#“what is this?” “respect” “sounds fake” | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

notapaladin · 5 months

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wishes and horses and all the king's men

Lieutenant Malavai Quinn had once been foolish enough to believe in heroes. That was before he was trapped on Balmorra for ten years, where the Resistance undermines his Empire, his superiors are more interested in lining their own pockets than doing their jobs, and any hopes for the future are ground into dust before they can take wing. And then Lord Baras's new apprentice walks into his life.

or, quinn experiences the results of meeting the LS sith warrior (confusion, doubt, renewed sense of hope/purpose, falling at least a little in love, etc)

Also on AO3!

“If that’s your best, you’re useless to me. I can shoot you dead with a clear conscience. Is that what you want?”

“N-no, sir, sorry, sir—”

“Then focus, Jillins. Dismissed.”

Lieutenant Malavai Quinn has not been having a good day. Quite frankly, he has not been having a good decade, not since Druckenwell and Broysc and being relegated to this absolute shiteheap of a planet. He would not consider himself a particularly violent man, but this latest—incompetence of Corporal Jillins has pushed him dangerously close to the edge. His fellow officers are already useless at best and actively a hindrance at worse—he’d suspect some of them of treason, except he’s not sure even the Resistance deserves them—and now this? This? On the day Darth Baras’s new apprentice is set to arrive? She will be here any minute, and hardly anything is prepared—he’s going to offend a Sith—

He doesn’t put a hand on his blaster, but he is sorely, sorely tempted. Right, he thinks. Breathe. Ignore the pounding in your temples, the ache in your back that never goes away because the bunks here are apparently made of ferrocrete, the way you can feel yourself shrinking, rotting with each new dawn on this fucking planet. Breathe.

With the effort he’s spending reeling in his temper, he barely registers the approaching footsteps—low-heeled boots, plenty of traction, a light and easy tread. (In the years to come, he will be embarrassed by this.) He does, however, notice the voice. Low, feminine, a little husky—and hesitant, as though its owner thinks he’s going to snap at them, too.

“...I am not sure I particularly want to know what he did.”

He has an audience, and he’s already been rude. He exhales sharply, draws himself up, and turns to face the speaker. He represents the Empire and Lord Baras in all things. He will be professional.

His mind immediately divides into two. The cool, analytical part notes the physical features of the woman standing before him and extrapolates conclusions. Human, roughly 1.6 meters tall, medium-dark brown skin, impractically long white hair put up in a bun that makes it practical again. Scarring on throat and jaw consistent with strangulation, possibly responsible for the roughness in her voice. Twin lightsabers at her hips, ornate gold handguards gleaming. Pale yellow eyes. This, then, must be Baras’s new apprentice. Lady Yaellia, only child of House Ivros, twenty-two years old and recently graduated from the Korriban academy. At her age, he’d thought he’d had the world at his feet too. Of course, she’s probably going to turn out to be right, if she doesn’t turn out dead instead. At least she will have had glory first. It doesn’t matter; she is Sith, and his role is to serve.

The rest of it feels as though it’s been punched, because Lady Yaellia is stunning. He is no blushing virgin; he’s met his fair share of attractive people. (Not many, since Druckenwell. Poor lieutenants are not attractive prospects. Still.) But the red-and-white synthleather suit she’s wearing does not leave very much of her figure to the imagination, even if the only actual exposed skin is her collarbones. She has the muscles of a gymnast and the sort of thighs he is quite certain he could die happily between. Her mouth is almost distractingly full, moreso because she’s clearly forgone the elaborate makeup many Sith favor. There are tiny gold hoops in her ears and eyebrows that glitter as they catch the light, but they aren’t as bright as the eyes now locked on his.

Normally, eye contact would be near-painful—metaphorically if not literally, for among Sith it’s generally taken as a challenge. Normally, he focuses on peoples’ ears or eyebrows or interesting things just over their shoulders. But he holds her gaze for longer than two heartbeats and doesn’t want to look away. He’s as Force-sensitive as a brick, but her lips are parted and there’s a faint flush on her cheeks and he doesn’t need the Force to realize—

To realize it’s been a millisecond too long, and bow deeply before this can get awkward. More awkward. “I—apologize for the delay, my lord. Lieutenant Malavai Quinn. I’m to be your liaison here on Balmorra.”

She smiles. Or at least makes an expression that passes for a smile. “Apprentice Yaellia. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope to leave you in a better mood than that unfortunate young man back there.”

“Well, as long as you don’t piss in his cereal...” mutters the Twi’lek lounging against the doorway.

Malavai’s gaze snaps to her. Lord Baras’s communique had mentioned a slave, but no other identifying details. Looking at this alien, he can’t see any signs of servitude. She is tall and rangy and blue-skinned and notably not wearing a collar, though there are faint scars around her neck where one once lay. Her clothes are serviceable browns and tans with plenty of pockets, but he spots a name brand belonging to a high-end Kaas City sporting goods store. She is also wearing a headband in what he’s always privately thought to be the ugliest shade of chartreuse imaginable. Most importantly, she is carrying two blasters and dares to speak to a Sith as an equal. He grinds his teeth.

Lady Yaellia flushes harder and huffs, “Vette! Unhelpful!” And then she turns back to Malavai, clearing her throat with a faint wince. “Lieutenant Quinn, this...is Vette. My friend. Anything you have to say to me can be passed on to her as well.”

It is a decidedly odd exchange. He pushes it aside to be examined later at his leisure. “Understood, my lord. Lord Baras will brief you personally, but I’m to acquaint you with the climate here on Balmorra first.”

“By all means, go ahead. Ah—one moment—” He’s so unprepared for the sight that it takes him a moment to register the sight of her, not the alien, pulling out a datapad and stylus in clear preparation to take notes before flashing him a quick, encouraging smile that does something very strange to his chest. “I’m waiting.”

He tells her. It is...strange. Certainly not bad, but strange. He’s never had a Sith listen so intently and yet so politely. She asks clarifying questions and once or twice requests that he repeat things “a little more slowly, please, I—ah,” and a vague gesture at her ears that has him wondering if she has hearing problems even as his mind reels at hearing a Sith say please. She is either genuinely enthusiastic about this mission or a very, very good actress. She does not once make eye contact.

And then Lord Baras calls. He is excused. Whatever the details of the Sith’s true mission, it’s not for him to know.

But he stands just on the other side of the door, ears tuned to the sound of her voice—yes, my lord, of course, my lord, as you wish, my lord, meek and deferential as is proper—and his stomach drops as he remembers the briefing he’s read. She’ll be taking out the satellite control tower in the Markaran Plains, a veritable deathtrap of mechanical security. She is Sith, but...she is one woman. He doubts his aid will make a difference in her chances of survival.

Regardless, he must do his duty. He gathers his equipment before he is summoned back into the room, and this time he does not look at her face. She’s almost certainly going to die anyway. “My lord, I've prepared what you need for your assault. In order to destroy the mainframe, you'll mount this charge to the base and activate it. Then contact me for detonation.”

She studies the explosive charge he’s given her. He’d thought it was fairly small, but it takes both hands for her to hold it properly. “If it can be detonated remotely, couldn’t I do it? I’m sure you have more interesting things to do.”

He really doesn’t. More to the point, he’s quick to explain, “It would be safer if you were as far away as possible, my lord. There will be very little time to flee once it is armed.”

She hums thoughtfully, still looking at the charge and not at him. “I am very fast. But you are right. And...um. It is good of you to consider my safety, Lieutenant.”

His face goes hot. “Think nothing of it, my lord. It is my duty. Will you be leaving immediately?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been requested to liaise with a Lieutenant Davrill regarding another operation. I’ll be around for a short while.” And then she half-turns to go, before pausing to focus her gaze on him. Well, on the Imperial flag behind his desk, but roughly in his direction. “One more question, if you don’t mind. Do you know an intelligence officer by the name of...Breerden?”

“Breerdin,” the Twi’lek corrects.

Yaellia coughs. “Yes. Him.”

He tries to keep his face impassive, but his lip curls anyway. “I have heard of him, my lord. Might I ask why?”

Immediately, he realizes he probably shouldn’t have asked that question. Not when it makes her eyes narrow and her back stiffen as she says crisply—coldly—“He wanted me to hush up the accidental death of a Chiss delegate by an Imperial officer. He offered to pay me to keep quiet about it. I want to know who to file a complaint with.”

