#read star destroyers on ao3

[al-astakbar]

☆ Good and Faithful Service - Thrawn x reader ☆

> title ☆ Good and Faithful Service 

> summary ☆ Grand Admiral Thrawn gets dosed with a powerful aphrodisiac and then trapped in a room with one of his junior officers. She offers to help him through it

> pairing ☆  Thrawn x reader ☆ word count [5.1k] ☆ warnings ☆ aphrodisiacs; mildly dubious consent; masturbation; blow job; PIV sex; power dynamics & imbalance; fraternization

> posted on ao3 ☆ 

“Sir,” you try to be discrete about clearing your throat. “Are you sure that’s… safe?”

The Grand Admiral gives you a quelling look and you immediately step back, determinedly not looking anywhere in the direction of your hosts, the rulers of this planet who had offered Grand Admiral Thrawn the drink in the first place.

It seems to be some sort of hospitality ritual, though nothing about the Nevow people is suspicious or threatening. Indeed, everything has gone perfectly to plan so far. The negotiations have been amicably concluded, the Nevow people have reaffirmed their strong loyalty to the Empire, and committed to a 1.5 percent yield increase in yttria mining productivity over three years.

Grand Admiral Thrawn had been very pleased with that. Or, you’re pretty sure he was. After almost a year serving as his aide de camp, he is still as enigmatic and aloof as the day you first reported to his command. Most of the time, you just can’t read him, and you still don’t know if that’s really what he’s like, or his sabacc face is just that good.

It’s been frustrating, to say the least. He is a good boss, you’ve decided, and an outstanding leader. You like serving under him, had even requested the Chimaera as your first duty station after hearing about its accomplishments. You hadn’t expected your assignment as his personal aide. There were rumors aboard the ship that none of his previous aides had lasted longer than three months. Either he had dismissed them, or, if they had connections, they pulled strings to get transferred. You can understand where some of the conflict came from. He has been cold, blunt, and uncompromising. But from the moment he caught you doodling on your flimsi in a meeting, and instead of reprimanding you, he’d nearly smiled, and had given you a quiet compliment in that soft, thoughtful voice… well, perhaps your allegiance is too easy to win. But you are loyal.

You watch him and the Nevow toast, and down their drinks at the same time. Well, whatever was in it, you only have one night left on the planet. Tomorrow, the shuttle will take you back to the Chimaera and you can get a little distance from him. Not that there is much privacy on an Imperial Star Destroyer, even for a mid-grade officer. You share a stateroom with another lieutenant, but this whole trip it’s just been you and the Grand Admiral in suites and generally close quarters, and it is very hard to repress a blossoming crush when you’re at his side every minute of every day and he’s sleeping just in the next room.

He purses his lips. Whatever was in the drink, it looks bracing, and definitely not to his taste. The Nevow Second Undersecretary of Mining and Industry steps forward with an elaborately-wrapped gift.

“And now, Grand Admiral Thrawn, it is our honor to present you with this ewer, fashioned from tempered yttria and embellished with precious sun-stones. This vessel was made in the traditional style of our people, used for our custom of imbibing the galvi root in preparation for the mating ceremony.”

Your gaze flickers to the Grand Admiral for a moment.  Mating ceremony? Slightly odd choice for a diplomatic exchange. If he agrees, he gives no indication. He inclines his head to each of the Nevow leaders in rank-order. “I am honored… it is truly an exquisite example of Nevow craftsmanship and artistry.” He accepts it on behalf of the Galactic Empire, holds it solemnly as they pose for holos, and then it is handed off to a porter to be conveyed to the shuttle.

That’s your cue to approach with the gift the Grand Admiral had selected for the exchange. And it was his choice-- you know for a fact that any other commander of his rank and many lower would have foisted the task on a junior officer. He had delighted in it. He had spent hours poring over dealer listings, researching the Nevow, had asked your opinion on several options, as he had started doing more and more. That had been one point of friction, early on. You deferred too much, when he was really asking for your sincere thoughts. Even if you disagreed or questioned him, he did not punish you. Another odd trait of his, and so starkly different from any other senior officers you’d met.

The Nevow act suitably impressed and appreciative of the set of greenstone swords. You notice that a couple of their party have grown sharp-eyed, watching you and your commander a little too intently. Was the gift inadequate? Or are they looking for some other reaction…

The Second Undersecretary launches into a longer explanation of the ewer, describing its purpose and the significance of the mating ceremony as a religious rite, meant to be a sacrifice of pleasure to the gods.

Grand Admiral Thrawn seems unusually restless. You’ve been around him long enough to know that he has a stillness to him, that even when the Chimaera is getting rocked by salvos of turbolasers and cannons, and enemy fighters are trying to suicide into the bridge, he will stand there, hands behind his back, a center of calm authority in the eye of the storm. Now he’s shifted on his feet not once, but twice. He pulls at the high, stiff collar of his pristine white uniform, as if it’s too tight. When the Second Undersecretary starts in on some rather lurid detail about the joining, you think you see his jaw clench. To be fair, it has you blushing too, watching him wide-eyed until he gives a sideways glance, one eyebrow raised and then you swallow thickly, cheeks flaming even hotter as you quickly look at anything else.

At last, following some final pleasantries and exclamations about how late it is, your hosts bid you goodnight. An honor guard escorts you to your quarters. You follow dutifully along behind the Grand Admiral, noting that this isn’t the right way to get to the suite they had you staying in.

“Sir?” You ask quietly, trying to mask the trepidation in your voice.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” He doesn’t turn to look at you, but you can tell from his tone-- he realizes, too. Of course.

The honor guard brings you to a different set of rooms, not the ones you’d been staying in, with an explanation about the refresher flooding, and water damage. “All of your belongings have been transferred here. We do apologize.”

The guards see you into the new room, then bow and depart, shutting the door behind them.

You go immediately to inspect your things, making sure none of the locks have been tampered with. “Everything appears to be in order, sir. Nothing’s missing.”

The Grand Admiral does not answer. You turn from where you’re kneeling to find him standing there, with all his impressive height, staring down at you. There is a strange intensity in his glowing red eyes, a hunger. Many of your crewmates find his eyes unnerving-- completely red, with no pupils or iris-- it’s impossible to tell exactly where he’s looking. But right now, there’s no mistaking the weight of his regard on you.

He runs his hand through his hair. Another strange gesture. Then he turns away. You move quickly to get out the mobile workstations and datapads, get them set up. He’ll want quiet, and a chance to catch up on work before tomorrow. He thanks you, and then you settle down to your own work at the smaller desk.

This room is stuffy and too small. It seems designed to force its occupants into close quarters. Several times, you glance up to find the Grand Admiral watching you. Intent. Appraising. It’s the same look he gets when he’s studying a newly-acquired piece for his collection. Very rarely, aboard the Chimaera, you’ve caught him looking at you like that, but he’s never been so brazen about it before. You shift in your seat, feeling your cheeks redden and the first blush of arousal heat your core.

You steadfastly ignore it. Ignore the fact that your commanding officer is looking at you like he wants to take you to bed.

You take a deep breath, and try to focus. Focus on anything else besides how darkly handsome he is. Besides how the low light in the room makes his blue skin more vibrant, and how something catches in your chest at the very thought of being attracted to him. How very not-human he is, and how you want to trace your fingers along the strong cut of his jaw, just to see what kind of reaction you’d get. He’s your superior, you keep reminding yourself.

After a time, Grand Admiral Thrawn stands, and you look up to see him unbuckling his service belt, swiftly followed by unfastening his collar clasp and then the sealing strip of his tunic.

You nearly choke. “S-sir?”

His eyes snap up, as if he’d forgotten you were there. “Dismissed, Lieutenant. Get some rest.”

You can’t obey his order any faster, but when you get to the door to the adjoining room, you find it’s locked. Confused, you try it again. “Sir? I’m sorry, but it seems they forgot to unlock the door to the other room.”

His eyes narrow. “Galvi root.”

You look at him, bewildered.

“Galvi root,” he repeats. “Our hosts did not forget. The windows and the door to the hall will be locked as well.”

You stride over to try them. He’s right, of course, but-- “they didn’t take our blasters.”

He lets his eyes slip shut, takes a deep breath and shakes his head slowly. “The primary rare metal export of this planet, Lieutenant,” he prompts you.

Realization and dread sink like a weight in your stomach. “Yttria.” Highly resistant to heat and temperature fluctuations. Perfect to repel blaster fire. Every fixture in the room is probably imbued with it, including the locks and door panels and windows.

“Comms?” You ask hopefully.

“Jammed.”

“... Galvi root?”

He gives another one of his piercing stares. “The ritual, Lieutenant.”

Then, it all clicks, and your voice pitches up at the sheer absurdity of the situation. “They dosed you! To get you to- to carry out some ceremony for their religion?”

“For us to carry it out.”

A shock of desire pulses through you, you can feel it in your chest, pounding in your ears. You cross your legs under the desk, pressing your thighs together, seeking friction.

“It has already…” he pauses, uncharacteristically. Almost flustered. “It has already begun to take effect.”

You can’t help it. You have to look. Beneath the shadow of his open tunic, you can just make out a bulge straining the front of his trousers. He catches you, and raises his eyebrow at you. You quickly stare at your lap, face burning, mortified to even be having this conversation with him.

“I will not-- we will wait. When we don’t return to the Chimaera tomorrow morning, searches will be launched immediately. If not before. We’re expected for morning comms check before our shuttle is scheduled to depart, and when we miss that, Commodore Faro will know something has gone wrong.”

“Sir, are you sure it’s… is it safe to ignore it?”

He fixes you with a knowing look, his voice low and soft. “No, Lieutenant. Are you offering an alternative?”

The words catch in your throat. You could rise. Go to him. Make it clear what you’re willing to do. You sit, keeping yourself very still.

Silence settles, thick and heavy and hot. You wish you could change out of your uniform, but that’s out of the question. You wouldn’t even dare undoing the sealing strip and pinning the flap open to the opposite shoulder like some officers do for a more casual, comfortable look. Never mind that it clearly violates Imperial Navy uniform policy.

The Grand Admiral appears to be meditating. Or at least trying. He is sitting perfectly straight, facing the latticework windows. His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and deliberate. But calm eludes him. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple— you’ve never seen him sweat, had wondered if his species just didn’t— his hands, which he has flat on his thighs, clench into fists.

Then one of his hands shifts, grabs and squeezes the bulge that has only grown more prominent. He stifles a pained groan.

You put aside your embarrassment. You have to say something. “Please, sir. I’ve heard of drugs like this. If you do nothing, it will maim you. The Undersecretary even said—“

“I heard him, Lieutenant.” He lets a beat pass, “You have a suggestion?”

You almost don’t. Can’t believe you’re saying this, but you do anyway, in your most professional, Graduate of Royal Imperial voice. “You should try… taking care of it, sir. With your hand, I mean.  I’ll face the wall and…”

He stares at you, and for a moment you wonder if you’ve gone too far.

Before he agrees or refuses, you get up and do it, going to the farthest corner of the room, which isn’t very far.

Sound carries all too well in the oppressive, still heat of the small room. You hear, almost feel every one of his movements. He gets up, shrugs out of his tunic. Folds it with much less care than he normally does and tosses it on the desk. His rank plaque and epaulets clatter against the wood. More rumpling of fabric, and he quickly takes himself in hand. He exhales in quiet relief and then— flesh on flesh.

You shut your eyes, trying very hard not to imagine what you would see if you turned around. Your commanding officer, brow furrowed, mouth parted in pleasure as he strokes his cock. And that, too, is a singularly intriguing thought. Is he big? Small? Anywhere near human?

You shift on your feet, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. To be standing here listening to him get himself off is one thing, but if he were to see your body’s reaction to it. To him…

Soon, the rhythmic sounds get faster, louder. Harsher. His breath hitches and you can tell that he’s coming and with that realization you feel your resolve fracture against a powerful shock of need.

You listen to his breathing slow and even out, while struggling to keep yourself steady.

You don’t turn around until he tells you. He is more disheveled than ever, pacing in a corner of the small room in his black undershirt. His normally sleek blue-black hair is messy, stranded with sweat.

You track him, drinking in the sight of his tall, powerful build. Well-muscled arms, shoulders, chest, trim waist. Strong legs, which your mind unhelpfully imagines straddling. The Grand Admiral has always cut an imposing figure, but most people only credit his brilliant mind for tactics and strategy even though he is, at his core, a warrior first above all else.

He catches you staring, again, but makes no comment on your open admiration of him. To your surprise, he gives it right back, fixing you with an intent, lustful stare that makes you squirm. He wouldn’t, you tell yourself. He won’t take you to bed. But he’s thinking about it. He’s the first to break the spell, turning away as another spasm of pain wracks his body.

He sits again, resting his elbows on his knees, his shoulders hunched, head bowed. He stays like this, you aren’t sure how long. Whatever jamming they’ve got around the room has also affected your chrono. Long enough that you get worried, and he’s rocking slightly, breathing labored.

“Sir?” He doesn’t answer. Concerned, you finally get up and approach him. He’s still breathing, at least. “Sir?” When again he doesn’t respond, you reach out and very lightly touch his arm.

He open-flexes his hand, then clenches it into a fist. “Don’t.”

You yank your hand away. “Sorry… Did it help?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No. I--” his fingers grasp at his thigh, pulling at the now-rumpled wool  “-- I think it made it worse.”

You digest this for a moment, and then, “can I help?”

Everything seems to stop, to go still and silent. You feel your heart beating in your ears, you’re staring at a spot on the wall across the room but your eyes won’t focus. You’d really gone too far.

When Grand Admiral Thrawn speaks, his smooth, modulated voice has an edge of amusement to it. “You’re proposing fraternization with your commanding officer, Lieutenant.”

“It’s a practical solution to the problem, sir.”

He draws himself up, holding himself with all of his usual commanding bearing, and the effect is not lost on you.  “Tell me precisely what you are offering, Lieutenant. Be explicit.”

You swallow thickly, trying to regain some of your composure. “I-- I’ll…” You look at him helplessly, but get no reprieve. What have you gotten yourself into? “I’ll suck your cock, sir. And if that still doesn’t help with the effects of the drug, you can… you can fuck me.”

He leans back, and you can see the huge bulge in his trousers on full display, his erection straining the fabric. He taps the arm of the chair, a gesture you recognize as him thinking. You’re prepared for rejection, certainly. For the promise of a court martial when you get back to the Chimaera. For how little you, and everyone else really knows about Thrawn, you realize that propositioning him, even with the best intentions, was an extremely foolish idea. You’ve seen him shoot an officer before. Right on the bridge. The question is, have you made an error, or a mistake?

“Very well.” He sits back more, widens his legs.

You gape at him, blinking, before what he said sinks in. Oh. You respond as if it’s any other order he’s given you, anything else he’s entitled to compel you to do as your superior.

You move quickly, with purpose, get in front of him and drop to your knees. “You have permission to remove your tunic, Lieutenant,” he says rather dryly. You do, quickly, grateful to be rid of  the itchy, high collar. Then, you look up once more, reaching for his fly with shaking hands; he nods, his red eyes gleaming as you pop open the buttons and pull the fabric aside. He hisses in sharply as the material drags over his erection.

You pull the material down more, and finally, his cock springs free. You can’t help your quiet gasp and the unprofessional holy shit, sir that escapes you. It’s gloriously long and thick and purple and, when you reach for it, you can’t quite get your fingers all the way around. He shifts again, getting his pants down more to expose his balls, large and heavy. Impulsively, you dip your head to lick them-- he tenses-- you suck on one and his hips jerk up.

The reaction sends another thrill of arousal through you. You switch, laving the hot skin, taking in his taste and scent. Part of it is familiar. The same wool and starch that’s standard throughout the Imperial Navy. The part that is all him is intoxicating, something crisp and wintry and wholly alien.

Though he’s trembling, his control over his own body tenuous, he does not hurry you.

He’s gripping the arms of the chair hard, and when you lick the underside of his erection, he exhales a shuddering breath. You do it again, dragging your tongue up that one prominent vein, tasting his pulse, and you wonder how you’ll fit him all in your mouth. How it’ll feel when-- if-- he fucks you.

You press your thighs together. Take him in your mouth, let him push past your lips and feel the huge, thick weight of his cock on your tongue. You grip him at the base, pumping your hand. Start to bob your head slowly and the Grand Admiral gives a strangled moan.

Your eyes flick up. You’d been steadily not looking, some ridiculous thought about giving him that little bit of privacy, even as you suck him. His gaze is there to meet yours, hooded and glowing and imperious. You hold it, keep moving with the head of his cock sliding over your tongue, feeling utterly filthy. Devoted. Loyal.

You force yourself to take more of his length, deeper, until your mouth is stretched uncomfortably full, until the plush head nudges the back of your throat. You brace your hand on his thigh, which is tense, the hard muscle flexing under your touch. For a moment you worry it’s too forward, too intimate, but he bucks up and groans your name. Not your surname. Not Lieutenant. Your given name.

You choke, spluttering as he starts to thrust up into your mouth.  He says it again, so close to breaking, his usual effortless control over himself and everything around him threatening to crumble. Eyes wide and watering, you look up at him, greedily drinking in his expression as he surges up, fucking your warm, willing mouth, allowing you to serve him in this way.

He loses some internal battle with himself, relents, his hand going to the back of your head, tangling in your hair so he can make full use of you, his balls pressing against your chin. His neck is corded, his chest rising and falling with rapid, jagged breaths. You breathe through your nose, jaw aching, face shiny and slick with drool. Refuse to look away, refuse to close your eyes to him. He seems entranced with the sight of you between his legs, lips stretched wide around his shaft, swallowing his cock.

It doesn’t take him long to come, and he gives you little warning. Only a strained groan and a terse “swallow as much as you can, Lieutenant” and then his movements jerk and stall and he’s coming down your throat. His smell and taste overwhelm your senses, familiarly salty but with something else cool and crisp, and you remember, again, you don’t even know what species he is. You obediently do as he says before you can’t swallow anymore; he overfills your mouth, spurting more and more cum, so much you sputter and choke and pull back, a string of the viscous spend stretching from your lips to his cock. You’ve made a mess, or rather, he has, but you will be the one to clean it up.

Dazed, you lean in, licking his still-hard shaft as he continues to twitch and pulse. You’d swallowed as much as you could, but it had leaked out, dripping down your chin, and on him, already drying sticky and clear on his pants. Some on his polished black jackboots, even.

“Sorry, sir,” you murmur, sitting back on your heels.

Thrawn-- Admiral Thrawn, you remind yourself-- offers no praise or reassurance.

His eyes seem to glow brighter, unnervingly fixed on you, on the debauched mess he’s made of you. Your hair, your cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, his cum all over your mouth and chin. He reaches for your face, swipes some off your chin and offers his thumb to your lips. You suck without thinking and, to your ultimate humiliation, let out a desperate, muffled whimper.

When he withdraws you take a deep, shaky breath, eyes bleary, core throbbing with unmet need. He seems to have recovered his self-control, at least for now, though his cock is still achingly hard. He stands, grabbing it, as if it’s too painful not to touch.

“Did it… help? … sir?” You amend quickly, almost forgetting the honorific.

His jaw works, and he pumps his erection slowly, right there in front of you. You watch his hand, entranced as he slick-slides up and down his shaft. “Undress.”

You nod, unable to reply as proper military bearing dictates. Your hands shake, fumbling with your pants. He does it for you. Sits you on the bed and pulls your boots off one by one. Then undoes your trousers, pulls them off with your standard-issue skivvies. All efficiency, no lingering touches. He pushes your undershirt up over your breasts.

Conflict screams in your mind. That this is wrong, against regulations, that it’s the Grand Admiral and you won’t be able to look at him after this but… Your duty is to him. Your duty is to serve.

You are bare before him. He doesn’t bother shucking his own boots and trousers, but simply crawls over you, and kisses you deeply. You whimper in surprise, and allow his tongue to sweep into your mouth, for him to lay this claim on you as well.

You spread your legs wider for his rutting hips, driven by your need, a drunken, weightless feeling. Your empty cunt clenches in anticipation, he finds the angle where his erection slides over your clit, swallows down your moans and keeps doing it. 

The head of his cock catches your hole-- he slips, you’re tight and so so wet. He breaks the kiss with a growl. Tries again, deliberate and slow, positioning himself and pushing in mercilessly.

It’s too much, his girth splitting you as he works to open you around his thick shaft. You pant, whining with the effort. “Thrawn--”

Too familiar by far, but he huffs gently, almost a smile. He rolls his hips, licks his thumb and presses it to your clit. You gasp, looking down to watch where your bodies are connected. You are close already, each new flush of pleasure opening you more to him, letting you take him deeper, harder, faster.

He pins you down with his well-muscled weight, makes you take all of his massive cock, his heavy balls slapping against your ass. The tight little circles on your clit drive your need higher, tighter, sharpening to a singular point and then you’re coming with a quiet, desperate little sound, waves of pleasure radiating from your core as you clench and flutter around him. Thrawn follows a second later, hitching your legs up, pressing your knees to your shoulders. He buries himself deep in your pussy, grinding relentlessly as he pumps his cum into you. Fills you up, more than you can take, just as he had your mouth. This, too, you can feel leaking out, sticky on your thighs.

He sighs and pulls out. Sated for now, barely. You lie there, breathless, turning your head to follow him as he goes to get a cup of water. He brings one to you before drinking himself. A small gesture. Senior officers always eat last after crew and junior officers.

He lets you rest for a time before taking you again, and after another respite, a third time, chasing his release over and over. By the fourth, you are too fucked out and exhausted to hold yourself up. He arranges you as he pleases, face down and prone on the bed. You cant your hips up for him and he climbs over you, sinking into you easily with an obscene, wet sound. He kicks your legs wider, lets his thrusts take him deeper until he’s driving into you with long, full strokes and all you can do is submit.

You wonder how long it has been for him. How long since he’s had a partner, or permitted himself this kind of indulgence. You can sense him giving in to some darker, wilder part of his nature. The instinct to possess, and mark, and dominate. You’ve seen hints of it before, very briefly. His sometimes brutal pragmatism. His cold calculus that would always find the most advantageous solution, even at the cost of lives. If he wanted to, he could just collect art. Instead he chose rank. He chose power.

Any shred of his self control is long gone. His movements are rough, he’s given over to a feverish lust. He pounds into you as if your body belongs to him, as if you’re nothing but a hole, something warm and wet for him to fuck. Still, the pleasure rises in you again, all of it has made you unbearably sensitive.

You moan into the sheets, helpless and wanton, giving yourself over to him and letting him use your body. He holds you down when you cry out, stretching you to your limit. You don’t struggle. Just take his cock as he reams you, as another climax starts to overtake you, harsh and hot and raw. Thrawn growls when he feels you. Accepts your good and faithful service and pushes into you deep deep deep and stills there so you feel his hot spurts of cum fill you up and overflow.

He pulls out with a slick sound. Empty again, you twitch and spasm, pushing some of his cum out, making it drip down your used, swollen cunt. You can feel his gaze lingering there. He likes what he’s done, likes the sight of it. For a moment, you imagine yourself not as his aide, not as a junior officer under his command but as a piece on display in his collection. Something prized and fascinating. Another time he might lay you out and touch you for hours, curious as to how long he could stimulate and tease you before you break.

Eventually, you drift quietly to sleep, and awaken under the covers. The light in the room has changed. Morning. The Grand Admiral is fully dressed, seated in an armchair with a steaming cup of caf and his datapad.

“We are free to go,” he says without looking up from his reading. You hear the unspoken command and get up immediately and get dressed, gathering your tunic and trousers and boots from where they’re scattered around the room. Again, he does not bother to look up.

Once on the shuttle, you aren’t sure how to act normal. He speaks to you as he always has, with quiet, direct instructions. You do your best but all you can think of is him telling you to swallow as much as you can. You look down at your uniform and find a dried blot of his cum on your pants. Shit. You try to scratch it off.

“Lieutenant.” The Grand Admiral’s voice cuts into your thoughts rather sharply.

“Yes, sir.” You sit up, properly chastised. It’s not like you to be inattentive, and he gives you a stern look before continuing.

“The galvi root. It has great potential as a bioweapon, of sorts, but will need further study. I obtained a sample before we left.”

You nod, dutifully noting all of this down.

“I’ll need you to test it, Lieutenant.”

“But I… it… alone?” Is all you can manage.

“No. Set aside twelve hours or so in my schedule.” His voice goes cool and soft. Full of promise. “Not to worry, Lieutenant. I will be there to see you through it.”

//

☆ link to part 2

#Thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #thrawn x you #thrawn x reader #thrawn fic #thrawntent #thrawn x y/n #mitth'raw'nuruodo #thrawn fanfic #thrawn fanfiction #star wars

[reneeofthestars]

Reunion

Excited to share the short story I wrote for "Star-Crossed: An Anidala Zine" @anidalazine ! A "Padme Lives" AU

Words: 2,585 * Read on AO3

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Padmé Naberrie Amidala, former Queen of Naboo, former Galactic Senator, and current member of the Rebellion, had been in her share of tight spots before. 

But this was the first time the tight spot was an Imperial holding cell.

