#txrkin

[asheepinhellsclothing]

Lost Souls

Closed with @txrkin

-----

It was always so cold on the surface. It would have seemed cliche even to him, given it was high summer and sweltering for the natives of the region, but Soris was freezing, curled up in the corner of the room he'd been summoned into. The room that had very quickly been sealed when that summoner realized this was not the demon he'd ordered.

Thankfully this didn't happen often. Soris wasn't even a proper demon, not really, and imps didn't tend to get a lot of attention from really anyone. Even their own bosses tended to simply order them around, names given mostly out of necessity to keep their rank and file organized. He'd been plucked up before, once every millennium or so, and usually he was allowed to pop back down just as fast.

This was not a usual case, however.

For one thing the summoner was enough of an idiot not to let him explain himself and simply ran off, afraid he'd skin him or eat him or whatever he thought the five foot tall welp of a thing could manage. But while the bastard was incompetent enough to pick the wrong demon, he was competent enough to make sure whatever he brought up wasn't leaving without permission. Or negotiation.

But there was no one to negotiate with - all the humans did was throw him live animals before locking the door up again, spreading fresh salt at the threshold and crossing themselves. It was getting rather distressing, especially given they never threw in anything to feed or water the poor creatures. Three chickens and a rabbit had already died and now he was trying to figure out a way to keep the black rooster they gave him this week from going with along with them, to no avail. He already been kicked in the face twice for his trouble and now they were sitting at a stalmate, Soris chin on his knees.

[howlingmojo]

Grand Moff Tarkin in full regalia, smirking at someone wearing a white cape.  ( This is “Van Tarking”, really )

”The evening had just become a little less boring…”

For Txrkin, hope this sassy old fellow adds a little ray of sunshine. 

[pixelpaladin24]

@txrkin started following Loki

"Oooh hello hottie. Want a smoothie?"

[gingeralehux]

@txrkin — Liked for a »»»STARTER«««

“I always wonder how many existential crises is one too many,” he murmured as he carefully slipped out of his coat before gently folding it over his chair. He made to sit, but he paused, turning towards a cabinet that had held several bottles of alcohol. “Care for a glass?”

[first-order-general]

"Oh look, it's alive."

There was a time when the words would have hurt. A dismissive tone from someone he admired so intensely. But he was older now, and he had grown into his own. And while it still smarted, he made himself not react, turning to look at his old hero with a careful semblance of self-possession, trying to look almost dismissive, if he could. “I might say the same thing to you, sir.’ Trying desperately not to seem like the obsessed cadet he’d once been, knowing it had only earned him disgust. “I’ve heard my men placing bets on how long you’ll last.” He wouldn’t hesitate to make the remark to Peavey, or Krennic, but his cheeks flared instantly red saying it to him, and it took everything in his being not to follow it with a whispered I’m sorry.

[medisinals]

cont. with @txrkin from here

Once lit, Wilhuff took a long, slow drawl of his cigarette, holding in the smoke for a lingering contemplative moment, icy eyes slipping closed, before exhaling heavily in a puff of grey-white.

He turned his attention to the other man. “Thank you. That was very much appreciated.”

        He shrugged off the thanks, still sheltering the light of his own cigarette from the rain-spattered wind that reached them even here in the doorway. 

        “Least I could do,”  he says, voice muffled by the makeshift cathedral of cupped hands around his cigarette.  “S’a bastard of a day out here.”  The worst of the year’s chill has passed, but the wind and rain are still misery enough.  Edgar’s suit is soaked clean through, and even all the concentration he can muster can’t quite still the shivers that pass through his slight frame.  It’d be his luck to take ill from a day like today- but there’s nothing that can be done about that now.  The way home will have to take him through the rain again, and he’s determined to wring this moment for all the warmth it’s worth first.

[eriadu-born-and-raised]

@tarkinsterror replied to your post: Attention: Cynthia is an asshole. That is all. 

Arliss and Cynthia “who can be the biggest asshole” contest 

And @txrkin having to break it up before it gets out of hand.

[chromecaptain]

♡

He was pushing her to her limits. His most promising cadet, Tarkin had seen something in the young Phasma, but whether he meant to bring it out or crush it under his heel was up for debate. She’d been training against her entire outfit, every Trooper-to-be throwing themselves at her with everything they had. He’d left at some point, only to return hours later to find Phasma still on her feet, panting, bleeding from a deep gouge across her lip, grimacing with blood-stained teeth as yet another young  cadet threw fists.

It wasn’t until exhaustion made her slow, unable to dodge a hard blow to her skull, that she finally crumbled to her knees, icey, swollen eyes sliding over to Tarkin’s unreadable expression. But as her opponent advanced, Phasma snatched at him, throwing him off balance just enough to leverage her weight against him and with every aching last ounce of strength, hauled him to his back and straddled him to deliver one slow, merciless fist into his face again and again until Tarkin’s soft voice finally said “enough.”

She toppled off of her fellow cadet and onto her own back, the both of them bloody and swollen and gasping for breath like beached fish. Medical personnel carried both of them away as Tarkin explained the lesson he meant to teach the troopers through such a barbaric display, but neither Phasma or the other cadet were conscious enough to hear it.

When Phasma woke, it was on a med table, bacta strips sealing her wounds, a cold bacta compress covering her face to help reduce the swelling. She could sense someone beside her; Tarkin had come to see her, but was silent save for the slow, steady sound of his breathing. He’d fallen asleep waiting for her regain consciousness. And whatever part of her was angry and hateful toward him for the long day of pointless battle was too tired to rear its head, and she closed her eyes to join him.