacta tank nearby, still unconscious from blood loss but breathing steadily through the respirator. Her left arm was preserved in a cryostasis unit next door along with her right leg. That demagolka had taken both in one fell swoop.

The older jetii was working with Tristan and Captain Syndulla to look for methods of reattaching limbs. Right now, their best lead was the neuropathic connectivity research conducted by the Kaminoans to install inhibitor chips and fix ‘defects’ in their clones. The three of them were enroute to salvage whatever remained of Tipoca City. The Lasat was venting his anger by sparring her guards into the ground, and Ursa could’ve sworn she heard the droid listed at least fifteen different war crimes in a plan to exact revenge. She might just help out.

But first, she had to address the accusations to Sabine when she wakes up. How do you tell your until-recently estranged daughter that she wasn’t your first child?

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Canto Casino, Canto Bight, Cantonica

Vacation Day 5. Leave remaining: 30 Days.

At this rate, he’ll have four billionaire crewmates instead of just the one by the time they get back shipside. Jashin was afraid to even think about what they’d do with that much money.

It’s been going on like this for the past four days. Artur supply the creds then loudly loses at a no-limits table to attract the high rollers, Yissa keeps track of the cards, Pyro comes in with her big, beautiful brain and wipe them out while Phyrre distracts the floormen in a shimmering dress that was extremely flattering on her. He’d be tempted to rip it off if it wasn’t more expensive than his entire career so far.

This must be entertaining for them, because so far they’ve wiped out every multimillionaire and billionaire at Tagge Palace, KDY Grand, and Coruscant InterGalactic.

All of them would be nursing lifetime bans from every casino on the planet if it wasn’t for the House of Tagge signet gleaming on Artur’s finger. As it were, no one has tried anything yet, but Jashin and Odo were watching from the bar just in case.

Faro has been joyfully on a bender the entire week they’ve been planetside, drowning in every combination of alcohol under the galaxy that wasn’t lethal for human consumption. Given the nature of her job, no one begrudged her the indulgence.

Artur had very thoughtfully left a stim, a few bacta pads, and some water by her bed after hauling her back the first night. He also left a bucket with a note saying ‘you deserve this’ and a smiley face. The bucket has proven itself incredibly useful every morning thus far, and they rolled a dice every day to see who’d have to empty it.

Back to the game though, Artur let out an exaggerated groan as he tossed his cards onto the table and walked off. Trohren Kuat grinned, happy to finally get one over a Tagge as he dumped his entire credit chit, twenty-eight million total, into the game. Time to wipe out this pretty little lass. Maybe he can offer her a chance to earn them back later. Taking Artur Tagge’s creds and the brat’s little bedwarmer would really make his night.

“What does Kuat have?” Odo asked in a whisper as Artur settled next to them at the bar, eyebrows raised in alarm as the man sighed.

“Either Pure Sabacc or nothing of value.”

“And Pyro?”

The sigh led into a predatory grin, the one even Thrawn has learned to be apprehensive of, as Pyro called and placed her cards down gently. “Idiot’s Array.”

The look on Kuat’s face was pure aurum, and Artur took the opportunity to mockingly toast the man from across the floor with a glass of Kuati gin. A raised eyebrow as the older man rose from his seat hostilely reminded both of them how KDY got such a good deal on their slice of War Mantle, and how easily they can lose it. He lost his father’s favor. He still had his aunt’s.

Artur turned to look at Pyro, smiling gently at the smug and gleeful expression on her gorgeous face as she transferred the eighty-million-credit pot into her chit and skipped to the bar.

The haul was now nine hundred million split four ways. Phyrre gets double on account of marriage, and Artur and Yissa were happy to hand over half their shares each.

“Great job, darling”, Yissa said as she glided up next to her wyf, planting a kiss on her lips now that Pyro can drop the act of being Artur Tagge’s trollop, part of their plan to hook Kuat in given the man’s inexplicable despisal of the House of Tagge, which worked like a kyber charm.

Pyro preened at the compliment and pulled her wyf back in for another kiss, a soft but blazing one that drew a few stares. It was unlike her, really, to be this brazen, but Yissa definitely wasn’t complaining.

“We should be going back. It’s late”, she breathlessly said. Yana nodded mutely.

Artur was the only outsider that recognized the love and lust in her eyes. First time he saw it when it wasn’t directed at him, though, and the realization made his gin taste sour instead of that familiar bitterness he was looking for.

Damn it. Why was this so hard?

“She’s right. It’s 0200. We should head back and catch some sleep before sunrise.” Artur did his damn best to keep any emotion besides joy and contentment out of his voice. Verdict’s still out on whether he succeeded.

With that, he downed the glass, tossed a 5000-credit chip onto the bar, and gestured for everyone else to follow. Odo hasn’t been drunk since making Junior Lieutenant, so he was the designated driver while Artur rode shotgun. Jashin already had Phyrre in his lap behind the driver and was using every last bit of self-control he had left to not take her then and there, taking the edge off slightly by starting a loud and heady make out session, both drunk out of their minds. Next to them, Yissa had Pyro in a similar position, just with more snuggling and cuddling than kissing.