For a moment, all he can do is blink at her. Sith do not file complaints. Not when they have lightsabers and the Force to do it for them. And they certainly have never lowered themselves to care about the rampant corruption and flouting of duties that is par for the course here on Balmorra. Particularly not when that corruption could be presented as necessary for Imperial interests—and he has no doubt Breerdin, the swine, did exactly that. “Uh,” he says finally. “That would be Major Bessiker, my lord. But there is no reason to trouble yourself; I can file the necessary datawork for you.”

She shakes her head firmly. “I’ll do it. He will listen to me.”

He won’t listen to you, Malavai hears. It’s the truth, but it still stings. “...Understood, my lord. Will that be all?”

Strangely, there’s color in her cheeks again. “Um. Yes. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

Only when she’s well and truly out of his office, with the door shut behind her—and he keeps his gaze firmly on the back of her head while she leaves, thank you very much—does he let himself fall out of parade rest and into his chair. For thirty-two seconds, he sits there and thinks.

This, then, is his lord’s apprentice. What a strange Sith.

(Quite unbeknownst to him, that strange Sith steps into the hallway and immediately grabs Vette’s arm, her eyes wide. “Vette.”

Vette raises an eyebrow, lekku curling warily. “Yeah?”

She takes a deep breath and blurts out, all in a rush, “Please, please tell me I sounded normal in there.”

The Twi’lek rolls her eyes. “You sounded fine. Why?”

Seemingly at a loss for words, Yaellia gestures back at Lieutenant Quinn’s closed door and makes a frustrated grumbling noise before finally spitting out, “Do you see him?! He looked at me with—with those eyes, and I forgot how words worked!”

Vette blinks slowly. “I’m sorry, him? The guy who looks like he’s stepped in bantha shit? The stick up that man’s ass probably has a stick up its ass.”

She turns immediately red. “You,” she sniffs, “have absolutely no concept of Imperial decorum. That man epitomizes it. It is extremely attractive.”

“So what’s the problem? You’re Sith. Imps practically worship you people. He’d probably be flattered if you hauled him into a supply closet.”

Yaellia chokes. (A stylus falls off Malavai’s desk.) “I’m fairly sure he prefers women who can—who can make eye contact and string together coherent sentences at the same time!”

Vette winces. Yeah, Yaellia’s always been shit at that in the weeks they’ve known each other. There’s only so much polite averting of gazes you can do before people realize it’s not just politeness. She reaches out and pats her friend/former master’s (for about five minutes) shoulder. “You’ll get your chance.”

Yaellia deflates. “I hope so,” she mutters. “Come on. Let us find Major Bessiker and perhaps a food cart. I am famished.”)

Malavai does not hear from Lady Yaellia for the rest of the day. This is fine.

He does, however, hear that II Officer Breerdin has been officially reprimanded and a full investigation into the death of a Chiss delegate on Imperial soil has been launched. It’s enough to lift his spirits, even if only slightly. There are standards to maintain, no matter what II says.

He works. He takes precisely twenty minutes for dinner in the officers’ mess, counting the time it takes him to walk there from his office. There’s no need for him to linger; it’s not as though he has friends to catch up with. Even if he did, what would he say? “I’ve met Lord Baras’s new apprentice,” invites distasteful gossip regarding the particulars, and he will not speculate on his superiors’ personal traits.

He chews on a roast nerf sandwich that not even Kaasian purple curry sauce can save and reflects that it is, after all, quite a long way to the Markaran Plains even in a very fast speeder. She might have only just arrived, and she will undoubtedly be busy. He must be ready to back her up.

The other denizens of the mess hall keep talking amongst themselves—idiot chatter about Huttball scores and relationships and mission gossip—and he’s suddenly sure that if he hears one more unauthorized sound he’ll shoot something. His sandwich isn’t worth finishing.

As he rises to dispose of it, he realizes that Lieutenant Davrill is eyeing him. Pointedly, he turns away.

Too late. Davrill is approaching. “Quinn.”

“Davrill.”

“What have you heard about that new apprentice of Lord Baras’s? You’ve met her, right?”

He stiffens, and now he makes eye contact. “I have, yes. Why?”

Davrill frowns. “Captain Rigel’s set her on Operation Breaking Point, down in Gorinth Canyon. She told us she’s working with you on some mission of her lord’s. I felt it appropriate to consider combining our efforts.”

He doesn’t know the particulars of Operation Breaking Point, but he knows enough. He’s suddenly regretting that sandwich. Baras would not take just any Sith as an apprentice, but the last report he’d received on rebel activity in Gorinth Canyon had used words like army and overwhelming force and too bloody many droids.

On the other hand, if she cannot triumph against overwhelming force, she is no Sith, and Lord Baras will have a new apprentice. One who will not, Emperor willing, cause even a whisper of inappropriate thoughts to cross his mind.

“...I trust she will be in contact with you if your aid is required,” he says, and steps out onto the pavement.

Sobrik is never quiet. As soon as he leaves the building, his ears are assaulted with speeder engines, pedestrians chatting, pedestrians arguing, and the horrible discovery that someone down the block has either been raised by gundarks or has never heard of the existence of headphones because they are very loudly blasting an InstaComm video. But outside doesn’t contain buzzing fluorescent lights or a humming HVAC system, so it’s almost worth it.

He exhales and rolls his shoulders, gazing up at the flat gray of the night sky. He wishes he had a cigarette, never mind that finances had forced him to quit years ago. The cold wind revives him like a slap.

Back to work, then. He has suspected Resistance comms to slice.

It is 2000 and he is about to go off-duty for the night when his comm chimes. Lady Yaellia’s frequency, audio-only. He all but lunges for it.

“Yes, my lord?”

She sounds tense. No, distressed. “What’s the comm frequency for a medevac? There’s an injured soldier here, and we don’t have enough kolto to patch him up!”

“I can still fight!” a distant male voice huffs.

“You can not,” she snaps. “You shouldn’t even be standing—I can see bone! I want you off your feet, Lieutenant! Vette, make him sit down!” With a huff, she turns her focus back to Malavai. “Lieutenant Rutau is the only survivor of—what did you say it was? Second Battalion, Besh Company, First Platoon? The droids in here are ruthless. I will be completing his mission for him, but I am not going to leave him here alone and injured.”

There’s a somewhat closer protest of, “My lord, you really don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” Yaellia says firmly. “Without good, brave Imperials like you, the Empire is nothing. You are who we fight for.”

Malavai blinks mutely at the wall, heart suddenly pounding. She sounds like—like something out of a storybook. His mother had read him stories when he was very young, before his brother was born; most of them featured heroic Sith, valiant and noble warriors who had been protective of the Imperials under their command, who had valued their lives as more than just blaster fodder. Who had believed in the Empire and everything it stood for, not just their own ambitions. He’d dreamed once of serving under a Sith like that, but as he’d grown older and wiser he’d realized there were no Sith like that. Maybe there were, during the Great War or the Long Flight—in the days of Naga Sadow or Odile Vaiken—but there are none now.

It seems Yaellia of House Ivros hasn’t gotten the memo. She’s still talking to Lieutenant Rutau, reassuring him that help is coming, that the mission will not fail, that he will be safe. That he’s been very brave.

He thinks, suddenly and abruptly, of the now-Lord Venditor, back when he had been Private Venditor under his command. Before Druckenwell, before the man had panicked and thrown a speeder at a Pub with his mind and been shipped off to Korriban. He’d been idealistic too. Kind. He’d spent a great deal of time worrying about his family’s tuk’ata-breeding business on Dromund Fels.

It hadn’t lasted. He’d been younger then than Lady Yaellia is now, but he’d adjusted quickly. Thrived, even. The last time Malavai had seen him, he had been the perfect Sith.

(The perfect modern Sith, not like this figure from the most fanciful myths.)

Slowly, his heart rate calms. She is young. Life has been kind to her. She will learn. Give it five or ten years, especially under Baras’s tutelage, and she’ll be as cruel as the rest of them.

In the meantime, she’s asked him a question, and he quickly pulls up her coordinates. “My lord?”

“Oh—yes?”

“I have your location and am calling in a medical transport from the nearest outpost now. It will arrive within the hour. For future reference, I am sending the medevac frequency to your datapad.”

