Feb 5, 2023
Here’s a commission I recently finished for @silvereddaye featuring Fae!Luke from their Star Wars fanfic! Thanks again for commissioning me <333
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Here’s a commission I recently finished for @silvereddaye featuring Fae!Luke from their Star Wars fanfic! Thanks again for commissioning me <333
Luke's com crackled. "Luke, we've got two options. both of which you're not going to like."
send me things !!
Luke's com crackled. "Luke, we've got two options. both of which you're not going to like."
Over the com, Han’s voice remained steady, but Luke had been on enough missions with him to recognize when there was an edge of panic to it. Chewie’s reaction was enough to confirm as much.
Great.
“Let me hear ‘em,” he replied, stifling a groan. No sense in delaying the inevitable.
The mission had already gone belly-up when their contact had found a buyer that would net them a bigger profit than the Alliance could offer. They would have been forced to walk out of there empty-handed if not for some quick thinking from Han, who’d created a distraction so Luke and Chewie could swipe the supplies and they could get out of there. Doing things the honest way hadn’t worked out, so they would have to settle for doing things the smuggler’s way.
Unfortunately, it seemed, that wasn’t going to work, either. “Well, ‘m not sure if you and Chewie have made it to the warehouse yet, but you might wanna head back to The Falcon. Turns out these sleemo have some, uhh… indentured workers,” Han paused, not wanting to say slaves, “that they’re willing to sacrifice if we take any of their goods. So we either take the meds and let these people die, or we leave, and…”
Let their own people die. Blast.
“No, you’re right,” Luke said, grimacing, “I don’t like either of those options.” Their people needed that medicine, quite badly in fact, but could he really accept it at the expense of so many innocents? “What are our chances of getting those people out of here?”
The com was silent, for a moment, and Luke could almost feel Han’s disbelief. “Look, kid, I know you’ve got some kinda hero complex and all, but –”
“Please!,” he shouted, desperation finding its way into his voice. “Han, please, just – just humour me, here. These are –” his voice stuck in his throat, for a moment, before he pressed on, “these are slaves we’re talking about, here. If we can’t help them then… I get it. But… if we’ve got any chance to help…”
More silence. This time, it felt decidedly… reluctant. Chewie let out a soft, sympathetic growl. “Alright, kid, fine.” Han’s grumble through the com was grudging, but it was clear he wouldn’t have said no – didn’t want to protest in the first place. If there was one criminal activity Han refused to engage in, it was slavery. “We got ten minutes, max. I’ll keep distracting these goons as best as I can. Chewie can load up the supplies while you handle the people. But we run outta time… we gotta get the hell outta here, got it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course I do, yeah.”
Luke hated it. What was meant to be a simple supply run had turned into a desperate game of life and death, where he had to gamble with the lives of people he’d sworn to protect. He would do all he could, though.
He would see this through.
***
What their contact had neglected to mention was that the higher bidder was The Empire.
It was a scam they’d been running for some months now, drawing in some folks who were wanted by the Imps or some other crime lords, offering them these medical supplies at a price they could not refuse, then selling them out to the highest bidder. It had worked countless times before, and they’d managed to make it this far without being caught, so when they’d been contacted by Rebels – one, in particular, matching an especially high bounty – they’d taken advantage of that fact and contacted Darth Vader himself, the Imperial Enforcer.
Vader was making his way to collect these alleged rebels, and these criminals would walk away richer than ever. Little did any of them know what was to come next.
Vader and one missed call
I’m slowly but sure getting to these quarantine drabble prompts from a long time ago...thank you for your patience, and for the prompt. I don’t often write Vader, so this was a fun challenge for me.
Remains
Anakin Skywalker is dead, the Hero with No Fear murdered by the treacherous Jedi. This is the story, this is the truth that sings in Vader’s mind, his new meditation as he strides through the former Jedi Temple.
Where Anakin’s step was light, Vader’s resounds. Pain is everywhere, but now it feeds him. Pain as power, reverberating through him with each step.
He leads the 501st in running cleanup on the accommodations wing. Room by room, they search for evidence of the Jedi’s high crimes and take care to neutralize the rest. Mostly with fire.
Vader stops abruptly at the next corridor, turns to face the clones. His cape swishes gently around him as he moves.
“I will handle this section myself,” he says with precision, and dismisses the clones with a flick of his glove. No explanation is necessary. Vader does not lead by explanation, and the clones are good soldiers.
He opens a door. Fire is imprinted in his olfactory senses, the default scent, but between the mask and the Force, he knows exactly what this room smells like. Incense from Naboo, tea from Stewjon, engine grease, bantha hide leather. There is a pile of droid parts in the corner, a scavenger’s dream. Scattered tools, a worn robe or three tossed onto the floor. Sheets half-torn off the bed, remnants of sleepless nights. Or bad housekeeping. The room is, in fact, a mess.
