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scoundrels-in-love · 4 years

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Before you leave, Remember I was with you (You must know you are beloved)

Cassian Andor doesn’t believe in soulmates, despite words on his wrist. Jyn Erso thinks of them as symbol of death. Baze Malbus swears he’ll never say the words so they can’t take Chirrut from him. Chirrut knows all is as Force wills it. Bodhi Rook will never meet his soulmate, but he can see these bonds and he hopes his actions means one day, fewer will end in death and tears. Canon Compliant Soulmate AU.

Also on AO3.

There are surprisingly many things Cassian Andor believes in;

Steady blaster hand. His gut instinct. K-2SO. That every deed that keeps replaying behind weary eyelids in the dead of night was worth it, if it brings ends of Empire closer.

But the concept of Soulmates isn't one of them.

In a sense, he even resents the thought - his parents who died for one another, eyes on each other as eternal stillness settled in them, met and lived with no involvement of the great and mysterious Force.

No mark adorned their wrists, but was their love for each other, for him less because of that? There will be no memorial with their names (nor with his, he suspects) and yet they were a world, a home destroyed, too.

And, yet, there are lines on his wrist as if mocking his belief.

Having a Soulmate is asking for heartbreak. Loving anything is asking for one, in fact. That is why he loves nothing but memories - those have broken him already, there is no more to be lost or gained.

And for all that, the words on his wrist are simply a threat, even to his identity as a spy. And mockery, when he is tired and his grasp on hope is slipping, with his hands so slick with blood. No one is out there, they are on their own. A handful of desperate rebels against a galaxy on its knees and the laser rifle pressed to its temple.

Yet, when he was still young, fifteen or sixteen, he used to lay awake and tried to imagine it, if only so he wouldn’t have to think about the things he had done that day.

Maybe they are in a bunker, waiting for order to move or an extraction that will never come in time. Maybe they’re deep undercover. Someone's out there , someone tells him. And he strains his hearing, hears the shuffle of boots. Stands up and says something brave, no, maybe he presses a kiss that is more than duty to their lips first. Fights. Dies.

There would be no glory in it, but it could be a good death. No Imperial torture or taking a lullaby.

In a few years, it felt childish and dangerous to dream of something so lofty and painted with softest hues of love.

So he stopped.

When Jyn thinks of Soulmates, she thinks of death.

She recalls the way she would trace the beautifully carved word Lyra! across her mama's wrist with her childishly chubby fingers again and again through the years, each time a new and persistent question on her mind.

What she never understood (still does not, her nails digging into the thin lines on her hand unconsciously) why would it tell you the very last thing your Soulmate will tell you.

"It is a promise, Stardust. Promise you will meet them, talk with them and spend a lifetime with them." Papa had told her with a smile as serene as first autumn's rain and somehow, just as sad.

He had lied. As he always did.

Mama never saw soft snow of age settling in her hair, the defiance imprinted on his wrist coming much sooner. And his scream is embedded so deep into Jyn's soul it does not have to be visible on scarred skin to haunt her.

But she has a mark nonetheless, a frustrating inevitably she loathes and rejects. Why would she want someone to ‘complete’ her, when no one in her life has stayed or been truthful?

This Soulmate of hers obviously doesn’t even know her. Jyn doesn’t want her father to be proud of her - his pride, his feelings matter not to her. He is dead. If not to the world, then at least to her. Even more so if he is actually out there somewhere, doing Force knows what. Never seeking her out, never looking back.

So she hides the mark beneath gloves and wraps, curses it for its recognizability and even tries to cut it out once, just after Tamsye Prime.

And doesn’t think of it as almost lullaby when she wonders if survival is worth all this, if this can even be called surviving.

Not at all.

III

Bodhi Rook will not meet his Soulmate in this life. Three inky teardrops his fate has cried on his wrist tell him that.

Instead, he sees the ones who are bound by Force's thread. And more often than not, it is a cursed chain, wrapping around his neck and pulling him under even though it is not for him to bear.

He remembers vividly one day when Empire's cargo for him to deliver were stormtroopers seeking out Force sensitive children to take with them.

He sees it still, imprinted on his soul; there is a mother, a dirty handed child pulled out of his imagery battle and now clinging to her skirt. His eyes sparkle green in curiosity, hers in defiant fear.

Bodhi does not see the trooper's eyes, but the faint glow around them has more color than Jedha has ever had. I found you. Finally, the ends of thread seem to whisper as they entwine.

"Not my Aslik, please!" she begs the trooper who is yanking at the boy's arm.

Something sputters in the man, he freezes like a droid that's been shut down, before everything shifts into new, painfully sharp focus.

"Run!" he tells her suddenly, the recognition flaring a sense of urgency in him like an all-consuming pyre. And as the trooper spins, his blaster rifle already trained on his comrades, she flees with Aslik on her arms.

It takes twenty direct shots to take him down and only three to mow down the woman. They never even knew each other's names.

Just one of many stories Bodhi could tell, just one of many pairs torn apart before they meet, passing by in corridor before one dies on another patrol in NiJedha, the other forever surrounded by weeping cloud of longing.

Perhaps it is the first thing he sees about Galen Erso - the dimmed colors of a broken bond, the hollowness of a man that has lost too much. (He does not understand how much until much later, when he stares at Jyn whose eyes burn with fire that will carry them all forward, or consume them.)

He has seen it often and yet, there are echoes, too, of such love and determination it almost knocks him down when he witnesses it in Galen’s eyes. It must be what draws him to the scientist, reverberating through Bodhi’s soul and guiding him out of the cave he has retreated to, hiding from everything. Everyone. Including himself.

Funny, he thinks, just before Bor Gullet consumes him, that I came into the light, only to lose myself again.

When he, much later, comes to in his cell on Jedha, one of the first things he thinks, really thinks, is that he doesn’t remember ever witnessing an acknowledged, still living bond like the one that weaves around and between the two Guardians. It blooms so vividly he gets lost in it, as if it is living, breathing painting.

He follows it, in dull-edged awe, through the dust that will someday softly cover the weeping wound on Jedha’s surface, follows through the rubble and rumbling whispers of death as horizon tries to swallow them.

And Bodhi doesn’t even need to look at them directly to know , when the Captain and the woman stumble in. In fact, he tries not to glance their way all the way until they are on Yavin IV. Or else he will say something, like don’t shoot him, Cassian . It is not his part. And yet, relief fills his chest like an emergency flare when they are back in the ship, his hands clean of Erso’s blood.

They argue and yet, what had been clash of colors on Jedha becomes so bright and unified it almost hurts his eyes when he stumbles up the stolen ship’s ramp as it fills with more people and sees the two of them leaning in close. He cannot discern the words, but it doesn’t matter. They know.

And when he looks at his new friends (can he call them friends or would they recoil in disgust that an ex-imp would consider them as such?), once they’re aboard, he thinks - it was worth it, all of it. If he has to pay with his life just so that one other Soulmate story can have a happy ending in the future, it is a price well worth paying.