“Oh, thank you!” Then, while he’s reeling from being thanked by a Sith, she turns to Rutau and says softly, “See? You’ll be fine. Now, do call me when they pick you up, alright? If I come back to nothing but a blood trail I shall worry.”

The Lieutenant mumbles something. Malavai’s not paying attention, because Yaellia’s speaking to him again. “I regret to say we might not get to the satellite control tower until tomorrow morning, but it shall be our first priority. You’ve been a great help so far, and I hope we’re not keeping you from your own rest.”

He swallows. “Ah—no, my lord. There is no need to concern yourself with me.”

She lets out a low hum. “...As you say,” she murmurs. “Well. Um. Good evening, Lieutenant.”

“Ah. Good evening, my lord.”

The call ends.

He stares at the wall for a long time, replaying his mother’s voice in his mind. The memories are thirty years old, but they might as well be yesterday.

“Long, long ago, when tuk’ata had fur...”

He shakes his head. He is overtired. It is time to call it a day.

Malavai Quinn’s mornings look like this:

At 0605, he rises. While cursing himself for oversleeping, he trudges to his closet-sized fresher to wash his face and wage the next battle in the never-ending war against his own beard, knowing it’ll be stubble again by the afternoon. If he’s not doing PT that day, this is also when he showers; otherwise, he puts it off until after his workout. Ablutions complete, he dons his uniform quickly and efficiently. Breakfast is tea and toast made on a range older than he is. There’s no commute to worry about; much of the military housing is concentrated near the spaceport. He has no lovers or pets or potted plants, and all his underlings know not to contact him unless the city is actively on fire. By 0700, he is in his office and starting his workday. After ten years, he has his morning routine down to a science.

Except today, at 0630, his work comm chimes. Since he is taking a sip of tea at the time this is nearly fatal, and he has ample time to reflect on how stupid and undignified a death it would have been as he clears his airways.

The comm is still chiming. Wheezing, he picks it up. No holo; he’s just gotten tea down his front and he’ll have to change his shirt before anyone is allowed to see him, no matter what the emergency is.

“Good morning, Lieutenant!”

He blinks slowly, a lapse he will blame on not having finished his tea yet. Lady Yaellia is astonishingly chipper. He wonders if this is the power of the Dark Side fueling her at an hour where the non-gifted are typically consumed with hatred for all life. “Uh. Good morning...? My lord,” he hastily adds.

“Apologies for the early call. I just wanted to tell you that we are setting out towards the satellite control center now, and expect to arrive within—Vette, map? Two hours.”

There is a distant groan within comm range. “You fly, I’m taking a nap...”

Irritation is a wonderful source of energy. Disgraceful. What kind of servant—she’d called the Twi’lek a friend, but surely there can be no friendship worth having with a lowly alien, one with a Republic accent that can peel paint—disrespects a Sith like that? And what kind of master allows it? He takes a deep breath and deliberately sets his anger aside until later, when it can serve him. “I will be ready, my lord.”

She hums happily. “Good. I’ll talk to you later.”

And then she ends the call. Still feeling slightly poleaxed, he downs the rest of his tea in a single swallow and goes to change his shirt. He’ll clearly have a long day ahead of him.

She isn’t the only operative he’s monitoring—he has a small squadron scouting the outskirts of the Balmorran Arms Factory, and another embedded deep in the Windswept Plateau tracking a Republic investigator’s movements—but none of them are Sith. Regardless of her feelings on the matter, she is the most important one. He sips tea from a thermos and watches dots on a half-dozen screens, marking time until he sees the dot that is Lady Yaellia approaching the satellite center. From there, it’s a simple matter to slice the security cams and watch her on holo. As he types in the command, he wonders how far she’ll get.

The holocam buzzes to life. For a moment, there is nothing out of the ordinary. Republic soldiers and Republic droids, both tense. The flickering of a laser fence just offscreen.

And then blaster shots ring out, and as the first droid falls there is a blur, and Lady Yaellia strikes the survivors like a thunderbolt.

Slowly, he sets his tea down. His mouth is dry, but he doesn’t think he can risk looking away. He can’t miss a second of her in motion.

He has seen more skilled Sith in action. He has seen Sith who were more powerful, more brutal. But Yaellia is a fine-tuned mixture of speed and grace, as agile as the best gymnasts. Her brilliant crimson sabers, red as blood, move so fast they leave afterimages when he dares to blink. She parries blaster bolts with ease, dancing around nearly every return blow; when she’s not quite fast enough, she snarls like a beast and he swears he can see the air ripple as she draws on her pain to fuel her strikes. As she advances through the station, Vette lays down cover fire, shooting into melee with the air of a woman who’s used to her partner’s fighting style.

And where they strike, Republic scum falls. Laser-cut metal and severed limbs litter the ground. The air is filled with the silence of the dead. It is glorious.

As Yaellia stops to arm the charges—panting raggedly, her hair falling out of her bun, her eyes sun-bright—he tells himself it is only patriotic fervor he feels. That his only desire in this moment is to be the one in Vette’s place, backing her up. That if he is breathing hard, fists white-knuckled on the edge of his desk, it’s only because of the rollercoaster that is watching her in combat.

And then Lord Baras calls, and he curses out loud before sucking in a breath that scorches his lungs and answering—with only a slight waver in his voice—“My lord?”

“Quinn,” Baras rumbles. “How fares my apprentice?”

He makes himself breathe evenly. “Very well, my lord. She is arming the charges at the satellite control center as we speak.”

“Good, good.” Baras hums thoughtfully, and then orders, “Put her on the line. It is time I gave her her next orders. You will find a holomail with details pertinent to you.”

He nods. “At once, my lord.”

When he calls Yaellia, she answers at the first ring. “Lieutenant?” she pants.

He swallows hard. “My lord, I mark your progress, and see that the charge is armed. I will detonate once you are at a safe distance. But first, I have Darth Baras on holo for you. I will retreat and leave the line secure.”

She huffs out an affirmative noise. He sets his comm down and turns to his holomail, which indeed does contain a short message from Lord Baras. It’s not much: a name, a location. He starts to wonder why in the Emperor’s name Baras is so concerned about an ensign, but decides he’s better off not knowing.

Baras ends the call, and he picks up. It’s still on holo, and he’s glad that the quality and scaling will mean it’s harder for him to give anything away. Not that there is anything for him to give away. Really. His mind is not at all replaying the arch of her back as she spun out of the way of a blaster bolt or the way her teeth bared in a snarl as she whirled to slice a droid in half.

She pushes her hair back from her face and almost smiles at him. Fuck.

He exhales sharply. Best to jump into it. “My lord, Ensign Durmat is being detained in the brig of the Republic crater outpost in Gorinth, awaiting questioning by the investigator Baras has me tracking. I will alert you if she appears to be heading there; I assume you wish to get to Durmat before she does.”

“Emperor willing,” she agrees easily. “What can you tell me about her?”

There is frustratingly little to tell. Wherever the Jedi found this investigator, she’s proof that they are capable of subtlety. “...She appears to be tailing one of the Republic's own—a Commander Rylon. I'm instructed to keep close tabs but stay out of her way.”

She nods, the holo bobbing up and down as she starts trotting back the way she came. “Good. We’ll be heading to the crater outpost now. Do you—do you want to stay on the line?”

“Do I want to—” He blinks at her. “Forgive me, my lord, I’m not sure why you’re asking?”

It’s Vette who answers, leaning into holoview with a smirk. “Boss lady figured you’d wanna watch this place get blown sky-high.”

Yaellia clears her throat. “Yes. That.”

He blinks again, and then feels his lips curve. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

So he stays on holo while the women jog back through the station, up an elevator (Yaellia demands, out loud, why nobody has ever heard of guard rails—“a rhetorical question, Lieutenant”), through hallways full of gore and shattered metal, and out into the shattered landscape of the Markaran Plains.

And then he detonates the charges. The eruption of metal and masonry in a ball of flame more than makes up for the assault on his eardrums, and when Yaellia lets out a victory whoop he finds himself grinning. The unused muscles ache.

“That was glorious!” Yaellia whoops, catching Vette in a sideways hug. “Well done, Lieutenant!”

Well done. A hot flush races over his skin, and it is briefly hard to catch his breath. His collar is too tight. Well done.

