#darkisrising sampler

[darkisrising]

The best is yet to come, by DarkIsRising

The best is yet to come "You must be lost, Skywalker, because I know that's the only reason a Jedi like you would be in a place like this."

"Fett," Luke says with a sigh he can feel down to his bones. He scrubs his face with both his palms, determined to become as sober as he can possibly get in the next few clicks even though he's already three very large, lonely drinks into the evening. "What are you doing here?" he asks and is proud that he only slurs a little.

"Looking for you," the once-bounty hunter, current-self-appointed king of Tatooine says.

"Well, you found me. Now you can go back to whatever sarlacc pit you crawled out of and leave me to drink in peace."

Fett snorts, and it’s not a kind sound. "Sarlacc pit. Nice. Real nice," he mutters before ignoring Luke entirely to kick a chair out from the table Luke's claimed as his own. He slides into it with the kind of grace that only comes from training your every movement into the something that could potentially save your life one day. Luke can recognize it, because he’s spent the past ten years attempting to do the same. Fett’s been at it for longer, and even wearing full armor his agility is enviable as he lowers into the narrow gap between wall and table. "Keep running that mouth of yours, and me and my gaderffii will have to teach you a lesson in what backtalk will get you."

"Don't do me any favors," Luke says morosely and then, blinking, instantly regrets it. Kark but he’s drunk.

If Fett has thoughts about Luke Skywalker, darling of the New Republic and Jedi extraordinaire, getting drunk and self-destructive in a seedy Mos Eisley bar, he keeps them to himself. Instead he throws something at Luke’s head. At any other time he would have sensed it coming and stopped it midair, but as it is the hard tech catches Luke on the side of his temple and bounces off, landing on the table between them where Luke can see it’s a small comm unit.

“Ow! What’d you do that for?”

“You're just lucky I remembered the mobile one and didn’t throw my vambrace at you,” Fett grouses. “Call your boyfriend, Skywalker. You haven’t answered any of his comms and he’s losing his kriffing mind.” Read on ao3

[darkisrising]

Lukewarm, by DarkIsRising

Lukewarm

The Jedi is sick, this much is clear.

It wouldn't be any business of Din's except this is the guy that's supposed to watch over his kid. The guy that’s supposed to protect him when Din isn’t around, and if there's one thing Din has known since the moment he’d survived a shootout to find the little gremlin’s bassinet, it’s that danger follows Grogu like stink on a bantha.

If his kid is going to be here his life depends on the Jedi being in fighting shape. And this—this rheumy-eyed, dewy-skinned, slightly-shivering man—is decidedly not in any shape to fight.

"I'm fine,” the Jedi lies from where he sits at the clearing’s edge, legs crossed and leaning just-this-side-of-too-much against the trunk of a tree. “Really."

The cough that follows his words wracks the Jedi's body so hard he doubles over, torso practically folded into his own lap from the force of it.

"I can see that," Din says, the edge of his sarcasm flattened as it works its way through his helmet’s modulator. Read on ao3

[darkisrising]

Mirrorball, by DarkIsRising

Mirrorball

It's in the way the masters watch him with granite frowns, the wide berths the padawans give him in the halls, the silence when he sits to eat among the other knights.

It's the words they whisper when he's nearly—but not quite—out of earshot. The ones that hang in the air around him with every step he takes, every meditation attempt he abandons, every restless walk through the gardens when the temple is powered down and sleeping.

Sith killer. Sith killer. Sith killer.

He can't escape those words. They follow like a shadow. They slot into his every step until even his footfalls ring with the rhythm of it.

“Fearful, they are,” Yoda says when he tracks Obi-Wan down to find the knight attempting to meditate and failing spectacularly. The Jedi master places a small, wizened hand on Obi-Wan’s wrist where it rests on his knee. Obi-Wan stares at the curved green claws on his skin, the only physical contact he’s had with anyone outside of sparring in far too long. “Their own weakness, it is. Patience, you must have with them.”

“Fearful? Of me?” Obi-Wan laughs and mostly masks the hostility in the sound. He knows better than to push his luck so he makes sure his voice stays bemused and detached rather than bitter. Bemused detachment is an acceptable Jedi state. Anything darker would just send him right back to the mind healers. “I killed the Sith, Master Yoda. I didn’t make him.”

“Precisely. Killed him, you did. Remember your Sith lore, do you? Hmm?”

“I have no plans to become some mysterious Sith master’s next apprentice.” Read on ao3

[darkisrising]

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I’m a multi-fandom, multi-ship kinda gal. If you want to check out my work it’s... 🔴over here on ao3 🟠or #darkisrising fic for updates 🟡or #darkisrising sampler for a taste of this and that 🟢my ask box is always open so feel free to drop me a line 🔵my fandom tags are a mess, sorry in advance 🟣  

[darkisrising]

Shout out to my ex, by DarkIsRising

Shout out to my ex

It’s not exactly a revelation. Stiles has always had a type: terrifying and unattainable and just as likely to eviscerate him as kiss him. And aside from a four year stint with a boyfriend that had put him off the whole long term thing for maybe the rest of his life, the years since high school haven’t really made any of that go away. He’s got an impulse control problem about the size of the Grand Canyon and a knack for chasing after exactly the wrong kind of men.

So fuck it. Fuck it. Peter Hale is a terrible idea and Peter Hale might very well tear out his throat and leave him dead in a ditch if Stiles has been totally misreading this whole thing, but he knows his right hand is not going to be able to rest unless he at least gives it a try. Read on ao3

[darkisrising]

Cleave the Pin, by DarkIsRising

Cleave the Pin It’s a sobering thought for someone facing middle age to wrestle with the notion one might be less than appealing in bed, and while he’d always known he was no Don Juan, Stede thought himself perfectly adequate in the art of making love. But ‘perfectly adequate,’ when facing the prospect of reuniting with the man that may very well be the love of his life, feels (pathetic, mortifying, distressing) like a quandary.

“Have you really never made anyone piss their tallow, Captain?” Buttons asks when they are deep in their cups, the tavern they’d stumbled into having little to recommend it outside of its ability to get them all staggering drunk without parting with too much of their coin.

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Stede says, fixing his eyes on a cockroach that’s creeping across the shadowed wall so that he doesn’t have to think too hard about what he’s just confessed to his men. “There was one time where I thought perhaps she’d,” he cuts himself off, taking a deep and hearty drink of ale before he can say anything further that could be construed as too crass. “But now that I look back on it, there was rather a lot of dust in the air and it was probably just a sneeze.” Read on ao3