Izzy, 29, they/he/she ~ Icon by @zod-off Mostly SWTOR atm. Not spoiler free. Will tag if asked, but not currently doing it. Will tag next story update spoilers tho.
Qori Vrask (Jedi knight. Valkorion possesses her, one of seven commanders but more or less in charge during the initial fight against Zakuul. Lana would not be denied.)
Mirris Taal (Jedi consular.)
Desho Bal (Sith Inquisitor. Darth Occlus.)
Arushir (Sith warrior. Still working on a surname lol)
Dravim/Ak'ivos (Imperial agent. Brother of Aniyri. First is the name he typically goes by, second is his birth name. Only non-commander.)
Aniyri Satorne (Trooper. Sister of Dravim.)
Ayar'tova (Smuggler.)
Unnamed BH (I have a few, none of which I've actually decided on including here. Haven't posted information on any yet regardless.)
Second Universe (Still expanding, not sure how many will ultimately be here)
Kayyat (Sith warrior. Official commander of this universe.)
Si'oro (Imperial agent. Advisor to Kayyat.)
OC Fics
Privileged Information (Si'oro/Temple)
Fic Prompt: "I would never let that happen" (Si'oro/Temple)
Sensitivities (Mirris/Desho)
Fic Prompt: "If it means that much to you..." (Aniyri & Dravim)
Other Fics
The Trouble With Underworld Contacts is that They Pop Up When You Least Expect (Theron, Teff’ith. Post-Nathema Conspiracy)
teeheeheehee :)c (you keep bringing up feverish zanya but of course this can also be about someone else)
TALES OF THE ALLIANCE 001: STILLNESS IN WOE
A routine mission goes dangerously sideways when the wrong target is in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now, the lightyears away that Odessen is seems far too long -- and Malavai Quinn isn't sure he'll see it again.
A/N: Not going to lie to you at all, I had an idea. Uh. It got away from me real bad about thirty minutes in but, I couldn't decide between Zanya and Theron being ill and turned like an annabelle doll towards Malavai. This does introduce the "Tales" side-series for drabbles that don't fit anywhere in particular for the usual episodes though, so I may write a follow-up to this that's a lot sweeter.
wc: 2.4k. cw: general illness descriptions...?
"Can you fly any bloody slower—?!"
"I can't, for the last time, break anymore sound barriers than you can — we are in hyperspace, Zanya!"
"There is — let me, I will fly us back far faster than you will—"
"Whoa, absolutely not, there's nothing else we can do but wait —"
"He does not have time to wait —!"
Malavai is barely conscious enough to register the sounds of his lovers arguing somewhere ahead of him when his eyeballs finally lull back forward from where he'd been stuck in a terrible slideshow of events — and then the inky black that acted more like quicksand to his lopsided senses that he's just now managed to claw himself out of. Really, he's barely lucid to be aware of the way the ship lurches forward between galaxies beneath him, or aware of just how fuzzy everything seems around the edges. His head pounds, his hands are clammy, and his eyes keep crossing ahead of him while he tries to grasp what is going on.
His mouth is dry with the taste of bile on his lips when he tries to swallow. Had he been sick recently? He can't remember, reaching through his memories blindly. Nothing sticks though, fading away just as fast as he tries to latch onto something. All Malavai knows right now is that he shouldn't even begin to try to move, lest he dry heave something up all over the floor with the way his stomach roils. Some part of him says he'd already done that, and he's not exactly looking for a repeat offense.
His skin burns. He's hot, but it's his hand that feels the brunt of it when he does go to test his weight on it. It's the second thing he realizes when he groans, pain shooting up his forearm. Like his bones are screaming at him and his very skin is leaching off his muscles, and he can't stop it. It sears up his right arm when he shifts it ever so slightly, and a cry catches in the back of his throat as he squeezes his eyes shut.
In that hazy moment between seconds, minutes and hours, he's staring up at the worried faces of Zanya and Theron on either side of him when he comes to again. Brows furrowed and lips drawn downwards, they seem to wear the exact same expression for a moment. Terror in hazel and auburn eyes that he recognizes must be for him, and an exhaustion that looks like it runs deep in the tension their shoulders carry. Both of them are still in the same clothes they'd been in the last time he saw them, he thinks.
Theron without his jacket though. He realizes a moment later the usual red overcoat he wears had been thrown over his prone form at some point. He's too hot for it, but can't move to get rid of it.