She’d already examined every inch of the enclosed dimly-lit space, searching for a weakness she could exploit, but found none. There was no access panel, no loose wiring, and no ventilation system large enough for her to squeeze through. So Padmé sat on the bench and watched the door, working on what she would say when an officer inevitably came to interrogate Sola Minnau.

After all, Padmé Amidala was dead.

For a while, Padmé thought she was dead. The galaxy around her swirled in hot reds and blues, then cold blacks and whites. Grief so raw it threatened to tear her apart, pain unlike any she had experienced, then stillness. Such perfect, silent stillness. She was weightless, drifting through some gentle embrace where there was no pain. No suffering.

It was the babies’ cries that called her back.

Once she was well enough to sit upright, she held her children close to her. Leia had Padmé’s eyes; Luke had Anakin’s. She was given privacy to cry. And once she had no more tears to shed, she set to work.

Padmé contacted Sabé, and her dearest friend organized the rest. Gathering Padmé’s former handmaidens, they worked swiftly to organize a body double and a funeral, and before long, the people of Naboo mourned the death of Padmé Amidala.

Heart aching but determined, Padmé had agreed to have her children separated – from her, and from each other. Having lost Anakin, Palpatine would turn his interest to the children if he knew they lived. Obi-Wan disappeared into the Outer Rim with Luke, and Bail falsified Leia’s birth records and took her into his home.

Over the years, Padmé – Sola Minnau, now – worked closely with Bail, Mon Mothma, and other trusted allies, establishing contacts, supply lines, and information networks. They smuggled food and medicine to communities being bled dry by the Empire, and helped those in danger disappear, all while trying to bolster support to resist the ever-growing dominance of the Empire over all worlds.

They all knew the risks. If they were caught, they could be subject to execution, or worse. But Padmé couldn’t stop. She would help, no matter the cost. She had spent her childhood on relief missions with her father, and she hadn’t been able to stand by while her people suffered when she was queen. She wouldn’t hide now.

That’s the thought that kept her focused when the contact on Rodia ended up being an Imperial informant. They had barely greeted each other before Padmé was surrounded by stormtroopers. Padmé had kept quiet, giving only her pseudonym when they initially questioned her. The troopers marched her onto a shuttle, and once they’d boarded the Star Destroyer in orbit, she’d been taken to a holding cell.

She took a deep breath and leaned back against the cold wall. In the twelve years since the fall of the Republic, Padmé had never been taken aboard a capital ship. With no communication or resources, help wasn’t coming. Padmé was on her own.

The door of the holding cell hissed open. She stood as a towering black-clad figure stepped in. Coarse, mechanical breathing filled the room; Padmé forced down a shudder. They had never crossed paths, but she recognized him from endless holos and horror stories, from the expressionless helmeted mask, from the lightsaber hanging from his belt.

Darth Vader.

*

Darth Vader’s breath would have hitched if his respirator hadn’t dragged the air from his lungs and reinflated them automatically. His heart would have stopped if the cardiac regulator hadn’t measured out steady heartbeats. The servos in his legs whirred as the galaxy was swept from under his feet and he nearly fell to his knees, so overcome with the emotions that suddenly raged inside him.

Padmé was alive. Alive, breathing, not five feet away.

No, that couldn’t be. She was dead. Vader had observed her funeral on Naboo, had mourned at her tomb. This was some trick, some deception meant to rattle him; the Emperor himself was likely behind this, testing Vader’s resolve. What was this trickery then? A PROXY droid? A Force Apparition? A Changeling? Perhaps a handmaiden?

But as Vader and his dead wife stared at one another, he shakily reached out with the Force, and felt – Padmé. Her existence thrummed in the Force, whole and strong, with that same vibrance he remembered from so long ago.

But she’d never looked at him like this. Anger burning in her eyes, resolve in the set of her lips, defiance in her stance. He’d seen her look at others like this and he’d admired her dedication and determination. But to have her glaring at him now, with loathing and defiance… he felt unsettled.

Padmé didn’t waste time. “On what grounds was I arrested?” she demanded. “It’s unlawful to take a citizen into custody without disclosing the nature of the supposed criminal activity.”

The current Admiral of The Executor had been so smug when he’d approached Vader to announce that a rebel insurgent had been captured. Vader had strode to the detention block, flanked by two stormtroopers, ready to wring out all the information he could from the rebel scum –

Of course she would be with the Rebellion. The Empire was the very thing that she had been so concerned about creating during the Clone Wars.

He forced himself to speak. “Conspiracy against the Empire.” His synthesized voice rang out in the enclosed space, so warped and pitched that she would never realize who she spoke to.

But did he really want her to know? Did he want Padmé to know what became of Anakin Skywalker? To see this broken, twisted husk of what remained? Would she want to know? Vader had killed Anakin Skywalker, had carved out everything that remained of the naïve Jedi, everything that Padmé had loved, until only Vader remained.

She was speaking, and Vader said nothing. He just… listened to her voice, bringing to mind memories of her practicing her speeches the night before important Senate sessions, as he half-listened, so happy that the Force had their paths cross all those years ago in Watto’s shop –

Fury burned in Vader’s core and he let it fester, let it burn away at the memories of the man he had killed. He turned his head, addressing the two stormtroopers standing in the cramped cell just behind him. “Leave us.”

Hastily, the troopers filed out, the door sliding closed behind them.

His breathing filled the silence; Padmé had stopped talking when Vader spoke. He felt her fear, though it did not show on her face.

“Do you have nothing to say?”

She had come to him on Mustafar, knowing what he’d done. Even as she betrayed me, she loved me.

It was the last thing she said to him; Vader heard it in his nightmares, sometimes. “Stop, stop now, come back. I love you. Anakin…”

Grief welled in him, and he spoke before he could stop himself. “I thought I lost you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ve never met.”

“You were alive, I knew you were, but I felt – I felt our bond break.” His emotions roiled through him. “You were gone, he said –“

Hatred .

“He said I killed you,” Vader rumbled. “He said I killed you in a fit of anger, and when I couldn’t sense you, I believed him. The Emperor lied to me. He’s kept you from me all these years, knowing that I –”

That he what? Would have left Emperor Palpatine’s side? That he would run away with his long-lost wife? That he would kill her?

Padmé’s eyes had gone wide, frightened, incredulous as she stared at him. In a small voice, so quiet he almost didn’t hear: “…Anakin?”

The anguish threatened to consume him.

“Anakin Skywalker is dead.” He paused. “I…am what remains.”

She stared at him for so long, so silently, that Vader wondered if this might be a dream after all. “What…what happened?”

“It is because of Obi-Wan that I am like this,” he hissed.

“No! He would never hurt you! He loved you –”

“Enough! I don’t need to hear empty assurances.”

Fear lingered in her eyes, but that spark had returned. “If you can’t believe he loved you, what about our love?”

“I loved you more than I can ever express. I did everything for you – I would continue to do anything for you – ”

“Except come with me.”

“You brought Obi-Wan to kill me.”

“No! I didn’t know! I didn’t know he’d snuck aboard my ship.” And Vader was startled to hear the truth of her words reverberate in the Force. Taking a hesitant step forward, Padmé’s eyes flickered between the lenses of his mask, as though trying to see through them. “All I wanted was you. For us to be safe, and happy. We didn’t need anything else. Even…even after everything you did…”

“It was necessary. To bring order to the galaxy, to gain powers of the Force that would save –” Vader stopped abruptly. “The child. Does the child live?”

She bristled, and that was all the answer he needed.  

He turned from her, but he didn’t see the cold cell around them. He saw a child splashing in the lakes of Naboo, Padmé laughing as she chased them, and Anakin Skywalker watched them from the grass, smiling and happy, whole and unburnt.

And then his vision clouded with red, and black, and Darth Vader’s fury returned, wiping out the scene of peace that had been stolen from him. Because it had been stolen from him. If he had never pledged himself to the Emperor, never razed the Jedi Temple, never succumbed to the Dark Side, if the Emperor hadn’t lied to him about Padmé’s death… 

“Anakin?”

He jolted out of his seething reverie. Padmé’s expression was carefully controlled, but Vader could sense her unease, her fear, her… hope.

Her steady voice held more gentleness than he deserved. “What happens now?”

Now, the Emperor would die. Now, Vader would have revenge. Now…

He turned on his heel and waved his hand, the cell door opening, harsh white light spilling into the dim space.

“Bring her,” he commanded.

The stormtroopers moved immediately, pulling Padmé from her cell and marching her behind him. He could feel her eyes boring into the back of his helmet, but he didn’t turn around. If he took the time to explain, he might lose his nerve.

And neither Darth Vader nor Anakin Skywalker ever lost their nerve.

*

Padmé wanted to cry. She wanted to curl into the corner of some isolated place and sob her heart out. Instead, she raised her chin and walked as upright as she could as the stormtroopers escorted her behind the towering Sith.

How had the man she loved become the most feared monster in the galaxy?

She had believed, all those years ago, that there was still good in Anakin, even as he turned his back on everything he believed because he thought it would save her. But when Obi-Wan said that Anakin was dead –

Obi-Wan. Did he know that Anakin lived? Did he know what had become of his best friend? Had Obi-Wan lied to her about Anakin’s death, the way the Emperor lied to Anakin? No, she couldn’t believe that. He had been nearly as distraught as her. He couldn’t have known.

With all her heart, Padmé wanted to believe that there was still some sliver of good left in the creature that was Darth Vader; some glimmer of Anakin that she could recognize. But the horrific things that Vader had done�� She watched the Imperials scatter from him in fear as Vader led her through the maze of corridors. How many had he killed? Tortured? He continued to hunt down surviving Jedi, relentlessly pursued Rebel insurgents, left ruins in his wake.

Could there really be good left in such a man?

She had to believe there was.

The corridor opened to a hanger bay. TIE fighters, small cargo ships, and shuttles lined the platform; technicians, pilots, deck crew, officers, and troopers moved in tightly organized groups, or else with purpose from one task to another. Darth Vader ignored them all, heading straight for a shuttle.

Technicians tending to the shuttle tripped over themselves as they leapt to attention.

“Lord Vader! We weren’t informed of a scheduled departure –”

“An apt statement, as I don’t often operate on schedules.” The man flinched. “I have need of my shuttle. Is it suitable?”

“Yes, my lord! It has been returned to your specifications.”

As the deck crew hurriedly cleared away their equipment, Padmé couldn’t help a twinge of familiarity; of course Anakin would be particular about his ship. So that, at least, had remained.

Darth Vader stood at the landing ramp and faced her. The troopers shoved her forward. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand twitch. But he didn’t strike. Instead, he stepped in front of them. “That will be all.”

“Sir?” one of them asked confusedly.

“I am not accustomed to repeating myself.” The low, warning tone sent a shiver up Padmé’s spine.

“Yessir,” the other said hastily, stepping back. The first trooper went to speak, thought better of it, and followed his fellow soldier.

Darth Vader’s shadow fell over her as she walked into the ship. Despite the size of the shuttle, there wasn’t much room inside; half the interior was taken up by some spherical mechanism, like a ball-shaped chamber.

“What’s happening?” she asked, doing her best to keep her tone calm.

Instead of answering, Vader swept past her, cape billowing behind him as he strode to the cockpit. “Strap in until we enter hyperspace.”

Her stomach flipped. Where was he taking her? Why didn’t he bring any guards along? Tense, she lowered herself into a seat and adjusted the safety harness. Darth Vader – Anakin – no, she couldn’t think of him as Anakin – Vader sat in the pilot's seat, expertly flipping switches and adjusting controls until the ship hummed to life.

The harsh white of the hanger bay ended as they emerged into the blackness of space. She could just spy Rodia through the viewport as Vader turned the ship and input coordinates. Coordinates to where? Within moments, the stars warped and stretched, before slingshotting them into the blue-white of hyperspace.

Gathering herself, Padmé undid the harness and stood. Vader made no movement as she walked into the cockpit. Even when she stood beside him, he didn’t turn to look at her. She gazed out the viewport feeling like she was hurtling towards –

“I will take you anywhere you want to go.”

A breath escaped Padmé. “What?”

Vader said nothing.

“You’re –” she sat heavily in a little-used copilots chair. “You’re helping me escape?”

“You will be interrogated as a Rebel spy. You may be tortured, or killed. And if the Emperor discovered your identity, he may take personal interest.”

After a long moment he added softly, “I cannot lose you again.”

With a trembling hand, she reached over and touched the side of that black mask. Finally, he turned to face her. It may have been a trick of the lenses, but for just a moment, she thought she saw his eyes illuminated in the light of hyperspace. Anakin’s eyes. Luke’s eyes.

“Come with me.”

#anidala #andiala zine #anakin skywalker #darth vader #padme amidala #vaderdala #padme lives au #rebel padme au #star wars #star wars prequels #star wars empire era #star wars original trilogy #star wars fic #star wars fanfic #renee's writing #sw #padme/anakin #padme/vader #padme amidala/anakain skywalker

[tennessoui]

Congratulations on getting into grad school!!! YAY! 🎉 Same anon who read through all the KUSWK tags backwards lol. I almost never read incomplete fics because my adhd could never handle, but I ended up reading a more perfect union and just... 🥹🥹🥹 I now just need Vos to show up and for Anakin to throw the biggest hissy fit in the entire galactic realm while padme makes the am I a joke to you face (sorry padme) I am refreshing your ao3 page approximately once every 8 seconds not even kidding

ahhh thank you for taking a chance on this wip!! i am not where i want to be on the progress, but hey, it's the holidays--i still want to get this finished in december, so i'm doing a lot of writing on my phone during family time lol - here's a little bit of the beginning of the next chapter, ft. a lot of anakin being pissy but unable to understand why he's so upset

Padmé’s frown deepens. Her eyes are kind still and soft, but she looks confused and wary in her confusion. “Perhaps…” she says this carefully, drawing out the syllables like she is wrestling with herself already. She rests her hand on Anakin’s chest and takes several steps closer until she must peer up at him from under her eyelashes. “Perhaps it is for the better.” “What.” “Not that Master Kenobi is apparently—upset with you,” she is quick to add, splaying her fingers out and stroking down his skin. She has started to wear her wedding band. It flashes bright silver in the morning light. It had been her mother’s, thank the Force that they’d given Padmé a set of heirloom rings, given that Anakin had had no idea where to go for that sort of thing. Nor the funds to purchase them. He hadn’t even known what sort of jewelry Padmé preferred to wear, gold or silver. Apparently these things are important. “He has locked—” “The Jedi Council has given you leave to be my husband openly,” Padmé interrupts. Her voice is laced with steel, impatience hardening into something like ire. “You could move here, you should move here! I’m sorry that Master Kenobi’s actions have hurt you, and you will need to clear the air with him, make sure his upset was temporary. I know how…important he is to you—but perhaps we can look at this situation as for the better. The impetus you needed to make this change.” Anakin blinks rapidly, head spinning. His caf had been too strong this morning—he’d been unused to Padmé’s machine, added too many grounds or used the wrong setting. “Move here?” he repeats, eyebrows furrowing automatically.  “You already spend at least half your nights on Coruscant here,” Padmé points out, her tone level but with some strange and unrecognizable note to it. “I am simply asking for a wife’s due—that you spend all your nights with me.” “I…you know I spend most of my time aboard star destroyers, angel,” Anakin looks away, cutting his eyes to that damned vase behind the damned couch.

#asks #obikin #a more perfect union #the chapter begins with a 600 word tirade against padme's couch #i very much do not know why people read what i write lol #im not lying it's like 600 words about. a couch. #i am clearly running out of things to write about

[spicedrobot]

Boba Fett and Greedo both work for Darth Vader. When Boba is sent off on an extended solo mission, Greedo learns more about his boss's eccentricities... and his own.

At first, Greedo thought that Imperial vessels just ran colder than usual. Though he hadn’t been on many, mostly just this one. And what a ship it was: a Venator-class Star Destroyer, housing thousands of occupants. Not just any old Imps either, but important ones, the kind they bragged about on Empire Day transmissions. But the issue wasn’t as simple as dialing back a control on a climate system, and it wasn’t like he could even access such things on a ship as big as this, barring the one in his own room. And it was only ever too cold when he was on the chrono. One moment, the temperature would be perfectly pleasant. The next, Greedo could see his own breath in front of his snout. 

It’s him, Greedo realized, after a few cycles of this strange incident repeating. It’s Lord Vader. 

Read on ao3

#fics #vreedo #is what i'm calling it #LMFAO #i don't really want to put this in tags but #here you guys go #cringe and free!!!!!! #darth vader #greedo #lemon #star wars #vader x greedo

[wizardofrozz]

Setting the Mood

Anakin Skywalker x Jedi!Reader (GN), Fives, Jesse, and Rex

Word Count: ~1.3k

Warnings: sexual situations and swearing (I think that’s all)

Read on AO3

It had been weeks since you last saw Anakin. The war pulled you to what felt like the other side of the galaxy but now, watching the Resolute fill your viewport, you were ready to vibrate out of your seat. You’d been called in to assist the 501st on the Outer Rim and you may have been a little too enthusiastic about excepting. Just the thought of getting to finally see Anakin again was staggering.

And he didn’t disappoint.

The hangar was bustling with half-armored clones tinkering with gunships in preparation for the next battle. You could barely climb out of your starfighter before Anakin swept you off your feet with a soft, slightly hysterical, laugh. His presence in the Force blazed with joy, nearly overwhelming you yet it was a sensation you had missed more than you realized.

         “You’re here,” Anakin giggled, burying his face against your neck.

         “Ani,” you whispered after finally opening your eyes to find a few troopers watching the display. None of them looked surprised, maybe a bit smug, but they’d obviously expected the reunion. Jesse caught your eye, shooting you an exaggerated wink that sent Fives into a laughing fit he just barely smothered.

Anakin finally set you on your feet again, but his hands lingered on your arms, keeping you close. His smile was blinding, love and relief shining in his bright blue eyes, making your heart swell. You returned his smile, wanting to reach out and touch his face, to feel the warmth of his skin under your fingers. A reminder that he was alive, that you weren’t just dreaming in your bunk lightyears away. Then, movement over Anakin’s shoulder caught your eye.

         “Come on,” Anakin urged softly, tugging you along. He rushed you past his men loitering nearby, not even sparing them a glance as he pulled you out of the hangar a little faster than your legs could carry you.

         “Ani!” you laughed, jogging to catch up. “What’s the rush, love?” Anakin didn’t answer, glancing over his shoulder to shoot you a mischievous smile. You rolled your eyes but let him drag you along, waving at the confused troopers you passed in the Star Destroyer’s hallways. A surprised squawk fell from your lips when Anakin stopped suddenly, yanking you into a dark supply closet. Anakin was kissing you before the door was completely shut, your head still spinning from the sudden whirlwind of movement.

You could barely keep up, doing your best to meet his urgent lips, hands searching for purchase against his dark robes. The air was knocked from your lungs when your back hit the wall, your lips parting to allow Anakin access. He was all-consuming, his Force signature threatening to burn you from the inside out as he tore at your robes, desperate to feel any skin he could.

         “Missed you, sweetheart,” Anakin panted again your lips. He made a soft triumphant sound when he finally got your robes open, warm flesh, and cool metal smoothing across your ribs.

         “I’m here, love, I’m here,” you gasped, pressing your forehead against his. Anakin let out a quiet, relieved whimper, dipping his head to kiss and nip along the angle of your jaw. You leaned your head back, giving him more room to work, and let your eyes fall shut, your chest heaving. The skin under his lips tingled, the drag of his tongue sending a chill down your spine, and you sank into the sensation, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of the man you loved.

That’s when you heard it.

With a soft crackle, the loudspeakers that filled the ship came to life and you blinked at the ceiling. Unless you were losing your mind, you swore a barely muffled laugh filtered through the speaker before the music started playing. Anakin paused, puffs of air brushing against your skin as he listened, slowly lifting his head. You rolled your lips into your mouth when you recognized the familiar cantina song that Anakin had shown you. He’d heard it frequently as a boy on Tatooine and grumbled, shaking his head.

         “Ignore it,” you chuckled, cupping his face to pull him in for another kiss. Anakin slowly melted into the kiss, the upbeat music fading into the background again. With nimble fingers you untied his robes, pushing them off his shoulders without breaking the kiss, dragging your nails across his exposed chest. Anakin moaned into your mouth, pressing you harder into the wall, fingers brushing against the top of your leggings.

The deafening cry of a trumpet made you jump, just barely refraining from headbutting Anakin.

         “Is that…is that fucking Taps?” Anakin mumbled in disbelief, blinking at you. You tried, you really did, but you couldn’t contain your loud snort, immediately slapping a hand over your mouth. Anakin scowled at you, his eyes narrowing despite the tiny flicker of amusement in his dark gaze. “This isn’t funny.”

         “It kinda is,” you argued around giggles. Anakin huffed, rolling his eyes but you didn’t miss the determination that flashed across his face. Your yelp morphed into a quiet moan when he went for your neck again, his teeth scraping against your suddenly thundering pulse. As ridiculous as the background music was, you easily got lost in Anakin’s warm skin and hungry mouth. A high-pitched, surprised moan was muffled against your shoulder when you reached down to squeeze the obvious bulge straining against his pants.

         “Need you,” Anakin whispered, sliding a hand under your legs, squeezing the swell of your ass.

         “Anything you want, dear,” you replied with a smirk, squeezing his cock again before releasing him. Despite the haze of desire clouding your mind and Anakin’s hands working to pull your leggings down, you realized the song changed again. This time it was a softer tune that you felt you should recognize, it was familiar in a way you couldn’t quite grasp. Anakin caught your lips in another searing kiss just as the first words floated through the room.

You’ve got a friend in me. You’ve got a friend in me.

         “Are you kidding me!” Anakin shouted, taking a step away from you. Uncontrollable laughter fell from your lips, folding you in half with the force of it. If you were with anyone else, you’d probably be embarrassed about being basically naked, laughing your ass off in a tiny supply closet. You choked on a laugh, tears blurring Anakin’s shape moving around the small space until his face came into view again. He looked disgruntled but the corner of his mouth was twitching as he fought a smile. You were a cackling mess as the song from a youngling movie played and you were determined to find out who was behind the prank.

Anakin gently replaced your leggings, losing the battle against smiling as you continued to giggle. When you were both fully dressed again, Anakin pressed a feather-light kiss to the corner of your mouth and opened the door. Just as you stepped out of the closet a door halfway down the hall opened and two familiar troopers were shoved out, desperately trying to contain their laughter. Rex appeared behind them, massaging the bridge of his nose. Your partner’s expression darkened again but only you could tell he was only half serious, faint amusement lingering around him in the Force.

         “Fives. Jesse.” Anakin’s voice was low, creeping toward dangerous, and it immediately caught the two troopers’ attention.

         “I’d run if I were you,” Rex sighed, flickering his eyes toward you. Fives and Jesse’s laughter echoed through the halls, muffling Anakin’s shouting as he chased them out of sight. You moved to Rex’s side, glancing up at the captain just as his mask started to crack.

         “I can’t even be mad,” you snorted, chewing on your bottom lip to hold back a smile.

         “General Skywalker is,” Rex countered, raising a brow.

         “Oh yeah,” you drawled, meeting Rex’s eyes.

         “I hope Fives and Jesse know that they don’t have a friend in me.” Your chest jumped a few times in an attempt to hold your amusement in, but you and Rex broke at the same time. Howling laughter filled the hallway, Rex leaning into you as he held his side and you tried to muffle your matching amusement into his shoulder, but it was no use.

You and Rex were still recovering when Anakin returned sometime later, shaking his head, and dragging you toward his quarters. He’d get some unhindered alone time with you if it killed him.

A/N: I saw a post about the worst songs to have sex to and somehow this happened lmao. I decided on the Cantina Band song, Taps, and You've Got a Friend in Me (Toy Story) because I thought they were some of the funniest ones on the playlist 😂

Taglist: @jellydodger​ 

#anakin skywalker #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker x reader #jedi!reader #gn reader #star wars #arc trooper fives #clone trooper jesse #captain rex

[mostthingskenobi]

CASSIAN'S RECKONING - Chapter 17: The Absolution

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Both Jyn and Cassian carry a lot of pain and darkness… and they don't have to hide it from each other. Enjoy some meaningful fluff.

Just want to say thank you to the folks reading this fic <3 I hope you are enjoying it :)

READ THE FIC ON AO3

THIS IS A WHUMPY FIC W/GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE. PLEASE HEED THE TAGS ON AO3.

——————–

CHAPTER 17: THE ABSOLUTION

He could hear her screaming.

The sound echoed off the star destroyer’s sterile walls and glossy black floor with a brittleness that stripped Cassian’s nerves.

He ran after her, down corridors, up stairs, through vaults. But she always disappeared around the next corner, dragged away by growling death troopers.

“Jyn!” He shouted her name over and over, running as fast as his exhausted legs would carry him, sweat beading on his brow and soaking through his shirt.

Her screams changed from frightened to desperate before abruptly stopping all together. The silence was more tormenting than the screams. He forced himself to run faster; he couldn’t let the Empire hurt her.

Cassian rounded the next corner and entered a dark hall, the walls black, the lights red and low. He skidded to a stop. There, at the end, stood Tarkin, his posture like a razor’s edge, hands behind his back, jaw jutting upward in a proud smirk.

On the floor between the Grand Moff’s feet was Jyn’s twisted and broken body. Blood seeped across the durasteel in a black pool.