Even in his last moment, he hopes it will be the stories of his friends, even without him and his ship.

In some way, Chirrut knew. Knew from the day he met Baze, felt it like a soft tremor of a bell rung far far away. Knew it when he traced the lines on the other man’s wrist. Baze never told him what was written there, as if he could outwit Force itself.

But the echo had been just that - an impression he couldn’t quite grasp, make sense of its texture or shape. Now, it stands before him, clear and simple in its monumental form, like the crumbling statues on Jedha. A few must have survived, the ones far from NiJedha. The thought comforts him.

So much has been lost. So much has been gained. Saved.

In the Force, he will be with it all again. And that is what he tells Baze: “Look for the Force and you will always find me” . Smiles (tries to) as he hears his stubborn husband say the prayer he cannot chant anymore.

Their vows are complete once more and all is as the Force wills it.

He does not think about the day he renounced his faith, turned his back to the Guardians. (But never Chirrut.)

Lies. He thinks about it when masses of people pass by them, Imperial forces peppered among them. He thinks about it at night when he wonders how many dawns they have until---

Chirrut knows, as he always does, but only smiles and tells him 'All is as Force wills it'.

Kriffin Force can will it anyway it likes, Baze isn't giving his soulmate up to it so easily.

And yet, each time Chirrut chants 'The Force is with me and I am one with the Force', something twitches in his Guardian's chest. What if this is the last time, the one imprinted on his left wrist?

So, he does not respond anymore, the line to draw a full circle of prayer stopping midway. If he does not say it, then it does not matter what any mark says.

Yet, when Chirrut's eyes are losing their indescribable light (light of galaxy's patterned chaos and faith in its order) in his arms, Baze knows. Knows he cannot deny his husband one final comfort of hearing the chant completed and perfect, as their lives, their love.

And as mere minutes later, he marches forward with gun blazing, straight into the embrace of death, he also knows that none of it matters - for he is one with the Force and the Force is with him.

He doesn’t know how there is so much fight left in her still, that he can barely keep her from launching at the Imp, that she can hold him up still. That he can actually lean on Jyn, though Cassian tries not to put his full weight on her.

He doesn’t know if there is any ship above the shield to even receive the transmission. Maybe it went directly into the hands of the Empire. His entire life has been built around knowing and knowing who to ask if he doesn’t.

Now he can only ask Jyn. And somehow, it’s enough.

“Do you think anybody’s listening?”

She smiles, hauls him forward another step. “I do. Somebody’s out there.”

He crumples a little then, draws a breath that transforms into a bolt of pain. This is it, Cassian realizes. Not that he thought there was a way they could get off Scarif. But none of it fills him with fear or anger. Instead, he feels calm and straightens back up so they can limp into the elevator.

Maybe it’s because he’s spent so long with death’s hand guiding his own. Maybe it’s because of Jyn. Her faith, which had grown before his eyes, from a dormant seed into a jungle without an end in sight, shields him with its canopy.

Cassian smiles just a little at her, in the fluttering light as they move toward the surface. Where the rest of his team fought and died. He only regrets K2-SO will be so far away, but soon they all will be nothing more than stardust, so does it really matter?

In the end, he had been right - it will be a good death. With more unsung glory than he ever thought. With more love than he could’ve imagined.

VII

They crumble on the beach and watch. She doesn’t remember much of those moments on Jedha, everything had been too much of a rush, too much of her father’s words breaking into the bunker she had hid herself away into. Here, the distance between them and the approaching horizon marks all the time in the world, infinite and a grain of sand all at once.

Jyn thinks of the others, wonders if there is even a single person who made it off in time. Doubts it. Thinks of Bodhi’s dark eyes and the determined light in them when he had said Rogue One , of the solid warmth of Baze’s hand and voice, of Chirrut’s chant. Somehow, in this moment, she believes it more than ever.

She doesn’t have to think of Cassian, because he’s filling the rest of the space around them. In her. She feels his smile more than she can see it.

“Your father would be proud of you,” he tells her and oh.

Oh.

There is an odd sort of relief in her, so bright she can almost imagine the greedy green glow is overshadowed by it.

She had never thought much of fulfilling destinies in a good way, but it is somehow comforting to know this is where it’s supposed to end, that these are the calloused hands meant to save her, hold onto her. That Soulmates means warmth and home , and trust so warm it doesn’t matter she has had days in its shine. That her convictions have not been thrown in her face in the very last moment.

They found each other and she thinks it means that the plans found their way into the right hands, too.

He really would be proud of me , she realizes and calm, content pride in herself, in Cassian and her Rogue team, washes over her.

This peace carries her into the Force when it all ends, the words a sort of lullaby once again.

#Rebelcaptain #SpiritAssasin #Rogue One #Star Wars #rebelcaptain fanfic #my fic #rainy writes stuff

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callioope · 6 years

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What’s a writer to do when work has a delayed opening?

Write a scene from the Rebelcaptain Anastasia AU she swore she’d never write. Oops?

“I don’t see the point of this.”

Draven closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.��“You’ll be introduced to Ers--to your father at the Governor’s Ball. Where there will be dancing.”

“But I don’t have to actually dance,” she insists, dropping her hands and stepping back from him. She spins away like he’s burnt, and of course he can’t blame her for that. She crosses the open space of the cargo area towards her canteen of water. “He’s a weapons scientist, not a politician. I doubt I’d run into on the dance floor. I’ll be better off finding him lurking off the side or in a corner somewhere...”

“Like me,” are the words Draven assumes she’s holding hostage on the tip of her tongue. She wants Galen Erso to be like her, she wants a thread of commonality, as if it would prove she’s actually related to him.

This means everything to her and absolutely nothing to Draven. Galen Erso has been looking for his lost daughter for years; he has sat through countless interviews with greedy and ambitious women all vying for--who knows, the prestige and luxury of living with one of the Empire’s most esteemed scientists?

Yes, Orson Krennic is offering a large sum for any who can help find Erso’s lost daughter, but that’s not likely to go to the daughter herself.

And it’s also not what Draven cares about.

Draven just needs Liana to achieve an audience with Galen Erso, hopefully find some intel, and--make sure Cassian gets a clear line of sight on him.

(Draven knows who he is, is well acquainted with the worst aspects of himself. It stopped bothering him a long time ago, that his job requires the usage of people like tools, that it wears them thin. He does what he has to, has no illusions that his sacrifices contradict the very ideals the rebellion is striving for. Someone has to make the choices. Someone has to make the sacrifices.)

“Yes,” Captain Andor says from his own corner, where he leans against the wall. “Hunt him down on the side of the room, interrupt a conversation, tell him you must speak with him urgently, in private--how will that go?”

Liana glares at him over her canteen, but says nothing.