How long had it been since this had started? Considering the way it seems neither of them had slept, surely it had been some hours. Days perhaps. It wasn't like he was in any real position to be able to tell.
Why were they so worried?
He registers Zanya's palm on his face, brushing away hairs that he can't see. His thumb rubs at the skin on his cheek, so tender it manages to surprise him through the lack of reality he's tethered to right now. Theron's hand wraps around his left when he sits on the edge of the bed, squeezing it carefully. He's without his gloves for once as well, both a good and possibly bad sign. His softer calluses are what anchors him, and he lets himself rely on it.
"You're looking a little worse for wear, Mal," There's mirthless laughter between his words, but at the very least he looks more hopeful when he says it. As if he's taking stock of a bad hair day than whatever this affliction was. A barely there smile that's meant to comfort him is stretched on equally unwilling lips. His eyes are rimmed red, if Malavai strains enough to focus on him. He blinks again, "Can't say I love this look on you."
Malavai tries to return the toothless snark that Theron lobs at him, like he always does, but he can't manage to string the syllables together properly. What comes out is more of a strained garble of letters, something that makes his partner wince when he coughs. Something bitter threatens to come back up with it when he swallows thickly, and Theron's hold only tightens at that.
"We will be back on Odessen soon, love. I just need you to hold on a little longer. Please." Zanya presses his lips together in a thin line, moving to press a kiss to his forehead that Malavai leans into. Were he not on the edge of passing out again, he'd find the behavior ill-fitting of him. Never is Zanya that kind outside of their quarters. But he is indeed barely all the way there, so instead he accepts the affection without question because he is unable to do anything else, "I am sorry that I let this happen to you, but I promise that I will do everything I am able to save you."
It's beyond him why he'd even begin to blame him for this situation, especially when he isn't wholly sure how he got here. Trying to take stock of his own body was rather difficult when he couldn't even sit up. It felt like half his brain has sloughed off into stars knew where while he was asleep. He can breathe, and he can see, but both were difficult. A likely response to an injury of some kind. The fever that makes him shiver against the air circulation, that was more concerning. The burning — indicative of an infection of some kind.
Infection … but by what? Malavai can't answer that. He should be able to, should already have a mission report formulated in the back of his head, but the very last thing he remembers is walking a healthy five paces behind his partners, and then tipping backwards into the durasteel when the world had tilted directly off its axis.
Unbecoming of him, really. It does explain why the back of his head hurts mostly independently of the infection he's nursing.
Between then and now, he just has the vaguest of visions of being carried by someone, picked up and held tight. Conversations he can't parse through. Too many questions. Worried glances between them. Panic, running through both of their voices on a comm channel. The sting of an injection. Kolto? An infinite loop, always one of them being there when he was awake. Not that he's able to confidently say just how many times he was awake.
He opens his mouth again, and choked air comes back out instead when an agonizing bolt of pain tears through his right side. Malavai's chest heaves with every labored breath he takes as a response, as if he's weighed down by something that has every intention of drowning him. His voice is not his own when a sharp cry escapes, his lungs burning with every intake all the while. It feels like his heart is going to escape his rib cage, as if his whole body is going to simply melt off of him, as if he might just boil all of his internal organs right out the way the heat spreads like a wildfire licking his insides.
Why is he so hot?
Logic. His body responding to being invaded by a pathogen of some kind.
Which one though? It had to have been man-made, surely. He hadn't encountered any zoological specimans as of late. And it hadn't affected either Zanya or Theron clearly.
He's of no help to that question as that wave of pain crests and crashes, having half a mind to bite down on his bottom lip hard enough to break the skin, unable to completely contain the near scream his body responds with.
He, somehow, mentally apologizes to Theron for holding onto him as if his life depends on it in the middle of all of it. Given, he may not have the actual strength to cause any lasting damage, but he does still commend him for barely reacting to it beside his eyes widening with dread.
"Shit — Zan, he's going to need another dose."
"I — should we — we still have another four hours —"
"I don't think that's going to matter, we need to slow it down before —"
Malavai eyes start to slip close while he watches the burst of activity in front of him, a smear frame of red and black that accompanies the sound of multiple things hitting the floor. They're both gone for a moment between heavy blinks, then they're close all over again. He's minutely aware of the click of something before a needle is shoved into his better arm as the inferno threatens to reach his heart, but he's in enough agony it barely registers as being pain by any meaning of the word.