“Come closer,” Tarkin demanded softly.

Cassian obeyed, taking slow, unsteady steps. The closer he got, the more Jyn came into focus. He knelt down and pulled her into his arms. He tried to wipe the blood from her face, tried to rouse her, tried to stop the dark wave of fear that threatened to swallow him whole. “Jyn,” he said gently, his voice breaking. Tears fell from his lashes onto her cheeks as he realized she was dead.

“She told us everything she knew.” Tarkin leered. “Her blood is on your hands.”

A massive explosion suddenly shook the ship. Instinctively, Cassian protectively pulled Jyn tighter against him before turning on his knees to see what had happened. His breath froze in his lungs as he watched the star destroyer dissolved, replaced by a salty sea lapping on a sandy shoreline. The horizon blazed with a churning orange cloud that came racing forward across the water, consuming, burning, vaporizing everything in its path.

He clutched Jyn’s limp body against his chest, too weak to resist fate any longer, burying his face in her hair. He wanted to scream; instead, he squeezed his eyes shut until the flames devoured them…

…Cassian gasped and bolted up, promptly smacking his face against the over-hanging bulkhead. The blow dropped him hard and fast. Groaning, he clasped his aching forehead as the nightmare receded. He had known all along it was a dream; the unfolding scenes had never tricked him into believing they were real. But that didn’t make it any less disturbing.

Desperation, fear, exhaustion ran loops in his head.

And Jyn, her blood smeared across his hands, dead, empty, cold.

He shook himself, forcing the lingering discomfort away, and threw his legs over the side of his bunk before walking to the locker. Popping it open he gazed at his reflection in the mirror on the back of the door as he pulled on a shirt and pants. He looked more tired now than before he had gone to sleep. He gingerly prodded his face where he’d struck it on the bed; a bruise was already forming. “Good work,” he muttered sarcastically. He slammed the locker shut and went in search of food.

——————–

Rogue Crew had started playing cards in the evenings right after Scarif. It had been a simple way to keep each other company on Yavin, to offer a safe place to escape the residual disquiet they each carried, a touchstone of normalcy. Cassian didn’t usually have the patience for games and he found cards particularly boring. But laughing with people he actually considered his friends was a rarity, so he had taken advantage of it as much as possible. He was grateful to revisit the tradition now aboard the Redemption.

The group had a box turned on its side for a table positioned between their racks. Jyn made space for Cassian to sit next to her on her bunk while everyone else dragged chairs around the box’s other edges. They played sabacc and sipped a cold, fermented ginger tea that Chirrut provided. For a few hours they were able to forget the Empire and war and death.

“What happened to your forehead?” Jyn asked as they played.

Cassian wasn’t embarrassed. Instead, he smiled. “I hit it on my rack.”

Bodhi winced.

“You must have a hard skull,” Baze said, totally serious.

Melshi, who occasionally joined the group and was present this evening, snorted into his glass.

“You’re lucky you didn’t kill yourself,” Bodhi said.

“Can you imagine? I survive prison, Scarif, and Tarkin only to kill myself getting out of bed.” It was the kind of dark humor they all shared.

They played until the hour grew late and only stopped when Cassian started yawning. The party broke ranks and, as he stood to leave, he caught Jyn’s eye. “You want to walk with me?” He felt Bodhi glance at them, listening in, so Cassian hurried to remove any inkling of something gossip-worthy. “I need you to bring me up to speed on the officers’ briefing I missed.”

“Sure. I’m heading up top,” Jyn said, rising to her feet. “I have to stop in the ready room to pick up orders.”

They moved through the rows of racks and maneuvered toward the corridor. “So, what did I miss?” Cassian asked.

“Nothing you don’t already know. The fleet is going to be in constant motion until a more permanent base can be found. They’ve been scouting locations for years, so there are some immediate possibilities. Brass is dispersing several teams tasked with making more comprehensive evaluations of these locations. We’ll be on standby until they return. No non-essential missions. Everyone is grounded until further notice.”

“Sounds boring and dangerous.”

“My thoughts exactly. When people get bored, they get sloppy.”

“Let’s just hope the Empire doesn’t find us.”

Jyn was suddenly uneasy. “The thought of the Empire attacking while we’re trapped on this ship terrifies me. We’d be sitting ducks; nowhere to run, no way to fight back.”

He realized she was talking about Rogue One and not the Alliance. For the first time possibly ever, she had a real sense of belonging and a found-family she wanted to protect. Cassian understood the alarm she felt; fear of loss had snapped at his heels his entire life.

“I used to think I was brave,” she carried on quietly, almost to herself, deep in thought. “But ever since Scarif, I feel like I’ve lost my nerve.”

“I don’t see that,” Cassian replied honestly.

“You don’t?”

“No. To me, you seem to have nerves of steel.”

“I wish I was more like you.”

That nearly stopped him in his tracks. “What do you mean?” he asked in disbelief.

“Every situation we’re in, you always seem to manage it. Nothing phases you, at least not for long. You have an uncanny ability to push on.”

Cassian suddenly felt very cold. “That’s what happens when you lose everything you’ve ever cared about,” he said darkly. “It changes your perspective on what’s tolerable.” He glanced at her. “You don’t think you’re like that? You’re not able to push on?”

She didn’t respond; her brain was sifting through a lifetime of memories.

“A woman who survived being abandoned, who lost her parents and her home; a woman who was cast out by Saw Gerrera only to end up being manipulated into helping the Alliance; a woman who risked her life to rescued a little girl in the Jedha streets and who climbed a burning-hot datatower to steal the Death Star plans?” He shook his head. “Jyn, you’re the strongest person I know.”

These observations meant more to her than Cassian would ever understand. Though she felt awkward accepting the compliment, she felt touched that he’d seen past what she showed on the surface. Even so, Jyn felt unworthy. “You didn’t see all the moments where I was weak, where I betrayed people to save my own skin.”

Their pace had slowed as they walked through the empty corridors.

He was quiet for so long Jyn worried she’d said the wrong thing, confessed too much, and now he was second guessing how he saw her. “We aren’t born strong,” he finally said quietly. “We’re made strong by our mistakes. Sometimes terrible things have to happen in order for us to find our potential.”

Cassian had told her a little about his past; she knew demons haunted them both. In her opinion, she had no right to judge people by their history, though she didn’t extend that courtesy to herself. Jyn knew what she was; a survivor, a rat. Cassian seemed ready to absolve her, but she wasn’t sure she could forgive herself yet. She’d been lost, walking a dark and lonely path, but seeing her father again, meeting Cassian and the rest of Rogue One, had righted her, had given her a light to follow in the storm. Galen Erso sacrificed himself for the greater good; Jyn wanted to be more like that and less like the tip of a spear that Saw Gerrera had made her.

“Strength isn’t the same as being brave,” she finally replied. “Fear brings out the worst in me. You never seem to be afraid. I wish I could be like that; I wish I was fearless.”

Cassian stopped walking and turned toward her. “I’m not fearless. I’m always afraid.” She looked up at him in disbelief. “Ever since I was a boy I’ve been afraid, but I don’t let fear keep me from taking action.”

They looked in each other’s eyes for a long time.

“I know you’re feeling a little exposed, a little unsafe; after everything that’s happened I’d expect nothing less. But that doesn’t mean you’re not brave,” he said. “I’ve never seen someone manage their fear like you.”

Jyn bit her lip and looked away. “There’s a moment I can’t get out of my head, where I pushed through, managed my fear. It’s a moment that made me hate myself.”

She didn’t elaborate so he asked, “When?”

“On Scarif. After you fell.” She curled in on herself, withdrawing from him. “I didn’t want to just leave you there.”

Cassian understood; being left behind, abandoned, discarded caused a pain in Jyn’s heart that might never be healed.

“You told me to keep going. I knew I had to. But I hated myself for it. Whether you were alive or dead, I was surrendering you to the Empire.”

“We had a job to do. We were fighting for something bigger than ourselves, something important.”

Her cheeks became hot, though she managed to remain composed. She looked up at him. “You’re important, Cassian.”

An expression flashed across his face that Jyn had never seen, something vulnerable and raw. She saw him catch his breath.

“Has no one ever told you that before?”

His eyes were fixed on her, his breathing heavy as he fought to control a sudden wave of emotion, his mouth turning down at the corners. Jyn had unknowingly hit a nerve. She stepped nearer and took hold of the front of his jacket.

“I’m nothing special,” he said, his voice dark and low.

“That isn’t true.”

He shrugged. “I’m just one person.”

Her grip constricted and she pulled him closer. “You are important. To the Rebellion, to Rogue Squad… to me.”

His gaze tightened, as though he were receiving kindness for the first time in his life and the experience was so overdue it pained him.

Jyn suddenly understood; he truly believed he was expendable because no one had ever told him otherwise. She cupped his face in her hands. “You’ve given so much of yourself. We all use you; we all take from your strength. It isn’t fair.” He gripped her wrists and leaned into her touch, needing the comfort. “You might tell yourself that you have nothing left to lose, so there’s no harm in risking your life for the cause. But I think it’s the opposite. You know the pain of loss so intimately that you sacrifice everything in the hopes of giving others the safety you never had.” His breathing had become shuddering rasps as her words cut through every piece of emotional armor he wore. “I’m proud of you, Cassian.”

He stiffened, fighting back feelings that threatened to overwhelm him.

Maarva’s final words rang in his ears, delivered to him in a dark sewer by his best friend Brasso, words layered with the forgiveness and absolution only a mother’s love could offer. Tell him, none of this is his fault. It was already burning, he’s just the first spark of the fire. Tell him, he knows everything he needs to know and feels everything he needs to feel. And when the day comes and those two pull together, he will be an unstoppable force for good. Tell him, I love him more than anything he could ever do wrong.

He had always lived by his own code. But the Empire’s never-ending ruthlessness had hardened Cassian over the years. Jyn had unwittingly made him look at himself with fresh eyes. At first, he hadn’t liked what he discovered. But, in a short period of time, she had reignited his sense of self, unintentionally reconnected him with who he wished he could be without the Empire looming over all existence. Cassian wanted to be strong without being brutal. He wanted to be brave without being callous. He wanted to thrive without desperation. If Jyn was proud of him, perhaps that meant he had begun achieving these small victories. They hadn’t known each other long, but she always made him feel seen, like he existed with more intensity now that she was in his life.

Cassian wrapped his arms around Jyn, pulling her body against him, his hands pressed across her back. All he wanted was to hold her, to feel safe, to disappear into a reality where Scarif and Tarkin and IT-O droids didn’t exist. Jyn responded instantly to his touch, pressing her cheek against his, almost sighing with relief as her arms went around his neck. He closed his eyes and thought, I love you more than anything you could ever do wrong.

——————–

END NOTES

NEXT CHAPTER IS CALLED “THE REACH” - Perhaps it's a proximity trope…but I don't care. It's my story and I can do what I want :) You're welcome.

Thank you for reading!

Likes, comments, and reblogs are very welcome!

Much love!

——————–

READ IT ON AO3- Kudos and Comments Welcome :-)

READ CHAPTER 1 “The Razor”

READ CHAPTER 2 “The Scythe”

READ CHAPTER 3 “The Cold”

READ CHAPTER 4 “The Expendable”

READ CHAPTER 5 “The Truth”

READ CHAPTER 6 “The Detritus”

READ CHAPTER 7 “The Salt”

READ CHAPTER 8 “The Power”

READ CHAPTER 9 “The Betrayal”

REACH CHAPTER 10 “The Ruse”

READ CHAPTER 11 “The Reprieve”

READ CHAPTER 12 “The Ghosts”

READ CHAPTER 13 “The Redemption”

READ CHAPTER 14 “The Spoils”

READ CHAPTER 15 “The Interrogation”

READ CHAPTER 16 “The Rogues”

READ CHAPTER 17 "The Absolution"

READ CHAPTER 18 “The Reach”

READ CHAPTER 19 “The Hologram”

READ CHAPTER 20 “The Divide”

READ CHAPTER 21 “The Cost”

#rebelcaptain #rebelcaptain fic #rebelcaptain fanfic #cassian #cassian andor #andor #cassian andor fic #cassian andor fanfiction #jyn #jyn erso #jyn x cassian #jyn and cassian #jyn erso fic #rogue one #rogue one fic #tarkin #baze malbus #chirrut imwe #bodhi rook

[storyarcscribe]

Lighten Up | Part II

Poe Dameron x Fem!Reader

Part 1 Part 3

Word count: 4.8K+

Summary: On the way back to camp, reality sets in. You did the unthinkable. How can you complete the mission tomorrow after what you two did together in that alley? To make it worse, Dameron has a funny way of avoiding you by doing the exact opposite.

A/N: Oh boy... y'all wanted more.. okay okay here we go!!! Thank you for the love on part 1. This has been a blast to write and can't wait for you all to read what I have in store!

Warnings: language, warfare, angst, Poe Dameron (need I say more??)

Masterlist & How to Send a Prompt | Read on AO3

Reblogs and feedback are always appreciated!

-

You tossed the water back like jet juice before leaving the cantina with the others.

Finn shared the good news as you exited that he had a lead on the suspected warehouse. According to the locals, the warehouse was abandoned on the city's outskirts. No First Order has been in town for months. The information should have been great to hear, but all you felt was a twist in your gut. 

You kept your eyes to the ground on the way back to camp. Any view was better than having to look at Dameron walking ahead. 

He was quiet and visibly ignored you, driving even more mortification through your stomach. But wasn't that what you wanted? To be left alone? After all, you were just a 'rookie' to him. He made that clear in the end.

"You okay?" Rose asked, gently looping her arm through yours as you both walked behind Finn and Dameron. 

It was pointless to lie. Rose was one of your earliest friends on base after a lousy test flight you went through on the first week. She scanned your emotions then as she did now. 

"Ready to get this over with,” you confessed truthfully. 

Ahead, Dameron and Finn walked side by side in silence. Usually, by now, after a long night of drinks on base when off-duty, the two of them would be singing horrible shanties, burning the ears of all living lifeforms in proximity. But, tonight, you saw them stride side by side without a tune or melody. 

As you all returned to camp, you were never more thankful for the dark. 

The dark would prevent you from looking at him.

The dark would hide the slickness running down your thighs as you crawled into your mat. 

The dark hid the shame in your face as you buried it into the ground.

"We'll speak to the General in the morning for orders," Dameron emitted aloud to the group.

If it wasn't for the alcohol coursing through your veins, you might not have fallen asleep as fast as you did on that hard ground. 

-

Dinner had turned into a giant party on base. Red Squadron took out an entire star destroyer, and General Organa permitted a celebratory feast in the mess hall. 

Instead of joining your comrades and friends, you decided to go to the training room to practice hand-to-hand combat techniques from a datapad you picked up from the archives. Having just joined Black Squadron, you were keen to level up to your fellow team members and perhaps outshine a particular Commander. 

Maker, Dameron was out to get you.

He had been that way after you made Black Squadron. You had just managed to get out your X-Wing after the D'Qar run success when he shouted down the hanger, yelling about how you broke formation and almost got another pilot killed. It was brutal, the way he ripped you apart. Instead of ripping back into him about why you made that choice, you took it, but not without glaring at your soon-to-be commanding officer.

Dameron was aggravating. You were methodic and studious in your piloting, whereas Dameron moved on feeling. Nevertheless, he never failed to give you a correction during training with the squadron. Why? You couldn't fathom anything other than his disdain for your early success. 

Instead of joining the celebrations, you went to the training room to practice. The first mission of Black Squadron would commence tomorrow and consist of ground support, and you weren't going to bed unprepared.

You jabbed the punching bag while glancing down to the datapad.

Kick. Jab. Punch. Sweep. Repeat. 

Sweat bubbled on your forehead, and for once, you were grateful for the light workout clothes you decided to wear for this practice. 

Kick. Jab. Punch. Sweep. Repeat. 

Kick. Jab. Punch. Sweep. Repeat. 

Kick. Jab. Punch. Sweep. Repeat. 

Kick. Jab. Punch-

A throat cleared from behind.

You dropped your formation and stood at attention. 

Speak of the Sith's Devil.

Commander Dameron was out of his flight suit, a rare occurrence as you tried only to see him when necessary. He wore a cream long sleeve and green standard military pants, unlike your light attire. A soft smile danced on his lips as he leaned against the training room door. 

He had the same smile he gave to you before a backhanded comment came after it.  

"What are you doing?" He asked. 

You brushed errant hair from your face. "Practice, sir."

He waved a hand in the air stepping into the room. "Please, drop the formalities. We're off duty."

He never reserved the right for you to call him something other than Commander, but then again, you've seen other peers refer to him by Dameron, but close friends only spoke Poe. You wouldn't want to fall into that latter category.

"What are you doing?" You echoed his question.

His hands slip into his pockets. "On my way to the mess when I heard… well, I guess you could call it grunting… and was curious.”

Mortification seeped into your head. You weren't that loud, were you? 

"You know," he said with a nod to the datapad on the ground, "that won't teach you much."

You glanced down to the fight sequence you just poured your heart into learning. "What's wrong with it?”

He crossed the floor, his boots thudding softly on the mat ground. "You learn how to fight by example.”

You blinked. "Example?"

Dameron pointed opposite of his position. "Stand over here."

"Why?"

He smirked. "You want to learn or not?”

"I don't think-"

"Everyone on my squadron spares with each other at least once," he countered. "Unless you think you're too good for us?”

Of course, he would stoop as low as to pull on your loyalty to Black Squadron. Being on Black Squadron meant everything to you. After another moment, you warily moved to stand a few feet away from him. 

"Alright," he gestured with his hands, beckoning you forward. "Attack me."

You couldn't contain the huff escaping your mouth. “You sure?"

He smirked. "You couldn't take me down even if you trie-"

Your body took over as you attempted to kick him. Dameron easily evaded it. 

"Well that was average," he scoffed.

You jab, punched him again, hitting only air.

Son of a bantha.

"Really? That all you got?" He taunted, evading your attempts. “Stop thinking, Five. Hit me."

The hair from your tied-back bun was coming loose. Maker, you wanted to punch him square in that carved jaw so badly it hurt. You advanced. 

Kick. Jab. Punch. Sweep. Kick. Punch.

He met you hit for hit, dodging every attempt to knock him to the ground. You two might have looked so engaged in this dance to anyone looking. You may have been on the attack, but you knew Dameron was calling the shots in this fight at your core. 

He pushed you to the ground at some point. Victory lined his face he grimaced. "That had to hurt."

You stood, blood boiling. He almost looked bored, and that pissed you off. You charged, ready to tackle him to the ground. He was prepared for that and maneuvered you into a headlock. Everything came to a halt as you struggled for balance. His arm hooked around your windpipe, not crushing but pressuring your airflow enough that your eyes widened. 

Dameron was breathing hard, holding you against him. 

"Never," he fumed into your ear, "attack with anger."

 Panic began to sink into your brain. Maker, if this was the situation in the mission tomorrow, you were as good as dead. 

"You're gonna get out of this," Dameron stated. "Because that's what we do, yes?"

You nodded as much as you could in his arm.

"First," he said, his grip on you unwavering, "don't panic. You do, and you die. So breathe."

You sucked in a breath you had not realized you had been holding back.

"Good," he approved. "Now, push your hand up here and throw your head back. You'll let your body weight do the rest."

You attempted, but failed to grip his arm.

"Again," he commanded. 

This time, you threw your weight back. Nothing. 

"Don't be a pussy, Five. Hit me-"

You snapped, releasing yourself from his hold, perfectly knocking his ass to the ground. Satisfaction did not begin to describe how you felt.

Dameron wiped his mouth. He was bleeding.

Kriff. 

You just hit Commander Poe Dameron, Black Leader of the Rebellion. As you stood there, watching Dameron's reaction, you prepared for the worst. You've seen him dish out reprimands or worse if anyone even looked at his X-Wing wrong.

Instead, the man smiled, blood in his teeth. His eyes sparkled with surprise and something else.

Commander Poe Dameron, decorated karking Black Leader of the Resistance, was smiling at you. 

"Not bad, rookie," Dameron praised, standing up.

"Rookie?" you repeated. 

The masochist was still smiling.

Suddenly, you finally understood the enigma of Commander Dameron. He stared at you with those dark eyes and only saw you as a newbie, fresh out of basic… A joke to Black Squadron and the Resistance.

"Don't call me that," you spat. 

You were not the butt of some punch line… Not for anyone and not for him. 

He tried to stop you with a hand as you moved past him. "Lighten up, rookie. You're on my squadron, now. Get used to it."

Lighten up, rookie. 

Lighten up, rookie.

Lighten up, rookie. 

Suddenly you were standing in that cantina. It was empty, and Dameron stood at the bar. He was not the Commander in the training room but the man who shattered your very being in an alleyway. This Dameron… no Poe… worshipped you like it was his dying wish.

And then he buckled over; a blaster shot burning right through his stomach. 

He convulsed in pain, staring at you in disbelief as he whispered your first name like a prayer… The same way he moaned it hotly against your mouth. 

You screamed his name…. not Dameron… but Poe.

POE.

He bled out on the floor, eyes shuttering as he fought to breathe. You couldn't move. Why couldn't you move? 

Falling to your knees, you tried to crawl. It was only then that you realized one of your hands held the blaster, still smoking from the shot to Poe's gut.

-

You pushed up from your mat to heave the remaining liquid in your stomach. By the time you came up for air, Finn was the one with a hand on your back, looking at you with concern. 

"I'm fine," you answered before he could question you. 

You glanced at Dameron's mat. Empty.

"He's patching into the General with Rose," Finn said, standing. 

You were more relieved than you liked to have been. 

"You good?" Finn asked gently. He kneeled to the end of your mat. He was worried, and nothing stopped him from finding the truth if Finn was concerned. 

"Yeah," you assured. "I'm fine."

You attempted a smile. Finn wasn't buying it.

"Last night… I went looking for you in the fresher."

Kriff. 

"Must have missed you,” you shrugged.

Finn eyed you once more. "Yeah... Must have."

It hurt... Finn's disappointed in you. If it were any other day, you'd yell the truth, laugh, and go with him to the mess hall for an early breakfast. He was your neighbor on base and a friend from that first day. 

But today was the mission you'd all come to see through to the end. A mission had no room for feelings or thoughts on Dameron. The mission always came first... No matter what.

"We have orders," Dameron dictated, walking with Rose from the trees. "The General wants that warehouse eliminated."

His voice felt like a blaster sound to your ears, which was fitting because Dameron looked ready for combat. He had donned tactical gear with two blasters strapped to his thighs. You could tell he was as visibly exhausted as you were—no sleep for either of you last night. 

Good. 

He deserved it. 

“Airstrike?" Finn asked. 

Rose shook her head. "She wants this done discretely. We'll need to set explosives from within."

Dameron wasn’t looking at you. So typical. He must have hated the very thought of you last night. As Finn asked more questions with Rose, you stared at Dameron, letting the rage you felt the previous night topple your anguish from this morning. But, instead, you tapped into that anger, that hatred you felt for him. 

Finally, he turned his gaze to you, absorbing every bout of rage you gave him. The look in his eyes hardened to the Commander you needed him to be… Black Leader of the Resistance who thought you were the scum under his boots. 

"Finn," he interrupted, cutting the cord of your stare, "You're on perimeter."

Finn nodded and prepared his pack.

"Tico," Dameron continued, “you're on comms.”

"I'll get the channel ready," she said, walking off her case.

He addressed your last name with a nod in your direction, "You're with me."

The blood rushes directly away from your face. "What?" 

"Didn't hear me?" he asked, scooping up the remainder of his sleeping mat.

"You never put me on ground," you gritted. Instead, he typically had you up on air support or permitter in a sniper position. 

"Congratulations," he responded with feigning cheer, "you've been promoted."

This idea of his was not happening.

"Commander," you voiced, your hands shaking, "I'm better served on the perimeter. I-"

"-am the best shot we have on base, which is why you're with me," he interjected. 

Damn him. "Dameron-"

"Am I clear, Black-Five?" He asked, his voice snapping your head to attention.

The mission came first, and it always would. You wouldn't let Dameron affect your mission no matter how you felt. 

"Yes, sir,” you responded, the mask finally slipping into place. 

His face remained grim. "Gear up."

-

This planet's sun had not risen as you went into the U-Wing. The General wanted to keep the X-Wings on base for discretion. The entire galaxy could spot Black Squadron's signature black hull a light-year away. You missed your ship now more than ever. The solace you felt in your cockpit was the best feeling in the world.

There was no solace that you'd find today on this mission with Dameron. 

He wasn't lying when he said you were the best shot. You had come a long way since those self-training secessions and practices off duty late at night. Now, you cursed yourself for being so damn good at it because the skill landed you with Dameron on this mission. 

In the ship, you geared up quietly for this mission, grabbing a rifle, two pistols, and your armor plates. You prepped the blasters methodically, attempting to focus. But, unfortunately, your mind had plans of its own. 

I'm giving you what you need. 

Like that?

There you go. 

Let go for me.  

You did so good, baby. 

"Five."

You nearly dropped the rifle in your hands. 

Dameron stood in the grass outside of the ship. It felt like an ocean stood between you both when in reality was just a few feet away. You closed the hatch to the U-Wing with shaky hands, joining him on the ground. 