But there is still a job to do. He tears himself away from the sight of the destruction he’s wreaked and back to his console, where he quickly inserts a remote spike into the Republic crater outpost’s mainframe. It’s almost trivially easy; their backdoors are wide open for a slicer of his caliber. Getting into the actual security is somewhat more time-consuming, but eventually he manages it.

“I've managed to slice the security you'll need to breach the crater outpost,” he says finally. “Transmitting it now.”

Yaellia scrabbles at her belt for her datapad, smiling when she sees it. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Vette, I’m forwarding this to you.”

His part is over for now. He can breathe easily. Well, as easily as he has been so far, watching her. “Good luck on your mission, my lord,” he murmurs, and means it. “I'll be here if you need anything.”

Then, finally, he ends the call.

Hours pass like a kidney stone. He regrets having left Lady Yaellia to her own devices almost immediately; it’s a long way to Gorinth from where she is, and the Republic presence there is more heavily entrenched. But she survived whatever she was doing there for Operation Breaking Point, so she’ll probably be fine. He takes advantage of the lull to check in with his teams on the Plateau and the Arms Factory, relieved when they report that they’re following his orders not to engage. He supposes Jillins isn’t completely useless.

He’s about to eat lunch at his desk—a nutrient bar and more tea—when Lady Yaellia calls him again.

“Lieutenant Quinn?”

Even though she can’t see him, he sits up straighter. “Yes, my lord?”

“We’ve arrived at the crater outpost.” A pause. “...Do you...uh. Have a map of the area? It’s a bit...”

Vette interjects, “When they said it was a crater, they’re not kidding. It’s a kriffin’ nightmare down here.”

He clears his throat and pulls up the map he’s generated from sliced floor plans and aerial surveillance. Truthfully, he can understand the request; the crater is a warren of different levels and buildings, densely packed and heavily defended. “...I am forwarding it to your datapad now.”

“Oh, thank you!” Yaellia chirps. “You’re a blessing.”

He inhales so sharply he nearly chokes on his own spit. Bloody hell, why does she keep saying things like that?!

It’s only when he hears blaster fire at the other end of the comm that he realizes Yaellia has forgotten to turn it off. His mind spins. He should hang up. That would be the right thing to do. But he’s meant to be observing her, and she had asked him to be in touch in case she needs him...

He stays on the line. He keeps listening, though he does turn the volume down before the cacophony makes him lose his mind.

He notices immediately when the fighting stops and Yaellia’s footsteps slow, though he has to increase the volume again to catch the sound of two men speaking from what seems to be the next room.

“Pipe down, Durmat. There's something going on outside. I'm trying to listen.”

“Come on, Zixx, throw me a bone. Who's this agent that's comin' to interrogate me? At least answer that, will ya?” There’s a pause. Some muttering he can’t catch.

And then, in tones of anguish, “All right, all right, I ain't proud, I give! My dad's an Imperial agent!”

“Commander Rylon?!”

Ice fills Malavai’s veins. He thought he’d known all of Lord Baras’s assets stationed on this planet. It wouldn’t do to kill one of his allies by mistake, after all. He won’t give Lord Baras any reason to question either his loyalty or his usefulness. Rylon must have slipped in telling his son; surely that’s why Yaellia has been sent after the boy. But the man’s been a thorn in the Empire’s side for years—decades—and he’s never pulled a punch. He must have been a flawless spy.

And now Baras is having his son killed. Rylon will almost certainly be next. That makes no sense, unless this investigator on his tail is close to exposing him...

Or Rylon has outlived his usefulness.

Malavai’s hands go numb. Dimly, he registers a faint squeaking noise, and then realizes he’s shaking so hard that his chair is rattling. It doesn’t feel like a thing that’s happening to him.

No. He is loyal. He has always been loyal. He is no threat. He would die before he betrayed Lord Baras, and Lord Baras knows this.

(It wouldn’t be enough to save him. He knows this, too.)

Rushing footsteps knock him back to reality, back into his own body. He almost misses Yaellia’s pained-sounding “Really?!”

Zixx is gloating. “Take a look, Sith. That’s what two squads of the Republic’s finest look like.”

Yaellia sucks in a noisy breath. “Drop your weapons and stand aside,” she snaps. “Or die.”

Malavai blinks at the screen in front of him. That had sounded disturbingly like she was offering them a choice. A trick, surely. She’s trying to induce them to lower their guard before she strikes. She can’t possibly mean that. He can’t square it with the woman who had fretted—yes, fretted—over the Lieutenant Rutau now recuperating at the Markaran outpost.

It doesn’t work, anyway. The ensuing combat is remarkably short. So much for the Republic’s finest, he thinks with a scoff.

And then the stupid ensign is babbling, pleading for his life. Malavai does his best to ignore it, aided by the priority holomail he’s just gotten from his Plateau squad requesting backup against Pub war droids. By the time he arranges it, the ensign has finished up with, “Uh...I’m not exactly sure where I was goin’ with that. Please don’t kill me!”

You fool, Malavai thinks. She may be uncommonly...considerate of her underlings, but Lady Yaellia is a Sith. She would never dream of sparing Republic scum. And she certainly wouldn’t disobey her Master’s direct order.

And yet she says, “I’m willing to consider alternatives. Is there another solution?”

He’s honestly not sure he’s heard her correctly. But as he listens further, he realizes he has. He finds himself grateful to already be sitting down.

Durmat does, in fact, have a solution. The Republic has developed a memory-altering drug that leaves its victims a blank slate. Evidently, this was not the intended use, and it’s been slated for destruction because the Republic are idiots. He can think of half a dozen things he could use it for without blinking.

“...I’ll overdose and not know nothin’ no more. That way my dad’s secret identity is safe!”

Yaellia is silent for a long moment. Malavai tenses. Any moment, he expects to hear the hum of a saber igniting.

Finally, she replies, “Good idea. Where is it?”

The idiot ensign babbles some more, but Malavai’s barely listening even though he knows he should—a memory-wiping drug of such magnitude could be a great boon to the Empire. This is...insane. Bizarre. Such—mercy, such compassion, for an enemy? For the Republic? He isn’t sure what the tight, bilious feeling in his chest is. He knows hatred and jealousy, they are old bedfellows, but this sickens him. He doesn’t think he’s felt like this since Broysc. His hands hurt, and he realizes he’s been clenching his fists hard enough to leave half-moon indents in his palms.

He comes back to himself when he realizes Yaellia is speaking to Vette.

“The Republic talk about their moral superiority, and they create this? Hypocrites! We should burn this place to the ground and salt the ashes!” There’s a sharp thud, as though she’s punched a wall.

“...I dunno. Shit like this? Could be useful. Or at least, y’know, lucrative. I can think of a few memories I’d rather forget.”

A pause. Then, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it, “...As can I. Come, let’s bring this back to him. Oh, and a change of trousers.”

He’s getting another call—from the Arms Factory, this time—so he listens with half an ear to the sounds of the two womens’ footsteps and whatever short, asinine conversation they’re having with Ensign Durmat as the drug is administered while the rest of his focus splits between uploading an uncorrupted version of the data spike his team needs and the nauseous fury constricting his throat.

“Who are you?” the ensign asks hesitantly.

Yaellia’s voice goes...strange. Soft. Gentle, he realizes, though his mind is almost numb to the further shock of it. “That doesn’t matter. Who are you?”

Now the ensign sounds nervous. “I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t know who I am. Can...can you tell me?”

Malavai can just make out the creak of synthleather. He wonders if Yaellia has knelt in front of the boy’s cell, hand outstretched to soothe him like a frightened animal. His stomach clenches.

“Don’t let anyone tell you who you are,” she murmurs. “You have to figure that out for yourself. Be brave, and walk in strength and in joy.”

The two women walk away. He’s aware that they’re talking quietly between themselves, but he suddenly can’t bear to listen. It’s all too much.

So he mutes them, knowing the risk he’s taking but figuring he will be contacted if he’s really needed, and just stares into space. His hands are shaking again.

She disobeyed Lord Baras. That is...that is treason. But our lord did not specifically say to kill the boy...and he has been silenced...

And her voice, soft and firm all at once, resolute as a fairytale heroine facing down a wounded krayt dragon. He’s never heard a Sith sound like that. He hadn’t imagined they could. It hurts something deep inside him.