Andor pushes off from the wall, comes towards her. “The dance floor is a great cover for information exchange.”

Setting the canteen aside, Liana snorts. “Sure, if I want the whole world to overhear us.”

“It will be crowded,” Andor says, holding out his arms. He twitches his fingers, indicating for her to join him. Huffing, Liana shoots Draven an exasperated look, arched eyebrows questioning, pleading. But he nods, because why not? Andor just might be the one person that frustrates Liana more than Draven himself, but there’s a reason Draven holds the captain in such high esteem.

Rolling her eyes, she acquiesces, but not before sending Draven another look--this one betrayed.

“Crowds are noisy,” Andor continues. “But even if they weren’t...” He leans down, whispers something in her ear that Draven can’t hear.

She attempts to press her lips together before a laugh breaks out, and her exasperation melts away into surprise as she meets Andor’s eyes.

Oh no, Draven has the prescience to think. But his worry is not about whatever Andor might have said to prove Draven couldn’t hear them. Something Liana would believe would make him angry.

“Kay,” Andor says. “Play the music.”

Draven has seen Liana fight; that she’d have the talent for dancing if she just tried seemed like a foregone conclusion. Draven is right about most things.

Andor leads her across the cargo bay floor they’ve taken over, and something just clicks. She’d stepped all over his feet, she’d tried to lead, she’d come within inches of punching his face, somehow (possibly intentionally). But Andor and Liana work as a team, as one, gliding across the floor, spinning so gracefully it’s like they’ve choreographed a damn routine.

“I calculate a sixty-three percent chance this is going to be a problem.” Looking over, Draven finds Andor’s droid has joined him at the wall, it’s face pointed towards the dancers.

The music stops, but for several seconds, the two of them keep spinning. Oh, for Force’s sake--

“The music’s stopped,” Liana says, pressing her hand into Andor’s shoulder.

Draven cannot remember how long it’s been since he’s seen the captain caught off guard.

“So it has.” He stops moving, and the two just stare at each other.

“I feel a little light-headed,” she says.

Andor nods. “Gravity generator must be faulty,” he says.

Draven clears his throat.

Their hands separate; they step back from each other.

“I’ll go check on it, sir,” Andor says, and he disappears from the cargo bay.

“I’ll, um,” Liana looks around, “see if he needs help.”

She follows.

“Seventy-four percent chance this will be a problem,” the droid says.

Draven stares after them. “I never should have let them dance.”

#rebelcaptain #rebelcaptain fic #anastasia au #jyn erso #cassian andor #davits draven #oops my hand slipped #sorry i know i used 'it' as a pronoun for Kay #it's cuz it's draven's perspective #also sorry not proofed at ALL #somewhere my sister is reading this and shaking her head at me #the idea attacked me #sorry i had no choice #also hopefully this will relieve some of the writer's block on my rom com

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deadpanprincess · 6 years

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Sins of Believing Chap 2

Chapter Two: Pride and Wrath

Read on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12510504

Draven stands at attention as Cassian ushers in his team. The general’s hands twine together behind his back and his arms flex with the effort. He even refrains from blinking too quickly, keeping his eyes on Rogue One for as long as possible. Cassian has only seen Draven like this once before: after the destruction of Alderaan. Draven had found Cassian in the medbay. His best operative lay trapped by a shattered spine and their only hope for survival was lost in space. Draven may not have blinked at all when he relayed the news. Cassian was too fuzzed out on painkillers to remember clearly.

The general's current stillness is not hopelessness, though. It is the calm of thought that endears Draven to the Council. Contingency after contingency forms in his mind's eye. Around him, Intelligence Command hums with restless energy. Every officer takes their designated space and watches their screens. Some have dropped one ear of their headphones to better listen to the incoming report. Others prefer to ignore Rogue One completely. They still have not forgiven Cassian for their losses.

Jyn, beside Cassian, is a riot of motion. Her fingers drum against her visible blaster, her weight shifts from one braced leg to the other, and her mouth constantly reshapes with anger. Grief tries to press the restless movement out of her, but fury keeps her fidgeting. She is supposed to be done with war rooms and councils and fear too abstract to contain. When Skywalker destroyed the Death Star--the first one--she should have been free of guilt. Jyn takes on the sins of the Rebellion, but she should no longer carry her father's. Yet she is still here, paying for him again.

"Report," Draven commands.

Cassian answers, like he always has. "Rogue One approached Sergeant Erso's contact with no resistance. Both the sergeant and myself were able to engage without issue. Under cover of engaged couple Tanith Porta and Castor Willix, we convinced the target that we had information for her. Target believed our intel and offered information."

"And?" Draven knows, but he asks to the benefit of the other Intelligence officers' attentive ears.

"There is a second Death Star," Cassian says. Intelligence does not stop working, but they complete their actions more quietly.

"And why did the target offer this information?" Draven asks.

Cassian is fairly sure the general has already figured at least five scenarios where such intel would be imparted, but Draven never accepts assumptions. He wants Cassian to confirm his suspicions, but he underestimates how the captain cares for his crew.

"The target believed it important to our covers," Cassian hedges. Draven stares him down. He hears the hesitance, the lie cloaked in truth. Neither man moves, and total silence filters over Intelligence Command. Every officer puts down their work to watch the insubordination of Draven's favorite operative. The quiet highlights the rattle of Jyn's zippers as her leg jiggles. She wishes they would just fight it out.

"Obviously it was me," she says, exasperated. Cassian closes his eyes as Draven looks to her.

"Explain, Sergeant Erso."

"I was the one who told the target that there was a rebel base on Yavin IV," Jyn clarifies. She holds Draven's gaze, but her leg bounces more aggressively. One or two of the surrounding officers freeze. It is their only indication of anger.

"That was not the false plant you were ordered to give," Draven says.

"Well, your original plan would have allowed the target to pass along information without consequences," Jyn defends.

"That was not your call to make, Sergeant." Draven enunciates her rank, calling attention to the disparity of power between them. Jyn does not care if he is named the supreme ruler of all the galaxies, though. She shoves forward, her chin thrust up so she can keep meeting his eyes. Cassian and Bodhi do not even try to stop her. They eye each other before simultaneously agreeing to let the situation play out.

"This is the woman who had me thrown in prison! You knew that and you still sent me to Utapau! Don't pretend like this is a surprise," Jyn says.

"Back up, Sergeant." Draven tries to intimidate respect by looming over her, but Jyn just rests her fists against her hips and digs in her heels.

"This is a game to you. Our lives are forfeit in service to your ideal Rebellion. But you don't get that people who are fighting need to be just as human as those they're trying to save!"

"I said back up.” Draven’s voice drops with the threat.

"I took an opportunity and it led to more intelligence. Important intelligence! Don't tell me that it's not as good as the death of some random Imperial officer."

"Jyn--" Cassian tries. She whirls on him, keeping Draven in her peripheral.

