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Everyone on the Springhawk (and the rest of the ascendancy tbh) found Thrawn to be an anomaly. Because while he was extremely annoying, he was also very hot. But anytime someone asked Thrawn out (or propositioned ;) him), he always turned them down, sometimes politely sometimes not. Everyone eventually just came to the conclusion that Thrawn doesn't do romance.

Cut to twenty years later, a human shows up in the Ascendancy and introduces himself as Thrawn's husband and everyone loses their damn minds.

Because somehow Captain Mitth'raw'nuruodo fucked off to the Empire, found some ridiculously attractive twink twenty years younger than him, married him and then sent him off to the Ascendancy for safe keeping.

The muse came to me. Who was I to say no? 

Dooku at the Opera: A Lineage Tale (A Comedy in 3 Acts)

Featuring: Yan Dooku, Rael Averross, Qui-gon Jinn, and Obi-wan Kenobi

—————————————-

“Here, take this.”

A dented, silver flask was thrust into Qui-gon’s inner pocket, the weight of the object throwing his deep brown dress robe off-kilter. 

“Rael!” Qui-gon hissed, trying to fish the object from his voluminous, velvet-trimmed outwear. By the Force, he hated wearing this thing. “I’m not - “ The fabric tangled, wrapping around Qui-gon’s arm - once, twice - somehow pinning his limb immobile against his side. 

Rael Averross tossed his head back and laughed for a good minute, leaving a scowling Qui-gon half-bound, trapped in the finest Jedi robes the Temple had to offer. Chuckling, he stepped forward to help Qui-gon unfurl from his self-made prison. “Just trust me, kid. You’re gonna need it.”

“I’m not sneaking Rodian liquor into the Coruscant Opera with Master Dooku at my side. He’ll flay me alive if catches me!” Qui-gon shuddered, testing out his freed arm.

“I’m not asking you to drink it,” Rael cocked his head with a small sigh. “That stuff would strip the paint off the side of a Grellan nightclub.” 

“Oh, that’s a relief,” Qui-gon snapped, rolling his eyes. He didn’t want to know how Rael had such intimate knowledge of the infamous Grellan nightclubs.

“All I’m saying, kid,” Rael’s voice softened as he wrapped an arm around Qui-gon’s bony shoulders, leading him to the full-length mirror standing in the corner of his and Dooku’s shared quarters. “Is that Master Dooku has probably forgotten about about this particular escape tactic.” Rael put a finger to his chin, glancing to the ceiling in thought. “It was twelve years ago.”

Qui-gon frowned, his own confused expression staring back at him in the polished glass. The boy - man - seemed a stranger, wrapped in a long, velvet-trimmed robe, his tunics a darker shade of his customary beige, pressed, absent the usual dark soil spots and off-green streaks that so infuriated his Master. He looked…well, respectable. 

He was fifteen now, had been Master Dooku’s Padawan for just over three years. He had also had the dubious honor of keeping Rael Averross’s occasional company for almost as long. 

“Rael, it’s the opera, not the Citadel. Why do I need an escape tactic?” Qui-gon gestured with the flask in his hand, liquid sloshing against its container. “And if I’m not to drink this, then what in Nine Corellian Hells am I supposed to do with it?”

“I don’t know, kid, you’re a Jedi. You’ll figure it out,” Rael shrugged, pushing wavy black hair from his face. He cocked a crooked smile in Qui-gon’s direction, ruffling his short, spiky hair. 

“Make your exit after the first intermission, but not too close to the start of the second act. Did that one too many times and Dooku’s cottoned on to it.” Rael began to push Qui-gon towards the door, ignoring the boy’s stammered protests. “Now get outta here before he gets suspicious.”

Qui-gon gaped from the other side of the threshold. “Rael!”

But the door only closed with a final whoosh, leaving a very confused Qui-gon Jinn in an empty Temple corridor, battered container of Rodian gin in hand. 

What in the galaxy was that all about? It was the opera. Not just opera, but a Serennian opera. Truth be told, Qui-gon wasn’t much one for the more prestigious arts, not like his Master was, at least. But he had learned to keep those opinions secret after spending two weeks dusting and reorganizing Master Dooku’s extensive holoart book collection, a consequence of expressing his opinion at an exhibition of Tuerrilian landscapes that all the paintings “looked like the same smashball field with the goalposts removed.”

But this would be different, this wouldn’t be a bunch of boring green lawns perched atop various boring curved, silver architectures. This was a story about Serenno. Yes, with large-bodied, multiple-lipped Trellian singers in strange, pointed hats and all, but it was a way to get to know his Master better, learn something new about him, about his planet. 