He met you in the middle as you approached. The curls in his hair were more prominent with the humidity. The expression he wore was unreadable. You pledged to yourself that the mission would always come first, yet you couldn't contain a shiver down your spine as you met his eyes… the same eyes glazed over last night with his hands in your core. 

You suppressed a shutter as his hand outstretched toward yours with a comms device. 

"Channel H525," he said. 

The frequency crackled to life in your ear, a live feed that connected you all. 

"I'll be taking point," Dameron said, leading you both to the forest. 

You nodded, willing all thoughts from earlier to leave for good. The mission was what you had to focus on. The mission was all that mattered.

"How long are we in there?" You asked, swinging the rifle across your back. 

"Ten minutes." He walked to the tree line and you followed.

"Any other targets?" You asked, catching up to his speed. 

"No. We focus on the warehouse." 

Easy enough. This sounded like a shoo-in.

"Explosives?" Rose mentioned rigging it.

His hardened expression cracked. "The Tico Speciality. "

On any other mission, you would have rolled your eyes. "The Tico Specialty" was something Dameron coined when he didn't quite know what Rose made for him. Instead, you called him an asshole only a week ago for using it to reference the Sunday breakfast special on base. 

Today though, his little smirk warmed your cheeks. You couldn't see past the curve of his mouth or the playful look in his eye. He had to have realized it, too, because he dropped his expression as you walked past him. 

You broke first, brushing past him to go deeper into the foliage. You needed to get this mission done. You needed an out. You needed to get far away from Poe Dameron and his smiles, his eyes, his lips, his smell, his… everything.

And it was too dark for a morning in this damn forest… Almost as dark as it was last night in the alley. 

He called you by your last name. 

You ignored him and kept walking… away from him or yourself? Perhaps both. 

He jogged up to you, the leaves crunching under his boots. 

"Five-"

"I'm transferring out," you blurted, coming to a standstill. 

The words fell from your mouth, and you didn't even realize that you'd consider them. You felt his eyes boring into your back as you let your gaze fall to the ground.

"As soon as we're back to base," you said, swallowing a lump in your throat. 

Black Squadron was your dream, but Poe Dameron had turned it into your nightmare. You couldn't think when you were around him now. The Resistance cause was everything to you, but he destroyed you inside and out. 

How could you continue as normal if you could barely function after a tryst in the alleyway?

"It's for the best,” you added. 

He stepped closer. You could feel the heat of his body now, just a foot away. 

“If it’s what you want,” he said gently, voice steady. 

You barely managed a nod, and he continued to lead you to the rendezvous with Finn.

Once again, Dameron surprised you more times on this mission than ever before. You expected more of a fight. He'd never been shy in telling you to buck up on a mission, but now, Dameron was acting like the Commander you heard of before joining the team… Patient, considerate, and worth fighting along with in this bloody war.

You kept your head level as you followed him through the forest, no matter how badly you wanted to keep it fixed to the ground. 

-

"Finn to Tico, over."

"Go for Tico."

"We are approaching the warehouse. Standby for building scan."

"10-4, Finn. Standing by, over."

Finn turned on the scanner he brought to the warehouse. You stood with them on the hill overlooking the abandoned warehouse as it flew over the old building. 

"Tico to Black Leader. Scans received. The explosives will need to be put on two main pillars holding the structure together. Transferring the building schematic now."

Dameron lifted his holocomm for the group to see. 

Rose continued. "Zero life forms detected throughout the facility. The marked pillars are where you'll need to place the explosives. Attached to your comm is the detonator. "

"Roger that, Tico. Black Leader out." 

 Dameron looked to Finn. "What do you think?"

Finn studied the map further and then pointed to the mid-upper levels. "Place them here. Level 8. The weight of the upper floors will do most of the work we need."

Dameron closed the comm. "Level 8 it is."

Finn nodded. "Watch your backs. "

“Always,” Dameron responded, exchanging a look with Finn. 

On the slope down to the warehouse, you transformed into the soldier the mission needed. You unclipped a blaster out of your holster, slipping the safety off. As you approached a ground-level blaster door, Dameron linked his scomp to the door pad. 

"Tico to Blacker Leader, blaster door lock mechanism received," Rose sounded in your ear. "Standby for door open in three…"

You gripped your blaster right. 

"… Two."

Dameron shouldered next to you in a defense position as well. 

"… One."

The door slid open slowly to the warehouse, and you and Dameron walked into abandoned enemy territory. 

-

The ceiling went up nearly forty feet and was lined with old durasteel shelves. A few rusted machines sat on top of the shelving. They were huge, massive-looking weapons unlike any you had ever seen. What looks to be a few impressive shelves spanned back to the other side, encompassing the entire warehouse.

"Stay sharp," Dameron said, leading you both inside. 

You spotted what looked to be a turbo-lift to the right. “Tico, are you reading a turbo-lift?”

“Yes,” she chimed back. “Auxiliary power should still be running.”

Nodding to Dameron, you both entered the lift. You hit level eight on the pad, the lift groaning to life as it carried you both to your destination.  

The lower levels passed slowly, and you stood with him in that cramped space. The light was so dim you could barely see your fingers. You didn’t know what to expect on that final level. Despite the numerous galactic battles you've fought in, you felt frightened for the first time since joining the Resistance. On the other hand, Dameron was calm, as if he was made for this exact moment. You didn’t realize until the door opened that you had begun to breathe in sync with his calm breath. 

Dameron led point while you trained behind him, checking all corners with a sharp eye. At some point, the level was some command center, with fried military operation boards and multiple holoscreens. Shattered glass crunched under your boots. You didn't spend long looking at the tech graveyard before you spotted the first beam.

He slipped off the pack housing the explosives, attached one to the beam, and began the active signal back to Rose to confirm its connection to the detonator. The action took longer than you anticipated due to the connection with Rose being so far away to ensure everything was sound. 

"We're taking too long," you said. "Let me take the other-"

"We stay together," he brushed off. 

"We need to move faster."

The clock was ticking, and they were in the building for five minutes. 

Dameron looked to have battled with his inner thoughts until he finally reached into the bag, carefully pulling out the other explosive.

He gripped your outstretched wrist, forcing your eyes back to his. They swirled with an emotion you were all too familiar with last night.

"Shoot anything that isn't me," he pressed, the glint in his eyes darkening.

Kriff. Your heart rate quickened. This grip on your wrist was the first time he'd touched you since- 

No. 

None of that would do right now. 

You nodded. He let go, his eyes still tracking you as you went to search for the other beam in the dark.

You pressed further into the room, the light flickering on inch by inch by your motion. Then, seeing the beam behind another command center, you instantly went to work. 

You worked with Rose quietly to set the signal up. As you waited, so did your gaze wander. The level was trashed but purposely trashed. The blows to everything were self-inflicted rather than in defense. 

What exactly did they try to cover up?

"Tico to Black-Five. Signal is made."

You breathed a sigh of relief. "10-4, Tico."

"Black Leader to Black-Five, come in," Dameron's voice crackled over your earpiece. 

"Explosives are set, Black-Leader," you signaled back. 

“Roger that. Meet me at the turbo-lift."

"Roger that, over."

Dameron was there by the lift as you expected. You both were still keeping a wary eye out with blasters in your hands, but a look of ease crossed his face before hailing Rose. "Black-Leader to Tico and Finn, all explosives have been set."

"Copy that. Commencing flight prep now," Rose chimed from the other side.

"Finn to Black-Leader and Black-Five… who did a better job between you both?"

You caught Dameron staring at you as he responds. "Black-Leader to Finn. Myself, of course, over." 

"Finn to Black Leader, that's a lie, and we all know it, over."

You bit back a smile. Usually, this kind of teasing would have irritated you, but the tone of Dameron's voice had shifted to create a new meaning behind his words. Or perhaps… something in you had shifted. Dameron caught your smile, his eyes lighting up for the first time since last night.

As quickly as that joy came, so did it leave. 

Soon the mission would be over, and soon you would be leaving this team. 

It was for the best… That was what you would tell yourself on the way back to base. 

Dameron let his smile drop as well, hitting the turbo-lift button.

Nothing.

A moment passed before he hit the turbo lift again, but the door remained closed.

"A short circuit?" You thought aloud.

"… Must be," he agreed.

You both gripped the pistols in your hands a little tighter. 

"Rose," he signaled, "we're going to need another way out."

"Scanning the level 8 now," she replied. "You should have a stairwell forty-five degrees east of the turbo-lift."

Dameron assumed point position as you both moved toward the stairwell. However, you didn't get to a stairwell but walked up to a large blaster door instead.

Dameron cursed. "Tico, there is no stairwell."

She shuffled around behind the comes before answering. "That's… impossible. According to your position, you aren't even remotely close to the stairwell. It's at least fifty feet from you. 

"Fifty," you echoed. Something wasn't right. "Are you not seeing this blaster door?”

"No," Rose said. “Not seeing anything.”

You ran a hand across the blaster door's edges. As your hands grazed the cool durasteel, you felt cold air on your fingertips through the overlapped panels.

"There's an air current," you murmured aloud, walking over to Dameron.

Dameron stepped forward, aiming his blaster at the panel door. "Time to improvise.”

He shot the panel, frying the circuits. The blast door groaned open. 

“Shit,” he breathed. 

He was putting it lightly.

"Rose," you hailed, “are you seeing this?" 

You were looking at a full-scale First Order hanger bay … lined with TIE starfighters.

A static sound came back through your earpiece. Then, finally, your gaze fell to Dameron, who leveled his blaster up, taking in small step over the hanger threshold.

The hanger felt like a ship graveyard. Some ships had their solar wings shattered, while others didn't have a scratch on them. 

"I've got a bad feeling about this," he warned, eyes scanning the hanger. You couldn't help but agree, gaping at the number of ships. 

If it wasn't for the faint beeping sound echoing from somewhere in the hanger, you might have made it to the stairwell. 

Dameron signaled you to stop. "You hearing that."

"Wish I wasn't," you responded. 

Maker, this could not be good because he began leading you both in the direction of whatever was making that noise.

You crept forward to the front of the hanger bay near where a magnetic field projector would be but what looked to be a giant blaster door. 

Hidden behind a busted TIE sat an Upsilon-class command with the ramp down. The beeping came from the ship. What the hell was a shuttle craft doing here?

Dameron gestured to begin the approach. You moved toward the ship's left side while Dameron flanked the right. He signaled you to hold at the bottom of the ramp while he slowly crept up. 

He was up there for what felt like a minute too long. Time was up, and you both needed to escape this hell hole. You were there to watch his back and get you both out of there.

It was not his back, though, that you had to worry about in this mission.

You realized too late that you both had walked into a trap as you felt the cold metal of a blaster barrel pressed against your head. 

-

A/N: Oops... did I do that? :) What can I say I'm a sucker for some good angst. Don't worry, our fair lady smut will be back. For any film fans, the training sequence was inspired by one of my favorite films, The Mask of Zorro. If you haven't seen, I highly recommend!

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron fic #poe dameron angst #poe dameron #star wars fanfiction #my fic #poe dameron x female reader #oscar isaac #poe dameron smut #poe dameron x y/n #storyarcscribe

[literallyjustanerd]

Chapter 4! It's exactly 5000 words! It's Codywan fluff and angst! It's got a clone OC cameo!

Cody divider by @freesia-writes with gorgeous helmet art by @lornaka

Summary: Brothers, reunited at last. As Cody and Rex fill in the blanks of their time spent separated, memories from before the end of the war float closer than ever to the surface. Memories of his general. And though he's overjoyed to be with Rex again, all is not well, in a way Cody can't quite understand. Will he be ready, when everything that has been hidden comes to light?

Words: 5000

Read it on AO3 or below! Hope you enjoy. Any and all comments are loved and appreciated and metaphorically printed out and pinned up with heart magnets on the little fridge in my mind :)

Obi-Wan moves like a ribbon through wind. Fluid and graceful, slick and sharp. Beautiful and devastating. The bright Kashyyyk sun turns his tunic translucent and sets his silhouette aflame as Cody watches and awes from below. It would be a death sentence to anyone else, yet Obi-Wan makes a dance of it. He’s an artist, each gleaming blue brushstroke leaving trails of elegant carnage in its wake. Around Cody the men cheer, an orchestra raising an accompaniment to their general's display. He loses grip on his saber when a droid knocks him forward, sends it plunging to the bottom of the canyon where his men had been cornered. Cody doesn’t fret, he has no need: it doesn’t slow his general in the slightest. Droidekas are airborne, then minced to scrap metal on the rock face with a regal wave of Obi-Wan’s hand. SBDs explode into blue and orange starbursts. They’re all but ignored by their destroyer, as though their purpose is merely to provide the gust of wind that artfully ruffles Obi-Wan’s auburn hair. He’s a poet. He’s a cyclone. He’s a force of nature. He’s Obi-Wan . 

The last droid falls, tumbling gracelessly from the cliff face above. Obi-Wan descends after it to the whoops and hollers of the 212th. With impossible lightness and an ethereal calm, he meets ground, mere feet away from Cody. Close enough that Cody can see how his pale cheeks have pinked with exertion. It’s the only hint that he has expended any effort at all, and somehow it only makes him look more radiant. His breath still eluding him, Cody steps forward and presents Obi-Wan’s lightsaber to him like it’s an offering at an altar. Fingers brush with a jolt of electricity, and he isn’t ready for the look in Obi-Wan’s eyes when their gazes meet: he’s looking into a mirror, seeing his own awe and adulation reflected back at him. Obi-Wan looks at him like he’s the rising sun, like he’s the one defying odds, gravity, and logic. The smile on his face as he takes the saber lights a fire in Cody’s chest, his next words fuel to the flame.

“Wherever would I be without you?”

“Your message… I couldn’t believe it. Thought I’d–” Rex chokes on the last word, his smile trembling, fighting to stay on his lips. He breathes a slow breath, and finally, the giddy haze around them begins to lift. “When I heard you’d gone AWOL, I thought it was just another Empire cover-up. I… I thought they’d killed you.” Cody reaches forward again to grip Rex’s forearm. Their foreheads collide with a comforting bloom of pain, a few more seconds lost to silence as Rex’s words sink in. Cody means to speak again, he does. But he can’t seem to find enough air in his lungs for any of the things he wants to say, nor does he think his ears could stand to hear the answers to his questions. Seldom has he ever felt so weak, and the feeling grits on him, sandpaper against his skin. He shudders to imagine what his men would think of him, had they ever seen him in such a state. A man reborn, stripped of his rank, his identity taken with it. For the first time in Cody’s life, he feels nothing like a Marshal Commander. As disquieting as it is, as untethered and formless as it makes him feel, it does little to dull his joy at the familiar face before him. He may not be Marshal Commander anymore, but for the present moment, at least, he thinks he can settle for being a brother.

Cody and Rex stay on the floor of the transport, gripping tight to each other for longer than Cody cares to count. They’re both breathless through tears and laughter, their embrace so vigorous it’s almost violent. Cody doesn’t care: Rex could break his ribs and Cody wouldn’t blame him one bit. It’s a small eternity before either of them can speak. When they do, it’s both of them at once, their words tripping over boyish giggles, jostling and shoving each other playfully, like children.

“Where’d you get this bucket of bolts?”

“–missed you so kriffing much–”

“You looked like a maniac back there!”

“–can’t believe it’s really you –”

“You actually found me, you really–”

Both of them join for the final refrain:

“You’re here. ”

Rex stands, reaches a hand out to help Cody off the floor, then leads him down the short hall to the cockpit, all the while speaking with another clone through the comm, arranging a rendezvous point somewhere in a system Cody isn’t familiar with. At Rex’s order, the ship’s other crewmates clear the cockpit. Thoughtful of him, Cody thinks, to give them both some time alone. Once he shakes this strange feeling from his bones he imagines he and Rex will be up half the night catching up. He takes the co-pilot’s seat as his brother sets the navicomputer, watching him work. Pale, shallow shadows roam across Rex’s face from the console lights, dipping into and deepening the lines on his brow and around his jaw, his mouth pulled to one side in focus. Once their course is laid, he releases a breath, and his shoulders lax somewhat into the worn seat behind him. Only then can Cody, too, let his aching limbs go. 

Eventually, Rex breaks the silence, laying his words out careful and slow in a way that pricks Cody's ears.

“Cody,” he says, low, “brother, I have to ask.” Cody’s back straightens. “Your inhibitor chip. Do you still have it?”

Memories lurch into his mind, sick and burrowing like Geonosian brain worms. Rex’s grief and panic after Fives’ death. The frantic searching for what it could all mean. Feeling it all the while deep in his bones, knowing there was something big, dark and snarling waiting for all of them just out of sight. The incoming transmission on Utapau that day, and the phantom words that had haunted him, hunted him in every quiet moment since.

Execute Order 66.

Good soldiers follow orders.

In the end, all he can do is nod. Rex stands abruptly, hand moving to the commlink on his vambrace. Beneath him, the storm-grey durasteel presses just slightly colder through his threadbare trousers.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,” Rex says, though Cody can’t be sure whether it’s directed at him or himself. His brother is a restless nexu pacing the length of the hold, turning sharply on his heel as he keys in a comm frequency. Each swift switchback coils Cody’s guts tighter, wringing a nauseating tension into his limbs. 

“I have a medical freighter on standby. We’ll get it removed.”

The questions begin.

It shouldn’t surprise him to learn just how vast the network is that Rex has built. He had read all The Empire’s reports on Rex’s activities, scoured them obsessively in fact, but in reality they barely scraped the surface of Rex’s operations. It seemed he had contacts everywhere, from covert agents lurking in the Coruscant underbelly to runaways-turned-pirates skirting the outer rims, Even on Nal Hutta, which, as it turned out, was the only reason Rex had been able to find Cody at all.

“Sent some men down to the bazaar where we traced your message. Had to bribe a saloon keeper to let us review their security holos, but we saw you leave with the scrapper crew,” he says. Cody nods along. Is it jealousy he feels at such a well-planned, coordinated team effort? “From there, we got in contact with a few clones in the scrapper guild, and managed to work out which crew it was and where you were headed.”

All those brothers. All living outside The Empire’s control. Just scraping by, yes, and by no means deluded enough to consider themselves safe, but out there nonetheless. Free, in a certain sense, certainly more so than they'd ever been under The Empire or The Republic. And all of them, even the ones not directly fighting, not only knew Rex, but respected his orders, trusted his advice, deferred to his command. A familiar pride swells in his chest when he hears Rex speak about it, the kind only a big brother can feel. 

It takes hours, or that’s how it feels to Cody: he hasn’t bothered to check the chrono. Rex tells him of their clone rebellion: Echo, Riyo Chuchi, all the missing or presumed dead clones that still have some fight left.

“It’s not easy going,” he admits, as though it bears saying aloud. “But we’ve managed to save a few. We’re getting stronger. Slowly.” Cody is struck dumb when Rex asks for inside information: the Kamino plot, the supposed pension plan, the rumoured clone decomissionings. The wounds of their recent past are even fresher than Cody thought, it seems: the salt of Rex’s questions stings more than he expects. He can’t bear not to be honest, though: he has no new information to share on the subjects, and in fact seems to know less than Rex himself. He had been kept even further in the dark than he’d known, moving hands passing him by in the dark corners his eyes had never adjusted to. A pawn in a game played just to kill time, to keep him busy while The Empire tightened their grip. Marshal Commander in name only, placated and too occupied with his own demons to question what was happening just out of view. The sharp breath punched from his lungs seems to fill the whole cockpit, the space around him shrinking to cage him in. The pains in his head have returned, to corral his thoughts away from where he tries to reach. Rex’s eyes are on him, he can feel it.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" he breathes. Cody doesn't reply. 

When his throat has turned scratchy from talking past the threat of tears, the river finally runs dry, and the questions stop, at least for the moment. Their journey is still far from over, and Cody suspects there will soon be more to talk about, once they have wrapped their minds around all they have covered so far, but for now there is peace. In the interim, Rex works a datapad at his side, brow furrowed over whatever report he’s reading. It's almost rhythmic, the way he keeps sparing glances in Cody’s direction. Every few minutes, attention shifting from the console, his head tilts over his shoulder to look surreptitiously over at his brother. Checking that Cody is still there, like they used to do before a drill test as cadets. A flicker of comfort warms Cody’s chest, fighting off the frost from deep within. It's a much-needed solace to know that Rex has felt Cody's absence just as keenly as Cody has felt Rex’s. It soothes Cody's mind, still aching from the sheer volume of information he's taken in over he and Rex's last few hours together. It’s hard not to ruminate, more on the subjects they didn’t cover than the ones they did, the unspoken questions that seem to take up more space the longer they’re left unsaid, their weight pressing on Cody’s chest as minutes scrape by.

He presses his fingers into his ribs, hard. It doesn’t do enough to hold him together, tendons and sinew unspooling themselves at his nape, in his stomach, through his feet. He answers each of Rex’s questions as plainly as he knows how, despite the growing fear of what Rex will think burrowing deeper into his brain. Each sordid detail laid bare in the harsh, blinding sun of his own words. Every order he followed with unblinking obedience, every awful act overlooked with play-pretend loyalty.

“I wanted to leave. I wanted to stop, I didn’t want to do any of it.” 

He speaks of the bitter jealousy that spurned him every time another brother came up missing on the morning ledger, even as he personally recited the warrants for their capture. The jealousy, sometimes, even of the brothers whose obituaries he had read. 

“I just couldn’t stop it. Whenever I tried, I– I didn't know where else to–"

Just when he feels he will lose his words altogether, Rex’s hand alights on his shoulder, cool water on a raw burn.

“I understand, brother. I know ,” he says. “We all do.”

When they finally lurch out of hyperspace, it knocks the question clean out of Cody’s lungs.

“What about the Jedi?” he blurts, and Rex’s hands freeze on the console. Both, Cody imagines, from the question itself and from hearing his brother sound so uncharacteristically fragile. His sigh is an answer of its own, in a way. Rex’s thoughts seem to press down on him until they drive a deep crease in his brow. Without the haloed light of hyperspace, the shadows have sharpened into a harsher relief, leaving jagged shapes carved into his face. His expression is resigned: he had been waiting for Cody to ask.

“We’ve… heard of surviving Jedi,” he says carefully. “But they’re few and far between. Most are just rumours. We’ve got almost no reliable intel on anything solid.” 

“But there are some reliable reports?”

A long pause follows. Cody gets the sense that Rex is debating with himself, whether or not to answer. Who is he protecting?

“Commander Tano was with you on Mandalore,” Cody presses, “wasn’t she?”

Rex nods, shakily.

“I read the reports. The venator crash… they said it killed everyone. Before they knew you were alive, your name was on that list. How–”

As weak as the shuddering breath is from beside him, it’s enough to cut Cody off. He hangs in the silence that follows, suddenly scared to even move.

“It was all Ahsoka,” he utters. His eyes won’t meet Cody’s. “Without her…”

It’s slow. It’s agonising. It’s like being frozen in carbonite piece by agonising piece . But Rex tells him everything. Every gut-wrenching detail of escaping the crash. And all the brothers who didn’t.

“She’s out there,” Rex finally says, once the storm lets up. “She’s… not ready. Can’t join the fight, not yet. She needs time.” His voice catches, quavering on his last words, and it sends a sharp sting into the corners of Cody’s eyes, too.

“She’s just a kid.”

Seconds pass. Rex allows Cody time to try and voice the question it seems they both know comes next. It remains unsaid, but Rex answers nonetheless.

“I’m sorry, brother. We haven’t heard anything of General Kenobi.” Cody bobs his head in a nod. With searching eyes and analytical intent, Rex watches his reaction, measuring, gauging. Cody shrinks under the attention, unsure what Rex is looking to find and fearing every possible answer.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I wouldn’t have expected it.” What he had hoped , on the other hand… 

“And General Skywalker?” Cody says, suddenly as desperate to be off the topic as he had been to address it. Rex’s mouth twitches, head shaking.

“I used to hope…” He sighs. “The reports all had holes in them. Thought it might mean he’d made it out.” He turns his gaze out the windshield. “But if he had survived, he wouldn’t be hiding. He’d still be fighting with us. I’m sure of it.”

Kashyyyk sings at night. An orchestra of warbling birds, howling pack animals and croaking insects. Even the wind through the forest behind lays a low, haunting melody over the velvet-soft undergrowth. It’s nothing like the stifling soundlessness of Kamino, or the driving, demanding mechanical rhythm of Coruscant. Cody leans forward, knee drawn up, to poke at the fire, embers curling triumphantly upward. Obi-Wan sits beside him, legs folded neatly into his usual meditation stance. On haphazardly scattered bedrolls, their men surround them, sleeping sound. Peace, rare and precious. Especially for Cody.

“Beautiful night.” Obi-Wan keeps his voice hushed, pitched low and gravelly. Cody turns to him. The flickering of the fire throws dappled light over Obi-Wan, glints of light and shadow showering him like golden flower petals.

“It is.”

A particularly mournful bird call sounds from somewhere behind them. 

“After the war I should like to return here,” Obi-Wan muses, “and explore it freely. There is so much history in this place. It's a shame to have to see it in such unrest."  His words are poignant, he knows, but Cody can’t take in anything beyond the first three.

“Do you think about that often?” he asks, skirting his gaze around Obi-Wan. “About… after?”