He is jolted out of his reverie by a sharp buzz on his comm and Yaellia’s crisp, “Lieutenant Quinn, are you there?”

He’s tongue-tied for a heartstopping moment, and then forces out, “Affirmative. How can I be of assistance, my lord?”

She lets out an amused huff. “I just wanted to let you know that the mission was a success. Vette and I are on our way back to Sobrik now. Please consider yourself off-duty until then.”

He swallows. “Understood, my lord. I will—I will see you upon your return?” Stars, he sounds pathetic. He shouldn’t have made it a question. Now she’ll know he’s rattled.

She chuckles. It seems she doesn’t, or at least isn’t mentioning it. “Count on it, Lieutenant!”

And then she hangs up, and he isn’t sure what to do with his hands. He is not off-duty; he still has troops to monitor. He should get back to that.

Instead he rises, goes to his desk in the adjacent room—it serves as both a private office for more delicate conversations and a makeshift sleeping chamber on long shifts—and pours himself half a glass of wine from his emergency stash. It’s terrible wine, halfway to vinegar and not in a good way, but it will stop him from trembling through the next six hours of his shift like a tooka that’s heard the cleaning droids. Maybe it will even help him make sense of what he’s heard.

One thing is for sure: Lady Yaellia is nothing like what he’d expected. He’s tempted to write it all down, get it out of his head, but he stops himself. Text files can be incriminating. His own mind will have to do.

Slowly, he lays out the facts. On the one hand, Lady Yaellia is greatly skilled in combat and perfectly willing to slay enemies of the Empire. She displays bravery, honor, and compassion towards Imperial soldiers, all exemplary qualities. On the other, she also extends those same qualities towards members of the Republic, which is quite frankly insane. They hate us, he wants to scream. They wouldn’t hesitate to wipe us from existence, to finish the job Pultimo started. And you let them live?!

He slams his fist on the table. Now he has sore knuckles and an aching heart. Deep breaths help the latter. He closes his eyes, willing himself to focus. To think about this logically. Perhaps it is...he will call it tactically unsound, it doesn’t do to consider a Sith a few currants short of a plum pudding, but the mission was unquestionably a success. Moreover, her actions showed an impressive willingness to think outside the box and adapt to new information. He doesn’t have to like it to understand the reasoning. As for her motive...well, perhaps she was moved to pity. Stranger things have happened. Mostly in folktales, but they have. He vaguely remembers one about a tuk’ata pup with a cactus spine in its paw that seems applicable.

“Be brave, and walk in strength and in joy.”

He sets his empty glass down and returns to his main office. He has work to do, no matter how much Lady Yaellia’s words tug at his mind.

He writes up a report for Lord Baras and doesn’t realize until he’s halfway through the holomail that he has no idea what to say. He cannot lie to Lord Baras, of course. He’ll be found out immediately. And Lady Yaellia has disobeyed their master; he should be made aware of that. It would please him and raise his estimation of Malavai.

But Malavai has seen what happens to Sith who displease their masters. He’s seen plenty of smoking corpses, seen Lord Venditor’s fresh scars. And with a sense of nostalgia bordering on pain he remembers the myth of Lord Umbraline, brought down in her prime by a beloved, treacherous underling for the sake of their own advancement. That underling’s fate makes for a moral lesson to all baby Imperials never to betray their superiors. He doubts Yaellia would weep over his severed head.

So he puts down, The mission was a success. Ensign Durmat has been permanently silenced, and leaves it at that. It’s nothing but the truth.

Approximately five hours and forty-five minutes after Lady Yaellia’s last contact with him, he realizes he has been a fool—or at the very least, he’s committed the crime of drawing conclusions with grossly incomplete information. He’ll have to apologize when she returns. Normally, such a thought would tie his stomach in knots, but he rather doubts she’ll react with summary execution.

Still, when she walks in the door six hours and fifteen minutes after her last call, he is glad that the parade rest he slips into hides his faint tremor.

“My lord.” His voice is even. He’s proud of himself for that.

It’s been nearly two days since he’s seen her, and the battles she’s fought have left their mark. There’s a rip in her catsuit at the shoulder, showing the white lining, and her hair shows all the marks of having been hastily scooped into an approximation of her previous bun. Dirt has been ground into the seams of her gloves and the knees of her trousers. She’s taken out her piercings at some point, so there is nothing to distract him from her bright eyes. He barely even notices Vette trailing her.

Especially when she says, “Lieutenant Quinn. I hope you’ve been well?”

He nods. “Yes, my lord. Thank you. Ah. Permission to speak freely?”

She visibly swallows, shifting her weight. Were she not a Sith, he would say she was awkward. “Of course.”

He inhales. “I must be honest. Your success at the satellite listening center and Republic outpost has...surprised me, my lord. I computed the likelihood of success as nearly negligible. In my assessment, however, I only considered the capabilities of a typical Sith.”

He fixes his gaze somewhere around her left ear and continues, “Clearly, you are not a typical Sith. I will adjust future calibrations to account for your...unprecedented abilities.” Creative thinking. Mercy. Compassion. You act like a warrior from legend, my lord, and I wonder where it will take you.

She looks stricken, a dark blush spreading across her cheekbones. And then she grins, an expression of such pure delight he has to look away. “Lieutenant Quinn, you know just what to say!”

“...I’m not too proud to acknowledge when I’m mistaken,” he mutters, feeling his own face burn. He wishes it was just shame at his miscalculation; he is far too old to be blushing like a schoolboy because a pretty girl’s smiled at him, for the Emperor’s sake.

Vette coughs. “So, didja tell Baras all about how awesome we are yet?”

He meets her eyes deliberately. “Lord Baras has been informed, yes. I will alert Lady Yaellia at once when I receive a response.”

More annoyingly, she doesn’t even seem fazed. She actually has the nerve to roll her eyes. “Good to hear it. Hopefully it won’t be ‘till tomorrow, we need our beauty sleep.”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve stayed up all night,” Yaellia says simply.

Vette gives her a very pointed stare. “Ya-ell-i-a.”

She heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Ugh, you’re right. Lieutenant, I’m sorry I cannot stay longer, but someone insists I eat three meals a day and sleep in a real bed, and I wouldn’t want to impose on your personal time.”

“’Sides, we haven’t even seen any of Sobrik yet!” Vette adds, seeming to cheer up as soon as she’s told she won’t need to actually do her job for a while. As she slings an arm around Yaellia’s shoulders, she continues, “C’mon, I heard the Sunken Sarlaac is fun. Maybe we’ll see you there, LT!”

He could have died happily without ever hearing her call him LT. He takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose, and says firmly, “Thank you, but no. I have work to finish up.”

It’s not a lie. And it certainly has nothing to do with any parts of his mind that may or may not be wondering what Lady Yaellia would look like during a night out—how she might wear her hair, if she prefers dresses or suits, if she would wear ever more elaborate jewelry—never mind that she fixes her gaze on the flag behind him and says briskly, “Of course, Lieutenant Quinn. I’ll leave you to it.”

He doesn’t normally work out at night, but as she leaves he decides he will make time to visit the base’s gym for an hour. The movement and exertion will settle his mind. So will the shower afterwards.

The very cold shower.

The next day, he wakes to a sore shoulder and a priority holomail and has very possibly never dressed so quickly in his life. He doesn’t even bother shaving. The hour between when he sees Lord Baras’s reply and when Lady Yaellia steps into his office passes in a blur. It’s slightly cheering to notice that she doesn’t have any of the signs of a woman who’s spent the night partying, unlike her visibly half-asleep companion.

After the initial exchange of pleasantries, he jumps right into it. “Lord Baras is pleased. He says it's time to zero in on your prime directive, and he awaits your contact. My office is yours; the line is secure.”

She nods. “Thank you.”

As she and Vette walk into the next room, he sits down at his console to go over the information he has about their target. There’s a lot to sift through, but much of it just needs to be collated and bulleted. Though he wishes he’d known the plan ahead of time, he’s always been good at making quick decisions. The surveillance and reconnaissance team he’s set on the Jedi’s investigator is highly skilled; thanks to the bugs they’ve placed, there isn’t a move she makes that he isn’t aware of.

Finally, he nods to himself. This will do. Anything else can be adjusted on the fly. Lady Yaellia has proven herself exceptionally skilled at that.

