#kat drabbles

[blackkatmagic]

Any Sith x Jedi (or anyone really pair) where accidentally created a force bond and it's awkward.

if you leave the pair up to me i will pick the most random pool noodle my brain can conjure up, fair warning

“Can't you stop that?” Feral demands. His voice doesn’t crack. That would just be humiliating, and Savage and Maul are already going to be disappointed enough in him as it is.

“Stop what?” Feemor asks, startled, and turns to face him, which should help but doesn’t. The planet isn't outright swamp, but it’s marshy, humid, and he’s stripped down, Temple Guard uniform hanging loose around his waist, the robes beneath gaping and loose enough to show his chest.

Two days ago, Feral was trying to kill Feemor. Now he can't stop looking. If Maul finds out—

But Maul isn't going to find out. They're stuck together for now, but it won't be forever. It might not even be for long, if the temple in the distant mountains really has the cure.

There's a pause, which Feral only belatedly realizes he was supposed to fill, and then Feemor smiles. “Oh,” he says. “I mean, I can cover up, but we’ll have to take more breaks. I'm from a cold planet, not a place like Dathomir—”

Feral groans, flushing, and ducks his head. “No,” he says, which would be convincing except he knows Feemor can tell it’s a lie. “You're—you keep—everything you’re thinking is so bright, and it’s like looking at the sun all the time.”

Another pause, and Feemor laughs a little. “My good mood is making you exhausted?” he asks, delighted.

Feral pulls a face at him. “I'm a Sith,” he says. “I'm used to Maul, so being inside your brain is…different.”

“I suppose I'm probably different from Maul,” Feemor allows, which is the greatest understatement the galaxy has ever played witness to. When Feral gives him a look, he grins, faintly abashed but largely unrepentant, and offers Feral a hand. “You keep getting too far away, I think. That’s why it’s so loud. If you stay close, it should be fine.”

Feral eyes his hand, then his face, but sighs and slides his fingers into Feemor's, fighting down another flush. “What kind of connection gets stronger the further apart we are?” he mutters in vague complaint, but most of his attention is on Feemor's big hand, the way it curls around his own, callused fingers dragging over his skin. It makes him want to bristle, or maybe shiver. The whole world feels like static, and the only thing that matters is the way Feemor tugs him in close. Feral isn't small, even for a Zabrak, but—Feemor makes him feel that way, and it’s not entirely a bad thing.

Feemor flushes too, just a little. Just enough to make his freckles more obvious. “The kind where we’re supposed to get really close,” he says, determinedly cheerful. “But I think Maul would spontaneously generate from the soil and murder me if we even contemplated that solution to the bond.”

Feral rolls his eyes, falling into step beside Feemor as he keeps moving. “Maul is overprotective,” he says. “He does the same thing when he thinks that clone flirts with Savage.”

Feemor laughs, taking a long stride across a deep spot and turning to catch Feral when he jumps it. “Rex? He swore to me that Savage was flirting with him first.”

“Maul is under the impression that Savage still doesn’t know what sex is,” Feral says dryly, and only partially for the way it makes Feemor laugh again. He can feel it, the wash of warmth and light and heat, and—the Dark Side is useful. It’s stronger. He knows that. But—

Feemor makes him understand just how a moth feels in front of an open flame. All he wants is to press in close, bury himself in Feemor's light, wrap Feemor around him. Maybe over him, pressing him into the soft grass where the ground turns solid—

Feemor's breath catches, and he swallows hard. “That is supposed to make the bond more manageable,” he says, a little rough.

Feral closes his eyes, tries to contain a shiver. Maul will definitely kill him, he thinks. And—it’s the bond, partially. They both know that. They can't hurt each other, have to feel everything bouncing back and forth between them, amplified with every extra inch between their bodies. But he’d felt this way, or the start of it, when he was just facing Feemor across the battlefield, too.

“We still have a few hours of daylight left,” he says, faintly unsteady. “We should at least try to get to that ring of hills the locals mentioned. And then…”

Feemor's fingers curl tighter around his, and in Feral’s head, he’s a thing of light and soft warmth and temptation like Feral has never felt before.

“And then,” he agrees, soft, and pulls Feral onwards, so close there’s no air between them.

[sweetpopcornkat]

So I wrote a drabble for the first time? Beware of angst! I warned you lmao

Lance woke up.

