fialleril:

redcap3
replied to your post “Following this post (months later because this got buried in my drafts…”

…is it crazy I kinda want to see post-Vader Anakin being set up for a blind date?

The whole thing is Han’s idea.

When he first suggests it to Leia, he says he wants to do something nice for the old man, which as cover stories go is frankly terrible. Leia only raises an unimpressed eyebrow.  It’s such a bad excuse it doesn’t even deserve a response.

Finally Han gives it up and admits that, okay, fine, he just can’t stand watching Rustbucket get flirted at every time they’re all dragged to some gala or top brass event. Anakin’s clueless act is just embarrassing, and worse, Chewie thinks it’s funny, that traitor.

Leia just goes on looking at him. Luke, though, says, “Uh, Han, I don’t think it’s an act.”

Han stares at him. “Oh come on, kid. No one is that clueless.” Then he stops to consider this, and who he’s talking to. Luke is a very friendly person, and very bad at recognizing the line between friendly and flirting. Half the Rebellion wants to date him and as near as Han can tell, he genuinely has no idea. But still… “Okay, fine, maybe some people are. But your old man was married. He managed to produce the two of you somehow. So he can’t be completely unaware of how these things go.”

Leia snickers at him. Han has the sinking feeling she knows something he doesn’t, but he knows better than to ask when she gets that look in her eye.

So he decides he’s gonna set Anakin up on a date, and Leia can laugh all she wants. He’ll be the one laughing when it works.

His first attempt is a guy named Rav who used to work maintenance in one of the hangars on Home One. These days he’s planetside on Coruscant. Nice guy, a few years older than Anakin, green eyes, a great ass. Han arranges the date at a bar so chill he frankly hates the place himself, but it seems like the kind of scene an older couple might enjoy. (Anakin’s only thirteen years older than you, a little voice in the back of his head says, but he ignores that. It’s too weird to let himself think about.) He tells Anakin that Rav wants to meet up and talk shuttle maintenance, which is such a damn obvious innuendo that he barely manages to restrain a cringe as he says it.

But hey, it works, and Anakin’s off to meet with Rav and Han congratulates himself on a job well done. Leia’s still smirking, but that’s just because she hasn’t yet learned what a great matchmaker he is.

Anakin swings back by Leia’s apartment about three hours later, early enough that Luke’s still there and Han is just a little worried. But it was only a first date, so…that doesn’t have to be bad, does it?

“How’d it go, Rustbucket?” he says.

Anakin shrugs easily and heads for the kitchen to start a pot of tzai. “Not bad. Rav’s got some great ideas for B- and Y-wing class fighters, but his views on TIEs are woefully misinformed.” He grumbles something under his breath. “I understand that there’s a need to bad mouth the enemy fighters in front of the troops, but you don’t need to buy into your own propaganda.”

Han blinks a little. Luke and Leia are snickering behind their hands, and for once, it’s real damn easy to see that they’re twins. He glares at them both.

“Well, all right, but…what about the, uh, social aspect?”

“Huh?” Anakin comes into the living room and sits in the chair across from Han and Leia’s couch. Han can never get over how the guy just…sprawls when he sits. It’s about the least Vader-like mannerism he can think of.

“Did you hit it off?” Han asks.

A brief frown crosses Anakin’s face. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind another chance to correct his opinions on TIEs.” Suddenly he brightens, “I did manage to get him the bartender’s number, though, and I’m pretty sure they’re going out this weekend, so I suppose that’s my good deed for the day.” He says this last very dryly. It’s something his therapist suggested, taking notice of his good deeds and letting himself be proud of them or something like that, and Anakin always snarks about it but Han is pretty sure he’s also following his therapist’s advice, so that’s something.

Anyway, that’s clearly not the important thing here. “Wait,” he sputters. “You…set Rav up on a date…with the bartender?”

Leia looks positively gleeful now and Han is pretty sure she didn’t plan this, but if it turned out she did he wouldn’t even be surprised.

Anakin, though, doesn’t seem to understand what’s got Han in such a fuss. “Sure,” he says with another shrug. “They made a cute couple.”

“I don’t believe this,” Han mutters. What kind of guy plays wingman for his own date? He scrapes a hand over his face and resolves to hold on to whatever dignity he can. “Okay, so Rav’s not your type, huh?”

Anakin only looks at him with an expression of such genuine confusion that Han can’t even convince himself the guy’s pretending. “My type of what?” he says.

A loud snort of laughter escapes Leia, and she tries to play it off as a sneeze. Han isn’t impressed.