Behind Qui-gon, the door to Dooku’s quarters opened halfway. “Oh, and kid?” Rael called down the hall. “Say hi to Brigindia the Breadthful and Hagvor the Hu - “ Rael clicked his tongue, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks flushing. “Anyway, tell ’em Rael Averross sends his regards if you happen to leave by the stage door exit,” he finished, sly smile spreading across his face.

—-

Knock knock knock.

Rael looked up from his holobook, tapping the bookmark button as he glanced at his chrono. 

Not bad, kid, he thought, giving his arms a long stretch before leaving the comfort of Dooku’s plush arm chair. He stopped in the pantry before answering the door, pouring two cups of cold, Nemishian tea.

“So you got out,” Rael said as greeting. “Record time, too.”

Qui-gon pushed past the older Jedi, a flurry of wrinkled fabric and frustration, the faint odor of burnt Ceylla wood drifting from his robes. He made a series of aborted half-circles, like a jittery, indecisive Lothcat before Rael took pity on him and led him to the sofa, pushing a glass of the Nemishian tea into his hand.

The young Jedi sat, unmoving, for a good minute, eyes wide as he seemed to replay every last event of the past three hours in excruciating detail. Rael took his own glass, downing half of it in one go, giving a satisfied smack of his lips. Dooku always did have better provisions than the Jedi commissary, a way of enticing wayward Padawans out of mealtime trouble and sometimes extracting an extra hour’s work out of them.

“It was terrible, Rael,” Qui-gon finally spoke, eyes still wide, voice somewhat haunted.

Rael laughed, slapping his thigh as he sat back in Dooku’s armchair, extending his legs long, his ankles crossed. “C’mon. It couldn’t have been that bad,” Rael teased. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Five of them, actually,” Qui-gon murmured, taking a sip of his tea. The drink seemed to restore some of the color to his pallid face. “Each with a thirty-minute aria.”

“Ah, The Fall of the House of Carellic.” Rael grinned. “A classic.”

Qui-gon’s eyes widened, as he nearly dropped his glass. “You mean he’s seen this one before?”

“It cycles in every seven years or so,” Rael answered. “I imagine at this point Master Dooku has it memorized.”

“But then why,” Qui-gon’s voice rose, “did he give me a three-hour running commentary of everything wrong with its portrayal of Serennian culture if he knows it so well?”

“That, my young friend,” Rael drawled, eyes tightening with barely restrained laughter. “Is all part of the experience. Now,” he leaned forward, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “How’d you escape?”

The corner of Qui-gon’s mouth quirked upwards. “Spilled your paint stripper on the mezzanine-level bar. Was a real shame everyone knows the Senator from Gorrusk likes to smoke indoors, although I think both his outfit and pride will recover from the mishap.“

“And being the dutiful Padawan you are,” Rael continued, grinning, “of course you volunteered to accompany the poor Senator to the on-site healer, ensuring your Master would not have his night interrupted.” Rael tutted. “It’s just a damned shame there was so much paperwork to fill out.”

Qui-gon raised his glass in Rael’s direction. “Takes forever, really.”

Rael nodded, raising his own glass in salute. “Not too shabby, kid.”

The two Jedi sat in contented silence for a few moments, the adrenaline rush of Qui-gon’s frantic escape finally waning, the younger man’s head slowly tilting downwards, his eyes closing. A minute later, Rael heard a soft snore emanate from the pile of tunics sprawled on the couch. 

Chuckling, Rael stood, collecting both glasses, pulling Qui-gon’s long legs fully onto the couch, boots and all, covering him with a soft blanket plucked from a nearby closet. Dooku could snipe at Rael later for letting his Padawan desecrate his furniture in such a manner. He wouldn’t be back for at least another five hours anyway.

Qui-gon was going to be one of the good ones, Rael thought. Still needed to loosen up a little bit - Dooku had him scared to rights most of the time, but he’d learn soon enough that his old Master was just as much bark as bite - at least, most of the time. 

Fifteen years and Dooku has never gotten anyone to sit through the entirety of one of those Force-forsaken circuses. Rael had never been sure why he insisted on the charade every year - Dooku had to know full well his Padawans were sneaking off. Hell, even the other Jedi Masters always seemed to find a polite excuse to avoid Dooku’s yearly invitations to the opera, Master Windu going as far as claiming he needed to “shave his head and was busy that night and all the other nights the act was in town.”

Force help all of us the day he finds some kid willing to sit through that schlop. They’d probably end up being more terrifying than Dooku himself.

—-

“Master,” Obi-wan Kenobi gave a series of gentle raps on the door to Qui-gon’s room. 

Qui-gon peered his eyes open, squinting at the bright morning sun shining through the small gap in his curtains. Morning already?