As he slowly comes back from his sleep, a sharp light made its way to his face and pain travelled through his eyes and gave him a temporary headache.  He could feel the breeze softly brushing his cheeks, the smell of fresh leaves in the air, the sound of birds singing happily. It’s all a blur but at least his senses are still functioning.

Lance tries to move but he can’t. How long as it been since he crashed his lion? Two days? Three? He remembers how the team was continuously being chased by Zarkon, and how Allura was too tired to keep creating wormholes. The last one had separated the team. Lance briefly wondered if it had been intentional so that the galra couldn’t get their hands on the lions or if it was a mere accident. If so… how were they supposed to find each other again? What happened to Hunk? Pidge? Shiro? Allura and Coran?.... Keith?.. Would he never see them again?

Lance tries to shake these questions out of his mind and focus on what he can do right now. Try moving your arms Lance.. Nothing. Okay, okay.. your legs now. Once again, nothing happens. He couldn’t feel a thing.

When Lance crashed on this planet, blue had ejected him. Lance doesn’t know why it happened but the fact that he can’t communicate with his lion sends a shiver through his spine. Back then, he felt like the impact on the solid ground had broken him into pieces, an excruciating pain covering every single part of his body. He had tried to crawl back to blue. He had tried calling her, asking for help. He had tried. But after a while the pain ceased to exist and his figure entered a dormant state.

This was not the first time Lance had woken up. Everytime he did, he wished he could feel something, anything. But luck wasn’t on his side. How long can he last like this without food or water? Enduring the cold nights and praying that no predator finds him?

Damn it.

He wants to cry.

Why me?

He wants to see his family at least one more time. He wants to play with his nephew and niece like they used to. Listen to his older sister talking about her favourite plants. God, he even misses his mom’s scolds. Everyone probably thought he was dead. Lance thinks… that might become true after all. He feels tired and even though he just woke up, there’s this force that pulls him back to sleep. He slowly closes his eyes as tears fall on his cheeks. A face comes to his mind. A face with a confused frown and a completely ridiculous hairstyle that strangely fits. He can hear him say Voltron as if it was the most logical response to Lance’s made up team shout. He snorts, eyes closed.

He could have told him he loved him.

[blackkatmagic]

Xanatos/Cody - Love at 1st Snark

“Oh, stars and stupid little birds,” Obi-Wan says, entirely exasperated. “Why did it have to be you?”

Cody raises his head from where he’s been trying to chew through the gag. Anything that can get his general sounding like that promises to be entertaining, to say the least.

“It’s pronounced thank you, little brother,” a posh-sounding voice—no Coruscanti accent, but something more liquid, a lot less Core, which is interesting—says, precisely aimed to cause maximum irritation. “And I take payment in credits or peggats, whichever you have on you at the moment.”

“I'm naked,” Obi-Wan says, offended. “Clearly I don’t have any credits, Xanatos—”

“A shame. I suppose I’ll have to leave you to Hondo, then.” Steps sail past Obi-Wan’s cell, and there's a curse, the sound of struggling, but they don’t turn back. Cody raises a brow, and a moment later the fancy bastard who matches the voice sweeps around to the door of his cell, raises a lightsaber with a gleaming white blade, and brings it down sharply. The door thumps down flat, and Xanatos steps over it, then sweeps a look over Cody, brows rising.

“Well hello,” he says. He purrs, and Cody levels a brow right back. It makes Xanatos grin, sauntering into the cell.

“He doesn’t have any credits either, Xanatos!” Obi-Wan calls from the other cell, annoyed.

“For him I’ll make an exception, and rescue him out of the goodness of my heart,” Xanatos calls back, smirking at the sound of offense it gets him. Sinking down to one knee, he pulls a very nice knife from his sleeve, then leans in to cut through Cody's gag, and then says, “You will be repaying my altruism, I presume. You don’t seem as rude as Obi-Wan.”

Cody doesn’t laugh, just leans to the side so he can spit the gag out, then says, “Of course. Wouldn’t want anyone’s altruism to be without some kind of benefit, right?”

“Obi-Wan!” Hondo says, loudly and delightedly, from the next cell. “My friend, you seem to be in a bind! Perhaps this old pirate can help you out?”

“If my choices are you or him, you’d be my first choice every time, Captain,” Obi-Wan says sincerely.