“Never mind,” he mutters, and eventually the conversation moves on, but he knows Leia isn’t going to forget about this anytime soon.

*

So okay. Maybe he made a bad call with that first try. Maybe Anakin’s only interested in women? It’s a possibility. Fine. So this time Han will have to find the right woman.

He considers his options carefully. Luke and Leia’s mom was a politician and a founder of the Rebel alliance, smart as hell and also pretty damn stunning. (Leia definitely takes after her mother, he thinks, without the slightest hint of a goofy grin, no matter what Chewie says.) She must have had a terrible sense of humor though. Either that or she put up with Anakin’s awful jokes out of some never before heard of reservoir of patience and goodness. Actually, the way Anakin talks about her, that might be true.

So he’s looking for someone smart, driven, principled, but also somehow willing to endure endless terrible puns. That’s a tall order.

The first person he tries is Mon Mothma. It takes him a couple weeks to work up to asking her, because yeah, there’s nothing about this idea that isn’t awkward. But he’s got to admit, she does fit the profile.

So eventually he gets up the guts to suggest the idea of a date, and Mon Mothma laughs in his face.

Well, Han thinks, muttering to himself and wishing he could erase the last fifteen minutes of his life from existence. In hind sight, that was a pretty stupid idea. He’s never even heard of Mon Mothma going on a date.

“You’ve never heard of Dad going on a date either,” Luke says, smirking. Not for the first time, Han wonders what the hell he was thinking, making Luke his confidant in this. But he needed someone with more insight into Anakin, and he’d be damned if he’d ask Leia.

“That’s different, obviously,” Han says. “He spent twenty years inside a tin can.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “I just don’t understand why you won’t let this go,” he says.

“Because people are always flirting with him!” Han says. “And he’s always pretending not to notice. It’s infuriating.”

“It doesn’t happen that often,” Luke says, and okay, Han thinks, that’s actually true, but still. It happens often enough.

Luke sighs. “If you’re so stuck on that, why don’t you just ask one of the people who’s actually flirted with him?”

Huh. That’s not a bad idea, actually. Why didn’t he think of that.

*

It still takes him a while to plan his strategy, but eventually he manages to set Anakin up on a date with a woman named Meera Yasko. She’s Corellian, he’s pretty sure, but she’s also whip smart and pretty attractive. She’s some kind of attorney at a non-profit or something, and Han’s never been especially keen on people of the legal persuasion, but he figures Anakin might like that.

The old man takes a bit of convincing, but Han is a master of smooth talking (don’t laugh, Leia!) and eventually he gets them set up at a nice swank restaurant and even orders a bottle of wine for the table as a surprise.

*

Anakin comes back from this date a lot more excited, and Han experiences a fleeting moment of smug hope, only to have it crushed beneath Anakin’s heel when it turns out the man is excited for all the wrong reasons.

Apparently, Meera is the chief counsel at a non-profit involved in education for underprivileged youth, whatever the hell that means. They’re an interplanetary organization, too, but it’s not the organization itself that really interests Anakin. Meera has the legal background to cover all of the complicated bits about starting a foundation that Anakin doesn’t really understand (and Han understands even less, if he’s honest), and he thinks they might really be able to get this off the ground.

“Wait,” says Han. “This? What’s this?”

He expects a glare or an eyeroll from Leia and maybe Luke, but instead, they look as curious as he feels.

“Oh,” says Anakin, looking oddly shy. “Right. I haven’t told you yet. I’ve been thinking, well, they’re paying me all this money that I don’t need -” (here he raises a hand to forestall Leia’s usual protest) “- so I want to do something with it. And I thought… Tatooine’s free now, but there’s not exactly a uniform system of education, and many of the communities don’t have necessary supplies or access to training for teachers or -”

“Dad,” says Leia, “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

As it turns out, setting up an entire school system takes a lot of work. Who knew, right? It also takes a pretty shocking amount of money, much more than Anakin’s supposedly extravagant yearly salary. That’s not a problem, though, because Meera helps him set up a fundraising program that’s frankly terrifying in its efficiency.

They spend an awful lot of time together, but it’s mostly in her office or over working lunches. Still, Han holds onto hope for a while. After all, she at least was definitely interested. He knows that. But after several months, he finally has to admit defeat. Meera and Anakin have a pretty great working relationship, and Han would even venture to say they’ve become friends, but he still hasn’t seen any evidence that Anakin ever realized she was interested, and it’s pretty clear now that she’s not thinking about him that way any more.