"No, no, nonono, Malavai Quinn you had best stay awake —" Zanya's hand again, this time on his chin to tilt towards him. He forces his eyes back open at that request, meeting his lover's that are both too close and too far away for him to make sense of. His voice sounds so shrill yet so quiet at the same time. But he is more than sure of himself, "You do not get to sleep, not now."
"… It … hurts."
It's the only thing he manages to say when the forefront of that attack fades, leaving him with the same amount of not-at-all dull throbbing in his entire arm now. It's getting worse. He doesn't know what it is, but he's sure that it's bad. Bad enough that both Theron and Zanya are panicking enough to be treating him like he's on death's door.
Inwardly the thought does make him chuckle. Usually it was one or the other. Zanya's white knuckled grip on a desk somewhere or Theron wearing a hole into the floor pacing while he looked on. Never both. Mostly because it was usually the opposite partner being the one they would lose sleep over. It looks weird. As if it's multiplied in a way it shouldn't.
It was grave then. Unfortunate.
Still, he supposes there were worse places to be eaten alive by an infection from. Being with them was a blessing at least.
Zanya's eyes crinkle at the corners before he drops to the floor to rest on one of his knees, his head bowed forward to hold his forehead against Malavai's hand clasped between both of his, "I know, I know, I know. I am sorry. I can not …"
"Don't force it. You're just going to exhaust yourself more," Theron runs a hand through his hair, clearly stressed the way he gets his fingers caught in it. A ragged breath spills out of him, "It's spreading faster than we can stop it. I don't even know how many stims we can give him now before …"
"Just — I can not lose him like this," The words are starting to slur together, but his voice remains, balming over Malavai's ears. His hands shake around his, and he watches as Theron mentally counts the syringes in his hands. Not many, considering how quick he does it. Malavai begins to wonder just how many times they'd done this. They're clearly staving off the worst, but there were limits to these things. He frustratingly can't think of those limits right then, when Zanya turns back to him, "If only I could just — tear this out of you, I would. I would have taken that hit for you. A million times over. And I can not because of that fucker —"
It does eventually make sense to him. What he means, after he rolls it around in his skull. He can't heal like the other force users on Odessen. Something about Valkorian. He thinks. Remembers? The momentary clarity slips away as fast as it'd returned. Part of him feels terrible that Zanya takes on that guilt like he always does. Surely this wasn't his fault. He highly doubts it at least. Not that he can say that much right now. Hopefully he would have the opportunity to absolve him of it.
His next blink takes too long. He feels almost too stuck in that in between again, and though he loathes to admit such a thing when rationality is fleeting, he fears he's been left alone. He can't see them anymore.
" … Zanya …" Names, his own attempt to tether himself down to the small space that he can't recognize right then, "…Theron …"
The colors are far too bright when he returns again. Black creeps in on the corners of his vision, and he is starting to scare. And Malavai never scares. He usually was too rational for that. Even this sick it feels weird on him.
They're there, nonetheless. He barely makes out the terribly colorful blobs next to him, but the panic recedes slightly once he processes their presences, when whatever stim they'd given him sets in. He is surely dying. There was no other explanation by now, and the logical side of his mind is allowing that to become closer to reality. How rare it was for him to be the one in mortal peril, usually it was him in Theron's place. Or Zanya's.
He doesn't like the idea that he might have to start a punch card to the medbay in the same manner they have.
His odds aren't great. That much is very clear. Hours out to Odessen and he cannot fathom surviving much more of this. Not consciously at least. But putting him under would add too much uncertainty to a variable situation he still doesn't get. As much he as he loves them, neither of them were trained for that sort of thing either.
That didn't bode well for the rings hidden among his things in their quarters. Something told him he was not going to get an adequate refund if he wasn't there to claim it himself.
But they're here. And that's enough for that second. A kiss to his cheek, the smell of Theron's cologne that clings onto him regardless of where he goes. He's far less annoyed than he usually would be that it sticks to him now, "We're here, Mal. Promise we aren't going anywhere. We've got you."
"We are going to make it, love, I promise," Zanya's voice breaks when his grip on his mind slackens again. His whole body feels heavier than lead when his eyes close, pulled in by the undertow again as his voice fades, "Stay with me. I need you."