“...summoned Lieutenant Quinn. He’ll prepare you for your final task.”

That’s his cue. As Baras’s holo fades from view, Malavai steps in, fighting the urge to smooth down his hair. “Your final target is the Balmorran Arms Factory, recently captured by resistance forces. An incursion into the Factory will be a monumental feat. I’m excited by the prospect of you laying waste to that place.”

Vette elbows her and Yaellia perks up, face flushed and eyes gleaming. “...Oh, I excite you?”

Belatedly, he realizes his words could potentially be interpreted in a shockingly inappropriate way. If a subordinate spoke like that to him, he’d have them flogged. He all but stumbles over his next words, praying they spare him further humiliation. “W-well, what I meant was...when I imagine all the ways you will shape the galaxy, it is—very exciting, yes.”

Is it his imagination, or does she look disappointed? But there’s still that smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re all red, though.”

Red? He probably looks like a prize Kaasian tomato. “Your question was—a bit surprising, my lord. I assure you that my mind is on the task at hand.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Was it? Surprising, I mean. Here I thought you wouldn’t let anything cross you by surprise.”

“Very few things do,” he mutters. “You...seem to have a knack for it.” That’s putting it mildly. He feels better about the shock of yesterday for having slept on it, but he’s always hated the unexpected. It so rarely works out for him.

She blushes again, dropping her gaze. He’s never before been tempted to call a Sith cute. Once again, professionalism will save him. He clears his throat and asks, “May I continue to brief you on the Balmorran Arms Factory, my lord?”

”Please,” she mutters.

He continues the briefing. Again, she takes notes. But when he gets to his description of Rylon’s personal guard, she comments, “You sound like you admire them.”

There’s no judgment in her tone or in her eyes, but there doesn’t need to be. He feels ill. “Only their tactical exploits, my lord. It will be a bright day on Balmorra when they are eliminated.”

That, apparently, is that. As she nods and goes to put her datapad away, he clears his throat. “One final thing, my lord. The investigator the Jedi sent has been concentrating her activity in the area. I have her under minute-by-minute surveillance and will contact you at once if she becomes a problem.”

She smiles at him. “Sounds like a plan. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

She keeps thanking him, just for doing his duty. His gut is a hot, squirming thing. “No need to thank me, my lord. I will be here to salute you when the Balmorran Arms Factory is a smoking husk.”

“I know you will.” She turns to go, only to immediately arrest her movement and ask, “Lieutenant?”

Vette groans. Both of them ignore her. “Yes, my lord?”

She glances back at him and reaches up to fiddle with her earrings. She’s put her gold hoops back in. “I do apologize for my curiosity, but I couldn’t help but notice...that is...you have a great deal of Sith opera recordings in here. Do you have a favorite?”

The question is so unexpected that he can’t bite back an honest reply. “I think you might have done as well to ask me if I’ve a favorite limb, but I’ve always been partial to Shkai’ven Shasôt—”

Yaellia lets out a little gasp and whirls to stare at him, eyes wide. “I’ve seen that! The 400th anniversary run, at the Grand Kaas Opera House—Taral’s aria, I don’t think there was a dry eye—” She’s gesturing as she talks, presumably the cause of several datapads sliding around on his desk.

Emperor preserve him. She likes opera. In a flash of insight, he realizes why her words from the previous day had been so familiar; they’re a direct translation from the famous Soldiers’ Chorus in the second act. His parade rest has become a medical necessity, because otherwise he’d have to find a chair. “I could not be in the city for the 400th anniversary,”—he’d been here, cursing his life—“but I was fortunate enough to witness Janrit Haskerl’s first performance as countertenor for that role, and even then I can assure you there was not.” The memory brings an old pang with it; he’d been so young. His father had been alive and on leave, and not even his baby brother kicking the back of his seat had dimmed the wonder of watching the curtain go up.

She’s gazing at him with open fascination. “That must have been incredible! I can’t imagine it—you must tell me everything. Oh, but what did you think of Tev Ralon’s early years; I thought their voice has improved with age, but you know what recordings are like, it’s just not the same.”

He can’t remember the last time anyone’s asked for his opinion on any personal interests. He can’t remember the last time anyone suggested he might have personal interests. It takes him a moment to find words. “I—must agree, my lord. At first, I judged them to be rather weak and reedy, not powerful or commanding enough to sing Lord Tanari’s part with the gravitas it deserves, but I find myself glad that they were given the chance to grow into it. I suppose you never can tell.”

“Exactly!” Stars, she’s so animated it hurts to look at her. The datapads hitting the floor are a problem for later. “I haven’t been able to go to the opera since before I was sent to Korriban; I’m dying to see how it’s changed. I hear they’ve recently finished some lovely new renovations for better acoustics—and gotten rid of those dreadful jade green curtains, what were they thinking—and they’ve shuffled the stage crew around so more of them will be able to handle the Force effects. Their new conductor is no Van Chkristi, but he comes highly recommended from the Ziosti Gardens. You should go there next time you have leave!”

His ears burn. He doesn’t get that much leave, and even if he did his pay won’t stretch to the cost of a ticket anymore. Not if he also wants to buy groceries that week. But she’s so enthusiastic, so happy, he decides not to say any of that. “I will certainly consider it, my lord.”

Vette clears her throat. “Boss, maybe you wanna let him consider it while we get moving? It’s a long way to this outpost we gotta be at.”

Malavai could strangle her.

Even more so when Yaellia deflates and mutters, “Ah. Yes. Thank you for reminding me.” She shoots him a hopeful glance. “We must make time to continue this discussion later.”

Later. How long has it been since he’s had something to look forward to? The thought makes an unfamiliar bubbly feeling rise in his chest.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, and means it with all his heart.

(Opera. He supposes that goes some way towards explaining her idealism, but somehow he cannot fault her. When he was young, he’d been inspired even by the tragedies.)

The data spike he’s had planted in the Jedi investigator’s comm network is showing increased activity. Frowning, he traces it. Near the Arms Factory, and getting closer. Should he warn Lady Yaellia? No, he thinks after a moment. She’ll be at the Sundari Outpost by now, and he doesn’t want to distract her. He’s been informed there’s a new Darth in residence.

As if summoned by the mere thought of her, his comm chimes. “Lieutenant Quinn?”

He isn’t sure he likes the wary tone in Yaellia’s voice. “Yes, my lord?”

“Have you ever heard of a Darth Lachris? The—the new planetary governor.”

He’s not surprised the old one is dead—the man was never competent—but there’s a twist in his gut at the way she says it. It must have been extremely recent. “I have, my lord. She studied under Darth Marr and is a veteran of the sacking of Coruscant.”

There’s nothing but the low rumble of a speeder engine; she must be in the air. “I see,” she says eventually.

“Might I inquire as to why you’re asking?”

There’s a definite intake of breath. “Oh, I’ve just...met her, that’s all. I was curious. She wants me to—to take down Grand Marshall Jacketta—”

“—Cheketta!” Vette calls.

“—You know my auditory processing is utter pants, Vette!—so killing Commander Rylon might take a trifle longer than expected.”

He nearly suggests texting or holomail if that would be easier for her, but bites his tongue. If she hasn’t requested accommodations, it’s hardly his place. “I have every faith you will succeed, my lord.”

She lets out a sharp huff. “You honor me. I’ll be in touch.”

“I await your word, my lord.”

She hangs up first. He turns his focus to the incoming calls from his away teams, grinding his teeth. No, they are not to engage unless discovered, no matter how tempting it is. Their goal is stealth. He is relieved to find that at least they’re tracking the targets he’s sent them after. The Jedi investigator has a codename—Sunshrike—but it doesn’t match to any encrypted strings in his database. The spike they’ve uploaded is picking up her increasingly irritated comments regarding an incursion into the Arms Factory. Lady Yaellia, he thinks, and exhales. He digs deeper, hunting for more information. His tea thermos goes colder and emptier.

Where are you? Who are you?

He’s starting to develop a headache by midafternoon—he’s worked straight through lunch—but having a puzzle to unravel at least keeps his mind off of honorable Sith with a passion for opera and an unusual sense of mercy. He welcomes it. The security systems of the Arms Factory itself prove frustrating to break into, but when he finally taps into Sunshrike’s personal network he is rewarded with quiet breaths and the echos of her typing, interspersed with the occasional Republic-accented, “Damn.”