Still. The Padme Naberrie Educational Foundation basically exists because of Han, so he’s counting this one a win.

*

He keeps trying.

There’s a woman named Jasta who likes to dance and, apparently, has terrible taste in art. Not his best choice, but hey, Anakin managed to set her up with a guy they ran into at the art museum, and he seems happy about that, at least.

There’s Varin, who’s an active duty lieutenant in the Republic navy and likes to spend her leave time volunteering with animals. Anakin introduces her to the recently defected Admiral Piett, and damn if the two of them aren’t getting married about five months later. So that worked out, Han thinks, rolling his eyes. But hey, Anakin got a cat out of the deal, which apparently his therapist thinks is great for him, so…there’s that.

There’s Piett himself, which Han still thinks made sense in theory, because Anakin is clearly fond of the guy. But, looking back, he can admit that it’s pretty likely even Piett didn’t know this one was meant to be a date, and Han suspects Anakin may have agreed to the whole thing as an excuse to set Piett up with Varin.

His last attempt is a Twi’lek woman named Dinsa Atray who’s frankly just a little bit terrifying, but then so is Anakin, so Han figures it’s a good match. They actually start meeting up pretty regularly, and Han is starting to feel pretty smug about it, even though Leia still isn’t convinced of his matchmaking skills. But his illusions are cruelly shattered a few weeks later, when dramatic and disturbingly well-documented accusations of sentient trafficking and money laundering bring about the abrupt end of Senator Orn Free Taa’s political career and, eventually, the beginning of his exciting new prison career.

(“Well this was fun,” Han overhears Dinsa tell Anakin. “Let me know if you ever want to destroy a man’s life and reputation again. I’m always game.” Yeah. Maybe more than a little terrifying.)

*

Three years into his self-appointed quest, and Han’s sitting at the dinner table staring at an invitation to the wedding of Mon Mothma and Meera Yasko. He has to admit, he didn’t see that coming. He wonders a bit sourly if Anakin introduced them, too. Honestly at this point he wouldn’t be surprised. The universe is trolling him, clearly.

“Hey, Rustbucket,” he says, because no one’s ever accused him of quitting while he’s ahead. “Who are you bringing as your plus one?”

Leia eyes him with fond derision, and Han gamely ignores her.

“Kadee, probably,” Anakin says. “She likes weddings. Why?”

“No reason,” Han mutters.

*

It’s three more months before he finally gives up. But he’s not going to admit that.

“You know,” he tells Leia, “I think I can declare this operation a resounding success.”

“Really,” says Leia with a smirk. “Because from where I’m standing it looks like you set my dad up on a dozen blind dates, and he still doesn’t even realize he’s been on one.”

Han waves a careless hand. “Well, from where I’m standing it looks like Operation Get Anakin Skywalker Some Friends was an unqualified success.”

Leia’s face softens and she leans up to give him a lingering kiss. “That’s sweet, Han,” she says, and when he grimaces she laughs. “But don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

red–thedragon:

poplitealqueen:

Some selkie comes on land, right? And he’s a horny boy, just on dry land to bang as selkies are wont to do, but he’s not a dumb boy so he keeps his seal-skin close at hand, maybe in the form of a jacket tied around his hips or a cloak on his shoulders.

Anyways, he’s walking around. Looking and looking, and OH. Who is this handsome, dripping wet fellow standing by a mini ocean (the human skinned folk call them locks or something like that, our selkie boy can’t quite remember) that he has just come upon? The selkie is all, oooh, is that seaweed in your hair? I love seaweed.

And seaweed head is like, “Sure is. Wanna bang?”

And selkie is like, “Do I!”

But when they’re about to get it on, the selkie notices something strange. Seaweed head’s skin is sticky like glue, catching the hand he presses to his chest fast, and they appear to be walking *into* the mini ocean.

Luckily, seal-skins are easy to use when selkies have them close. Just as they’re disappearing into the dark ripples of the loch, the selkie transforms back into a seal. His hand turns back into a flipper, freeing itself from seaweed head’s strange, sticky hold, and he swims just out of reach.

“You’re the strangest human I’ve ever met,” said the selkie.

“I’m no human,” replied seaweed head. “I’m a kelpie, and I eat humans.”

“Well, I’m not really human,” explained the selkie, kinda weirded out because the kelpie just transmorgrified from seaweed head to a giant frigging horse with inverted hooves. “I’m a selkie. Do you eat selkies?”

The kelpie pondered this.

“I don’t think so?” He finally conceeded, and now he looked kind of uncomfortable. “Maybe you should go home now, weird little…thing.”

