#wieldbalance

rey, hoarding food in her cheeks like a hamster: ≧◡≦

u kno who both had to suffer kyle ron invading their heads? poe n rey. u kno who haven’t even had the chance to so much as fireside chat let alone consider commiserating about this gross violation of their persons? poe n rey.

Her father thought of her like a tool.

He considered her the same way Plutt may consider Rey. A little like a wrench or a screwdriver. A hammer. But the difference between them is she was never a favorite one. Never one who did her job as beloved or quickly as Howard had hoped. So she became one he left in the toolbox. She turned into something he couldn’t bear to see because she was the wrong sized drillbit or she was a philips when he needed a flathead. She was something far less necessary than what Howard had hoped to yield from the deal, and so she knows what it’s like. To be another person’s tool.

(It tastes as bitter as her coffee before a couple shots of Bailey’s in the morning when she wakes up.)

didney can pry the image of rey and finn and rose and poe in a sleepy snuggle pile as bb-8 chirps them a lullaby out of my COLD. DEAD. HANDS. they all deserve a rest.

i will never understand the instinct to insert jealousy like it’s a sign of love and not serious insecurities in the jealous party. and p.oe da.meron is NOT insecure.

SIR, IT WOULD APPEAR WE HAVE A BREACH IN YOUR MAINFRAME’S SYSTEM.

She clicks her tongue in her mouth and it smacks hard against her teeth. She hears it, wheels her chair away, stands up, claps her hands together, flicks fingers out. Oh. Look at that right there. She’s got eyes scanning over an algorithm-- a particular number that’s moving and a smile crosses her face.

“Bedeals, look at that, we really do have a breach. --Hah. That’ wild. Okay,” She clicks her tongue again, idly touching the whirrrrrr of the Arc as it buzzes against her chest, “Tactic number one-- look at that one go-- do me a favor and don’t stop it yet--”

SIR, I’VE BEEN ATTEMPTING TO STOP IT THROUGHOUT THIS CONVERSATION.

“Okay. Well, I need you to drop a pin on that location. How far in?”

38 PERCENT.

“That’s exciting. Shut it down-- tell me what the GPS location is. I have to figure out who got forty percent in here, that’s an impressive number.”

STOPPED AT 43 PERCENT, SIR.

“Cool. Address?”

Address. She’s looking and she’s looking and she gets in her car-- massive G6 that she drives-- and she starts going. Drops the GPS address to Bedelia and has her look it up, that’s the thing, and she’s desperate to find this place. And she does find it. And it’s.... it’s an old, really sketchy looking junk shop?

So she parks and slides out of the car, black suit jacket cut close to her shoulders, a powder blue button down with a white waistcoat. The Arc is a present, soft circle that presses just against the center of her chest, the binder keeping it in place tight where she’s absent anything more than scar tissue, now.