Obi-Wan shifts, sighs, leans back on his hands to tip his head to the stars. There’s a faraway look on his face, the tiny creases at the corners of his eyes growing like spring seedlings when he smiles. One of his tabards is slipping free from his shoulder, leaving a pale collarbone uncovered to the night. He does not adjust it. 

“I have already picked every old text and scroll I will study, when I finally have the time,” he says in answer. “Perhaps eventually, I will even take on another padawan. But first, I will travel. Until I find somewhere quiet and peaceful to rest.” He pauses a beat before half-heartedly adding, “Should the council allow it, of course.” Cody ponders the words, turns them over in his head like a puzzle, but still he can’t make them fit quite right in his head. The life Obi-Wan speaks of is beautiful. It’s all Cody would want for him. But he’s still trying to cut holes in his own reality to make those words fit when Obi-Wan speaks again.

“And yourself, Commander?” Struck dumb, Cody can only blink. Obi-Wan straightens beside him and tilts his head. “What do you want for yourself, once the war is over?”

And what can he do but be honest, when he turns to meet those dizzying blue eyes?

“I imagine you in a cosy little place,” Obi-Wan tells him, shifting his legs and turning to face Cody fully. His cloak and tunic sway with him, leaves in a gentle breeze. “Somewhere peaceful and green. Somewhere you can make entirely your own. Your whole life, you have given everything you have to your men. It’s one of your most admirable qualities,” and oh, Cody is not ready for what Obi-Wan’s smile does to his chest, how his words reach through his ribs and wring his heartstrings to breaking, “but I wish to see you take care of yourself, too. I want for you to build yourself a home. And I believe I know you well enough to know that somewhere within you, you wish for the same. ”

“I’ve never considered it,” he says, tacking an awkward “sir” to the end. “I’m a soldier. We all are. We don’t know any other way. Without this war… none of us have a purpose.”

With the look that Obi-Wan gives him, Cody may as well have shot his general in the heart. Obi-Wan's mouth falls ajar, but he stifles his instinctual reply and seems to ponder Cody’s answer deeply.

“One’s greater purpose is rarely just to be all that their creator intended,” he says finally, speaking the words like a prayer into the night. “You are more than this war, all of you. You have given so much for The Republic, but that is not your worth. You deserve more, you should want for more than this.”

Insides twisting and pulse stuttering in his fingertips, Cody tries to speak, to give the answer he knows Obi-Wan is waiting for. The fire lends him tendrils of gentle warmth, but its comfort, and Obi-Wan’s raw, solemn sincerity are formidable opponents. When it becomes clear that words are beyond him, Obi-Wan continues in his place. Ever eloquent, ever earnest, ever considerate. Cody’s brow pinches with a soft, tender, beautiful kind of pain.

What was it he had said next?

The stars blur when Cody looks up at them, blinking back the mist that gathers in his gaze. His pulse beats like battle drums as he takes a breath, steels his nerves, and meets Obi-Wan’s eye with the resolve of something more than a soldier.

“Do you imagine yourself there, too?”

The simple, sweet curve of Obi-Wan’s lip tears Cody into shreds, burns him to ash and pieces him back together in an instant. He sighs, soft and perfect, and leans in close. Around them, Kashyyyk’s gentle hymn reaches a soaring crescendo as Obi-Wan presses a lingering, reverent kiss to the scar below Cody’s eye.

Cody strains to finish the memory, until the now-familiar pain lances through the back of his skull. He flinches with it, lurching in his seat and drawing in a sharp breath, defences already worn down. A quick movement in the corner of his vision draws his attention, and when he looks toward it, his heart plummets through his feet. Rex’s eyes bore into Cody, wide, alert and searching. Rex tries to cover it up, to disguise it, but Cody had already seen: Rex’s hand had twitched toward his blaster. The curtain is pulled back, and the truth looms bright and terrifying behind it. 

Emptying the cockpit. Treating him so carefully. The reluctance to speak of the Jedi. The constant, furtive glances in his direction. They hadn’t been for Cody’s comfort.

Cody almost throws up on the spot.

Rex is scared of him.

He’s crushed by the weight of a dozen atmospheres as he realises fully just what his brother has been through, why he was so insistent on removing his chip as soon as possible. The rest of the journey, he can barely bring himself to breathe, determined to make himself as still and quiet as possible, desperate to keep from making things worse than they already were. He will get his chip removed, and everything will be okay. He won’t ever again have to see his brother look at him like an active landmine or a rancor set to charge.

They reach their rendezvous not a moment too soon.

Cody is brought on board, walking two steps behind Rex, nearly tripping on his feet. The waiting ship is as jerry-rigged and cobbled-together as its crew, and its medical bay is no different: all the supplies look stolen or salvaged, a far cry from the cold, pristine sterility Cody is used to seeing from medical bays. Needless to say, he’s apprehensive at the thought of surrendering his brain to the subpar equipment. But it’s easily overshadowed. For Rex. And for himself, as well. In truth, he’s been just as afraid of his mind as Rex for months now, and the thought of an end to the torment is enough to lure him through the seven Sith hells and back again. Rex explains the procedure as he half-listens, and as he’s positioning himself on the table, the doors hiss open and a medic enters. Much to Cody’s surprise, the clone’s scars and tattoos are familiar.

“...Lieutenant Finch?”

The clone above him meets his eye, then lifts his fingers to a lazy salute, grazing the winding serpent tattoo coiled at his hairline.

“Commander,” he says blithely. There’s a dry smile in his voice that just barely reaches his lips.

“You two know each other?” Rex’s voice rises, confused, from behind.

“I was decanted to the 212th,” Finch explains over his shoulder, foregoing eye contact and instead booting up and programming the surgical droid. “You know, before–”

“Before you deserted,” Cody finishes. Finch snaps his fingers into a point in Cody’s direction, giving a single, curt nod.

Breathe. In. 

Tension ekes into the room, like static electricity before a storm. Cody can feel Rex’s eyes on him. He can imagine how his brother’s mind turns, mapping out every direction this could go. Possibilities like trails of water carving a fractured, splintering path through dust. It was years ago, early in his career, but Cody can remember clear as day how he had felt when he’d received the report of the lieutenant’s desertion. All that hurt and righteous anger. The confusion as strong as the scorn at how one of his own could leave their ranks. He had felt so personally betrayed, as though the desertion was a black mark over his own head. In a way, he supposes, it was: never before had he been forced to confront the possibility that he and his brothers might disagree with their programming, were capable of taking their fate into their own hands. He’d blamed Finch for the fury that followed in himself. In retrospect, he’s not so sure that that is who, or what , he was really angry at. Cody lays his head back flat on the table. A sharp breath leaves him in what could almost be mistaken for a laugh.

“Guess you were smarter than all of us in the end, huh?” is all he says. 

There is no response from any of them, each listening in their own silent reverie as water trickles past them down an unfamiliar path.

A few minutes later, Finch has finished setting up for the procedure. Rex grips Cody’s arm tight before he goes under, tells him it’s going to be alright. As darkness seeps in from the edges of his vision and Rex’s voice grows distant and muddled, Cody tries to believe him.

Breathe. Out. 

Black. Thick, coddling, a woollen blanket muffling all his senses. Space, empty. Cavernous. The implication of an echo. No sound. Toes edge toward a precipice. Nothing, nothing, nothing, all the way down. A perfect nothing. A mollifying nothing. A final nothing. Toes over. Falling. Peace, relief, absolution. Mercy. Silence, finally, gods almighty, silence. Light on the horizon. It’s over. Rest. It’s done. Limbs move fluid, unchained. Unbound for the first time, feather-light and rejoicing. More light, bigger, brighter. Then colour. Shape. Then sound. Voice. 

Cody’s eyes open in small, seeking movements, attuned to absence. To beautiful, exultant, glorious absence. For the first time since Order 66, perhaps for the first time since the moment he’d been lifted from his incubation tube, Cody’s mind is utterly and completely clear, empty. Quiet. He wallows in it, drinking in the fleeting euphoria. A split second later, he hears it. Words unburied, memory unshrouded.

“Cody, my love… I can’t imagine myself anywhere else.”

To break that vow.

It’s only the first drop of the storm that follows, a single blade of grass in an endless, sprawling meadow. A million more memories follow in its wake: a private moment stolen together while working late, a surreptitious glance shared across the war room. A warm hand in his, holding tight but always gentle. His fingers smoothing through autumn-coloured hair. Tender words and hushed laughter. A single beam of light through a window, a single perfect morning. Waking slow, tangled in sun-warmed sheets, with the whole galaxy held sound in his arms. A whispered promise, a vow sealed with his lips against the gentle, curving valley between neck and shoulder.

His arm, heavy as stone, raising a blaster. To follow orders.

Great, flowered vines grow from the cracks in Cody’s psyche, probing, pushing at his mind. Too big, many for how small he has become.

His skull splits open. A sob tears itself from his throat, rattling his chest.

With graceless limbs he pitches himself upward, only to be held down by firm hands. He tries to cry out, but all that comes is the barest whimper.

“I fired at him. I tried to– Rex, brother, I– Maker, I ordered it all .”

He feels the embrace moments before his flagging senses catch up, vision plunged into darkness when he buries his face in Rex’s shoulder.

“Breathe, vod.” He obeys without thought or question. “Just breathe. It’ll pass.”

The sight of Rex still there, still by his side, barely disguising his concern, sets a fresh, raging flood over his mind, dragging more memories like driftwood to the surface. Every traitorous thought he’d ever had before the end of the war. Every restrained conversation he’d had with his brothers, with Rex especially, over what would become of them after the war. Every time they questioned The Republic, the Chancellor, the Jedi Council. Endless, circular debates always coming to the same dead end. Wanting to escape. Not wanting to abandon their men. The chilling, horrible dread in his bones touching down on Utapau, the foreboding feeling that it was already too late.

It’s a long while before Cody regains enough sense to sit and speak. Rex does not leave his side for a moment. He’s given a ration bar and a mug of caf. It’s bitter and burned. He drinks it to the last drop. Finally, mercifully, the silence begins to feel less like oppression and more like peace, as the pounding pressure in his head abates. His mouth quirks in a dry smirk when he finally raises his voice.

“Tell me I’m not the only one who took it that badly.”

Rex’s laugh is a balm to every wound he’s ever suffered, deep, full-chested and free. Leaning forward, he slaps Cody’s back, his shoulders hanging loose, at ease.

“You took it like a champ,” he chuckles. Cody wants to sing, to jump and cry for joy like a child. He has his brother back. But still, lurking behind his relief, the rest of his revelations threaten to drag him back under.

“Come on.” Rex stands and holds a hand out to him, his smile softer now but still stubbornly bright. As though he can read Cody’s mind, he says, “I know we’ve got a lot to talk about. We’ll get to it, I promise. But you need to rest.”

The doors glide open, and Cody doesn’t hesitate before stepping back into the world as himself once more.

“We’ve got our next heading. I’ll fill you in later,” Rex says, walking in step at his side. “For now, I think some of the boys have a game of sabacc going. It'll be a good way to introduce you.” 

He cracks a wide, teasing grin in Cody’s direction.

“You still a filthy cheat?”

#dear fellow traveler #codywan #codywan fic #codywan fanfic #sw tcw #sw tcw fanfic #commander cody #clone commander cody #captain rex #drabble

[velidewrites]

When the senator of Chandrila’s debts catch up with him at last, the Galactic Empire places a bounty on his daughter’s head. But Elain Archeron is cunning, and she will not go down without a fight—certainly not to the handsome Mandalorian hunter, intent on claiming his prize.

Notes: Part 1/2 of my contribution to Day 7: AU of @elucienweekofficial! Dedicated to @melting-houses-of-gold who patiently listened to my ramblings about this fic <3

Tags: Alternate Universe - Star Wars, Mandalorian Bounty Hunter!Lucien x Bounty!Elain

Warnings: None (filthy smut in part 2 as I am once again unable to write porn without feelings)

Read on AO3

Part 1

The ship is disturbingly loud.

Elain doesn’t know much about spacecraft, but the sputtering hum of her H-Type Nubian’s engines is concerning enough that she imagines anyone else in her position would feel unsettled. She should have expected the complications—she’d been warned about them, in fact—but she still shifts in her seat uncomfortably.

The yacht has been borrowed to her by Vassa, the former queen of Naboo and a longtime friend—and, for the past four years, a senator within the ranks of the Galactic Empire. Vassa herself had not been present on Naboo during Elain’s stay, called away by what she called a sham of a voting in the Senate, but her people had been informed in advance well enough to take care of the entire process.

Elain Archeron is being smuggled.

It is precisely why she’s been lent the H-Type. The ship is pre-Empire, which means it will—it should—fly under the radar, staying off the Empire’s scopes. It’s not that Elain is a fugitive—not yet, at least—but she has no doubt the Chandrilan government will alert the Senate of her disappearance once they realise Lord Archeron’s daughter has escaped. She isn’t important enough to have Destroyers sent after her, but Elain has never been one to take her chances. Especially not on a day like this.

Especially not on her wedding day.

She has been putting it off since the day she turned fifteen, and it was only the love Lord Archeron supposedly bore for his daughter that kept Elain from an arrangement to be put in place immediately afterwards, as per the Chandrilan custom. Now, though, at twenty-three…Elain had run out of excuses.

The message arrived while she was on Naboo, spending the summer with Vassa as she did nearly every year. A holo-recording of Senator Archeron happily announced her engagement to Graysen Nolan, the only son of Governor Nolan—perhaps the single richest man on Chandrila, Elain’s own family not even coming close in wealth. This will be good for us, Elain, her father said. Finally, the tide turns favourably in our direction.

Elain was not inclined to agree.

Vassa, thank the Maker, had helped her put the plan in motion almost immediately, arranging for safe, undercover passage to the Outer Rim through one of the old hyperspace lanes, abandoned by the Republic during the Clone War. Her intel claimed the route to be safe enough to pass through undetected, which, for Elain, was more than enough.

Graysen Nolan is not old or, superficial as it may be, unattractive by any means. He is quite handsome actually and, as her father so vehemently assured her, quite ridiculously wealthy—but the twenty-eight year old man has a flaw.

He’s an Imperial.

Elain would never dare voice it out loud—in the eyes of the Empire, she is all but a loyal subject, a pretty face to put on Chandrila’s posters and nothing more. But deep down, in a place deep and uncharted like the Wild Space itself, Elain despises them with her whole, insignificant being.

The Senator does not share his daughter’s sentiment, of course—he is a loyalist through and through. It’s what made Elain despise him, too—despise the coward hiding behind expensive gestures and grand speeches. The coward who’d chosen the Empire over his family.

Over the two daughters it had taken from him.

Elain closes her eyes and rests the back of her head against the yacht’s sleek wall, the cool metal doing nothing to ease the pain of the memory. The ship shakes slightly as it charts the course into hyperspace, sending tremors into her bones where it comes into contact with her body. This is one of the crafts with strong deflector shields, Elain reminds herself. As long as they manage to avoid the asteroid field, they will be fine. Probably.

The ship sputters again, and, once again, doubt washes over her in a surging wave. This is probably the fourth or fifth time in the past hour that she’s reconsidered this whole ordeal, the very first one nearly sending her into cardiac arrest as she first saw the ship, the once glistening silver now rusted and peeling off in certain places, as though damaged by battle. It probably was. Elain can’t even begin to count how many attacks on her life Vassa had endured during the Clone War, the controversial Senator constantly the subject of immense interest to the now-extinct Separatist leaders.

She looks around the space, the air suddenly tight. She knows this is going to work—has been assured of it a hundred times—and yet, for some reason, dread continues to build in her chest all the same. Through the wide viewport of the cockpit, even the stars seem to flicker in warning.

“Are we clear?” she asks the pilot nervously.

The pilot, a man Vassa has personally vouched for, half-turns to her from his chair. “We’re calculating the jump, my Lady.”

Elain shifts in her own seat. “How much longer?”

The ground shakes violently before he manages to open his mouth.

Her four guards—or Vassa’s guards, since Elain abandoned her own when she’d sneaked out from her bedchamber’s terrace—jolt upright, white-gloved hands wrapped tightly around their blasters.

“What is happening?!” Elain yells when the floor trembles again, the ship groaning loudly.

All the blood drains from the pilot’s face. “Someone docked in from below.”

Elain’s blood chills. “Impossible.” They couldn’t have realised it yet—she’d purposefully opted to run in the middle of the night, way after the Chandrilan guard conducted their security check. She expected them to find her bed empty in the morning—but not now, merely an hour after her escape.

The commander of her escort looks at his subordinate, his face tight and deep with what seems like thousands of creases. “Check out the disturbance,” he barks, the guard only nodding before he disappears from the cockpit.

“Empire?” Elain asks, the question no more than a whisper. The pilot shakes his head, looking at the beeping controls in disbelief.

“It can’t be—this ship is supposed to be invisible.”

Elain chokes on a breath. “Supposed to?”

The pilot seems breathless, too. “My Lady—” 

His words are interrupted by a singular shot of blaster fire as it cuts through the air. Then, a loud thud as a body falls to the metal floor.

Elain yelps.

One of her guards grabs her by the arm, his grip tight enough to crush the veins beneath her skin. “My Lady, we must hide.”

“Escape pods?” Elain pants.

The commander’s expression looks grave. “There are none on this ship.” He looks at the entrance to the cockpit, and a ringing silence ripples through the air as they all realise the guard has not yet returned—which means the body they’d heard was likely not the intruder’s.

“Hide her,” the commander barks to his remaining two men. “Seal the entrance.” And with that, he, too, disappears between the automatic door, the sharp whoosh of it closing foreboding in a way Elain can’t quite describe.

Not a single person in the cockpit dares to utter so much as a breath as they listen in to the commander’s steps, echoing through the passageway. One second passes, then two—then three.

There is a muffled sound of struggle before the blaster is fired again, yet another thud as what is undoubtedly the commander’s body falls to the floor.

What happens next is a blur to Elain.

The pilot sucks in a breath, and the two guards begin shouting at each other, one order after another as Elain is pulled back toward the small storage space hidden under the pilot’s seat. One of the men lunges for the door, his own weapon at the ready as he aims for the control panel. Elain squeezes her eyes shut, preparing for the shot.

Except that when the shot finally comes, it does not sound from her guard’s sleek, elegant S-5—the man hadn’t even managed to raise it toward the source.

No, it comes from a different pistol, rough and heavy, a trail of smoke hissing upward as the man’s body, too, slumps onto the metal.

Elain tears her gaze off her lifeless guard to look into the eyes of his murderer.

What she finds is a face covered entirely by beskar, the silvery helmet glinting even under the dying starlight.

The Mandalorian comes into view, his powerful frame scraping against the blast door as he takes a step forward, the sound as loud as the bodies of the three men he’d killed. Elain’s breath hitches in her chest, as though afraid to so much as graze the faded green of his chest plate, the metal she recognises as durasteel—hardly comparable to the sheer strength of beskar, but enough to keep the laser-like beams from piercing his heart—something many people have tried to do, if  the ashen marks staining the armour are any indication.

Elain’s own heart—one she suspects will not keep beating for long—thumps loudly in her chest as the Mandalorian man sheathes the blaster back into his belt, so many weapons strapped to its side Elain struggles to understand how he manages to walk with all that weight. He looks calm as he looks over the cockpit—over the three people still alive and waiting for his next move. Elain cannot explain how she knows this—but she swears she can feel his gaze pinned on her, even with his face hidden behind a black, T-shaped visor.

“Stand down, Mandalorian,” the last of her Nubian guards orders loudly, his blaster pointed straight at the masked warrior.

Elain feels his eyes drift away from her face, like a magnet releasing its hold as he looks over the guard with nothing more than an angle of his head. The man actually squirms under his scrutiny.

“I said,” he repeated, no longer able to hide the slight tremor in his throat, “stand down.”

To Elain’s complete shock, the leather-clad hand hovering above his belt falls loosely down his side. The guard, too, seems to release a breath. “This is a diplomatic mission you have disrupted,” he says. “You will be reported to the Guild—”

“I’m not with the Guild,” the response cuts in. It makes Elain shiver—his voice is low and deep, the helmet’s vocoder modulating it slightly, making it seem like a gravelly rumble from his throat.

Once the shiver passes through her spine, the Mandalorian’s words register. If he isn’t with the Guild…

“Hand her over,” he orders. “Now.” One word—deadly. He does not seem like the man to revel in hiding his threats.

The guard gulps, sensing it, too. To his credit, he still manages to tell him, “We will not.”

The Mandalorian’s vocoder sounds with a low hum, the sound seeping a scorching fire into her bones. “My orders are to leave witnesses,” he finally says, his metal-clad body entirely still like a predator fixed on his prey. “It’s a shame I happen to be forgetful sometimes.”

Elain’s heart threatens to stumble out of her chest. He came here for her, and the men sent to protect her—Vassa’s men—do not need to die trying to protect her from the inevitable.

It’s just her luck, Elain thinks bitterly, that the one and only time she’s ever tried to rebel, she has to be hunted by one of the most ruthless warriors in the galaxy. The Mandalorians are known for their violent ways and brutal efficiency—they are, after all, one of the Empire’s most loyal subjects, having allied themselves with Emperor Koschei the moment he came into power.

Since it isn’t the Guild, then, it must be the Empire who have sent this bounty hunter after her, which could only mean two things: her plot to escape her impending marriage had been discovered by Governor Nolan much earlier than she’d expected, or…

Or Father was in a lot more trouble than he'd originally made it out to be.

“It’s okay,” Elain breathes, placing a palm on the guard’s arm. “It’s okay—I’ll go with him.”

The guard shakes his head vehemently. “No—you can’t my Lady, we have been ordered—”

“It’s okay,” she repeats, then squeezes his shoulder. “Lower your weapon.” She turns to the Mandalorian. “I’m going to walk towards you now. Do not hurt those men.”

The bounty hunter does not move, and so Elain takes this as his agreement.

She takes a half-step—then another, crossing the space on shaky legs. She’s almost there—has almost reached that magnetic presence of his when she hears a light swoosh, and a click of metal.

“Lady Elain, duck!” the guard shouts, and fires his blaster.

Elain whirls back just in time to see him sink to his knees, his mouth agape, the hole in his chest sizzling with that same, smoky trail. She shrieks, running back toward yet another man who’d given his life to keep her safe—when a tight, steady grip on her wrists holds her back. “No more tricks, sweetheart,” his warning comes purring as her back hits the hard steel at his chest. Elain whips to face him again, anger stinging hotly at her eyes. “You said you needed witnesses!”

His helmet moves an inch as he seemingly glances at the pilot cowering in his seat behind her. “One is more than enough.” He jerks his chin at the trembling man. “Deliver the message to the Senator. He has seven rotations.”

Elain starts, “Do not—” but her words are cut short as the Mandalorian yanks her back. “Where are you taking me?” she breathes, her attention transfixed on the rough feel of his leather gloves against her bare skin. “Answer me right now, or I will not follow you anywhere—”

His steps come to a stop so abruptly she nearly slams face-first into his back. Slowly, he turns to look at her, silence passing through them in a tremor before he asks lowly, “No?”

Elain swallows. Hard. “No,” she says, accepting that the word might mean her death.

To her surprise, the Mandalorian lets go, crossing his arms over his chest instead, the silver vambraces clanking against each other with the movement. “Look, sweetheart,” he says, the nickname already making a flaming anger stir in the pit of her stomach, “the way I see it, you’ve got two choices: you either come willingly, or I make you.”

Elain grits her teeth stubbornly. “If you want to collect on your bounty, you’ll have to bring me in alive.”

His hands brace at his hips as he cocks his head to the side, and though the black of his visor is nearly impenetrable, Elain swears she saw a flicker of a smirk. “Lucky for me, my orders weren’t that specific.”

Elain’s blood chills.

“So what’s it gonna be,” he pauses, a hint of mockery in his modulated tone as he adds, “my Lady?”

Elain considers.

If Nesta were here, she would have opposed the Mandalorian without a shadow of a doubt, the cold venom in her words perhaps enough to melt through the beskar itself. But Elain had never been much like her elder sister—and so she thinks of Feyre.

Her heart clenches at the memory of her name, but Elain does not linger—instead, she listens to her sister’s voice the way she remembers it—calm and wise, far too knowing for a seventeen year old Padawan—and yet still unmistakably Feyre’s, blue-grey eyes twinkling with mischief as she spoke. Don’t worry, Elain, she had told her four years ago, they won’t see us coming.

No, Feyre, Elain silently agrees now, a plan already forming in her head. He won’t.

She points at the circular opening in the floor—at the ladder to the ship docked directly beneath. “Lead the way.”

—

Elain finds herself in the cockpit of yet another crumbling ship.

The Razor Crest is even older than the H-Type, the model predating the Clone War by at least four years. She supposes the advantage of staying off the scopes is worth it, though right now, she can’t possibly imagine why the Mandalorian working clearly on the Empire’s paycheck would ever need to avoid it.

She sits a breath’s distance behind him, watching as those leather-clad fingers press so many controls her mind begins to spin as they shoot into hyperspace, the blue-white blur of stars blending together a sight beautiful enough to appreciate even in Elain’s current predicament. The ship is fast, too, no doubt tweaked with improvements over the years. She wonders how long the Mandalorian has owned it, frowning as she realises she doesn’t even know how old the bounty hunter is.