Xanatos rolls his eyes, moving to deactivate Cody's binders. “I don’t know why I bother,” he says. “This whole family is a nightmare. I should have run away when I was fifteen and joined a circus.”

“You’d make a beautiful clown,” Cody tells him gravely, and surprise washes over his face for an instant before he laughs.

“Thank you, I like to think so too.” Getting a hand under Cody's arm, he tugs him to his feet, then asks, “Every limb still attached?”

“All the important ones,” Cody says mildly. “Commander Cody, thanks for the save.”

It gets him a lazy smile, full of intent. “Xanatos, with the 501st, but I think you can call me whatever you like.”

If this is the Jedi Rex has been refusing to introduce Cody to, Cody's going to have to turn Rex upside down and dunk his head in dye or something. “Yeah? That include—?”

“Cody. You don’t even know where he’s been.”

“Sorry, General,” Cody says, not sorry at all. When Xanatos sweeps his fur-trimmed cloak off and offers it, he takes it with dignity, slinging it around his shoulders.

“Well now,” Xanatos says, and that smirk is an invitation. “That’s quite the look, Commander. Makes me want to lay you down in front of a roaring fireplace—”

“Xanatos.”

“I think if we keep scandalizing the general, he might have a coronary,” Cody says gravely. “Be a shame to rob Hondo of his company.”

“You’re right, of course.” Xanatos offers Cody his arm, and, wholly amused, Cody takes it like he’s a senator at a fancy gala. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I'm going to toss you out an airlock,” Obi-Wan says crossly, limping down the corridor to join them. Hondo has one of Obi-Wan’s arms pulled over his shoulder, and his hat is askew. “You’d better not have dragged Feemor along—”

“Oh no, my dear padawan brother,” Xanatos says airily. “I brought Qui-Gon.”

Obi-Wan blanches, at in the same moment, something distant explodes, shaking the whole base.

“Time to run,” Xanatos advises Cody, and takes off, hauling Cody right along with him.

[blackkatmagic]

Fox/Padme, recovering from grief.

The first time she wakes up and doesn’t immediately want the world to go back to sleep with her, Fox is on the other side of the tiny room, bouncing Leia on his knee, with Luke asleep against his shoulder.

It feels, a little, like the world is still. Like everything is spinning but they're at the eye of the storm, and Padmé lies in the hard, uncomfortable bed, every limb aching with the sort of exhaustion that’s beyond bone-deep, watching Fox smile at their children, and—

Oh, she thinks, and then, I've been sad.

It’s a revelation, even if it should be too simple for one. Putting a name to the grey haze of survival in this strange new world isn't precisely important, but—naming it helps, a little. Strangely so, maybe.

Leia burbles, bright, amused, and Fox leans in, smiling at her. He bumps their noses together, making Leia giggle, and she fists tiny hands in his greying hair, beams up at him. Fox looks back, like she’s the moon in an empty sky, like she’s everything, and Padmé breathes out, then slowly, carefully pushes up to sit.

Fox has been here the whole time. He’d found her on Mustafar, gotten her to medical help, gone into hiding with her. If not for him—

“Padmé,” he says, catching the movement, and immediately pushes up, crosses the room in a few long steps. When he sinks down on the bed beside her, Padmé gives him a smile, curls in tight against his side as he wraps an arm around her, and chuckles when Leia grabs for her hair, too.

“Look at the grip you have,” she tells her daughter, admiring. “So strong. Just like your father.”

She slides a hand into Fox’s, silent reassurance that she means him and no one else, and he breathes out, presses his cheek to her hair. His stubble catches, pulls, but it’s a good sort of prickle, makes her smile.

Fox and Luke and Leia are the only things that make her smile, these days, but—maybe that’s enough.

“Are you all right?” she asks quietly, taking Luke when Fox shifts him over. Luke stirs slightly, resettles, but doesn’t wake, and she kisses his fair hair, curls her legs up under herself to sink more fully against Fox’s side.

Fox is silent for a moment, then sighs, quiet. “Thire was leading the last patrol I saw,” he says. “He didn’t see me, but—he’d taken the paint off his armor.”

All of the clones have. Fox hadn’t heard the order that went out, because he lost his hearing early on in the war, had his hearing aids damaged in the attack. By the time he’d realized what happened, could work out what had been done to all the other clones, it was too late for him to do anything but follow Padmé and Obi-Wan to Mustafar.