"You're practically giddy! No wonder no one on Alderaan survived when this is how you care for the members of your Alliance!" Jyn storms out of the room, sweeping past the shocked rise of Cassian’s eyebrows. Her words echo behind her. Bodhi follows, as if he can escape her accusation by leaving. A moment of complete quiet settles on Command, and then a heavy slam of bone hitting durasteel reverberates through the room.

The sound restarts Intelligence Command. Officers return to faking their attention on work. Draven and Cassian do not bother to move. They still stand across from each other, but now Cassian's eyes burn fire.

"Say it," Draven waves him on, almost drolly.

"She's not wrong," Cassian says.

"She disobeyed orders for petty revenge." Draven stays even. His hands clasp behind his back again.

"It doesn't make her wrong," Cassian says more firmly. Draven examines him, a quick brush of his eyes over the soldier he knows. The body language gives away nothing, but Draven can see the tension in his jaw and how Cassian's neck cranes forward. He almost looks like Erso from a moment ago. They share the same rage, a well of passion that Draven prefers deeply buried in his agents.

Draven dismisses Cassian with an abrupt nod. Cassian does not return the salute as he leaves. The automatic doors whoosh gently closed behind him.

He finds Jyn in his room, the impersonal neatness disturbed. Jyn has thrown their lone blanket on the ground and obviously punched their pillow with the fist not cradled against her chest. Thankfully, she left the rest of the room alone in preference of curling over herself on the mattress.

"Let me see," Cassian demands as he walks in. There is no reason to pretend she is anything other than hurt. He heard the crack of her fist. Jyn only glares and pulls her injured hand further into the hollow at her clavicle. The furious color of her cheeks pops against the dingy grey of the room.

"At least let me reset your knuckles," he sighs. She does not lose her angry scowl, but Jyn scooches closer to the edge of the bed. Exhaustion duels with humor as Cassian offers his own palm as a resting place. She lays her hand down upon it. His legs bracket her on either side so he can better probe her injury. Three of her knuckles swell, and her harshly lined skin almost seems new as the internal bleeding pulls the dermis tight. Cassian hisses in commiseration. She has definitely broken two knuckles and possibly fractured a finger. He will have to play doctor because Jyn will never go the medbay, even if they could spare resources.

"The wall punched back," he teases. His voice does not change in tone, but lilts with the joke.

"Kriff you," Jyn says. She is equally tired and toneless and uninvested in a fight.

Cassian huffs in amusement while reaching for his medkit in the nightstand. He cannot waste bacta on such a minor injury, but he can wrap her knuckles in the bandage she usually tapes on for sparring. Carefully, he winds the cloth from her finger joint to her wrist. Each jerk of the wrap pulls tighter and tighter, pushing the blood back to where it belongs. Jyn lifts a bare smile at the sight of her comically swollen, bandaged fist. She now has a fabric anvil at the end of her arm.

Cassian stays silent as he tucks the end of the cloth into itself. The material seals nicely at her pulse, and he keeps his fingers pressed there as he situates himself next to her. Jyn sits stiffly as his weight shifts the bed. She tenses when he cradles her hand, but she does not pull away.

"Don't lie to me," she says suddenly. Jyn does not look at him when she speaks. She keeps her eyes focused on where she feels his thumb rubbing circles on her palm. Cassian swallows as he rejects potential responses. His thumb never ceases.

"Have I?" He asks.

"You have too much hope." Jyn seemingly changes topic, but Cassian catches the thread of her logic. His belief in the Rebellion is something she will never share. Jyn believes in Rogue One, in the Pathfinders, in the people around her. The abstract idea of revolution cannot hold her. Especially when that revolution is threatened by a danger she knows too well.

"We're prepared for them this time," Cassian says.

"What about next time? Or the time after that?" She challenges.

"They won't have a third one, this one surfaced too quickly. It must have been built simultaneously with the first," he explains. He had K2 run the data to ensure accuracy. The droid had commended his foresight.

"There's no guarantee that the flaw exists in this one. Or that they're not building a third one right now. Don't be short sighted." Jyn stands, her anger propelling her again. Cassian stays seated. His eyes follow her from corner to corner as she paces.

"So what would you have us do, Jyn?" As if he does not know. The urge to run crackles along the fine hairs of her arms. Jyn radiates with flight.

"I'm always going to be Galen Erso's daughter," Jyn evades. Cassian keeps his mouth shut. More lingers on the tip of her tongue. "Saw Guerrera's Partisan. Rogue One's sergeant."

"I only see Jyn Erso," he says. Jyn stills and regards him sadly, but a fondness keeps a pinprick of light in her eyes.

"You will always be the Alliance's captain," she releases. The idea shocks him. He, like his long lost blaster, belongs to her. Cassian gives himself to her freely, but maybe a thief never owns what is not taken.

"I haven't been. Not for some time," Cassian says to his hands as he cradles them in his lap. Scarif, Eadu, Jedha; they all lay thick in the unsaid. Jyn freezes. Her shoulder blades bunch and release. She turns slowly with her weight in her heels.

"Cassian?" Jyn prods. An eerie reminder of Draven's need for assurance steels his spine.

"I'm yours, Jyn." It is a declaration more real than any. Cassian has said "I love you" to informants, marks, lovers, but he never relinquishes himself. Wind rushes past his ears, cutting off his oxygen. He falls thirty stories all over again; and all he can see is Jyn, her green eyes dark like the leaves of Fest, like blaster bolts at night, like how she looked at him in that turbolift.

Panic claws at her throat and threatens to spill from her lips, but she grounds herself in his expression. She has seen Cassian physically naked and has fucked him in every corner of this room, but never did he let her see his heart. He reveals everything now in soft words and an even gentler look. He shares her fear, but Cassian can reconcile himself to the inevitable.

Jyn pulls roughly on her bun. A pin clatters to the floor. They stay fixed on one another, damn the disturbance.

She licks her lips in preparation. "I don't know how to do anything but fight," she warns. Cassian smiles at that and his dimples materialize in his beard. This is his Jyn, kind enough to threaten before tearing him apart.

"I know," he says. The honesty of that throws her. Jyn opens her mouth to argue, just because it feels necessary, but Cassian cuts her off.

"Let me fight with you." He says both a question and a promise.

#rebelcaptain #jyn erso #cassian andor #jyn erso x cassian andor #bodhi rook #k2so #fanfic #chapter 2 #please review/reblog!#or come into my askbox!#I would love your feedback!