“Obi-wan, come in,” Qui-gon groaned, voice still full of sleep. “How was the opera?” he asked, suddenly remembering where his Padawan had been last night, shuttled away in a familiar velvet-trimmed robe by his old Master. 

Qui-gon felt a pang of disappointment. He had hoped his Padawan would come to him after making his escape, would share in his escapades with Qui-gon over a glass of Nemishian tea, that they would laugh like two younglings as he and Rael had every year until Qui-gon’s Knighting.

But like most other parts of their partnership, this, too, Obi-wan seemed to approach with cool, measured detachment. 

Obi-wan brightened at the question, however, pulling out a crisp holoprogram from his robes. “It was delightful, Master! Master Dooku and I had a splendid time. He even treated me to a Drynarian spiced wine during the second intermission.”

Qui-gon gaped at his student, certain he had heard him incorrectly. His eyes flitted to the cover of the holoprogram - The Fall of the House of Carellic - emblazoned in regal Aurebesh and Serennian script. 

“You - you stayed?”

Obi-wan furrowed his brow. “Of course, Master. Granted, the opera as a whole was a bit bloated, the singers past their prime - Brigindia the Breadthful’s range didn’t quite match up to her alias and Hagvor the Hu - “ Obi-wan hissed, his cheeks flushing red. “Well, Master Dooku said that wasn’t really his name, that it was a ‘improper moniker bestowed upon a great artist for base reasons.’ I didn’t ask after it, but he was alright, as tenors go.”

“But Padawan, the letter-opener I gave you - “ Qui-gon stammered. Not that he had expected Obi-wan to stab anybody with it in an attempt to escape the opera, far from it. But he had thought - Qui-gon let out a breath - hell, he didn’t know - maybe rip a curtain or sabotage some official’s clothing? 

“Oh yes, that was quite useful Master, thank you,” Obi-wan beamed. “The packaging on those meiloorun pastries can rather difficult.”

Qui-gon nodded dumbly at his Padawan. 

“Oh, before I forget, Master, this is for you, from Master Dooku.” Obi-wan held out a flimsi, folded in half, Qui-gon’s name printed in familiar, elegant script. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a shower and a short nap before the day begins.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Padawan,” Qui-gon said, distracted, not bothering to close the door as Obi-wan hopped out of the room.

With no small degree of trepidation, Qui-gon opened the note.

“Qui-gon - 

I would like to thank you for allowing me to borrow your charge for the evening. It is rare to encounter a young mind with such intellect, curiosity, and, shall I say, an inherent sense of taste and propriety. I find myself wanting to repeat the experience, if Obi-wan (and you) should be open to it. 

As for your letter-opener, I am disappointed that you would arm your student with such an unimaginative weapon. I would say that next year you should confer with Rael in the matter, but I do believe that will not be necessary, given Obi-wan’s sincere enthusiasm throughout the evening. Senator Rembran of Gorrusk sends his regards to you, as he does every year. Ever since the incident at the bar, he has been convinced of the Jedi’s importance in the Republic, so I must thank you for the unintended repercussion of your clumsy sabotage those years ago.

Brigindia and Hagvor also send their regards to Rael. I do hope you didn’t share the mortifying origins of Hagvor’s colorful moniker with your student. He has yet to encounter Rael Averross in person, and I would prefer he and Obi-wan to meet without any prurient preconceptions, as Rael is a good, if infuriating man. How he remains my former pupil is still one of the great mysteries of the galaxy.

Finally, I would like to extend an invitation for you to join me (and Obi-wan, again, if it is to be allowed) for next year’s production of The Sentinel’s Progress, which has not been staged in over a millenia. I am told it is a most inaccurate depiction of our ancient Serennian culture and I would be glad to share my thoughts with you and your Padawan. Of course, if you feel the need to come armed with a letter-opener, you need but slip the blade through Madame Tursky’s silver gown-train. Rumor has it she is most protective of her honor and can be seen hovering near the mezzanine-level bar like a drunken hawkbat at most intermissions. 

Until then, Padawan. And may the Force be with you.

             —Best Regards,

                    Yan Dooku”

Runaway Bride

~Leon Kennedy x fem! Reader~

Word count: 3165

Content warnings: arranged marriage, readers parents are mean, gender roles, patriarchy standards, arguments, super feminine wedding gown the whole 9 yards wedding stuff there, panic attack, kissing, leon driving (shits scary okay)

!!!!!!!!MINORS DNI! GHOSTKENNEDY IS STRICTLY 18+!!!!!!!!!

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i passed by a street corner name of north and simmons and then turned to see a gravestone that read tucker, and you have no idea how hard i lost my fucking mind. i don't think i'm ever getting better. i don't think there's an up from here.