She doesn’t even know his face, let alone his name. She would’ve guessed a bounty hunter of his skill would be renowned all the way to the Outer Rim. “What’s your name?” she asks him, curiosity getting the better of her.

He ignores her question entirely.

Elain huffs. “It is rude to ignore a lady, you know.”

No response.

That familiar frustration stirs inside her again. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to have to simply call you Mandalorian.” Her lip curls. “Or just Mando, perhaps—”

He turns back to her at that, and Elain realises triumphantly that she’d struck a nerve. “You are not to call me anything,” he tells her gruffly. “And besides,” his seat squeaks slightly and he turns to face the viewport again, “Something tells me that you are no lady.”

Her eyes dig into his back, and Elain sure wishes she could will a burning fire into them right now. When she realises it’s a futile effort, she asks, “Where am I to sleep?”.

“Here.”

“Here?” she frowns, looking at the chair, already groaning under her weight. “Where are you taking me?”

There is a brief pause—as if he’s considering how much he can really tell her. Then, “Chandrila.”

Elain’s eyes widen. “Chandrila?”

There is a raspy sound coming from beneath his helmet that Elain can only take for a chuckle. “I’m not taking you home, sweetheart. Sorry to disappoint.”

Elain squints. “So he does have manners after all.” When her hope of hearing a retort fades away, she asks again, “How long before we get there?”

“Too long.”

“Are you always this infuriating?”

He simply chuckles again.

Elain leans back into her seat. “I’m going to need a change of clothes,” she announces.

A glimmer of surprise passes through the space between them—as if whatever the Mandalorian was expecting, it was decidedly not this. “What?”

“I have to change,” Elain repeats, making a point of gesturing to her Naboo-fashioned gown as he turns to face her again. Then, doing her best to sound as bratty as he surely expects her to be—as everyone expects her to be—she says, “Travelling in these is uncomfortable.”

She looks into his visor, which seems to stare at her blankly. “You can’t be serious,” he then says.

Elain tilts her chin up in challenge. “Have you ever worn a gown, Mandalorian?”

“You know I haven’t,” he grumbles darkly.

“Then you have no right to tell me what’s comfortable and what isn’t. These fabrics are heavy—”

“Beskar is heavy,” he cuts in.

Elain stumbles over a breath, irritated less that he’s thrown her off her track, but more that the bastard Mandalorian is right.

Still, she presses, “You’re a Mandalorian, and I’m not. I demand we stop on the nearest planet so that I may—” she hovers a hand over her form, “adapt to the situation at hand.” She angles her head. “Besides, I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to attract any attention now, would you? I am a Senator’s daughter, after all.”

For a moment, the bounty hunter says nothing, simply leaning back in his seat as he assesses her. She tries not to shift under the stare she knows lurks beneath the helmet, her mind for some reason wondering if his eyes are the same green—or silver, perhaps—as his armour. She immediately dismisses the idea, though—he burns far too hot for his gaze not to blaze with that heat in some capacity. Not that she particularly cares—Elain has simply never had the chance to speak to a Mandalorian before, and those that she had seen had not seemed to share this one’s sentiment to stay perpetually hidden beneath the beskar.

She decides to flat out ask him, then—if only to satisfy that strange curiosity in her chest—when he surprises her again. “Alright,” he says, his visor seemingly focused on the thick folds of her gown. “We’ll make a stop.” Then, he adds, his voice rumbling with warning, “But no tricks, sweetheart. You won’t be able to escape me that easily.”

Elain has to bite back a smile. We’ll see.

—

A mechanically distorted cough stirs her from sleep.

“We’re landing up on Llanic,” he announces, and walks away.

Elain sits up, her back straining from the worn-out leather of her chair, the heavy dress not helping it at all. She curses herself—and not for the first time—for not thinking to wear something allowing more flexibility as she’d dressed in Vassa’s estate. Though, Elain now supposes, that same gown is the only reason she now has the opportunity to escape.

Soon enough, the Mandalorian lowers the Razor Crest onto a landing platform. Despite its proximity to Naboo, Llanic looks nothing like the planet’s vibrant, ethereal ecosystem. Everything here seems dull and grey—even the people opting for garments of pale blues and sulking whites as they move around the settlement.

“Llanic is the smugglers’ den,” the Mandalorian explains, as though reading the thoughts from Elain’s face. “All of this,” he waves a hand, gesturing to the view ahead as they step out of the ship, “is to help them stay out of sight.”

Elain looks to her own dress, the deep amethyst standing out almost ridiculously, already drawing more than a few pairs of eyes. The shiny Mandalorian at her side, Elain thinks with a sigh, certainly does not help.

The last thing she wants is the attention of more criminals.

“We need to get you a change of clothes quickly,” he mutters, making Elain look up at him with a smirk. “I told you—” she starts, but he’s already begun to walk off the platform, his gruff, “No time” her only invitation to follow along.

Her eyes scan her surroundings quickly, noting a cantina farther out back, already humming with a strange music she doesn’t recognise. He leads them left, though, toward what seems to be the market—one crowded enough that Elain can’t help but loose a breath of relief.

It should be easy to get rid of him here, Elain thinks. If, of course, she is quick enough.

Feyre would have thought this to be no more than an adventure. Elain smiles, the thought pouring a surge of courage into her chest.

They stop at an Ithorian merchant’s stand, one of the largest ones on the stony street, as he grumbles something to a bartering customer. Elain begins to fumble through his selection, her mind already tracking her route of escape. She’ll find some other, proper clothes later—the only purpose of these is to serve as her distraction.

She picks up a matching set of a top and trousers of dusted ivory, and a beige poncho to supposedly help her blend in. She’ll have to pick out something similar later if she truly is to disappear.

Elain is already side-eyeing the cantina, the copular structure practically calling out her name far at the street’s end. Perhaps she’ll be able to find a transfer there—someone to get her off-world and, hopefully, as far away from the infuriating Mandalorian and the Empire as possible

A warm, heavy presence appears beside her, and she chucks the clothes into the bounty hunter’s hands. He only stares back, confusion rolling off of him in waves.

She can’t help but snicker. “You’re impossible.”

“I…don’t understand.”

Elain huffs. “Well, my apologies if I forgot to remember to bring my credits as I was being kidnapped,” she sputters, the word making the elderly couple behind the Mandalorian turn to face her with a frown.

“Be more quiet now, would you,” the Mandalorian growls, the sound a deep rumble from his chest.

Elain narrows her gaze. “Just go buy these, yeah?”

He chuckles at the apparent drop in formalities, though his voice remains firm as he reminds her, “Don’t move until I’m back.”

She smiles sweetly, motioning to the streets around her. “Where else would I go?”

He seems to agree well enough, because the Mandalorian soon disappears between the hanging layers of cloth as he moves towards the Ithorian seller. When the familiar glint of beskar vanishes out of her sight, Elain turns and begins to run.

The amethyst dress and the tightness in her back is a strain on her speed, but the adrenaline surging through her is enough to keep her legs moving swiftly. Not for the very first time, Elain wishes she had the lithe speed and remarkable strength both of her sisters have always displayed, their movements carefully supported by the Force.

The thought leaves her as quickly as it arrived as Elain makes a sharp turn, pivoting into a darkened alleyway that she hopes will discreetly lead her to the back wall of the cantina. Her steps slow, as though the silent darkness compelled them to do so—and Elain quickly looks around, letting herself take a breath before she continues on again.

“Not so fast, princess,” a low, hissing voice sounds behind her.

Elain’s feet freeze into the ground.

“Don’t be afraid,” it croons, stepping in closer. “It will all be over soon.”

Elain’s breath quickens.

The man, unmistakably a Trandoshan, slithers beside her, his scaled, greenish skin finally coming into view—but it’s not his appearance Elain finds her gaze glued to, but the long, heavy Mortar Gun resting in his large hands as he points it directly at her face.

“Sssuch a shame,” he muses. “To ruin such a pretty face. But I find myself in a desssperate need of credits, you sssee.” He angles his scaly head, yellow eyes narrowing on her. “The Empire is paying quite the sum for you, little princess. If it was any lower…I might have taken some time to play with you firssst.”

“A shame indeed,” a voice agrees somewhere behind him. “Unfortunately, your time seems to have run out.”

A single shot booms through the air before the Trandoshan evaporates into dust.

A Mandalorian—her Mandalorian, Elain realises—stands a few metres behind where the reptilian bounty hunter stood a moment ago, a forked sniper rifle Elain had never seen before still pointed at the dissipating dust.

“Where did you get that?” Elain breathed. Has he been carrying that weapon this whole time? Could he have turned her into…into this?

He shrugs. “Had it lying around.”

He reaches her in a few quick strides, his head dipping as he appears to be sweeping his gaze over her, assessing. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

Elain shakes her head, her body slowly moving out of stillness. “No.” She clears her throat, begging the Force to bring clarity into her voice. “Thank you,” she rasps, then sighs, exasperated. The Force had never seemed to be her ally, anyways. “I’m…sorry for running.”

He hums. “I knew you would try something eventually. You got lucky.”

Elain blinks. “You would call this—” she gestures to the Trandoshan bounty hunter’s remains spread out over the stone ground, “—lucky?”

He nods, strapping the rifle to his back in one, swift movement. “There are others out there who would not hesitate to kill you on sight. I’d say,” he adds, “you got more than lucky to end up with me.”

“How very fortunate,” she mutters. He only chuckles, though she feels as his gaze lands on her again. There is a pause of quiet between them before he finally asks, the voice behind the helmet softer, somehow, “Are you, though? Alright?”

Elain sighs. “Yes. I’m…” she searches for the word. Tired. Confused. Lost. “Hungry,” she decides.

Another chuckle. “Follow me.”

The cantina beams a more lively song as they enter, though Elain, despite all that thorough education she’d received, can’t seem to recognise the language. They take their seats at a booth stuck into a dim nook before a waiter approaches, his gaze shining with curiosity at the unlikely pair. “What can I get you?”

“Spotchka,” Elain sighs, earning yet another amused huff from her companion. “And—whatever your special is today.”

The man nods. “That would be the stew.”

“Perfect,” Elain says, then turns to the Mandalorian, the waiter, too, looking at him expectantly.

“That will be all,” he says tightly, his tone enough to make the waiter scatter immediately out back. Elain frowns. “Are you not going to eat?”

“No.”

“But—”

“I’m not hungry.”

Elain counters, “I have not seen you eat since you put me on that rusted old ship.”

The visor seems to glower at her. “The Crest is fine.”

“Stop changing the subject.”

“I’m not willing to discuss this, Elain.” She doesn’t think she’d ever heard his name fall from his lips.

Does he even have lips? Elain can’t help but wonder. He appears human, but beneath that armour, he really could be anyone. It’s not that she truly cares about his face—the curve of his nose or the angle of his jaw. But she wants to be able to see if his gaze burns as brightly as she’s been imagining it, like a hot, midday sun.

His tone does not invite such questions, though, so Elain gives up with a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Fine,” she says. “Tell me your name, at least.”

“No.”

“I’m sick of calling you the Mandalorian in my head.”

“Then stop thinking about me, Elain.”

She throws her arms up in exasperation. “You are impossible!”

He seems to snicker at that. “So I’ve heard.”

Elain sinks further into her seat. “Are you able to answer any of my questions, at least?”

He hums, making a show of considering. “Probably not,” he finally said, earning yet another huff from Elain. “But perhaps you can answer some of mine.”

Elain feels her brows rise. “Oh?”

He laces his fingers atop the table. “What has your father done to get the Empire to put a bounty on your head?”

That, Elain did not expect. “I thought bounty hunters were taught not to ask any questions.”

“To their clients. The bounty is a whole another story.”

“How convenient,” Elain murmurs, and, once again, she swears she can feel his smile in her chest. “Very well. If you must know, he borrowed some money—too much of it for me to even begin to describe, and all of it from the wrong people.” She chews on her bottom lip before quickly releasing it from her teeth, a sharp exhale pushing past her mouth. “It’s why my…engagement was arranged in the first place.”

“To the Governor’s son. So I’ve heard.”

“Yes, well, they had money. But look how that turned out.”

“Do you…” his helmet cocks to the side, as though from this new angle, he can read the answer simply by looking at her face. “Do you regret it?”

“No!” Elain quickly says. “Kriff, no—it’s why you found me on the Nubian instead of the planet itself. I was…” she clears her throat. “I was escaping.”

Silence falls, broken only for a moment as the waiter arrives with Elain’s food. She begins digging into the warm stew, realising the conversation has most likely come to an end, the Mandalorian seemingly gazing off into the distance.

But then, a quiet sound reaches her, so indiscernible she initially thinks she must’ve imagined it. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For disrupting your plans.”

Elain flashes him a cryptic smile. “My plans aren’t disrupted just yet.”

—

When Elain emerges from the Crest’s refresher, she finds the clothes she’d picked out at the market laid out on a new cot.

“We’re almost done refuelling,” the Mandalorian’s voice reaches her from where he leans against the ladder leading up to the cockpit.

Elain arches a brow. “What happened to not leaving your side for a moment?”

“Well, I trust you’re not reckless enough to jump out of our ship once we’re in hyperspace.”

Our ship?

Elain dismisses it as her mind playing tricks on her. “Thank you for getting these for me. Believe it or not, but that gown was uncomfortable.”

A grunt of agreement. “It sure looked like it.”

Elain takes the poncho into her hands, her palm smoothing out the fabric. “I’m sorry about nagging you earlier. I—I don’t know much about Mandalorians, I just assumed—”

“You assumed fine.” A deep sigh rattles through him as he bounces off the ladder, stepping closer toward her. “Not removing this,” he points to the shining beskar atop his head, “is my choice.”

Elain dares to ask, “Why, though?”

“Does it matter?”

Yes. No. Maybe.

No, Elain finally decides. Soon—within the next rotation or two, perhaps—the Mandalorian will hand her over to the Empire, a toy to toss over her father’s head. She’ll never have the chance to think about his face again.

Her expression must have told her enough, because his body seems to stiffen as he halts less than five feet away from her.

“Are they going to kill me?” Elain asks him openly.

Silence ripples through the air.

“The Empire doesn’t kill innocent civilians,” he says carefully. Elain can’t help but laugh. “Even if that were true, I am hardly innocent.”

He seems inclined to disagree. “Your father’s mistakes are not your own, Elain.” His words sound deeper than usual as he says them.

She shifts on her feet. “Still, I’m afraid my family’s sins are already beyond repair.” She sighs, a sudden wave of tiredness washing over her, as though the words alone were enough to make her body feel limp. “My…” she can’t say it, her throat tightening on its own as she tries. Elain simply looks away.

But then, a few shallow breaths later, a heavy weight rests on the cot beside her. “My father is the head of an…important clan back on Mandalore,” he begins to tell her quietly. “He’s not a good man—to say the least.” He clears his throat. “I have six brothers, each of them worse than the last, as if they’re all competing to see which one of them can become cruel enough to finally catch Father’s attention.”

Elain turns to look at him at that.

He continues, “I never wanted to be like them—any of them. My mother is the only good thing about my family, and she was the only one not to send bounty hunters after me when I finally left.”

Elain’s eyes widen. “You—you escaped from Mandalore?”

His laugh feels bitter. “There is no escaping from my family. I’m the youngest—not important enough for them to keep on wasting credits to drag me back, but, I suppose, a reminder annoying enough to make my life miserable for as long as they wished.” His hand flickers up for a moment, then falls back onto the cot—as if he was going to run his fingers through his hair before remembering the helmet shielding them from view. “So I cut the best deal for myself as I could—and I’ve been picking up the Empire’s dirty jobs ever since. I don’t like most of them,” he admits, “but…” the words trail off. He does not need to finish them for Elain to understand.

But I’m glad I met you.

It is why Elain tells him plainly, “My sisters were Jedi.”

The Mandalorian goes completely, breathlessly still.

Elain nods. “Traitors to the Republic,” she adds bitterly. “To the Empire. My older sister—Nesta…” she fights back tears at the memory of her icy eyes, softening whenever the two of them got to see each other. “She was—she was on Corellia when…when the Order was given. And Feyre…Feyre was at the Temple on Coruscant.” She swallows the thick words in her throat. “She was—she’s gone,” Elain finishes, unable to speak the full truth. It’s too soon—it will never not be.

Her sisters were discovered late—Feyre at six, and Nesta at ten years old, when all the other foundlings had usually come to the Temple at no older than three. But the great masters had foreseen something in the two of them—something Elain had never quite been able to understand without the Force whispering to her the way it did to her sisters. Something with the potential to change the Galaxy as they all knew it.

Whatever her sisters’ purpose was, it would never be fulfilled. It had never even been given the chance to.

“It’s how I know my father will not come for me,” Elain adds quietly. “When you hand me over to the Empire. He’d aligned himself with them when it took not one, but two of his daughters away. Now, it will take away the third.”

Once again, the ship is enveloped in silence.

It had been so long since Elain had last spoken her sisters’ names that she isn’t sure she’d even talked about them to anyone since their death. The Mandalorian is a quiet presence beside her, strong and warm even through the hardened metal encasing his body. It feels relieving to her to know that he, too, lives in accordance with the Empire’s cruelty not by choice, but by the lack of it, hoping that one day, he will be free enough to leave and never look back.

But then Elain is reminded that neither of them are free just yet—and that, while he might still be able to harbour that dream, it is already too late for Elain. That the only way for him to get a step closer toward it, he has to make sure Elain never gets to reach it herself. There is something about the irony of it all that makes her want to weep—and yet, Elain can’t bring herself to feel angry.

“I hope the Empire pays you well for all of this,” she tells him earnestly.

He turns to face her then—as much as he can with the self-imposed containment of his beskar—and perhaps it is merely wishful thinking, but, for a whisper of a moment, Elain knows with the utmost certainty that she saw a flicker of gold beneath the darkness.

His voice is quiet as he responds.

“Not nearly enough.”

—

Once again, Elain is violently ripped from sleep.

They cannot be landing already—Elain can swear they’ve only just left Llanic’s atmosphere, her face hitting the cot the moment the Crest’s navicomputer was programmed and the stars blurred into a singular light again. Chandrila is still a long journey ahead, at least two, if not three more refuelling stops since the Crest is unable to withstand such a distance on a single tank.

They aren’t landing, Elain understands as the last remnants of her sleep sharpen into reality—into the loud, flaring sound echoing off the ship’s tight space. Into the red light blazing on and off, illuminating her shaky hands as the realisation finally sinks.

The Crest is under attack.

Elucien Week Taglist: @melting-houses-of-gold @areyoudreaminof @fieldofdaisiies @kingofsummer93 @witchlingsandwyverns @gracie-rosee @stickyelectrons @selesera @sv0430 @vulpes-fennec @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @screaming-opossum @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @spell-cleavers @starfall-spirit @lectoradefics @this-is-rochelle @goldenmagnolias @labellefleur-sauvage @bookeater34 @capbuckyfalcon @betterthaneveryword @tasha2627 @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune

#breaking news: velidewrites can't write a one-shot to save her life #breaking in the sense that we been knew #elucienweek2023 #elucien #pro elucien #elain x lucien #elain archeron #elain acotar #lucien vanserra #lucien acotar #elucien fic #elucien fanfic #elucien fanfiction #acotar fanfic #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #my writing

[spell-cleaver]

The Protégé Chapter 36: Prisoners of Their Inheritance

With Leia's hand forced and Luke full of desperate hope, things rapidly get worse. Especially for Padmé, who still has no idea what the hell is going on.

"Good. Now come." He used his grip on Luke's shoulder to march him to the edge of the hangar, through the door, and through to a turbolift. Luke couldn't help but look around in equal parts awe and horror. He'd never actually been in an Imperial Star Destroyer, though he'd seen the VR imitations that Darred would base the models he made off of. "We have much to discuss."

"We do."

"About your sister."

Luke froze. "Pooja?" he asked. "Is she alright?"

"I presume your cousin is fine. I have neither heard nor enquired otherwise. Leia is, however, upstairs, and refuses to explain herself. I was expecting you to be more open, despite your long silence on this matter."

Oh.

Oh, kriff.

He swallowed. "You're angry at me," he observed.

The turbolift shot up several floors. Vader's grip tightened on his shoulder. Luke grimaced.

"You lied to me."

"I never lied!" he insisted. "Father, you're hurting me."

Read the rest on AO3 or on FFN!

#the protégé #luke skywalker #darth vader #for darkness shows the stars #leia organa #space twins #padmé amidala #i have no memory of my mother #sabé #pooja naberrie #beru whitesun #owen lars #ahsoka tano #my writing #random words on a page

[zeldurz]

Being a house cat means a lot of time to ponder. I am familiar with your fic as it relates to Pellaeon/Thrawn, henceforth, referred to as Prawn. Lately, I have noticed that you have shifted away from this pairing into unfamiliar territory for me, mainly Firmus Piett/Maximilian Veers & Tiaan Jerjerrod/Conan Antonio Motti. Since I am firmly ensconced in my tiny corner of the fandom, I had to ask around, who are these guys?

Now it’s time to ask you. Welcome to my little corner at the Asker’s Studio™️ (don’t mind the ferocious Mini-Panther🐈‍⬛)

Where I go in the fandoms is determined by where ‘my’ authors go, thus, I often find myself in unfamiliar territory. I got my start with Harry Potter, moved on to Gargoyles, enjoyed a long visit with Thrawn, and currently I happily reside in TNG. As person who merely comments, it’s easy to jump around, but as an author, I would think that it would be more complicated.

What made you decide to branch out to these new pairings/fandom? While they are still Star Wars, I view them far enough away from Thrawn to consider them a different fandom (as it is an enormous departure from the Thrawn universe to the Original Trilogy)

I admit that my only knowledge of your new pairings (newer to your fic) is what Wookeepedia tells me, and what more experienced fandom inhabitants add to that. It makes me want to go back to the OT and watch it through a different lens.

What is it that you would want new readers to know about these ancillary characters?

What characteristics do you admire or dislike about them?

Do you see any parallels to characters that you have written about in the past?

I am behind on my Fic reading, but know that I have been enormously entertained by your Whatever it Takes, and I hope to see additional updates sometime in the near future.

Ahhh thank you for having me back on Asker’s Studio, it’s always a pleasure to be here. I will put this under a cut to make everyone's life a little bit easier

I have indeed shifted my preferences into the adjacent world of OT Imperials, at least for the moment. While I can firmly say that this is all the wonderful @alexx-dax’s fault – since I started following him on tumblr and was left with many similar questions to those you have posed to me: who are these men? How can I tell them apart? Why should I even care? – the question of “why” still remains, and for that, my answer is two-fold.

I would say that the jump from Thrawn to the OT Imps is not as far as it looks on the surface – much of the internal politics and settings aboard a Star Destroyer in Thrawn’s time (be it in Canon before the Battle at Lothal or in Legends aboard the Chimaera) remain the same. This makes it both easier to write (as I already have an idea of The Empire and how it operates) and easier to integrate characters that are still very near and dear to my heart – in fact, while I have yet to make full use of it in a fic, the fact that Grand Admiral Thrawn was the one that recommended a then Corporal Veers to Darth Vader for his Death Squadron has a lot of room for potential. I also think it helps that the Imps have a much less wide-reaching fandom – there’s a very small, very enthusiastic community that has made me feel very welcome as I undertake my studies into Background Men, and I really appreciate that.

Without going into too much detail, I would also be remiss if I did not touch on the issue of Writer Burnout and how that has contributed to my step away from writing Thrawn. I have the curse of non-functioning executives (aka ADHD/autism), and writing something that isn’t the topic du jour is a painful and tedious process for me (astute readers will also recognize this is why I rarely do outlines/planning and why I almost never edit/proofread my fics before posting them). For every fic that reaches AO3, there are 8-10 more that are half finished on my google drive, and I tend to lose creative steam on things very, very quickly. Between a bunch of stuff IRL and the rise of people discussing Thrawn and his characterization in fandom spaces(1), I’m having a very hard time getting my ‘voice’ for Thrawn back (it doesn’t help that my largest and most popular fic has spiraled into something much, much larger than I had originally planned, and I’m very much struggling to figure out how to tie it off in a satisfying way lol).

But back to these new guys. Who are they and why should you care?

First of all, if you wish to join me in my corner with my dolls, I would actually recommend watching the OT again but considering the perspectives of the Imps – in particular, Ken Colley’s portrayal of Piett in Empire Strikes back and Michael Pennington’s Jerjerrod in Return of the Jedi(2) give a lot of depth to the characters that we often just see as “bad guy henchmen”. People have written many things about these characters over the years (some of which I agree with and some of which I do not), but I always come back to Piett’s expression as he watches Admiral Ozzel choke to death beside him; these characters are Imperials, yes, but they are not all Tarkin or Palpatine – that is, they are not simply evil for the sake of being evil. Veteran Thrawn fans will know that writing from the perspective of the antagonists can be a lot of fun – and for my brand of fic (ie the hurt/comfort), there are a lot of Rebel Victories that bring pain that’s worth exploring (not unlike Bilbringi in the HTTE Trilogy).