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inebranlabl · 5 months

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𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐘 . . . an independent, mutuals only, low activity multi-muse 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 muses from star wars, myth, the hunger games, dune, the boys, gotham along with original characters. legendized by 𝐀𝐌𝐄 , she / her, 30+ , cst. warning! due to the nature of several characters this blog will contain dark themes, including, but not limited to: war, death, torture, murder, gaslighting, gore & abuse.

affiliated with: @alootus , @debelltio & @wornkindness

an exploration of . . . overruling fate, the belly of the beast, rising from the ashes, family is deeper than blood, the anatomy of a monster, cosmic awakening, all roads lead here.

information prompts find me : @acharnemcnt & @finaliseur

✱under construction - moving from @croyant

𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐒

& featured muses Grand Admiral Sloane , Karitza Ren ( oc ) ✱

& canon Norra Wexley, Sinjir Rath Velus, Jas Emari, Mas Amedda, Galen Erso, Finn, Duja, Admiral Ackbar, Perrin Fertha, Korr Sella

& ocs Narka Zaila ( First Order agent )

& by request Abeloth, Willhuff Tarkin, Maarva Andor, Clem Andor, Maratelle Hux

𝐃𝐔𝐍𝐄 Chani Kynes, Count Hasimir Fenring

𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 Plutarch Heavensbee, Tigris

𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐌 & 𝐃𝐂 Oswald Cobblepot

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐒 Kimiko Miyashiro, Black Noir

𝐌𝐘𝐓𝐇 Mara, demon king of desire & Ammit the devourer

𝐎𝐂𝐬 Anavi Celestara, lady in waiting ( lockridgeverse ) & Ophelia Genesis the drowned oracle

✱ featured muses are located on side blogs attached to this blog, due to high focus.

𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

i. I’m mutuals only which means I only write & interact with blogs when we are both following each other. This blog is low activity so I will be fairly slow. But I am a plot oriented writer, so I will be focusing on establishing storylines with my mutuals. I have have a very busy personal life, so I tend to follow a very limited amount of blogs, for my own sanity and so that I can develop deeper, ongoing plots.

Also, FYI, I am usually mobile bound and this is not my main blog, so I am not always logged in here. Therefore, it can take me up to a week or two to follow back at times.

ii. For my own comfort, I will not follow blogs that don’t have rules, a name & age requirement, or writing posted. Primarily rules — posted on your pinned post or somewhere easily visible/accessible. I do not interact with writers under the age of 21. Please do not lie about your age. I will unfollow anyone who is racist, homophobic, transphobic, ableist, uses white washed fcs/characters or is unjustly discriminative. If you regularly vague or attack other writers for petty things like ships or fandom takes, I will unfollow.

iii. Please do not godmod or metagame. I will also softblock if I have made several attempts to interact with no reciprocation. I don’t mind turning memes into threads but please ask first, or I will not reply. ( Everyone gets 2 initial freebies without asking ).

iv. This blog contains dark and potentially triggering themes. Please be safe! Some of which include: murder, manipulation, kidnapping, gore, torture, war, death genocide & abuse. All listed triggers will be tagged cw/tw “the trigger”. Sexual content will be tagged cw suggestive.

v. First of all, I respect everyone's ships. If I am not fond of a ship you enjoy, that doesn't mean you should not enjoy it freely! Ship hate is not tolerated here.

I enjoy dynamics of all types but I am little more hesitant with romantic ships. I just prefer to plot and develop our muses first to see if the chemistry is there before jumping into a ship. Please do not force or hint ships. Rather, if we are writing and plotting together and you think there is potential, just ask! The worst that will happen is I suggest an alternate dynamic.

I will be honest, I am much more open to shipping with my non-villain muses. Note that several of my villain muses are toxic & complicated people and therefore ships with them will not be healthy or conventionally romantic. I will warn you & ask for consent before engaging in this type of ship with said characters. That being said... while I am open to toxic dynamics, I will not write abusive romantic relationships. And I don't feel comfortable writing hero/villain ships where one muse has tortured, abused or traumatized another muse.

𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

i. Grand Admiral Sloane & Kartiza Ren ( @inarretable ) are located on side blogs attached to this blog. You can find more in depth information on these muses on their individual blogs. Threads and asks for Sloane and Karitza will be posted on their side blogs but you are free to send asks for these muses to this blog and/or the side blogs.

ii. Karitza Ren is an knight of ren oc for the star wars sequels that is currently affiliated with a group of knights. More information can be found here

iii. My portrayal of Oswald Cobblepot is based on the Gotham tv series with influences from various DC comics and my own headcanons.

iv. My portrayal of Black Noir is solely based on Am*zon's The Boys & my own headcanons, as Black Noir is a completely different character in the comic. My portrayal of Kimiko is tv, comic & headcanon based.

v. Ammit & Mara are myth inspired muses. Therefore there will be myth & minor religious references on my blog. I am drawing more from the myth aspect when writing these muse. That being said, these characters are simply based on myth and not meant to carry religious symbolism or accurately portray religious/mythological figures, as the narrative may take them down a different path.

#mobile rules & muse list under cut #pinned #dni #under construction!

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benmendo · 7 years

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He could follow Galen Erso’s thread through his life. He could see the full extent of the tragedy, the waste of effort on a wasted man. But what about before? He sought refuge in his childhood, tried to recall an Orson whose hopes had not yet been cast in shadow...

#star wars #rogue one #galen erso #orson krennic #swnews #galennic #orson! krennic! has! zero! chill!

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mistressminako · 7 years

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Everything Could Change

The Imperial summoning circle with dear @eustacefrog at the helm has requested the rise of demon!Krennic. I did my best to oblige. 1717 words.

Content Warnings: post-Rogue One, mentions of death; unhealthy power dynamics; boot fetish; torture; poison; character death; possession; incorrect usage of holocrons; Tarkin/Krennic; Galen/Krennic

The telltale tap of leather jackboots on durasteel centered his attention. Orson Krennic steeled his jaw and raised his chin.

The lock clicked and in stepped a pair of his own death troopers. Strolling behind them, his arms tucked behind him like an old schoolmaster, was Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin. The troopers moved to flank his sides and Tarkin came to parade rest right in front of him.

He sat motionless. A cold barrel prodded his shoulder. He kept his eyes fixed on those boots. The worn leather had known the kiss of countless worlds. He’d watched the blood of men and beast alike soak into the leather. He’d licked his own cum from the rough surface. His wrists were raw under the binders. His shoulders ached from being locked into position behind him for so long.

He spat at those boots. His troopers reacted instantly, not even allowing him the satisfaction to see his fluids once again marring Tarkin’s beloved footwear. The butt of an E-11 came down across the back of his head, sending him crashing to the floor.

He’d felt the heat of the superlaser scorch the air above him.

Galen Erso had sabotaged the project.

He lifted his head to stare at the crumpled body of it. Galen and Lyra’s child. The creature that had escaped him so long ago. The harpy that had sealed his fate.

“Galen…” he croaked, his voice weak and broken. A pair of arms threaded under his shoulders and he was blinded by white-hot pain as the stormtroopers hauled him to his feet.