He smirks to himself. Victory.

And then Yaellia calls him, her voice shaking. “Quinn?”

His heart seizes. He doesn’t want to know what could unsettle a Sith. But he must remain calm, for her sake. “Yes, my lord?”

She gulps. “We have very—very explicit confirmation of Republic involvement. I just fought a Jedi. And where there’s one, there will likely be more.”

A Jedi. He exhales sharply, wondering if they had fought in the last war. If they’d borne his father’s blood on their hands. “I suspected as much. Your confirmation is appreciated, my lord.” He almost asks if she’s well, but he’s afraid of what he might do if she says no.

“Right,” she says, and takes a deep breath. “Right. We will continue our assault, then, and contact you when the factory falls.”

There’s a click as she hangs up. He returns to Sunshrike, digging through her personal files. It takes a while, and he’s only peripherally aware of the news crackling in from the Arms Factory as he works. Republic ships are being violently decommissioned. The Resistance is in disarray. Something about a swarm of Colicoids. The Resistance Grand Marshall is dead—no, he’s only in custody. The man’s publicly denouncing the Republic and they didn’t even have to torture him first. The Balmorran “governor,” Vol Argen, is definitely dead.

At any other time, he’d celebrate. A name. Give me a name.

He doesn’t get a name. As the sun lowers outside his office he gets a tinny burst of secondhand static, and then the sound of a man speaking. Sunshrike whispers, “Finally,” to herself.

“What do we know of the enemy?” the man says, and then snaps, “I can see that, Captain. Shut up. Sith, I know why you're here. Be aware that these are the finest troops I've commanded in all my decades of duty.”

Indistinct speech. The man snorts. “My men and I would be disappointed if you did. Captain Eligyn, engage at will and hold the line. I'm coming with reinforcements. Rylon out.”

Malavai makes himself breathe evenly. After everything he’s seen Lady Yaellia do, she’ll be fine. More importantly, Sunshrike is moving. He fires off a call to his nearest squad leader. “Target is en route. Do not lose her.”

There’s a chorus of affirmatives, but he barely registers them. Sunshrike has live audio on what is almost certainly Yaellia’s confrontation with the Republic forces, and for long minutes all he can hear is the hum of sabers and the crack of blaster fire. It grows steadily louder, suggesting Rylon really is coming—alone. There is only the one set of footsteps. When the fighting dies down and the man snaps, “Enough of this. Just put him out of his misery, Sith,” Malavai tenses.

“Confess to him first,” Yaellia says flatly. “He deserves the truth.”

Shit. The worst part of it is, he’s not even surprised. Disappointed, yes—this is quite frankly the worst time her bizarre storybook-heroine tendencies could have come to the fore—but after what he’s seen of her so far he was practically expecting it. More importantly, the investigator’s position is converging on his troops. Almost there...almost...

A blaster shot rings out, and Commander Rylon sighs heavily. “It's unfortunate they were on the wrong side. They were excellent soldiers, and exceptional men. It was difficult betraying them—you can't bleed with a man and not form a bond—yet with their defeat, the Empire's cause is advanced.”

“You should have recruited them,” Yaellia says coldly.

“...I followed Baras's orders to the letter,” he mutters. “Recruitment was never my purpose here. I served for the glory of the Empire.” With a sigh, he continues, “But the life of a spy is a slippery one. In essence, I had to become a Republic soldier, and I've done things against the Empire that have sickened me.”

Yaellia takes a slow breath. “For the greater good.”

“Lieutenant!” Jillins on holo, frantic. His voice comes slightly doubled from the tap he’s put on Sunshrike. “She’s here—she has a lightsaber—”

“Delay her,” he growls.

“But she’s—she’s a Jedi—”

He could punch the man. If they weren’t separated by hundreds of kilometers, he might. Some of his rage must show on his face, because the man flinches. “Did I stutter, Jillins? You don’t need to kill her, but she must not be allowed to reach her allies!”

There’s already blaster fire in the background. Jillins whirls to return fire, barely stammering out an, “Of course, sir—” before dropping the call.

Not that it matters. He isolates that channel from the tap and amplifies the one on Rylon. He almost regrets it, because Rylon’s not dead yet.

At least his voice sounds labored. Agonized. Malavai can only hope his death is swift; he deserves that, at least. “Tell Lord Baras...it has been my great honor to serve him.”

He can’t hear Yaellia’s response, but he suspects he knows what it is. The hum of her saber is confirmation enough.

He should call her. Warn her.

But it will have to wait, because he has soldiers to direct. He hopes they remain competent under duress; their orders are very simple, but he’s learned not to underestimate the depths of their stupidity. He curses every second of comm latency as he watches the Jedi’s location draw closer.

It takes nearly half an hour before he can send a holocall to Lady Yaellia. She is bloodstained and beautiful even in the middle of some nondescript factory hallway, but he can think about that later. “My lord, we've got trouble. I heard your entire conversation with Commander Rylon.”

She draws back, frowning down at him. A lock of hair falls in her face. “Have you been spying on me, Lieutenant?”

His face burns. “No, my lord!” Not intentionally, at any rate. “As I told you, I've been surveilling the Jedi investigator—”

“...Oh,” she mutters, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Never mind, then. What’s the matter?”

He takes a breath. “She bugged Rylon's quarters. She knows everything, my lord.”

“Well, fuck,” Vette comments. He hates that he agrees.

Yaellia falls silent, staring at him. Her eyebrows knit together as she lets out a very quiet, heartfelt, “Bugger.” At a normal volume, she continues, “And now so do you. You’re in grave danger, Lieutenant.”

It doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like concern. He lets out a breath. “Yes, but I pose no risk to Lord Baras. If she gets away, she'll expose everything. She was heading to her ship, but I had my men cut her off from the Republic landing bay.” He’s just gotten the report that they were successful, with only one casualty. Not Jillins, sadly. “I am systematically blocking her avenues of transmission and escape, herding that Republic scum to her only hope—the spaceport at Sobrik.”

“Sobrik?!” she demands. “That’s ours! How does she think she’s going to survive?”

“My men report that she's wielding a lightsaber, my lord. It is very likely that she is a Jedi Knight.”

If the comm wasn’t floating in midair, Yaellia would have dropped it. She jerks, eyes wide. “No.”

“Yes. Unless you stop her, she's more than capable of fighting her way through the spaceport and commandeering a ship. I'll be able to delay the Jedi long enough for you to engage, but—”

“Don’t you dare,” she snaps.

He blinks at her. “My lord?”

“Don’t even think about putting yourself in the way of that Jedi! She’ll kill you, Lieutenant. I can’t—I refuse to let that happen. Put roadblocks, keep the civilians out of the way, do not make direct contact. We have to protect the people of Sobrik!”

He swallows, recognizing the emotion coursing through him as shame. A storybook warrior. She is what Sith should be. “...I...see your point, my lord. I will gather my remaining men and meet you at the spaceport.”

She exhales. “Yes. Do that. And don’t worry, Lieutenant. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You have my word.”

It is one thing to simply put a military base on high alert for approaching hostiles. That is easy. Turning that military base into a trap for a lone Jedi while also ensuring that the civilian population is safe, and that no actual Imperial soldiers are put in harm’s way? Somewhat more difficult. The roadblocks are simple, but having the base put under lockdown requires him to stand in front of Major Pirell and play the recording of his men under attack before the order finally goes out, and by then he’s lost hours.

The only saving grace is that he’s successfully delayed the Jedi. He has time.

During a brief lull in the chaos, his comm buzzes. Outgoing transmission, reads the spike still active on the Jedi’s comm. He doesn’t hesitate before rerouting it to his own and hitting “play.”

The Jedi turns out to be a human woman, her hood half-hiding her face. Through the layer of digital noise left over from decryption, he makes out, “This is Jedi Knight Mashallon. Nomen Karr’s Padawan was correct. We have traitors in our ranks.”

He’s never even heard of Nomen Karr; individual Jedi tend to blend together in a sort of sanctimonious brown-beige haze. But if they’re a Jedi of any importance, there will be a dossier. He spends a few minutes searching until one comes up, frowning as he skims through the Jedi master’s long career. A career, he notices, that seems particularly focused on opposing Lord Baras. This could be a problem.