But the selkie said nah because this was exciting and new for him, and long story short this is how some kelpie gets adopted by a pod of selkies and learns how not to be a giant sadistic child-eating lake monster, and then the kelpie and the first selkie fall in love because why not? Let monsters love monsters. Cowards. Thanks for reading.

I love this so much

gallusrostromegalus:

unpretty:

hi i’m kitty i don’t know anything about star wars whoops


“What am I looking at?”

Lando leaned forward and laced his fingers together. “My taxes.” He paused, then gestured to Han. “Our taxes,” he corrected, with an unnecessarily rakish grin.

Leia squinted at the datapad. “Tax fraud.”

“Oh, no no no. Absolutely not. My accounting is impeccable.”

“I don’t see how it could be,” she said. “He’s a smuggler.”

“Hey,” Han began. He shut his mouth when Leia leveled him with a look. He opened it again to persist, but saw that Lando had a shit-eating grin as he watched their argument-in-potentia. Han glowered at Lando, and made him grin wider. Han huffed, hooking his thumbs on his belt.

“Legally, he’s a long-haul transport navigator,” Lando said, and Leia snorted. “Because he has a spouse at home—me—he qualifies for a higher income deduction as well as a few credits unique to the profession.”

“Wait, credits?” Han asked.

“Because he’s my dependent,” Lando continued, ignoring him.

“The hell I am.”

“That puts me in a unique legal position—not many people know about this, but in order to incentivize long-haul transportation, a spouse who claims a long-haul transport navigator as a dependent qualifies as a household caretaker, which is a kind of head of household that’s able to claim significantly more not only for themselves but for any other dependent spouses they may happen to have.”

“But his transport isn’t legal,” Leia said, fascinated. Han was pretending to understand the conversation, which would have been more convincing if he weren’t already fiddling with a kinetic sculpture on one of Lando’s shelves.

“It’s art.”

“What?”

“As far as my taxes are concerned,” Lando said, “Han transports art. They can’t prove that it isn’t. And I’m always careful to get the valuation right.”

“How do you know what I transport?” Han asked, indignant. A piece came off the sculpture in his hands. He looked down at it, then looked at Lando. He made a hasty attempt to reattach the piece. The entire sculpture collapsed. Han took his hands from it, and attempted to lean casually against the shelves with his elbow to block it from view.

“They call me,” Lando said.

No,” Leia gasped, delighted.

“Yes,” Lando said, grinning again. “They know I’m his partner. They know I can’t be sure I’m getting my fair share unless I know exactly what he’s getting. So they call me.”

“What!” Han stood straighter, his brow furrowed and his face all twisted into an incredulous pout of anger.

“They might have been able to catch him smuggling,” Lando said to Leia, still not addressing Han.

“They would never,” Han sneered.

“But they’re never going to get him on tax evasion. There’s no way he would have been paying taxes on his own.”

“It never even occurred to me that he would,” Leia said.

“I’m right here,” Han reminded them.

“So you can see why I can’t divorce him,” Lando said.

“I don’t follow,” Leia said.

“My household caretaker status is the foundation of all of this,” he said, pointing to the datapad. “I divorce Han and the whole thing collapses.”

“Collapses how?” Leia asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Cloud City goes bankrupt.”

Han choked.

“How many people have you married?” Leia demanded.

“Leia, you know that you’re my favorite wife-in-law,” Lando said, “but I don’t think I’m comfortable discussing that aspect of my personal life.”

The pile of former-sculpture slid from the shelf, and clattered to the floor.

Han pretended not to notice.

This is GLORIOUS and also 100% in character for someone who allegedly doesn’t know anything about star wars.

I NEED AN ENTIRE SERIES STAT

lemonadegarden:

Constants.

What up it’s ya girl lemonadegarden and I’m here with some Bruce and Alfred angst enjoy ❤

Bruce woke up feeling sick.

That was normal. He had been expecting it, really.

He rose slowly, wincing and making his way to the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. A bleary-eyed, pale man looked back. He sighed, scrubbed at his face, and went back to bed.

He woke up again, sometime around late afternoon, judging by the light in the room. He was feeling distinctly worse.

Alfred was sitting by the bed, reading a book.

Bruce groaned something incoherent.

“Quite, master Bruce.” Alfred said, calmly flipping to the next page.

Bruce groaned again, and turned over. “I think I’m sick.” He said. His chest felt tight.