He woke with a start. Durasteel flooring flowed past him. His custom Ar’tranio leather boots scraping the breaks between floor panels he had designed, which allowed for the changing external pressure caused by the Death Star’s Class-IIV Mark 3 hyperdrive. His lips pulled tight in a congratulatory grimace.

“Awake now?” Tarkin’s voice was cold, his customary politeness clipped and impatient.

“I’m awake,” he looked up, the corners of his mouth lifted in that boyish smile Tarkin loved so much. “Wilhuff.” The name fell from his lips in a breathy sigh. He could see the line of the old fox’s cock through the thick folds of his uniform.

Tarkin’s hand came down across his cheek in a swift and brutal traverse. The force of the blow knocked him sideways, wrenching the shoulder that damned idiot had blown open in his pathetic attempt at heroism.

His scream rang in his ears. His shoulder was a white-hot blaze of agony. His fingers brushed limply against his jodhpurs, clutching reflexively at thin air.

“You talk too much.” Tarkin’s curt dismissal went straight to his cock. A door slid aside into the bulkhead and Tarkin disappeared into the dark hallway. He was dragged in after, unresisting.

The room was full of an assemblage of petty officers. Faceless uniform stuffing that he could have never been bothered to notice. The men were standing in a loose circle. Tarkin casually strolled through their line in his measured officer’s walk. He found himself dragged after and, quite predictably, thrown to the floor. Tarkin hauled him up by his chin until he was kneeling before the man.

This time, he spat blood.

“Oh Orson,” Tarkin breathed, dropping smoothly to one knee. It was then that he became aware of a low murmur. The brainless group of petty officers had closed ranks around them and they were…chanting?

Tarkin jerked his head back to center. That wizened face loomed in front of him like a death’s head.

“Lucky for you, Erso showed his hand too early. We fixed the drift he had coded into the targeting system. I must say, it was very cleverly hidden. Still, I would be a fool to think Erso planted a failure that deep into the mainframe all by himself. Why, the metadata even recorded an officer’s access code.” Tarkin paused to fix him with one of his tight-lipped smiles. “But not your code, of course.”

“Then why are you dragging me through the bowels my battle station?” He snarled, his temper long past its breaking point.

“Because you’re an uncultured whelp who must needs to be reminded of whom he serves.” Tarkin gave him a hard shove. He flailed desperately against the ship’s artificial gravity for an instant before crashing to the floor in a crumpled heap.

His boots were ripped off. Hands unbuckled his belt. An ugly laugh bubbled up in his throat as his pants and briefs were tugged free.

“You’re going to fuck me while your men stand around and watch?” His voice cracked. Black gloved hands hauled him back to his knees. His own men. He turned his rage on Tarkin’s smugly smiling face.

“Are you so insecure in your masculinity that you’re jealous of Galen’s corpse?” A bitter chuckle bubbled up in his throat as he fought against the iron-clad hold of his men.

Tarkin kneeled down and brushed his cheek tenderly. Against his better judgement, he leaned into the touch.

“That’s better.” Tarkin leaned in, pressing warm lips against his own. A whimper escaped his throat and he licked Tarkin’s lips hungrily.

Then the old fox dug a thumb into his shattered shoulder.

He jerked back, inhaling sharply. There were any one of a hundred curses on his lips as he blinked through the red haze of seething hatred. Tarkin was dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief. He drew in a shuddering breath.

“You think I helped Galen?” He rasped, throat suddenly tight. He watched as Tarkin removed the stopper from a glass vial and downed its contents. The man gave an exaggerated sigh of delight and handed the vial off to one of his officers.

“In fact, Orson. Whether you helped him or not is none of my concern. I am in charge of this battle station now, meaning you have lost your purpose.” Tarkin dropped to one knee again, a slight smile playing on his lips. “But I have graciously convinced the Emperor that you have more to offer his Empire.”

Tarkin opened his hand, producing a small glowing pyramid. “A Sith Holocron. The Jedi and Sith have used these for centuries to record their knowledge and pass it on to those who are deemed worthy.” He watched as Tarkin took the device in both hands and gave it a cruel twist. There was a loud click from inside the device.“Pathetic superstitions of a dead religion.”

His chest seized. He gasped for breath though there was little enough air making it into his swollen throat.

“Relax, Orson.” Those bony, gnarled hands reached out to pet his own greying hair. “The poison works fast.”

He jerked in his restraints, fighting to relax his throat. The device in Tarkin’s hand began to glow as the low chanting around them increased in volume. A sickly green smoke rose from the cursed thing and he watched in horror as Tarkin breathed deeply, inhaling the smoke into his lungs.

Tarkin’s eyelids fluttered and he watched in muted horror as thin veins of green rose in Tarkin’s face and neck. Tarkin’s lips pulled back, face twisting into something inhuman as he leaned in. Cracked, cold lips pressed against his own.

The world brightened for a second as Tarkin forced the tainted air into his lungs. The smell of smoke burned his nose and his mouth tasted like ash. His nerves were buzzing even as his chest heaved from lack of air. Tarkin pulled away and he slumped forward in the troopers grip as a black void slowly closed in around him.

He’d never asked where they took Galen’s body.

He had his life’s work to oversee. He couldn’t have been bothered by the mortal shell that had barely contained Galen’s brilliance. The Rebellion had come to take Galen, and so he had done his duty to the Empire and eliminated Galen rather than allow him to fall to enemy hands. What happened to the body he’d run his hands over countless times was no longer his concern.

A pilot. One AWOL pilot had brought the galaxy down around him. Such an insignificant distraction had created the opening for Tarkin to seize the battle station out from under him. His anger roiled, filling his chest and spreading down his limbs.

His eyes snapped open and he gave voice to the formless, white-hot rage within him. The roar that came forth made his throat ache but the sound brought with it a queer sense of satisfaction. He roared again and the sound filled the chamber, doubling and echoing with unnatural harmony.

Every muscle, every nerve, every cell of his body pulsed with agonizing pain. He was lying on his side, bound on a cold durasteel floor. He writhed, testing bonds now at his elbows and ankles.

“Really, Orson. Must you make a scene?” The veneer of Core world polish scraped at his ears and his head whipped towards the voice.

“Release me!” He snarled, unsurprised to find Tarkin settling down beside him. The man reached out a hand and he snapped at it.

He should have been ready for the backhand across his already bruised cheek.

“Now listen here, boy. You are my creature to command as I see fit. You will obey me.” Tarkin’s breath stank of sulphur. With a resigned chuff, he nodded his acquiescence.

“Good boy.” Tarkin’s smug sense of self-satisfaction rolled off him in waves as he reached out again. Those withered fingers combed through his hair, and he found himself pressing into the touch.

Tarkin’s movements shifted and he jerked with a gasp as long fingers curled around something attached to his skull. Tarkin’s fingers rubbed along the ridged protuberance, helping shed the bloody velvet that clung to the twisted horns rising up from his nest of grey-brown hair.