There is a datapad with a collection of encrypted holo messages slipped between the mattress and the base of the bed, but by rights Vader should not know that. Any secrets within were Anakin Skywalker’s, and he is dead.
Vader takes the datapad. They will be his secrets, now.
Making his way through the room, he closes his gloved hand again and again, relishing the sound as metal crumples and fails, as tea leaves and incense turn to dust, as the mattress bends and warps. Weakness bleeds from every object, until it is unrecognizable, destroyed.
Vader should not be expected to know about the commlink wedged between the mattress and the wall. Anakin Skywalker is dead, and had forgotten where he’d lost it.
The commlink does not need Vader’s fist; the screen is already cracked and nearly unreadable. The battery is drained, but that is not a problem. Vader is flush with power.
The screen lights up. One missed call, from a Venator-class Star Destroyer in the Mandalore system.
(Thank you for the ask!)
Will anidala week be happening this year? And if so, when you do you post the prompts?
We (the mods) have yet to put together this year’s daily themes, but AnidalaWeek is scheduled to happen! Stay tuned for news!
“Are you sure that’s the decision you want to make?” CONTINUATION OF THE OTHER ONE >:)
Continuation of this one, for those who haven’t read it. You don’t have to have read that one to understand this one but if you read this one then read the other one it ruins it a bit.
Most of this is under the cut because it got... longer than any “drabble” has any right to be :)
Luke had been in Beggar's Canyon for hours.Flying... took the edge off things, let him get his breath back and just react instead of dwelling on thishorrible, sinking feeling he'd had since waking up.
He'd told Aunt Beru he was going flying thatmorning, even before the first rays of dawn had graced the sky. She'd looked athim a little oddly.
"Sandstorm?" she'd asked.
He knew what she was asking and shook hishead.
"Yes," he said. "No. I don'tknow." And then he'd kissed his aunt goodbye on the cheek, told her heloved her, and asked her to pass the message on to his uncle too.
She'd frowned, but promised.
Now he'd been here for entirely too long, butevery time he stepped out of his Skyhopper the sand hissed.
Soon, it said—or maybe that wasn't the sand, butsomething entirely different. Soon.
Despite the heat, he shivered.
The suns were getting high now. His unclewould really need him—would probably already be furious.
Luke sighed and headed home.
.
Tatooine was exactly as her father haddescribed it to her: a worthless scrap heap as far from the galaxy's light ascould be.
He used stronger language, of course—when heactually deigned to let it occupy his thoughts—but she wasn't here to dwell onher father's opinion. She was rapidly forming her own.
It was no more favourable.
Milestone Bonus Fic!
Title: Surprises (Precipice Bonus Fic)
Author: shadowsong26
Rating: PG
Fandom: Star Wars
Characters: Luke Naberrie, Motee, Elle, Ahsoka
Warnings: Just the general background stuff going on in the fic proper–war, separation, etc. Nothing on-page.
Summary: The first time Luke actually properly meets his Aunt Ahsoka.
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of their respective creators.
Note: There is a very vague spoiler for an upcoming chapter in the main body of the fic, relating to what Ahsoka’s doing on the planet. But you can read this story without knowing what Ahsoka’s talking about, and I think she’s vague enough about what’s going on that it doesn’t really give anything away? But, just as a note.
This is in commemoration of reaching 200k words in the fic proper! \o/
For the prompt thing. #8: I know of your reputation all too well. Star Wars: Anakin (and maybe Padme and Obi-Wan too?)
((sorry for the delayed response! i will admit that I went through like four or five different idea on what to do for this one before settling on this AU idea that’s been kicking around in my brain for a while, lol…))
Padme may not have been a Jedi, but she always knew when she came home to her husband instead of only Threepio. Even if she’d had no idea before then he was even on-planet.
Often enough, it was subtle–a faint scent of ozone and leather in the air; or just the intangible feeling of not being alone, but knowing she was safe nonetheless.
(For all his admittedly deserved reputation for being, uh, less than subtle, he could manage it when it really mattered.)
Of course, other times, like tonight, it was a little more obvious. She could hear the shower running, and Ani’s cloak and boots had been left in an untidy heap by the window he’d used to sneak in.
She shook her head as she moved them to the closet, frowning slightly at the new scorch marks on the cloak as she hung it up.
“Ani?” she called, as the water in the ‘fresher shut off.
The door slid open and there was her husband, emerging from the steam like a hero out of legend–or fantasy–with his hair plastered against his head and a towel around his waist and nothing else. Not even his bulking glove.
“I thought I felt you come in,” he said, leaning against the doorway with a soft, tired smile.
She smiled back and took a second or two to appreciate the view–it was a very nice one, especially since it looked like this latest trip to the front hadn’t been too hard on him; good–before crossing the room to claim a kiss.
Which was when she noticed the drops of blood on the floor. “Ani!”