Meet I'talii ~ I'karr's son with @mimabean's Ashira. He is half twi'lek and half togruta with little horn like montrals that are easily hidden under his helmet - because of the fact that his montrals never grew properly and the fact that he also has twi'lek ears - he has hearing loss. Talii uses his specialized helmet to help him hear but also uses mandalorian sign language while out in the field. c:
my beautiful lab-grown daughter percival who has done nothing wrong ever (citation required) in her life is here! i also have exactly one trope i ever do and that is doomed siblings she is not at all avoiding that i am sorry (no i am not)
her brother (cicero) may be fighting for his life but at least she's having fun on her side of the galaxy. for right now.
TW: None
Eight and Arcann settle on a new planet with their son.
"Grail, don't put that in your mouth. You shouldn't eat things off the ground," Eight gently chastises, plucking his son away from a fistful of moss he was attempting to grab in his pudgy fists and planting him firmly in his lap.
Grail immediately squirms in his embrace, clearly too restless to sit still for even a moment. Eight sighs, knowing all too well the little rapscallion was just going to repeat what he had told him not to do the instant he let go of him, much to his chagrin. Life with a new toddler was…a challenge, for a man who had never been around children, much less raised one. Eight was unused to the intricacies of child-rearing. Never before had he felt so out of his depth the day he was handed Grail's infant form, and he was a man who had been trained to be prepared for anything.
Anything but a child.
He feared he would bumble and bluster his way through parenthood, and would come home someday to a son who hated him. What would he do then, other than accept that these hands were good for nothing other than destruction? A son would not wipe clean the blood from under his fingernails. He would surely smell the reek of it on his father and reject him eventually, as all others did.
Grail is only five, his more rational thoughts soothe, you still have time. For now, we must do our best with what we have.
Eight exhales, his lingering anxieties dissipating as he searches for something to entertain Grail with. To his relief, he spots a gaggle of similarly small children congregating under the tree next to the swing, and steers him around to face their direction.
Grail stops fidgeting, looking over with wide, curious eyes at where Eight is pointing.
"Go play with the others," He nudges him forward, and Grail takes a few confident steps towards the group, only to turn around and run straight back into Eight's arms. Eight blinks, surprised, his expression turning wistful. His hand comes to rest atop Grail's head as he buries his face in the folds of his clothing. "Grail…"
"Looks like you've got a little barnacle there," loudly calls an unfamiliar voice, and Eight glances up from his charge as a troop of assorted spouses traipse into view, having just returned from the town in the valley below. Among their number, he spots his own hidden demurely in the middle of the pack, toting a basket of bread and looking none too worse for wear. Arcann meets his eyes for a fleeting second and smiles, and Eight quickly ducks his head as to not reveal the blush that threatens to overtake his cheeks.
"We're back from our tour of the town," The leader, a Nautolan woman named Uryl, lifts her hand in greeting. She jabs a thumb backwards at Arcann. "Hope we didn't steal him from you for too long. The ladies just love him—it was like throwing him to the Firaxan sharks!"
Eight turns to Arcann, one brow raised.
Arcann coughs into his fist. "They were all very…nice." He says, too modest for Eight to believe.
"See? Total sweetheart," Pipes up another, and the group murmurs their agreement, much to Arcann's collective embarrassment. "It's hard to believe you two are mercenaries."
"Absolutely."
"Totally."
"Anyways, why don't we let you two catch up? We can take your little one off your hands, and he can play with the kids." Uryl interrupts the gossip, crouching down to toddler height. She opens her arms expectantly to receive Grail from Eight, who attempts to burrow his way through Eight's chest to get away from this stranger.
Eight smiles weakly from where he sits. "Sorry. He's a little shy. He's not usually like this."
"That's alright. Nena! Come here!"At her mother's barked request, a purple Nautolan child holding a ball comes running to Uryl's side. "Can you make Grail feel welcome? He's new here, and doesn't have any friends yet."
"Sure!" The child happily chirps, and tugs on the back of Grail's shirt. "Come join, we're playing huttball!"
Grail's attention is immediately caught by the magic word, and he turns from the safety of Eight's chest to face Nena, who jumps up and down enticingly. He looks at Eight uncertainly, unsure of what to do.
Eight looks down at him warmly, mouthing 'go on'.
After some deliberation, Grail finally extricates himself from Eight and is tugged away by Nena, who excitedly yaps all the way to the tree where the rest of the children await them.
"Thank you," He says to Uryl, who simply winks at him as she moves to join the children across the park.