He moaned as his exposed cock twitched against the cold floor. Tarkin’s low chuckle only added a delicious layer of shame to the arousal and confusion that swirled inside him. He filled his lungs with recycled air, enjoying the way it cooled the fire pulsing through his veins.

“Oh yes. I think you’ll prove very useful to the Empire in this new form,” Tarkin murmured in his ear as he pressed a chaste kiss to the base of one of his horns. “Very useful, indeed.”

Note: Krennic’s horns are kudu

#demon!veers #AU #demon!Krennic #orson krennic #wilhuff tarkin #my fic #drabble fill #eustacefrog

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motleystitches · 7 years

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Jyn Erso’s characterization- anti-hero

1. Illegal activities: thievery, forgery, evading the law in all forms, lies

2. Professed cynicism, but with a heart of gold- rescuing small children, droid who doesn’t like her

3. Tragic past: Lyra’s death, Galen’s disappearance, Saw’s abandonment, all happened childhood

4. Ultra-violence: competencies developed guerrilla warfare since a child-soldier, independence

5. Essentially no gentle side except for small barely there smiles

6. Fully wrapped up at all times- even wears gloves so there’s not much hand touching (significance that she sought out Cassian’s hand at final moments)

7. Epic hero for a story about journey “home”.

She’s not the “chosen one” archetype like Rey, but she is recognizably the sort of character that drives a narrative that lives inside the morally gray while maintaining “heroic” thread. She is Constantine, she is Riddick, she is pirates from Black Sails; no, she is herself. In SW verse, she’s a better Han Solo.

#star wars #i love the reboot #jyn erso #rebelcaptain #and cassian's the conservative repressed one with a wild side #I just want to add that the entire Rogue One plot exploded upon a request to her.

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notbecauseofvictories · 7 years

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psst! thoughts on Lyra Erso, especially what you think might've happened if she had somehow survived? does she get to meet Beru and Breha, do they form a little club of middle-aged women in the Rebellion?

The crystal was…interesting.

Breha had wandered over to the cluttered table out of vague interest—amid the looming structures and finicky-looking equipment, the table was the only thing she trusted herself not to damage. It was a chaotic mess, tools and rock samples and notes scrawled on flimsi all scattered, stacked haphazardly. But Breha’s gaze had been drawn to the innocuous white crystal immediately. She couldn’t help picking it up, turning it over in her hand. Someone had drilled a hole through one end, and threaded a cord through it, as though it was meant to be worn as a pendant.

It felt oddly warm against her skin, like something living.

Breha thought of Leia inexplicably, and for a moment she panicked—but Leia was fine, stuck in yet another strategy meeting. She would be there in the mess for dinner, probably arguing with Captain Solo, or trying to bite back a grin as Luke teased Lieutenant Antilles. Leia was fine. She was—

Breha startled at the sound of a loud grunt, too-close behind her. When she whirled around there was a helmeted sentient sticking out of what had previously been a gaping hole in the ground. The faint sound of hammering, voices, could still be heard drifting up from depths unknown.

“Oh!” the human woman—at least, Breha was reasonably sure; it was hard to tell under the layer of grime—said. She hauled herself up and out of the hole, stumbled to her feet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here. Have you been waiting long?”

“Only a moment or so,” Breha demurred. Now that she could see all of her, the sentient was definitely a human woman, dressed in something that may have, at one time, been a Rebel uniform. (It was encrusted with entirely too much dirt to be called that anymore.) She had repurposed a blaster bandolier, and stuck it full of what looked like laserscopes and spectrographs.

There was a pickax at her hip.

Breha cleared her throat, tried again. “I was told Lyra Erso—”

“You must be with Acquisitions! They said someone would be coming by for the wishlist.”

“It’s not a wishlist,” Breha said, but she couldn’t summon her usual fierceness, the accompanying lecture about the importance of resource planning.

So this was Lyra Erso.

Your husband killed my husband, Breha thought dizzily. She’d forgotten how to breathe, what came after exhale.

“Yes, yes,” Lyra Erso said, waving a hand dismissively. She had come to stand beside Breha, and was sifting through the cluttered mess of the desk with purpose. “I swear on the Force, the Rebellion has become almost as bad as the Order was when it comes to paperwork…”

Breha blinked. “The Order?”

Lyra Erso froze, a sheaf of flimsi in her hand. Breha watched a complicated expression flicker across her face, and then slide away. “Oh. That’s—I mean the Jedi Order,” she finally said, stiltedly. “I was…a youngling. At the temple on Coruscant. In another life.”

Now that Breha was looking, she could see that the lines around Lyra Erso’s mouth, her eyes, were not cracks in the dirt—she had to be just older than Breha, and that was a strange thought, that Galen Erso’s widow was the same age as Bail Organa’s.

“AgriCorps?” Breha hazarded. She wasn’t sure if there was a politer way to say, so you never made it to padawan.

“Engineering division. Mining geology and geoengineering, mainly.” Lyra Erso straightened up, and looked Breha in the eye. “You?”

“I was not in the AgriCorps,” Breha retorted dryly. Lyra Erso pulled a face, and Breha found herself adding, “But I knew many Jedi.”

“Ah. From Coruscant, then?”

“Alderaan,” Breha said, and Lyra Erso jerked, stumbling a few steps back, away from Breha. All the blood had drained from her face, and Breha watched her throat work as she swallowed.

“Oh.”

“My husband was a senator on Coruscant for many years, though, and counted some of the High Councilors his friends.”

“I know,” Lyra said weakly. She looked as though she wasn’t breathing. “I—heard stories of Senator Organa. Though more from…My husband was a engineer. He worked on military contracts, so he—”

“I am aware,” Breha said, and she wasn’t able to keep the ice and fury out of her voice this time, not entirely. Lyra flinched.

“I should—get you that list,” she said quietly, and Breha stepped aside so she could continue searching through the mess of the table. Finally, she slid a piece of flimsi out from beneath a strange corckscrew-like tool and a hunk of black rock. Held it out to Breha.

“Let me know if you can’t decipher the handwriting.”

“Thank you,” Breha said, and turned to go—

“Organa.”

Breha turned, drawing herself up, but Lyra was only just standing there with her hand outstretched. “My crystal, please.”

Breha blinked, and Lyra pointed at her hand. Breha uncurled her fist—she’d forgotten, and the white crystal was still in her palm. It was strangely cool now, and her hand was clammy around it.

“Is it valuable?” Breha asked, stepping forward to drop the crystal into Lyra’s open palm.

“Only to me,” Lyra said, curling her fingers around it so tightly that her hand trembled, just slightly. “It was my daughter’s.”

There was a particular tone of voice they all knew too well these days; it spoke only in past tense. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Breha offered, but it sounded weak even to her.

“Yes, well,” Lyra said. She smiled bitterly. “The sacrifice of Rogue One will be remembered by the Rebellion for as long it as endures, isn’t that right? I think your daughter said that, at the memorial.”