“Really,” Alfred said dryly, but the hand placed on his forehead was cool and comforting. Bruce closed his eyes against it. Something about it made Bruce think of when he was little, and he’d get sick and stay home from school. Alfred would take care of him and make him drink soup.

“You have a fever,” Alfred said, his voice soft.

“I know,” Bruce said, turning his face into the pillow. He was sweating. “It was the fear toxin, from yesterday night. Side effects.”

The effects of the fear toxin were usually nullified by the antidote that he administered to himself, but there were often lingering effects. Like high fever.

“Ah,” Alfred said. “I’ll fetch some medicine.” He said, and started to rise from the chair.

Something caught in Bruce’s throat at that. Something strange. A ragged shard of panic. “Alfred,” he croaked. “Don’t– just– just stay. Okay?”

He was shivering. Shivering and sweating. For some reason he couldn’t get memory of him being a sick child out of his head. A child. His parents. Dying in a gutter in front of him. His chest was feeling tighter still.

“Bruce,” Alfred said quietly, and he never called him that, never called him just Bruce. “Are you sure the effects of the fear toxin are gone?”

Bruce shook his head against the pillow. “I’m sick.” He said. “Can’t get up.”

“Can you move?” Alfred said.

Bruce tried. He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Alfred was quiet. “I’m not leaving you, master Bruce,” he said finally. “But I must go down to the cave and fetch a syringe and a few milligrammes of the antidote. There is no one else in the manor at present. I must go, or you won’t get better. Do you understand?”

Bruce shook his head. He realised he was curled up in the very middle of the bed. He was a scared boy again, and Alfred had just brought him back to the manor from the police precinct, and was trying to explain the concept of death to him.

“But Alfred,” he was saying, his face wet with old tears, and he was curled up in bed, and Alfred was smoothing his hair back from his head. “Are they in heaven?”

“Yes,” Alfred said, and then he hugged him. Alfred never hugged.

“Master Wayne,” Alfred was saying. Bruce forced open his eyes.

“Take a deep breath,” Alfred said, and Bruce did. “there you go. Good.”

Bruce kept taking deep breaths. Alfred rose and quickly left the room. Bruce’s breaths became harder.

He closed his eyes again.

He was fourteen, and he’d been suspended from school for picking a fight. He had a busted lip and and a black eye, and Alfred was silent the entire drive back home.

Bruce crossed his arms, looking out of the window defiantly. Whatever Al was gonna say, he didn’t want to hear it.

Your parents’ death was not your fault,” Alfred said, all of a sudden, when they were nearing the driveway.

Bruce looked at him, too surprised to be angry any longer. “What?”

“You did not fail your parents by not taking action in that alley. Trying to rectify wrongs that you never made won’t work out in your favour, master Bruce.”

“I didn’t–”

“The bully you fought with. Was he picking on you, or someone you felt the urge to protect?”  Alfred said. Bruce frowned, and looked out the window again.

“I thought so.” Alfred murmured. “You are not the sworn protector of the entire world, master Bruce.”

“Al–”

“And next time, be smarter about it.” Alfred said. “May I recommend actually learning how to fight.”

“Al!” Bruce yelped, and Alfred’s mouth twitched up ever so slightly.

A prick of a needle slipping into his vein. Bruce sighed.

“Give it a minute.” Alfred was saying, his voice somewhere far away. No, that couldn’t be right. He was right here. Right here.

“Alfred,” Bruce said, blinking open his eyes and waiting for his vision to focus.

“Mm.” Alfred said. He was hooking up Bruce with some kind of IV.

“I’m sorry I got suspended.” He said.

The hands hooking up the IV paused. “That was twenty six years ago, master Wayne.”

“I know,” Bruce rasped, his throat still dry. “But I never said sorry.”

Alfred sat down beside Bruce on the bed.

“Apology accepted.” He said, sounding amused.

Bruce sniffled. He was a little child, barely six, sick with the flu, and Alfred was spooning soup into his mouth.

Alfred,” Bruce said, hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“Can I– may I have some soup.”

“Of course,” Alfred said. There was something warm in his voice. He rose up, standing.

“Wait– wait.” Bruce said. “Don’t go yet. Just stay a little while.”

Alfred hummed, amused and sat down again. “Just for a little while.” He said.

Bruce closed his eyes.

He was six years old again, and he was sick. Alfred was fussing over him.

He was eight years old again, and Alfred was trying to explain what death was.

He was fourteen years old, and Alfred was putting antiseptic cream on his split lip.

Bruce was forty years old, and he was sick again, and Alfred was sitting next to him. Always.

“Just for a little while.” Bruce murmured.