“Kriff. Sorry,” he said. “I’ll deal with that in a minute, I just…”
“Don’t worry about cleaning up,” she said. “What happened?”
“Just the usual,” Anakin said. “Misjudged how the shrapnel was gonna fly, got a little bit banged up. It’s really not that bad. I was just having trouble getting a good angle to stitch it up. I was gonna try again after I cleaned up some.”
Because of course he’d decided to deal with it himself, instead of getting actual treatment from an actual medic on the Resolute. Or in the Temple. Or at any one of the half-dozen emergency clinics between the Temple and Padme’s apartment.
On the other hand, that wasn’t exactly a surprise. Padme had heard more than enough stories about similar incidents from Obi-Wan and–
She stopped short of thinking of Ahsoka right now; that wound was still too fresh and she had a much more immediate, physical one to deal with first.
Focus.
“Go sit down,” she said, pointing towards the bed. He obligingly headed in that direction, a little more carefully than she liked to see him move. And, once he turned, she could see it–an ugly gash, cutting across from his left shoulder halfway down his back and nearly to the other side. She winced a little, and took a breath to steady herself.
Really not that bad, darling? Or do you just not want me to worry too much? Well, guess what. Too damn late for that.
“I’ll get the medkit and see what I can do,” she continued. “Unless you’re willing to let me get a med droid, or take you to a clinic?”
He stopped, turned half-back to her, and shook his head. “There’s no need. Like I said, it’s not deep, just…messy.”
Hero With No Fear indeed.
Hero With No Sense Of Self-Preservation, more like it.
She rolled her eyes. “Well, let’s see if I agree after I take a closer look. Sit.”
He hesitated another moment. “…I don’t want to get blood on your sheets,” he admitted, sheepishly. “Part of why I took a shower first.”
“Darling, do you really think I don’t know how to get blood out of sheets?” Padme asked.
Which–tickled at something at the back of her brain, but–nope. Not right now. I will do the math later, right now I need to make sure my secret husband doesn’t pass out in my bedroom.
“…what?” Anakin asked.
“Nothing!” she said.
“Padme–”
“We’ll talk about it later,” she said. “Sit.”
For a second, his jaw set, like he was going to be Stubborn at her again, but then he wobbled a little and half-fell back onto the bed.
“Easy,” she said, softly, joining him on the bed and resting her head against his for just a moment, before moving around behind him to take a look at the gash along his back. “Let’s get you cleaned up, darling, all right? Then we can talk.”
“All right,” he said finally, and leaned against her a little. No longer holding himself so stiffly. No longer trying so hard to stay upright when he was tired and in pain.
She kissed his cheek and got to work.
Although there probably isn’t anything to talk about, she told herself, as she poured disinfectant out onto one of the soft cleaning cloths in her kit. So what if it’s been seven weeks since the last time I had to clean blood out of my sheets? It’s probably nothing.
…right?
Prompt me!
Did I give you a prompt for the quote writing meme? If not, “Quit beating me up!” with Star Wars. :3
Satine is Mandalorian, which means she doesn’t give up easily. Words of surrender (stop hurting me, stop hitting me, stop) are a thing she hasn’t said since she was a child, play-fighting with her sister and their father and the Palace guards. And the fact that the ideals of the New Mandalorian movement appeal to her, the fact that she’d prefer to do her fighting with words instead of blasters, doesn’t make her any less Mandalorian. It doesn’t make her any less determined to win.
But the reality facing her is that–two days ago, a small house in a city across the planet blew up. Which would be just another in the string of tragedies she and her people have faced since her father’s murder, except…
Except that the bodies of Kiyani Fett and Ar-den Viszla have now been conclusively identified, from what little was left in the wreckage.
And while her–while Bo-Katan’s body was not found, while Satine can still hope…
(She does hope; she has to; that her sister got away, that her little sister is still alive somewhere; they’ve already lost their father, she can’t–she can’t lose Bo, too; why did she agree to send her away–)
She has an entire planet to speak for. And she cannot make her decisions based on so slim and fragile a thing.
So, Satine has a choice to make. And it is a difficult one. Because she knows it isn’t a surrender, it isn’t giving up–it’s simply advancing to the next stage and changing the rules of engagement–but she also knows that the history involved is…well, it’s complicated. And very rarely good.
But Bo-Katan is–missing. Is very likely dead.
And Satine is running out of options.
And Satine is fairly certain that she already has run out of allies, and tricks, and cards hidden up her sleeve.
Except for this–one last bitter, desperate move.
Her headdress and her steps are heavy, as she walks across the audience hall and settles onto her throne. Her council, in silence, faces her; waiting for her to break it.
I am not giving up, she tells herself; tells her father and her sister and her forebears and their ghosts. I am not.
She steels herself, as invisibly as she can, and speaks.
“It is time we contact Corsucant for help.”
Prompt me!