“I'm sorry,” Padmé says, soft, and threads their fingers together, squeezing gently.

Fox is silent for a long moment. “I'm not,” he says finally. “Not sorry to have survived. Vader's always hated me. I wouldn’t have made it long, if I heard the order. This is…” He swallows, looking down at Padmé, at their children. Breathes in, and then says, “Not bad. Good, most days.”

Padmé smiles. In a few hours, they're going to have to get up, keep moving; even this far down, Coruscant isn't safe for them to stay in one place long. But—

She’s still sad. It still hurts, the thought of getting up and leaving, carrying on. But it hurts less than it did, maybe, and she has a word to put to the feeling now.

And when she does, Fox will go with her. That’s something.

Right now, sitting here with his heartbeat beneath her ear, it almost feels like everything.

[blackkatmagic]

Granta and Obi-Wan trapped in a Sith layer together, maybe obi-wan gets cursed to not be able to leave the side of the first person he sees?

“If you're not very careful right now,” Obi-Wan says pleasantly, “I'm going to push you into the lava.”

Granta scoffs, though he maybe gives the long drop slightly more of a berth than he had planned to a moment ago. “You seem to forget that if I fall, you’ll be jumping after me less than ten seconds later, Kenobi, given that you're magically tied to me right now.”

“Yes, but they’ll be the most peaceful ten seconds of my life.” Obi-Wan’s grip on his arm is iron, a warning, and Granta wants to push, to prod, to shake through the defenses of the man who replaced his father as Qui-Gon’s perfect padawan, but—

“One would think you’d have more of a tolerance, given what you raised,” he says sweetly.

Obi-Wan’s mouth thins, but there's a light of desperation in his eyes as he scans the interior of the temple’s next room. “It has to be a lie,” he says, just a little ragged. “Anakin wouldn’t have murdered innocents.”

Granta snorts. “He confessed to it himself,” he says. There's a point where blindness stops being entertaining and simply becomes annoying, and Obi-Wan passed that point almost twelve hours ago. “Just before he tried to kill his padawan, his mission partner, and his clone squad, just because of a few visions.”

“You wouldn’t be calling them that if you’d been able to see them,” Obi-Wan says quietly. “The Sith ghost showed us the future.”

“My only future is revenge against the Order, and I don’t need to see that beforehand, since I’ll be bringing it into being shortly—”

A hand on his shoulder, a shove. Granta stumbles, jerks, but Obi-Wan’s iron grip doesn’t waver as he’s pushed out, off-balance and scrambling, held right over the open pit that glows with heat and a dull, angry light. If Obi-Wan’s hold slips even a little, he won't have a chance to save himself given how tightly his hands are bound, and the knowledge sends his heartbeat racing in his ears.

“Going to kill me like you killed my father, Obi-Wan?” he asks softly, despite the pace of his heart. Stone crumbles under his boots, and he jerks despite himself, staring into Obi-Wan’s face. Looking for that coldness that was in Xanatos’s eyes, the last time Granta saw him, because that’s how Force-users look at him—

But it’s not how Obi-Wan is looking at him. There’s anger in his face, grief, a regret that makes Granta seethe, but it’s there and unwavering as he meets Granta's eyes.

“Xanatos committed suicide,” Obi-Wan says, perfectly even, though the look on his face is anything but cold distance. “He didn’t want to face punishment for what he’d done, and he threw himself into what was left of the Sacred Pools. I wish I’d been able to stop him, if only for your sake, Granta.”

The words shake through Granta, twist the anger up into vicious, desperate knots. “That’s a lie,” he snaps, and some mad impulse has him throwing all of his weight back—

Obi-Wan wrenches him forward, twists them, shoves him up against the wall instead, and Granta's breath is knocked out of him on an awful sound. Obi-Wan is like a wall in front of him, though, and he twists but can't get free, gives up with a curse and just leans there.

He’s shaking, maybe. There's a tremor in him, something deep and desperate and cold, and Obi-Wan is the first warm thing in a lifetime, even if he’s a blind fool.

“Bastard,” he manages, but Obi-Wan breathes out, cups a hand over the nape of his neck, and Granta has to close his eyes, because everything is too much.

“It’s not a lie,” Obi-Wan says. “Though given that I've apparently been raising a Sith Lord, I understand if my certainty means less right now than if might otherwise.”