I have spoken a lot about the Imperials as a collective, so now it’s time to get into the individuals. While I will touch a little bit on my favourite ships (Piett/Veers and Motti/Jerjerrod), I think that another fun part about writing these particular characters is that they work well in many different pairings, depending on the vibe you’re going for (I will spare you the chart, but I do have one). Anyway, without further ado and in no particular order, the incomplete summary of Imps:

Firmus Piett (ESB, ROTJ):

Piett is the character that got me hooked on the imperials in the first place – his “goddammit I’m just trying to do my job and not get murdered” energy combined with his otherness (in that unlike most other high-ranking officers, he is neither from a core world nor upper class). His days fighting in the Axxilian anti-pirate fleet only add to this vibe, and much of his characterization (that I go off of, anyway) centers around him being scrappy and resourceful – useful where other, snobbier officers might not be.

As with all things Fanfiction and particularly with the Imperials (as there is comparatively little material to work with), there will always be flavours of characters depending on who is writing them, but I enjoy Piett’s potential for a found family, along with his biting snark and ability to survive only on caf and spite.

Maximilian Veers (ESB):

Veers has the distinction of being in the Imperial Army, rather than the Navy, which automatically gives him a different flavour than the others. It’s my understanding that there’s a rivalry between the Army and the Navy, which lends itself well to a back and forth banter that is easily one of my favourite things in an Imp fic. Veers is also the strong and stoic character – he’s not intimidated by Vader, and he’s going to do his damn job, no matter what.

I’m a big sap for the “hard on the outside soft on the inside” trope, and Veers is perfect for this. He protects his Herd with a fierce loyalty, and is a proven competent leader, but he’s also the sort of guy who teases his partner and loves physical affection. Veers is a giant, blond puppy, and I love that about him. His vibe works especially well with Piett, since they have the whole "tol and smol"/Army-Navy/slowly opening up to one another vibe that I love.

Tiaan Jerjerrod (ROTJ):

Listed as a “cold technocrat” on every official description, Tiaan is another one of those characters that has many layers to him. He is the rich snob from the core, but he’s also an extremely competent engineer who was hand picked to handle some of the Empire’s biggest projects. He’s also comparatively young (a full fifteen years younger than Pellaeon, and ten years younger than Veers, if Wookieepedia is to be believed), and yet has made his way to the top of the top. Tiaan also has the distinction that (at least in the deleted scenes) we see him hesitate – even when given an order, he is conflicted about firing the Death Star II at Endor, given the number of Imperials still on the moon.

Tiaan is usually characterized as being neurotic and anxious – a sort of wet-cat energy that contrasts well with the competence he is known for. His background – a rich aristocrat coming from a long line of decorated Naval Officers from a conservative planet – only adds to this effect, and I’m a big fan of stories that explore how he navigates (or doesn’t) the enormous pressures he faces.

Conan Antonio Motti (ANH):

Loud, Obnoxious, and American, Motti stands out among the Joint Chiefs in the one scene he is in. He has the balls to challenge Vader, and the gusto to back it up – he’s also quite young, having risen to be commander of the DS-I in his early 30s (based on his actor’s age, Wookieepedia does not have a birthday for him). While there are scant few other canon appearances for him, it’s also worth noting that one of them is him writing a letter to HR regarding Vader’s Force Choke, and another is a passage from the Death Star Novel about how he works out in only a speed-strap juggling balls in heavy gravity.

Motti can be summed up as the “Go Big or Go Home” guy who is crass, loud, and gets in everyone’s face. He can be a lot of fun to read and write because he’s so obnoxious, and that makes him fun to include even if the story is primarily about someone else. He pairs well with Jerjerrod because they have similar backstories (young, wealthy) but wildly different personalities, although I have been enjoying the Motti-Thrawn friendship lately (that would give Pellaeon a migraine)

Overall, each of these characters (and Captain Lorth Needa, of course, everyone’s favourite Dad Friend and holder of the single brain cell) has a unique vibe that they bring to the table, and it’s fun to see how they interact with both each other and the Situations they find themselves in. I also find them to be very relatable – every author pours a little bit of their heart and soul into the characters they write, but for me personally, there is a lot I can draw from my own experiences (not unlike how I have written a very few very personal Thrawn fics).

With that being said, I do struggle sometimes to hit the right notes and strike a balance between “canon”, “fanon” and the story I want to tell. While Thrawn has (for the most part) been consistently written and it is easy enough to see a through-line for his story, that is absolutely not the case here. There are many examples I could speak to (Needa as “ruthless”, Veers refusing prosthetics due to stigma or Jerjerrod “loving war”), but for the sake of brevity I will only touch on one: Piett as a schemer who sought to deliberately have Ozzel killed.

While this is… an interpretation of the source material (IE Empire Strikes Back) and has since been made canon by From Another Point of View, it disregards the intentions of Ken Colley in playing the character. He wanted Piett to come off as more relatable to the audience, to give depth to the Empire as more than just a faceless monolith, and I would argue that he is quite successful in doing so(3). Undermining this (and his backstory notes about being an underdog within the Empire) take away some of the aspects of his character that I really enjoy – but does it make my Piett OOC if he wouldn’t do something like that? Does it matter?

Anyway almost two thousand words and three footnotes, it’s very much time for me to wrap this up (as bad as I am at writing endings). Suffice it to say that I find the Imps to be an excellent sandbox with which to play in, and I appreciate both the time you’ve taken to ask me about them and the time it’s taken to read through this essay of sorts.

I’m hoping I’ll get back to Whatever it Takes sooner or later, but I would rather wait for inspiration to strike me than to keep beating my head against a metaphorical wall until an ending falls out. Until next time, thank you again for the ask and all the wonderful comments you have left for me 😊

(1)I should note that this isn’t targeted at any group in particular and isn’t meant to be a negative statement – just that the Thrawn fandom continues to grow, and with the upcoming Ashoka Show, there are a lot of people with a lot of different opinions about the character, and for someone who isn’t particularly adept at navigating the sea of fandom, it can be extremely overwhelming.

(2)If you are able to watch the deleted scenes from ROTJ, that’s even better – there are some excellent Jerjerrod scenes that did not make the final cut

(3)I do own two Piett action figures and haven’t read Another Point of View yet, so I could be a little bit biased

#my inbox

[pandoraimperatrix]

Wandering Worlds

DickKory | Core Four Centric | Cannon Divergence | Longfic

Summary:

The story begins with the death of Dick Grayson. His life taken by his own brother, Jason. Consumed by grief, Rachel gives in to despair, losing control, a portal opens, but from it no destroyer of words come through. Instead a man who looks just like him, how can he be? The Titans, and especially Kory has to mourn their fallen leader and deal with this stranger with a lot of issues of his own. After that, when everything seem to be settling, Kory is forced to return to Tamaran, but she wasn't as alone in her destiny as she thought, neither her family of choice was willing to let her go that easily. But politics in Tamaran can be as complicated as travelling across universes.

————————————–

Part Four – Voyagers

Chapter Twenty-seven – I'd cut your name in my heart

He thought it was a dream when he opened his eyes and saw her.

A terrible dream.

The kind of terrible dream he used to have when he was hiding at the end of the world. The kind of awful dream that took him back to a life in which he had never held the lifeless body of the woman he loved, where he’d never felt that agony and had never violated his own soul by taking revenge murdering the his own father.

Or one of those absolutely heart-breaking dreams of a time he dared to believe that the past was truly gone, and the danger of losing her a second time was remote, to a reality in which asking her to stay was enough, where he was enough, and she had never flown away back to the stars.

The kind of dream that always ended, and was always that... just a dream.

And every time he woke up, he was still alone, and she was still gone.

But it when of her hot tears wet the front of his armour, and then she proved herself to me material, and there, and real, grabbing him, asking a million of questions, this was not an oneiric trick.

The last months flashed before his eyes with such violence that it took him a moment to start understanding what she was saying, and that what she was speaking was his own first language instead of her Tamaranean.

They had to break Rachel’s heart to get him here, they had to use Gar to do so.

For what?

And then he had to fight in another war that wasn’t his.

All for her.

Was it worth it?

He wanted to be angry, he wanted to shout, he wanted to ask what the hell had she been doing and thinking. He wanted to make her apologise for every tear Gar and Rachel had been dropping since she left. For putting him in a position that made him turn into a murderer again. He wanted a lot of things.

But he wanted her above all else.

Read on AO3

What that made of him? Did he even care? Did her?

So, after he managed to put in words a little of the kaleidoscope of questions he had in the form of a broken “we were happy, weren’t we?” and she touched his face.

Oh.

Oh it was.

He’d do worse things for her. He’d do anything. Even forgive her, even put himself in danger of being happy again.

In no time he her skin was under his lips, for he couldn’t stop himself, and he heard her sigh making him believe, even if only for a moment that she was so consumed by him as he was by her. All he had touched was her palms, and it was almost enough if enough were possible when it came for his hunger for her.

And right there, the realisation that he had been doing a poor job of playing himself hit him harder than any blow he had been stricken before.

Even after everything that happened, even though the bitter memories of the violence he had to perform to be able to cross the stars to get to her, something was crystalline.

There was nothing that woman could do to him, or make him do that would make him love her less.

“Koria?”

She pulled away abruptly and he felt like his centre of gravity was snapped, and it hurt, the lights became too bright, suddenly the hot herbarium, hot even for the stuffy tropical Tamaranean weather became chilly. Just as it had been in the Great Hall, it was like someone was screaming inside his head, so much that it became difficult to process Tamaranean, and Dick missed the start of the conversation she started having with the intruder Prince.

“This is… He is…” she pushed her tresses from her face, and Dick reached his arm to touch them, noticing they were different from the soft curls she had been wearing last time they were together “X’hal…”

“I know who he is. I can see, my lady.”

Koriand’r turned to look at Dick, and his hand fell, she didn’t seen to notice, returning her gaze to her promised one.

The Royal Couple exchanged a meaningful look, and jealousy ripped Dick’s already aching chest.

“Did you plan this?” Karras asked in a barely controlled voice, Tamaraneans, Dick became well aware in the last months, were not meant to suppress their emotions. “Did you tell your lover to infiltrate X’oyang’s forces and come here make a mockery of me on the day of our engagement?”

Koriand’r turned away completely from Dick, and all he could see was the glowing of her hair fading.

“What? Of course not!”

And then the Prince was breaking her personal space, far too closer than Dick was comfortable with, which was at least a few galaxies of space between them. He felt the adrenaline making his heart pump and his blood run faster but in a very different way from when he Koriand’r under his lips.

“Don’t lie to me, Koria!” the tone was unmistakably angry now, and then, to Dick’s horror, Karras grabbed Koriand’r’s face “I have been patient, I’ve done everything I can to keep you safe and protect you, and that… With no regard to my feelings or position, but X’hal help me if you’ve been lying to me!”

Dick didn’t think, his body just moved, he kicked the Prince who fell on the tall shelves of herbs, breaking the clay vases and spreading tiny flames all around the corner his backside hit the floor. Koriand’r screamed, and the Prince glowed red with anger, he rose his blazing hand and Dick saw a ball of fire coming in his direction, but before he could jump out of its course Koriand’r put herself between them, terror filled Dick’s soul, but instead of taking the blow, he used a starbolt of herself do deviate Karras’.

“Are you fucking crazy, Karras!? He’s human! You could have killed him!”

Dick chuckled bitterly, if only she knew how many of her kind he had fought and won. And the anger returned, for just like the day she left, she still didn’t trust him. She still thought she could protect him somehow.  

“Guards!” Karras called, floating to a standing position. And Dick walked away from Koriand’r and advanced towards the Prince, grabbing his flaming arm and pushing it away before using his free hand to punch his mouth.

The Prince used his knee to strike Dick on his belly and it just didn’t break some ribs, because of the armour Dick was wearing.

“Stop it Karras!” Dick heard her cry before flying to tackle the Prince herself.

“Guards!” he tried again but the band was still playing at the Grand Hall, so loud that nobody was hearing the tragedy about to happen. He pushed away.

“Stop it!” She said again.

Dick saw Karras give her a disgusted look as, like Dick, he pulled himself from the floor.

“He harmed a nobleman, he’ll go to prison for that!” Karras spat.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I swear by my whole bloodline if you touch another hair on his head you’ll never sit on the Tamaranean throne.”

“The bloodline you’ve spoiled?”

Koriand’r blazed with anger.

“How dare you!”

That, and Dick couldn’t understand why, made him stop. Karras’ feet touched the floor, and the fires he caused died.

“I’m sorry, Koria, I didn’t mean, I-“

“Leave us,” she said firmly.

“Koria...” the Prince begged like Dick had.

“I meant, Dick,” betrayal, confusion and jealousy made his insides turn more than the Prince’s strike. “Leave us. I need to talk to my consort alone.”

Nothing had changed.

“No,” he managed to say despite the knot in his throat.

She sighed or sobbed, he couldn’t say, couldn’t understand, his head was pounding.

And then she was touching him again, her hands on his arms and shoulders, Dick’s head leaned automatically towards hers, their fronts touching, her soft hands on his cheeks, her smell everywhere, until she said another heart-breaking thing.

“I wish you were Tamaranean...”

“Kory,” he found himself begging again, and just like last time, she let him go.

“Karras is not an enemy, and I need to set things right with him.”

“Don’t do this-“

“You will understand, I know I have no right, but please, trust me, just this time, please, lover.”

As he heard the last word, he noticed, she was not speaking Tamaranean anymore, that he was hearing English. She had found a way of saying her mind only to him, and that lament about him not being Tamaranean suddenly didn’t hurt as much.

Dick stared into her eyes, noticing the urgency in them, and let her go.

She smiled, a twitchy fragile thing, and watched in silence as Dick walked away.

“I’ll be in the barracks,” he said also in English before threading out of the herbarium.

*

The headache only got worse as he walked away, hating every step that he took after so much sacrificed to get to her.

God, he was pathetic.

And to make things worse, his ears were ringing, so much that when he got to the barracks the sickness had grown too strong that he bent down and threw up on the silver grass that covered the Tamaranian grounds.

Something was wrong, something was very wrong with his body. Maybe he was dying. No human being was meant to be pulled across universes and galaxies like that.

Another hit of searing pain hit him, and then...

“Oh my god, finally!”

He blinked trying to clear his watering eyes and with difficulty stood up, looking around, but he was still in Tamaran, the two moons still high in the sky but getting paler and paler as the dawn approached.

“Dick!”

He took a raggedy breath and answered.

“Rachel?”

“Yes! He answered! Finally!”

“Rach is that really you?”

“Yes!”

“How?”

“How?!” she sounded flabbergasted. “How did you hide your soul for so long? I was terrified! I looked for you everywhere!” And considering Rachel’s powers, everywhere could mean the many interconnected webs of realities.

“I lost my memories.”

“Oh... She said it could be that.”

“Who is she? Where is Gar? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. Are you?”

The tiniest drop of relief relieved him. He could only hope that was real and he wasn’t just going absolutely mad.

“Rachel, who is her?” he asked again.

“You are not going mad, it’s really me! Oh, and while we are at it I can hear you thoughts kinda? Please don’t think anything disgusting.”

Well, that was new.

“I know right?! Do you remember how we were trying to find Lilith? Well, when you disappeared we got desperate and contacted Bruce, and he sent us Zatanna, she’s training me!”

“Bruce helped?”

“Yeah, he said he was sorry.”

Isn’t he always? He didn’t hear it, but he somehow felt Rachel sighing.

“Don’t worry, I’m pulling you back.”

“No!”

“What? Why? He doesn’t want to come, stop Gar, I can’t hear him with you having a fit-”

“She’s here,” he said out load, he didn’t know if it helped instead of just thinking, but it was less weird somehow.

“What?”

“Rachel, I found Kory.”

“Oh... How is she?”

“Engaged.”

“ENGAGED? TO WHOM? I’LL KILL HER!”

His ears ringed again.

“Rach, Rach, you’re going to explode my head...”

“Sorry, sorry... I don’t know what to do now...”

“What you mean?”

“The plan was to bring you back... I think I’ll have to find a way to take Gar and myself to you, gonna have to find a way around The Red to do that. I don’t know if I can.”

“What is The Red?”

“Long story. But we won’t have to do that stuff we did before. Zatanna was super mad when we told her. Her way is so much more easier.”

The image of Gar’s lifeless body as Dick choked him flashed bitterly before his eyes, and Dick noticed, that thought wasn’t his. He couldn’t bring his children to this place.

“Rachel, it’s dangerous here.”

“Because of Kory’s fiancé?”

“The whole planet is at war, there are enemies everywhere, you wouldn’t be safe.”

“Just like Earth, then?”

“Rach...”

“Is it as bad as your last world?”

Dick never though in those terms, not really.

“No,” he answered begrudgingly, but honestly.

“Then we’re going. Hell, we were going even it was worse than the place I pulled you from. We’re not abandoning you. And don’t you dare to pull a Kory on us, we make our own choices, Dick!”

“Who are you talking to?”

“Tejan’g” X’oyang was standing behind him with a concerned or suspicious expression.

Rachel’s presence was gone. Dick felt like a part of him was taken.

“Ajik, I went looking for you at the herbarium and I found the place trashed and now I see you talking to the wind. Are you going insane?”

Dick sighed.

“Tejan’g, I need to tell you something.”

The concerned look of the General turned suspicious.

“What?”

“My story.”

“You remember now, then?”

“Yes, I remember everything, but…” Dick clenched his jaw. “What I am to tell you… It might be treason.”

“Ajik, what are you talking about?”

“Tejan’g, please-“

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he was interrupted by Koriand’r’s suddenly appearance.

“Your Majesty,” said X’oyang kneeling down and trying to pull Dick with him. “This is Ajik, he’s not brethren, and doesn’t know our customs, but fought bravely alongside our forces.”

“There is no need for this, please stand up…” and then she squinted, and approached Dick.

“You are pale, have you eaten anything?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine, lover.”

Lover she said. That woman would drive him completely mad.

Dick swallowed and contained the impulse of scream or drag her with him to somewhere far away.

“He speaks English.”

She frowned.

“Who?”

“The General.”

She covered her face with her hands.

“X’hal…”

“Whatever is going on here,” X’oyang said in a serious tone, “I’d not choose to take part, but since I have no choice, let us at least talk hidden from prying ears.”

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

I think that extra chapter about Rachel and Gar’s POV is finally coming because my brain just refuses to write another flashback on Dick’s perspective.

And guys… I think I kinda made DickKory a little sick hahahaha I don’t care, I want it crazy and not always pretty, I want it desperate and suffocating, I’m tired of lukewarm romance.

So… Thank you brave soldiers that are still here, and the new ppl that leave kudos to this fic, don’t be shy, say your mind in the comments, I love to chat!

#dickkory #Dick Grayson #Koriand'r #Nightwing #Starfire #Kory Anders #Richard Grayson #WW #Wandering Worlds #my fic #canva is fucking me over and that's why the cover is weird #thank fucking god graphic design is not my passion

[agoldengalaxy]

What She Left Behind

read on Ao3

words: 1865

“Cal,” Greez breathed, the bottle in his hand shaking a little. “What’re ya doin’ here?” “I could ask you the same question. You’re supposed to be asleep on the Mantis right now. Are you okay?” Huffing a sigh, he turned his gaze up to the ceiling. “No. The room’s spinning.” BD-1 beeped, and Cal chuckled. “No, buddy. He doesn’t mean the room’s actually spinning.” Moving to sit cross-legged beside him, he hesitated before asking, “You wanna talk about it?”

--

Cal quickly scanned the saloon, surprisingly quiet now at this time of night. Hard at work wiping down the bar, Monk twisted his head slightly.

“Ah, Cal! It’s great to see you.”

Despite the fact that the droid said it every single time Cal walked into the saloon, the young man still smiled and stepped up toward the bar. “You too, Monk. Empty night, huh?”

“Most patrons just left,” he replied. “It’s strange. It is not usually this quiet.

“Tell me about it.” Cal glanced around again before returning his gaze to the bartender. “Have you seen Greez? He’s not on the Mantis.”

Monk was silent for a moment, his head spinning to seemingly look away. “He is downstairs.”

Cal’s brows furrowed. “In my room?”

“Yes. He wanted to be left alone, but…” Monk trailed off, and his head spun back around to the front. “Perhaps you should check on him, Cal.”

Despite what many people said about droids, Cal could detect emotion and empathy within Monk’s words. BD-1 beeped questioningly, while Cal simply nodded and stepped away from the bar. “Thanks.”

It was no secret that they were all struggling. Kata was barely eating, Merrin was constantly moving and fidgeting, Greez would cry when he thought no one was looking, and Cal couldn’t sleep. He was putting all of his energy into checking on Kata so that he didn’t have to think about himself, even when Merrin gave him those looks. It just felt so overwhelming.

They’d keep telling Kata that things were going to be okay, but they were just lying to her face. Death never stopped. He wasn’t sure he could count the number of deaths he’d seen on two hands.

Cal shook the thoughts away. It wasn’t the time to wallow. He took everything one step at a time these days, and the next step now was to find Greez.

As he descended the stairs, Cal could hear muffled moaning. He moved a little quicker. 

When the door slid open, he saw Greez sitting on the floor beside the window. He was leaning with his head back against the sill, his arms sprawled out with one hand holding a half-empty bottle. Tears trickled down his face, but he didn’t even bother to lift his head upon hearing the door open.

“Whoever it is, Monk, I’m not in the mood,” he mumbled. Cal shook his head, walking over to crouch beside him.

“Not even me?” he asked gently. Clouded eyes slowly roved toward him, blinking once or twice before there seemed to be any recognition.

“Cal,” he breathed, the bottle in his hand shaking a little. “What’re ya doin’ here?”

“I could ask you the same question. You’re supposed to be asleep on the Mantis right now. Are you okay?”

Huffing a sigh, Greez turned his gaze up to the ceiling. “No. The room’s spinning.”

BD-1 beeped, and Cal chuckled. “No, buddy. He doesn’t mean the room’s actually spinning.” Moving to sit cross-legged beside him, he hesitated before asking, “You wanna talk about it?”

Silence fell between them for a moment. Greez sighed so softly it was almost inaudible. “It’s her birthday.”

It suddenly felt like a Star Destroyer had just crashed into him full speed. Cal closed his eyes, trying to shake off his dizziness. “I didn’t know.”

“She wasn’t one to share.” Cal opened his eyes, taking Greez in for a moment before moving to lay down beside him, his hands beneath his head. The ceiling’s fluorescent lights blinked as if they were pitying the two men on the floor. BD-1 hopped to sit in between them while Greez looked to Cal. “You don’t gotta stay here, kid. I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” Moving his head to meet Greez’ cloudy eyes, Cal felt a lump form in his throat. “I want to.”

Greez’ expression twisted into what looked like pain, but Cal recognized it as his ‘trying to hold back tears’ face. “What’d I do to deserve you, kid?”

Cal smiled sadly. “I think Cere would want us to stick together.”

He got a sob in response. It took a second for him to compose himself. 

“...I miss her, Cal.”

Cal felt his heart shatter. Seeing Greez like this, merely like a shell of himself, was upsetting in a way he couldn’t explain. He reached over, gently rubbing one of Greez’ arms, trying to fight the burn in his own eyes. “I do, too. And if she were here, she’d hate that we’re just lying here.” He could already hear her voice.

My death was necessary to protect those codes. Keep fighting so it was not in vain.

“It ain’t fair,” Greez moaned, his words slurring a little as he drank more from the bottle. “Just when we felt like there was some hope, she…”

“I know.” For a moment, the familiar rage burned in his chest as he thought of Bode. After all of this, he wasn’t sure he could trust anyone anymore. The darkness hummed around him, and he ignored it. “We’re gonna keep fighting for that hope. For Cere.”

Greez rolled over, pressing his face into Cal’s shoulder as he cried. Cal’s arm came up to hold him, letting him let it out as he stared up at the blinking lights, listening to BD-1’s sad boops and wondering if the pain would ever stop.

Would he someday lose Greez, too? Merrin and Kata? Why was he still alive when everyone he cared about always ended up dead?

The darkness around him hummed louder this time. Whispered voices spoke to him in unknown languages. When he closed his eyes, he could see Dagan. He could see Bode. He saw Cere and Trilla, who beckoned him closer.

Before he could do anything, Merrin appeared behind his closed eyelids. Her voice echoed. I can’t lose you, too. His eyes shot open. He focused on Greez’ warmth, on the way his chest heaved. Greez needed him now. It wasn’t the time to feel sorry for himself.

He held him for a while until Greez slowly pulled away, wiping at his eyes sloppily. “Sorry, kid. You shouldn’t’ve had to see that.”

“It’s okay.” And he meant it. BD-1 nuzzled its head against Greez’ hand, and he gently pat the droid while Cal took the bottle from him.

Clearing his throat, perhaps trying to regain some composure, Greez looked tiredly up at the ceiling. “Next time I see Vader, I’m gonna kill him.”

Cal smiled, a little more genuine this time. “I’m sure you will, Greez.” Suddenly, the door slid open, and Merrin and Kata stood at the foot of the stairs. Merrin’s eyes were wide, perhaps scanning for danger until falling on the two men on the floor. For a second, no one spoke, until Cal lifted a hand in a half-hearted wave. “Hey.”

Kata rushed over, kneeling in between Cal and Greez. “Are you okay? Why are you here?”