Artur found his knuckles turning whiter by the minute on the armrests, and his heart was pounding in his ears. And if Odo noticed, he certainly didn’t comment on it.

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Hyperspace Penthouse, 49th – 53rd Floor, Mon’t Car’l Tower, Canto Bight, Cantonica

Vacation Day 7. Leave Remaining: 28 Days

Artur was suffering. That much he knew.

He also knew beforehand that being around Yana and not being with her would be a stab to the heart, but after a string of failures against a frustratingly elusive Saw Gerrera he needed an out from under Vader to keep his troopers safe, so when Tarkin gave him a choice between 1st Battalion staying with the 501st or reassignment to the Chimaera as an independent unit he took it, thinking that the wounds had healed.

No regrets on the choice, but he was a fool for thinking that he could ever move past Ilyana Pyrondi. Tagging along on this vacation was just unnecessary torture.

Maybe it was lackluster soundproofing, something he has been wanting to fix for a while, but Hammerly seemed to be extra loud these past few nights, and the twisting feeling in his heart was making it hard to sleep, so he’s been tiring himself out by painting his knuckles red with death stick dealers and spice peddlers in alleyways and taking an ice bath in the morning.

And now they were at the beach, and for the first time since learning how to, Artur Tagge didn’t want to swim.

Because swimming would mean getting close to a Pyro while neither of them had anything on beside skintight bathing togs. And while he immensely enjoyed the view, being in that particular situation, given the circumstances, wasn’t something he looked forward to.

It didn’t matter, in the end. Bright demeanor, easy smile, friendly banter. That was all he needed to do. When all was said and done, everyone present deserved a good, long vacation, and he refused to be the one to ruin it.

“You might want to unclench your jaw, Artur. Imperial benefits doesn’t include dental.”

The Tagge heir glanced towards Faro, who had just made herself comfortable on the bar two seats left of him, a multicolored drink (surprise, surprise) already in hand. There was a dreaded look of sympathy in her eyes, and Artur turned his head away, forcing his masseter to loosen as he took a large sip of Whyren's Reserve. He felt like drowning in alcohol today, might as well splurge on the good stuff.

“I know how hard it is, trust me, but at some point you have to move on.”

“There is no moving on, don’t you get that?” Artur snapped, seething. He hated the tone she used, the look in her eyes. He was a Tagge, damnit. Son of a General, nephew of a Baroness, heir to one of the wealthiest and most powerful dynasties in the galaxy and a kriffing war hero on top of that. Who was she to pity him?

He snuffed out that train of thought immediately as he glimpsed her wounded expression. She was just trying to care, and it was unbecoming to brag about himself like that, even in his own head. A deep breath helped to calm his racing heart and cool the heat in his blood. “I’m sorry.”

The tone he used was even more pathetic than he thought, and far more than he would ever admit to. A hand found its way onto his shoulder, riddled with old callouses that have softened after years of holding bridge command instead of intensive fieldwork. “Talk to me, Arty.”

“She’s the love of my life”, Artur muttered. It hurts, admitting that fact out loud, but this was Karyn Faro he was talking to, so he was safe. “I’m not being dramatic. I’ve put a lot of thought into it. She’s the one.”

Karyn sat there in stunned silence. She knew that when Artur loved, he loved passionately and unequivocally, but this was a completely different level. What should she say?

“And now you’re not with her anymore.”

Because pointing that out was the best option, Karyn. Good kriffing job.

Artur stiffened, swallowing a scathing sarcastic reply. His body loosened up once again as he leaned into her touch.

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Yana was conflicted, and that made her feel unthinkably guilty.

She was in an incredible relationship with an incredible woman that is Yissa Hammerly. She was loved. She was cared for. She was cherished and appreciated.

So why was her heart torn between loving this incredible woman and yearning for Artur Tagge? It made her feel filthy and disloyal.

Yana dunked her head under again, letting the cold water wash over her face in an attempt to clear her mind. She knew the feelings still lingered, what they had weren’t something one just moves on from, but she didn’t expect it to hit her like a cargo ship the moment she saw him again. She’d managed to mostly stay strictly friendly with him so far, but now he was so close.

Gah, this was why she hesitated to start things with Yissa. It wasn’t fair to her, but even after trying to warn her off by saying that she still wasn’t over her ex, Yissa still wanted to be with her, and that finally convinced Yana that a relationship with Yissa Hammerly was worth it. And it definitely was.

Yana had come to terms with the fact that she loved both Yiss and Arty in equal amounts, if for slightly different reasons. Now, she needed to choose.

Wait, maybe she didn’t.

A plan was beginning to form in Yana’s mind, more complex than any equation she’d ever tackled, one where she can get the best of both worlds. But if it failed, she’ll lose everything.

Now, where the hell is Jashin?

#star wars #pyrondi #star wars rebels #sw fanfic #hammerly #ezra bridger #sabine wren #ursa wren #darksaber #lomar #agral #yve #karyn faro #hera syndulla #kanan jarrus #c1 10p #star wars empire #so completely inspired by @contentment of cats

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