"Don't mention it. We're a community. We look out for our own," She answers over her shoulder, and Eight watches as she and the other spouses become smaller and smaller in the distance, leaving him and Arcann alone. A moment passes, and they admire the view together as their son plays in the foreground.
"Did anyone recognize you?" Eight asks cautiously, breaking the silence.
Arcann shakes his head, removing the pair of spectacles he had donned as part of his "disguise", the rest of it being a change to civilian clothes and a repainting of his prosthetic. He takes a seat next to Eight in the grass. "One of them said I looked familiar, but all of them accepted me with open arms." His eyes flash with remorse. "This planet is removed from the war. I am glad it remained out of reach of Zakuul after all this time."
Eight says nothing to this, merely laying his head on Arcann's shoulder as Arcann's other arm winds around his waist.
With luck, they would make a home here, and Grail would grow up far and away from the bloodied vestiges of their respective legacies. Should anything happen to either of them, Grail would still have this planet's denizens to take him in, and neither of them would have to worry about leaving their son alone if the past caught up to them. But for now…
Eight smiles contentedly as cheers arise in the distance, with Grail having scored a goal against the other team. Spotting his fathers, Grail's tiny form waves at them.
Hey so uhh does everyone remember those painterly portraits I did for my new inquisitors? Seddhun has been sitting in my wips looking at me every time I scroll past them for a while now 😅.
I'm not gonna finish this so I'm setting them free at last lol. One day they will have actual characterisation but today is not that day 😌🙏.
I think the idea was that they're in debt to their former slave master/fighting ring for the cost of buying their own and their brother's freedom. So the great hunt seems an excellent way to finally pay off the money they owe. No idea if they'll learn honour and morals or if they'll continue in the dog eat dog world mindset.
laughing my ass off imagining Eight attempting to fit in to a new planet where he's moved to try to raise Grail in a normal setting and find a community for him, but since he and Arcann are posing as wandering mercenaries and are outsiders the townspeople are understandably wary of them at first
until one of them invites Eight to go fishing with them and discover he's like, fiendishly good at it, and he instantly turns into the most beloved guy overnight. also something in him snaps and he discovers what a hobby is for the first time
tldr non local agent learns how to fish, captures the hearts of entire seafaring colony and effortlessly charms the locals by getting too into it, more at 7,
#this is so cute#would the locals notice that arcann looks very similar to the former galactic emperor#is the real question
so I ended up writing a little about it, but long story short, some of them go "hey you look kind of familiar... but you're such a nice guy, I can't imagine where I've seen you before!" and Arcann basically pulls a Clark Kent where he looks so pedestrian that he hardly resembles the image of a scary mask-wearing emperor thanks to the help of some nerdy glasses. thankfully, his cover remains intact :)
i do not “delete sentences” when they start “hindering the plot” i COPY PASTE THEM into a SEPARATE DOC made just for keeping all my USELESS LINES that i will also NEVER USE so therefore i should JUST DELETE THEM but i DONT because id FEEL BAD if i did
WIP Wednesday Thursday! I think I got tagged but I don't remember because my brain is mush! But I wrote this and it brings me joy. :D From now chapter 10(!) of le marriage fic. I think the slow burn of the people already married might be starting soon (maybe) lol.
“My wife says you can never have too much cheese,” Quinn responded stiffly. “These are her favorite dishes.”
The chef snorted and stepped down off his stool to go check on what one of the other prep stations was doing. “I am aware of what the Mistress’ favorite dishes are. She has the pallet of a child.”
“You will watch your tone, attendant.”
The scraping of knives and clattering of dishes and idle chatter suddenly ceased. All eyes in the kitchen looked towards the chef and the Captain, and then immediately looked away. The chef, for his part, did look quite startled at the harsh tone.
“The disrespect shown to the Lord Wrath will not be tolerated,” Quinn said, raising his voice slightly so the entire room could hear him. There was some familiarity between some of the servants and Sao’la, and Quinn had picked up on which ones—the ones who had managed to stick around since she was young. But many of the staff were new, and picking up bad habits. Just because she did not lurk in hallways and lash out like some Sith did not mean that those beneath her could be impertinent. “And you would all do well to remember the chain of command.”
Chastened, the chef nodded once. “My apologies, Captain. I did not intend any disrespect, to the Lord Wrath or to you. I will shift tonight’s menu to tomorrow and prepare the meal you have requested.”