Breha remembered, with a suddenly awful pang. Jyn Erso, Leia had read aloud, but Breha had been numb, Breha had been sobbing bailbailbail with every beat of her heart and howling for Alderaan from her very spirit and she hadn’t thought—

“I should go,” Breha said, feeling suddenly very clumsy, and young, in a way she hadn’t been for decades. “I’m—needed elsewhere.”

“Of course,” Lyra Erso said, and despite her grubby uniform and the bulky tools, there was a fearsomeness to her, this old woman with her grief. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties.”

Breha could feel Lyra Erso’s eyes on her as she climbed into the speeder, and left the mining camp in her exhaust.

“What in the nine hells did you say to Lyra?” Beru asked, the moment she had set down her mess-tray.

Breha glanced up from her datapad, idly marking her place in the Intel report and then banishing the file. “I don’t think I know any Lyras.”

“Erso. The geologist.”

That had been days ago, now. “How do you know Lyra Erso?” Breha asked, raising an eyebrow at Beru, who huffed softly.

“I’ve spent my whole life building, maintaining, and repairing water vaporators,” Beru said, stirring the fortified vita-gel into her stew. (Breha wrinkled her nose, she couldn’t help it; she was perpetually amazed by how much Beru and her nephew seemed to enjoy dehydrated food.) “It turns out mine drainage tech isn’t that different, so I consulted on her project.”

“Well, I didn’t say anything to Erso,” Breha said. “I was there for Acquisitions. I got her requested list, and left. I was perfectly polite.”

Beru hummed noncommittally. “Fine, but were you polite, or were you—queen-polite?”

Breha blinked. “What’s ‘queen-polite’?”

“Oh, you know,” Beru said, gesturing unhelpfully with her spoon. “That way you get whenever Draven speaks over you, or Han teases Leia too much. Polite, but with a lot of cold underneath.”

There were times Breha missed being a queen. People showed proper respect when you were queen.“I do not do that.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

“I am not.”

“Leia does it too. Gets it from you, I imagine.”

Breha wasn’t sure whether to take that as a compliment or not, and so settled for looking icily at Beru. Beru sighed. “You know that—even if Galen Erso hadn’t built a means of destroying the Death Star, you can’t hold his wife accountable for his actions.”

Breha felt her face go hot, and she resisted the urge to defend herself. (There was nothing to defend. There wasn’t.) “I’m not going to discuss this.”

“You’d like her, you know,” Beru said after a moment, and smiled sunnily when Breha glared. “Lyra, I mean. And you would. She’s very…No one is going to convince her to be anything but what she is.”

“What she is is at least partly complicit in building the Death Star,” Breha scoffed. Her datapad buzzed, and she glanced down—just another message from the Director of Logistics, reminding her they had a meeting. “We’re all too old to learn new tricks these days.”

When she looked up again, Beru’s face had fallen, and she was picking at the stew with a faint scowl. Breha swallowed. “I didn’t mean…”

“It seems to me,” Beru said quietly, “it wasn’t long ago you were a queen and I was a farmer’s wife. Now you buy bombs, and I drain underground rivers. I think—all we do these days is learn new tricks.”

Breha was not sulking, because sulking was something badly-behaved children did. She hadn’t sulked since she was a spotty adolescent, and every whim of her mother’s was cause for angst; she had no intention of taking the habit up again after forty-odd years.

…though Breha had also spent the last forty-odd years as the unquestioned Queen of Alderaan, whose will was the law of a world, which might have helped.

“Just—deliver the equipment, please,” the Director of Logistics said with a sigh, rubbing the spot between his eyes. “It’s already been loaded onto the speeder, all you have to do is bring it to the camp.”

So: sulking.

When Breha arrived at the camp, the sun was low, and the orange light of it only sometimes broke the tree cover. Yavin was strange in the dusk—Alderaan had always been bright and clear, cool, and the dark fell quickly. None of this dreamy haze, the sky streaked with chemical color.

The miners were gathered around an open fire, doing nothing much that she could make out. They rose to their feet as Breha brought the speeder down, switched off the engines.

If Lyra Erso was among them, Breha couldn’t pick her out from the other dark shapes around the fire.

“Acquisitions! I brought your—machine,” she announced, waving at the heavy durasteel thing that had weighted down the back of the speeder. “But I’ll need help unloading it. It is probably best to do before it gets fully dark…”

Breha would say this of the Rebellion—it attracted the sort of people who were already in motion by the time you finished asking for help. Before Breha could put more than a few thoughts together, she found herself with her shoulder pressed to the heavy durasteel frame as someone shouted cheerfully, “Lift, you sons of banthas!”

In front of Breha was Lyra Erso, though the shape of her was barely discernible in the half-light. It was such a surprise that Breha nearly startled away, dropped the machine—though the heft of it was the only thing weighting her down just then.

Breha wondered if Lyra Erso was wearing the crystal around her neck right now. It was too dark to make out out anything but vague shapes.

By the time they finished moving the machine, Breha was sweating and ready to lie down there in the grass if it meant her arms would stop aching. It was disheartening to feel so suddenly elderly and infirm, when all the miners were laughing, ambling back towards the fire and talking among themselves. They were all very young, strong and alive and laughing.

(Breha tried to imagine what it would be like, to look for your daughter among them, and not find her, keep not finding her. She exhaled.)

At last, there was just Breha and Lyra, standing there in he dark grass.

“I spoke to Beru,” Breha said, in absence of anything else to say.

“Oh,” Lyra said, and even in the dim light from the fire, Breha could see her eyes dart to her. “Did you?”

“She says I’d like you.”

“Hm. She told me the same thing,” Lyra said.

“Meddlesome old biddy,” Breha muttered, and Lyra laughed. It was so unexpected that Breha stared.

“I didn’t—I mean, aren’t we all these days?” Lyra asked, grinning. “Better a meddlesome old biddy than anything else.”

Breha craned her neck, to look up at the machine—it had grown dark enough that she could just pick out the shape of it against the dark tree cover, the few stars. Breha had persuaded the transpo to part with it on the condition that the Rebellion make it look like his ship had been sacked by pirates.

Breha had been the Queen of Alderaan, Jewel of the Core, and now she helped two-bit transpo agents commit insurance fraud.

“Beru says that all we’ve done since coming to the Rebellion is new tricks,” Breha said, turning to look at Lyra. In the flickering firelight, she was pale enough to pass for a ghost, a dead woman—and that was appropriate, wasn’t it? Wife to a dead man, mother to a martyr. Two old women standing in the dark, who ought to have been dead before now.

“I suppose you had better learn, then,” Lyra said.

#middle aged ladies fighting for the rebellion!!!!#skymurdock #asked and answered #the warry stars #star wars #as always I am very disappointed with this but I'm sick of writing it so here #breha lives au #lyra erso #this is a thing I made

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