“Oh, I just needed some peace and quiet, Kata. But you know Cal. He won’t leave ya alone,” Greez answered gently, seemingly sobering up the second she got close. She smiled slightly.

Merrin, meanwhile, let out a relieved sigh, shaking her head. “I woke up and you were both gone - I thought something happened…”

Cal sat up slowly, the bones along his back cracking painfully. “I’m sorry…I couldn’t sleep, and I had to go looking for Greez. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

She gave him a look. He knew she could help with the dreams - in fact, she often did - but he couldn’t ask that of her every single night. They’d had this conversation a lot. They decided not to continue it in front of Greez and Kata.

“I am glad you are both alright,” she said instead, looking at Greez now, clearly knowing that ‘alright’ was not quite the word that she should use in this situation as her gaze flicked toward the bottle Cal had placed on the floor.

“Of course I am. Nothin’ can get the best pilot in the galaxy down,” Greez replied, either a really good actor or genuinely feeling better just with Kata by his side. Cal couldn’t tell. “But layin’ on the floor ain’t so bad.”

Kata scrunched her face up. After looking at him skeptically, she lay down between Cal and Greez, her small frame fitting in the space perfectly. BD-1 happily hopped onto her chest as she looked up at the blinking lights, smiling. “It’s not as bright in here as it was at home.”

Cal hated that Nova Garon was ever considered home for her, but he didn’t voice it. Instead, he nodded, always trying to keep things light when she was around. “Yeah, it’s pretty great. Greez made this whole room for me. It’s nice to get off the Mantis sometimes.”

“I like going to new places,” Kata agreed, looking up at Merrin, who smiled back. The smile faded slightly as her eyes drifted toward Greez. Cal followed her gaze.

His eyes were closed, his two left arms resting on his chest that rose and fell with even breaths. All that crying had tired him out. Maybe the alcohol had a hand in it. Kata lifted her head to see, too, her lips parting in surprise.

“Is he asleep?” she whispered, her head swiveling to look at the other two. Merrin smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and nodded.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip, then stood up, walking toward the small alcove where the bed was. She grabbed one of the rolled-up blankets, shook it out, and walked it back over. After shaking it out, she gently placed it over Greez, who mumbled something under his breath, and knelt down beside him. “We’re not gonna leave him alone, right?”

Cal, while trying to fight the burn in his eyes, exchanged a look with Merrin. Despite everything, Kata was so kind. He remembered Cere’s voice, urging him to guide her. He turned, gently ruffling her hair. “No, of course not. He’d want us here tonight.”

Pleased by that answer, Kata smiled and lay down between them again. Cal shrugged and lay down as well, raising his brows at Merrin, who sighed softly before joining them. He placed an arm around her. She lay her head on his chest. Things were quiet besides Greez’ soft breathing.

It was late, so it didn’t take long for Kata to join him. While she slept, she grabbed Cal’s free arm, happily snuggling it in place of her Mookie doll, while BD-1 nuzzled up next to his neck. For what felt like the millionth time, he held back tears as he stared up at the ceiling, a mix of sadness and gratitude surging him all at once.

Merrin lifted her head to look at him, gently sweeping hair from his eyes. He leaned into the touch, feeling his eyelids grow heavy by the moment as she took his hand in her own. “Sleep,” she said softly. “We are safe. I promise.”

Strangely enough, he felt too tired to argue. “Thank you,” he mumbled, weakly squeezing her hand before allowing his eyes to close.

On that floor, surrounded by his family, he had the best sleep he’d had in weeks.

#star wars #jedi survivor #cal kestis #greez dritus #cere junda #nightsister merrin #kata akuna #m6nk #bd 1 #they're all so sad and so am I :( #let them rest tho #my writing #agoldengalaxy #my post

[ladytanithia]

Self-promotion Saturday

Haha, I'ma call this self-promotion because this little thing that's not a story and not quite a poem has been overlooked on AO3 and didn't get any love on the poetry page I belong to on FB (buncha strait-laced older Christians on there, methinks). I thought this might be a better place to share it; there might be more people who can relate here.

I wrote this "prayer" for Miranja as a way to try to explain her passion for so many people (mostly followers). I also wrote it before I wrote the part of DwD where she takes Talvas to Skyrim and falls more and more in love with him. And of course, this was toward the beginning of Miranja's adventures, when she was still impulsive and naive and not as wise.

See if you can guess who she's talking about. (Obviously, those who have read DwD will have an advantage...)

Tagging my friends but no obligation to dig something up to share! @dirty-bosmer @gwilin-stay-winnin @mareenavee @skyrim-forever @thana-topsy @thechaosdragoness @thequeenofthewinter

***

I traverse the wilds of my country, places where none but the wild beasts, black-hearted bandits, and necromancers hide. I act as savior of my countrymen and destroyer of the evil lurking in the dark

corners. My traveling companions vary, but we defend each other to the death; they know my mission and support me wholeheartedly. With each victory, our blood and spirits high, we love each other primally and celebrate the gift of the breath of life we still draw in through our flaring nostrils. Their strength and courage draw me irresistibly, and I know it is the same for them. Our senses are intimately familiar with the sight, sound, scent, taste, and touch of each other. Our hearts and bodies are inextricably bound by the survival we afford each other. We are warriors, and our hearts beat strong, proud, and free.

Yet there is one who draws my soul to him like no other… not a warrior but a gentle, loving scholar. He is content to be settled in one place, a quiet, welcoming merchant, bringing light to his corner of the world. He is soft-spoken, honorable, and skilled in wordcraft. His gentle voice, adoring eyes, and tender, velvet touch elicit feelings in me that no one else has ever given me. Wherever I am, whoever I am with, my thoughts return to him, and I anguish over this love. I feel that he wants to have my heart exclusively, and it is true that I burn for him, but my wild and loving heart can never belong to one person alone, and I cannot make the same commitment to him that he wants to make to me.

Why does society seem to seek to restrain hearts like mine that burn hot and need to be constantly tempered and its warmth and light shared with the world? A fire does not diminish when it is shared. Why do jealousy and possessiveness exist? My many loves all know their worth and know the intensity and depth of my love for them, and I value this tender man above all the others. Yet, if he truly knows my heart and soul, then he knows he cannot lay claim to any part of me, close his fingers around me, else I will suffocate and die. How can I convince him to simply hold out the palm of his hand and know that I will always fly back to him, that his soul is the home for my soul?

Lady Mara, please work your loving magic in his heart and show him the true depth of my love for him. Let him know that his is the star in the heavens that guides my path, and that path will ever lead to him as long as we both draw breath. Let him know that my life would have an unfillable void without him. Let it be enough for him.

#skyrim #elder scrolls #miranja #tesblr #fanfic #ao3 #slutty dragonborn #tanithia writes #lady mara also has some work to do in Miranja's rather reckless heart

[lamaenthel]

I Love You

[read on ao3][masterlist]Febuwhump prompt: "I Love You"

It is Emperor Vader that has returned to free the slaves of Tatooine, and He has decided that they deserve not only justice, but vengeance. He strides powerfully back and forth as He speaks to the crowd in a language that the Captain doesn't have a translation module for. The entire population of Mos Espa is crammed into the Grand Arena. The slaves are the ones who fill the stands today, and they love their new Emperor.

Characters: CT-7567|Rex/Ahsoka Tano, Darth Vader Wordcount: 1931

The Captain stands in the very arena where Anakin Skywalker had won his freedom so long ago. He remembers once, when his General was feeling nostalgic—and maybe a little tipsy—he admitted that he still dreamed about returning to Tatooine to free all the slaves. He thought for sure that the Jedi would someday bring justice to his planet.

They didn't, nor did Anakin Skywalker. It is Emperor Vader that has returned to free the slaves of Tatooine, and He has decided that they deserve not only justice, but vengeance. He strides powerfully back and forth as He speaks to the crowd in a language that the Captain doesn't have a translation module for. The entire population of Mos Espa is crammed into the Grand Arena. The slaves are the ones who fill the stands today, and they love their new Emperor. They roar His name into the cold night air, stomping their feet in cadence. 

On the track is every slave owner in Mos Espa over the age of sixteen, bound and forced to kneel.

"It's the slave's tongue," Korrē whispers to the Captain. "They know He's one of them. He's telling them that they are all free. Their chips are deactivated and they have inherited the wealth of their owners. The Empire will not tolerate the barbaric practice of slavery anywhere in the galaxy." 

The Captain's eye flickers to the remnants of the 501st that make up Vader's Fist, standing shoulder-to-shoulder behind the chained masters; a wall of black plastoid three-hundred strong, ready to fire on any who loosen their bonds.  Behind them stand the children of the slave owners, graciously pardoned by the Emperor as too young to pay for their parents' sins. They will be reeducated in the Core, raised by Vader's most loyal supporters, but first they will watch their parents face His justice.

Lord Vader finishes His speech, raises His arm, and ignites His newest symbol of power; if not for the blade's flickering, void-white edge and the Imperial destroyers blocking out Tatooine's stars, the Darksaber would be invisible against the night sky. The Captain's audio momentarily shorts out from the cheers of the liberated slaves splitting the night air, loud as a thunderclap. The ground shakes under their stomping feet, a heartbeat of—Va-der! Va-der! Va-der!—displacing the sand beneath them.

The sand trawler starts up and slowly advances upon the neatly chained line of immobilized masters. "Ani!" A Toydarian at the very end of the line flaps his wings pitifully and sobs. "Ani please, I treat you and your mother good, yes? Sell her to nice husband? Ani? Ani!"

Korrē drops to one knee and kisses the Emperor's hand. "I've received word from Captain Jesse, Master. Jabba is in custody, as is his staff." She sags. "There was no sign of our quarry." 

Vader shrugs, surprisingly unbothered. "I know they're here. I can sense… him." His voice darkens, and His eyes flicker with molten gold.

"We did acquire a rancor," Korrē adds, biting her lip nervously. 

The screaming is getting louder as the trawler lurches ever closer. Vader's eyebrows arch in surprise. "A rancor? Trained, or wild?"

"Well trained." Korrē smiles, visibly relieved. "And at your service for whatever purpose you desire."

Vader pulls her to her feet and embraces her. "Very good, my apprentice." His hand trails down her rear lek, stopping to squeeze the fatty flare. 

The Captain stares straight ahead. A drunk civilian in a crowd on Coruscant once stroked Ahsoka Tano's rear lek like that. Anakin Skywalker broke his orbital socket.

Korrē shudders in His arms. "Thank you, Master." She rests her montrals against her Lord's heart, purring. The sand trawler is only meters away from the first bound, screaming man.

"I will deal with Jabba. Return to the homestead and collect Owen and Beru, then bring them to the palace. I'll give them one last chance to tell us where they went."

"And if they don't?"

Vader smiles, slow and thickly venomous. "Then we'll see how well-trained my new rancor is."

The cheering of the bloodthirsty crowd behind them muffles the crunching bone and screaming coming from the track.

"Your Highness." The Seventh Sister of Vader's Inquisitorious stands in the back-lit archway of the Lars homestead and goes down to one knee. "Beloved Abassa of Emperor Vader. I regret to inform you—"

Korrē's eyes narrow. "What did you do?" she interrupts.

The Mirialan glares at her. "I was continuing my interrogation as you instructed, your Highness, when the male—"

"I gave no such order." Korrē lifts her hand. The Seventh Sister flies up into the air, clawing at her throat. "What did you do?"

"Pl…please, Highness," she wheezes. "You told me to—"

"I told you to wait for my return!" Korrē throws her with a snarl against the stone wall of the Lars homestead. "You idiot! What have you done!"

"Mercy, Highness!" 

Korrē tilts her head and growls in a subsonic rumble that makes the Captain's stomach clench. She clenches her fist. The Seventh Sister screams as her eyes pop from her skull with twin geysers of blood and dangle pitifully by their optic nerves. Korrē drops her hand, letting the Seventh Sister collapse onto the sand. "Stun her and load her onto the skiff. I have no desire to listen to her hysterics." Korrē stomps inside after kicking the sobbing Mirialan in the stomach.

The Captain has barely secured the Inquisitor on the skiff when Korrē hops aboard, dragging the bloodied, blonde Beru hop behind her. She jerks her head at Vaughn to take off. "This can all end now," she says to Beru, her voice dripping with poison honey. "The Emperor never wanted to hurt anyone. Look." She points at the unconscious Seventh Sister. "I did that for what she did to Owen. Lord Vader will do worse. He wants his children, as is His right." 

"I don't know a damn thing about his children," Beru whispers. There are tear tracks running through the blood on her face.

Korrē's eyes tighten. She grabs the woman by the chin. "Then why did we find two cradles buried below your water tank?" she hisses. Beru closes her eyes, shuddering with a silent sob.  Korrē licks a clean stripe through the blood and tears on her cheek before letting her go. "What happens next is entirely up to you, Auntie."

The Captain glances back down at the unconscious Seventh Sister and discretely pokes her eyes back in her fractured skull before Korrē becomes too tempted.

The Emperor is reclining on Jabba's throne when they arrive, covered head-to-toe in green viscera. His Grand Inquisitor looms behind him in a darkly ironic echo of Jabba and his larval majordomo. He grins at His heir, golden eyes shining in the dark stone chamber. "Do you know what happens when lightning hits a Hutt?" His tone is light, merry; clearly the toppling of Jabba's empire has Him in a joyous mood. 

Korrē shoves Beru aside and throws herself into a contrite bow at His feet, already in tears. He leans forward, smile fading. He almost looks concerned. "What happened?"

"My Lord, the Seventh Sister defied my orders and continued interrogating Owen Lars while we were at the arena. She killed him." Korrē squeezes her teary eyes shut. "I take full responsibility for her defiance. I accept whatever punishment you believe I deserve."

The Grand Inquisitor's lip curls up, clearly enjoying Korrē's submissive display. Vader's eyes darken and flick over to the keening Seventh Sister, dragged in on her knees by Ridge. Her right eye dangles pitifully from the nerve. It won't stay, no matter how many times the Captain pushes it back in. 

Korrē is too ashamed to even look at her Lord. "I'm so sorry."

Vader leans down and places a sticky hand on her montrals. "Rise, Korrē." She does, shaking and teary-eyed. He pulls her onto His gory lap.

Korrē leans into the hand He presses against her cheek. "Please forgive me, Master," she whispers.

Vader presses a soft kiss against her montral. The Grand Inquisitor's satisfied smirk falters. "I love you, Korrē." His hand slides down her cheek, rests around her throat. "You are my daughter, my apprentice, my heir." Her eyes widen and tear up with His praise. "But if my Inquisitors disobey you, it is because they believe you are weak. My daughter is not weak." He tightens His hand.

Korrē's eyes go wide and her mouth gapes open, but she doesn't struggle. She accepts her punishment, not even kicking as He chokes the life out of her. Her hands come up and wrap around His wrist; she clings to her Master even as He kills her.

The Grand Inquisitor's smirk returns. He—like all of the selfish, ambitious Inquisitorious—believes that he will become the Emperor's new apprentice if she fails.

The Captain's hand tightens on his sidearm. He knows he can't stop the Emperor from taking her life if her life is what He desires, but He won't be fast enough to stop him from taking his own.

Vader waits until Korrē's eyes roll back in her head and she goes limp, then loosens His grip. Five long seconds pass in which the Captain doesn't feel his own heart beating; Korrē finally comes to with a gasp. "You are forgiven." Vader removes His hand from her throat with a sadistic smile. The Captain lets out the breath he has been holding.

"Thank you, Master," Korrē says faintly. She rests her head against His chest and closes her eyes.

"Bring Beru forward," Vader orders, pointing to a spot in front of the throne. "Don't cry, little one. I said you're forgiven." One hand slips up Korrē's back and strokes her rear lek. 

The Tatooinian woman rips her arm away from Vaughn. "I can walk by myself," she snaps. She lifts her chin and meets His golden eyes fearlessly.

"My wife and children are missing, Beru." Vader gives her a friendly smile, and in the smoky darkness He almost looks like Anakin. "You know where they are. The desert is a dangerous place. Even now, they are in danger from Tuskens, Jawas, krayt dragons. Help me protect them."

Beru shakes her head. "Your mother would be ashamed of you."

The room falls vacuum-silent except for the vicious growl that erupts from Korrē's chest. Vader shushes her with a soft touch between her montrals. "My mother died in agony because your husband and his father—her owners—were too weak to protect her. I was the one who retrieved her." 

"She died free, Anakin." Beru doesn't shy from his golden gaze. "No matter how it started, she loved him at the end."

A muscle works in Vader's cheek. He slaps a button on Jabba's throne with the hand not fondling Korrē's lek. The floor beneath Beru—and Vaughn—opens. "Whoops," Vader says casually as His throne slides forward. He peers down into the grate. "Try to stay alive down there, Vaughn!" He calls down over their screaming. His eyes flick up to the Captain, then to the back stairs.

The Captain immediately elbows Jesse. He nods and heads for the stairs with a handful of men. 

"Now, Korrē." Vader reclines in His throne, petting her head fondly, and gestures at Ridge to bring the Seventh Sister forward. His gloved, bloody finger slips inside Korrē's mouth and tugs on her upper fang. "The eyes were a nice touch, but I think you can do better." 

The Captain glances up at the Grand Inquisitor. His smirk is long gone.

Taglist: @starwarsficnetwork, @febuwhump, @soliloquy-of-nemo Divider: @saradika-graphics

#captain rex #purge trooper rex #ahsoka tano #darth korre #darth vader #rexsoka #febuwhump #febuwhumpday10 #blood tw #gore tw #this one has eye stuff #implied vadersoka #my writing

[mostthingskenobi]

CASSIAN’S RECKONING - Chapter 3: The Cold

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Cassian struggles to wrap his head around his dire situation. Jyn begins to suspect something terrible has happened.

So grateful for all the feedback I've gotten so far!! Thank you to everyone who has left me a comment or sent me a DM.

This is a whumpy fic. Please heed the warnings posted on AO3 for your own well being.

READ THE FIC ON AO3

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CHAPTER 3: THE COLD

He had been taught methods for surviving harsh interrogation. He was currently subjected to deprivation and exposure, designed to weaken him emotionally and make him so desperate he would confess anything in exchange for a reprieve.

The Empire would need a lot more than cold and dark to break Cassian Andor.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t deny that he was miserable. He had never been so frozen in all his life. The metal floor under his bare feet was so frigid it almost burned his skin—ever since Narkina 5 he hated going barefoot. And being strapped to a chair created pain in unexpected places like his neck, shoulders, and lower ribs. Cassian tried not to fidget. This is just the beginning, he told himself. He needed to conserve as much energy as possible.

When the lights first went out, his mind began racing. He couldn’t pinpoint a cogent thought structure; his brain felt like a traffic jam, full of chaos and emotion. Nothing useful nor harmful rose to the surface. But finally, after getting his breath under control, he managed to get his thoughts under control as well. There wasn’t really any need to further evaluate the situation. He was well and truly sunk unless someone came to his rescue—which would be insane. No one would risk it.

Jyn would risk it.

But he didn’t want her to.

In truth, he wasn’t even certain he was still on Tarkin’s star destroyer. He could literally be anywhere in the galaxy.

He twisted his wrists against his restraints, testing their strength, accidentally forcing the binds to bite into his flesh.

Cassian suddenly missed K.

He wasn’t sure why the droid popped into his head, but thinking of his friend made his heart feel heavy. He wished the door would swoosh open and K’s gangly body would lumber in. “At least the Empire gave you a shower,” he would have said, his voice clipped and sarcastic.

Thinking about the ‘shower’ made Cassian go very still as his awareness shifted. To his horror, he noticed something was happening to his wet hair.

It was growing thicker.

At least that’s what it felt like.

Fear stabbed through Cassian as he suddenly understood; it wasn’t getting thicker, it was freezing.

The room was slowly growing colder and colder. The water droplets trailing over his skin started to crystalize. His hands and feet ached. His nostrils stung with each breath.

They wouldn’t freeze him to death yet, would they? They hadn’t even asked him any questions.

Cassian tried to push down his dread. There’s nothing you can do to stop what’s happening. Don’t waste your energy.

Right now, he could control only his own thoughts, so he forced himself to think. He started by recapping everything he kept in his gear, making a mental list. But gradually his thoughts trailed away, moved into forbidden territory. He pictured Jyn’s fingers intertwined in his, and he instantly felt weak. He was surprised how fiercely and how quickly his heart yearned for her, for the friendship that had blossomed and carried them through one of the most frightening ordeals of their lives, for the comfort and familiarity he felt standing by her side or when she smiled at him from across a room. He was never flushed or excited around Jyn. Rather, he became centered and calm, which is how he knew his feelings for her were unique. She allowed him to be still, to be himself, to exist in his flaws.

But now there was little chance he would ever see her again.

Was there any possibility he could survive Tarkin? Should he force himself to withstand by clinging to the hope of being with Jyn? Or was it best to let her go, to accept that thoughts of rescue were delusional?

He was torn from these ruminations when the nozzle above suddenly turned on again and rained another spate of freezing water. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest, firstly because he had no warning in the dark that it was coming, and secondly because each water droplet felt like a needle pricking his skin. He was left sputtering from the unexpected pain, air ripping from his lungs in panicked gasps.

There was no relief.

He could not escape the suffering, the cold, the fear of loss.

The only thing that kept him from dipping into despair was pride. He could not give Tarkin the satisfaction of breaking him this quickly. So, he set his teeth and endured.

Shivering violently drained his energy. He fought to keep his eyes open, but eventually he drifted to sleep, dreaming that Jyn walked in circles, searching for him in a blizzard.

——————–

In fact, Jyn was walking in circles. She and the rest of Rogue Crew spent many evenings in each other’s company, sometimes eating a meal, sometimes playing sabacc. But tonight, everyone watched as she nervously paced between their clustered sleeping racks.

“He’s long overdue,” she finally said angrily.

Everyone looked up at her but no one had the courage to speak.

“Something’s gone wrong.”

Bodhi raised his hand like a school boy, timidly clearing his throat. “Cassian has been out of contact before.”

“But this is different,” Chirrut interjected.

Jyn stopped in her tracks and turned to look at the monk she had grown to trust with her life. “What do you mean? Can you sense something?”

“He’s not a Jedi,” Baze stated matter-of-factly.

“No,” Chirrut nodded, “I’m not a Jedi but I can sense each and every one of you. We have been together long enough for me to see you all in the Force.”

Jyn sat down next to him, her tone growing desperate. “Tell me,” she asked without demanding.

“Cassian burns blue like the hottest flames. But he’s fading; he’s harder to see, harder to discover.”

Jyn forced herself to keep breathing even though Chirrut’s words choked her with terror. The thought of Cassian suffering was unbearable, but the image of him fading away and dissolving from existence made her blood run cold.

“We have to do something, then.” Bodhi leaned forward, ready to take action.

“What can we do?” Baze asked.

“How overdue are they?”

“Hours,” replied Jyn. “They’re well outside the envelope of their mission parameters.”

“Why hasn’t anyone else raised the alarm?”

“I assume it’s because they don’t have an extraction plan.” Jyn couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her tone. The Rebellion didn’t care how much Cassian had already sacrificed; to them he was expendable. “All they’ll do is sit by their wireless radios and hope one of his crew members checks in.”

“We don’t sit around,” Baze asserted.

Chirrut rapped his staff on the floor in celebration of his friend’s spirit.

“What should we do, little sister?” Malbus asked, trusting Jyn’s leadership.

“I want to talk to Mon Mothma. She’s the council member most likely to approve a rescue.”

“Then we go together,” Chirrut said. “The Force will lead the way.”

——————–

END NOTES

NEXT CHAPTER IS CALLED “THE EXPENDABLE” - Tarkin tries to loosen Cassian's tongue. Jyn needs a powerful ally.

Thank you for reading!

Likes, comments, and reblogs are very welcome!

Much love!

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READ IT ON AO3 - Kudos and Comments Welcome :-)

READ CHAPTER 1 “The Razor”

READ CHAPTER 2 “The Scythe”

READ CHAPTER 3 “The Cold”

READ CHAPTER 4 “The Expendable”

READ CHAPTER 5 “The Truth”

READ CHAPTER 6 "The Detritus"

READ CHAPTER 7 “The Salt”

READ CHAPTER 8 “The Power”

READ CHAPTER 9 “The Betrayal”

READ CHAPTER 10 “The Ruse”

READ CHAPTER 11 "The Reprieve"

READ CHAPTER 12 “The Ghosts”

READ CHAPTER 13 “The Redemption”

READ CHAPTER 14 “The Spoils”

READ CHAPTER 15 “The Interrogation”

READ CHAPTER 16 "The Rogues"

READ CHAPTER 17 “The Absolution”

READ CHAPTER 18 "The Reach"

READ CHAPTER 19 "The Hologram"

READ CHAPTER 20 “The Divide”

READ CHAPTER 21 “The Cost”

#cassian #cassian andor #andor #cassian andor fic #cassian andor fanfiction #rebelcaptain #rebelcaptain fanfic #rebelcaptain fic #jyn #cassian x jyn #jyn and cassian #jyn erso #rogue one #rogue one a star wars story #star wars rogue one #rogue one fic #bodhi rook #chirrut imwe #baze malbus #whump #cassian whump #cassian andor whump