Granta snorts. Anakin is most definitely a problem they're going to have to deal with if they want to get out of this temple. Preferably before he kills Ferus and Ahsoka, since Obi-Wan is going to be all but useless at facing him. Ferus seems like the practical sort, though. Granta can probably get him to stab Anakin at least once.

“I have contacts on Tatooine,” he says, soft, almost a taunt for all it doesn’t have much will behind it. “If you’d like to know whether it’s true that he wiped out a whole tribe.”

Obi-Wan stares at him for a long moment, then closes his eyes. “I don’t want to,” he says. “But—I need to.”

Granta hates the Jedi. He hates their righteousness, their self-important nobility, their haughty dignity. But looking at Obi-Wan right now—

“Let go of me,” he says, instead of what’s knotted up and pulsing in his chest. “Or I'm going to assume you want to pin me to something solid and fuck me, and then I’ll be most disappointed by your prudishness—”

“Would that make you be quiet for five minutes?” Obi-Wan asks, exasperated. “Because if it will, I’d be happy to help.”

Granta opens his mouth, closes it, and then laughs. Not prudishness, then.

“I should have known,” he says. “Given how readily you drop your robes at the first opportunity.”

Obi-Wan snorts, but there's a curve to his mouth that isn't the pinched tightness of a few moments ago, and he prods Granta along with a slightly lighter touch. “I refuse to have sex in a Sith temple, regardless of the circumstances.”

“Then you shouldn’t have flirted with the Sith witch who cursed you, maybe—”

“I will shove you up against another wall,” Obi-Wan says, aggrieved, and Granta snorts and lets himself be pushed onward down the path.

[blackkatmagic]

Jaster/Granta in "woke up married"

When Granta wakes up, it’s to a splitting headache, a ring on his finger, and a frankly obscene amount of sunlight streaming in through the entirely uncovered windows.

“Ugh,” he says with deep disgust, rolling over and burying his face in Jaster's blanket-covered hip.

“Not the most resounding affirmation of our marriage,” Jaster says dryly. He’s sitting up, leaning back against the headboard with a pad up, and Granta opens one eye to squint up at him.

“I don’t think you should be taking that tone with me after I dug you out of a Sith temple,” he informs his new husband, but tips his head to look at what Jaster is doing. “Looking up solicitors to get us divorced?”

“Looking up planets without extradition treaties to the wider galaxy,” Jaster says without hesitation. “The moment Myles hears I married a crime lord, he’s going to mobilize all of Mandalorian space to hunt me down and then mount my head in his parlor.”

“I'm a businessman, officially,” Granta says lazily, though the part of their meeting where he killed a Sith ghost and rescued Jaster from an eternity of torment as a Sith soldier—not for altruistic reasons, of course, but because he’s been meaning to add the book Jaster had latched onto to his collection, and Jaster had tried to take his head off when he attempted to retrieve it—probably undercuts the assertion slightly.

Jaster hums, unimpressed but indulgent. “You're also officially my lord and master,” he says, apparently unbothered by this as he scans the pad. “So, husband? What dastardly commands do you have for your enthralled servant who exists at your pleasure?”

With a snort, Granta rolls over onto his back, raising a brow at Jaster. “You might be a thrall to my will,” he says dryly, “but if last night proves much, it’s that I have to beg you to do anything.”

“Mm, you do beg very well.” Jaster lowers the pad, sweeps a glance over him. He pauses, clearly debating something, and then says, “If we were to tell Myles that you have absolute control over my will—”

“I'm very fond of you,” Granta informs him. “Specifically of your cock. But even for you, dear husband, I'm not going to piss off the kriffing Mand'alor.”

“Coward,” Jaster tells him, but it’s amused more than aggrieved, and he leans down to kiss Granta lightly.

Granta smirks lazily, sliding a hand into Jaster's short hair. “Oh, absolutely. That’s the best part of being a criminal overlord. I don’t have to worry about moral uprightness or any principles beyond self-preservation. You should try it.”

“So you saving that Twi'lek girl who verbally abuses you and calls herself your bodyguard—”

“We’re not bringing Eldra into this.”

“Or your angry pet murderer—”

“Or Maul. Close your mouth.”

Jaster laughs at him instead of listening. But then, last night’s mad bit of impulse while thoroughly sloshed was largely focused on the hope that being married would make him listen slightly better than the dastardly Sith magic, so that’s not exactly a surprise.

[Buy me a coffee?]