“Uh. Sir?”

He takes a deep breath before addressing Jillins, who’s appeared by his side on top of his lookout post when he wasn’t looking. “Report. And it had better be important.”

Jillins gulps, staring somewhere past him. “You said to alert you when Lady Yaellia or—or that Jedi gets here, and um. The Jedi’s been spotted.”

“Good. You have your orders.” He sends a quick text to confirm—yes, the barricades have been placed and the civilians are off the streets with guards stationed at regular intervals. Yaellia will be pleased.

Jillins nods stiffly. “R-right.”

They stare through their binoculars into the darkening street as the lights come on, both straining for the sight of a glowing lightsaber. Malavai squints, trying to figure out if that flicker in the far distance is a faulty streetlight. When his comm doesn’t flash with mission updates, he decides it probably is.

Jillins mutters, “I hope Lady Yaellia catches up soon. She’s amazing.”

“Have you met her, or are you drawing yet another conclusion based on secondhand information?”

Jillins flushes and stares at his feet. “Well, I haven’t met her, sir, but—she wiped out an entire rebel base by herself! And took down that Grand Marshall! That’s—that’s pretty amazing, right...?”

There’s a steady light in the distance. He raises his binoculars and spots flowing robes and a lit saber. Jedi. “You aren’t wrong,” he mutters. Stars, he’s agreeing with the boy. His life really has changed.

They wait. Mashallon’s been divested of her speeder at some point, so she creeps from shadow to shadow on foot. It’s eerie. Where any normal person in a similar situation would startle at every movement, she only glances disinterestedly when rustlings in dumpsters turn out to be rakkons. Can Jedi see through stealth generators? Sense his troops somehow? If he gives into the temptation to pull the trigger, will they all be slaughtered in an instant?

Next to him, Jillins is practically vibrating. He hisses, “Hold, Corporal.” He won’t risk it.

Mashallon crosses the empty square unimpeded. She steps into the spaceport, where she’ll find a maze of barricades and droids to slow her down. Long minutes drag by.

His datapad lets him know he has a text. Without looking, he hits the button that translates it to speech and sends it directly into his earpiece.

The electronic voice reads: “From: vette ([email protected]). To: [email protected]. Subject: We’re here, exclamation point. Text body: N/A. End message.”

He wonders why his team hasn’t informed him, but quickly realizes it’s something of a moot point. Yaellia Ivros is barreling down the street and through the square on a speeder that looks like it’s been the victim of a direct orbital strike, Vette hanging on for dear life behind her. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he can barely make them out in the afterimages left by the rear lights. The rest of his soldiers have probably been similarly blinded.

He shakes his head to clear it and lifts his comm. “All hands, move out.”

Keeping a slow, measured pace is not the hardest thing he has ever done in his life, but it certainly deserves a spot on the list. Though they obviously won’t overtake Yaellia at the speed she’s moving, they can’t afford to be too late. As skilled as she is, she graduated Korriban a month ago and this is a fully-fledged Jedi Knight. She might need backup. Every instinct screams at him to run.

He walks.

The spaceport, when he reaches it, bears every hallmark of a Jedi passing through in a hurry. His team has to step, scramble, and sometimes climb over droid parts. Heavy barricades have been chopped in half. One of the locked hangar elevators has been sliced.

As he steps out of the elevator with a handful of his best men, he knows he’s precisely on time.

The Jedi’s hood has fallen back and there’s a blaster wound in her shoulder, but she’s holding her own against Yaellia’s swift strikes. Vette is crouched behind a speeder deploying a kolto spray drone, patching up Yaellia’s wounds even as they’re inflicted. As he watches, Yaellia surges forward, twists, and sends the Jedi’s blade skittering out of her hand and across the floor.

“Yield,” she growls, setting one saber at the Jedi’s throat.

Mashallon closes her eyes. “Your victory means nothing,” she murmurs. “The damage has been done. The proof has been transmitted. So, deal the deathblow, Sith. I am at peace knowing that the greater good has been served.”

In this moment, Malavai loves his job. “I hate to burst your bubble, Jedi.” He doesn’t even bother trying to stop his slow, cruel smirk. “No, that’s a lie. I’m reveling in it.”

Yaellia turns to stare at him over her shoulder, and the Jedi gasps. He could laugh. “I intercepted your transmission. You’ve been monitored and screened this entire time. The Jedi know nothing.”

Yaellia’s mouth drops open. For a split-second she just blinks at him—and then she gasps, “Lieutenant Quinn, I could kiss you!”

She doesn’t mean it. Face burning, he averts his eyes and mutters, “I was only doing my job, my lord.”

Mashallon takes a final breath, her gaze sweeping the assembled Imperials defiantly. “Gloat all you like, it means nothing. I remain at peace. And you will still fail.”

Yaellia turns back to her, her voice even. Pleasant. As though she’s asking about the weather. “The name of Nomen Karr’s padawan, if you please.”

Mashallon’s eyes narrow. “No.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “...I want you to remember I asked politely.” The saber burns a thin line in the skin of the Jedi’s neck.

The Jedi doesn’t even flinch. Her empty hands flex and then relax, her shoulders settling. “Unlike you, the Force and the Jedi way give me a sense of something larger than myself. I am resigned. Strike me down, I offer no further resistance.”

Yaellia draws in a slow breath, chest heaving. Malavai knows that the next sight he’ll see will be the Jedi’s head rolling on the floor.

And then, impossibly, she lowers her saber. “No,” she says coolly. “It would be a waste.”

What. None of Malavai’s men move. Malavai himself isn’t sure he can move. His legs have enough to do just keeping him upright. If the Republic are their enemies, the Jedi are...the Jedi are nightmares. The Great War was a thousand years ago, but none of them have forgotten the burning of libraries, the wholesale bombing of their greatest cities, the slaughter of millions. Had it not been for the element of surprise, they surely would have repeated their atrocities in the last war. Lady Yaellia would have been a child when the Treaty of Coruscant was signed, but he’s seen her files. He knows she took top marks in Sith history. She knows what the Jedi have done, what they will do again if given the chance. And yet she lets this one live?

It makes no sense. He can barely breathe.

Absurdly, he remembers a libretto he once discovered on the HoloNet. It had purported to be the text of an opera banned for centuries for un-Imperial sentiment. The central couple, and conflict, had been about a Sith sparing a Jedi’s life and the Jedi spending years trying to “bring them to the Light” in exchange. Though they’d fallen in love, it had ended in tragedy when the Sith killed them rather than lose what made them who they were, only to launch into a stirring final aria wherein they vowed to join the Jedi in memory of their lost lover. He’d given the address to the censors later, of course, but it had stuck with him. The last time he’d checked, the website had still been up.

He steps forward, resolute. “...I will take her into custody, my lord.” Surrounding the Jedi and wrapping Force-suppressant cuffs around her wrists is a simple matter, one he can do on autopilot. He’s glad for it, because while his hands and mouth move he doesn’t have to think about what he’s doing. “Your lightsaber, if you will, Jedi. Men, escort her to her new home in the main prison.”

“And treat her well,” Yaellia adds firmly, extinuishing her sabers. “Torture is notoriously unreliable, and I am under the impression that the Imperial armed forces is made of sentients, not beasts.”

Vette snorts. “Good luck with that,” she mutters.

The Jedi is marched away. Malavai remains behind. His men have this in hand, and he cannot leave until he has answers. Until he understands. When he draws close to Yaellia, she smells like smoke. He follows her gaze to his troops and murmurs, “I am sure you know what you’re doing, my lord. But sparing the Jedi is...” Insane. “A curious choice.”

She stiffens. He braces himself—has she sensed how much he’s truly questioning her? But her sabers remain unlit, and oxygen still moves through his lungs. When she turns to him, her eyes are hard as gold. He knows he’s being unfathomably rude, but he can’t tear his gaze away.

Her chin lifts. She’s challenging him as well. “The Jedi think we are monsters, Lieutenant Quinn. I refuse to prove them right.”

He almost argues. Of course the Sith are monsters. The Sith are their monsters. Carnage is her birthright, slaughter her crown. Her very creed promises strength and victory. What does she care if a Jedi judges her for knowing passion—for knowing life? For protecting her people with everything she has? But there’s a faint tremor in her shoulders, and he remembers the way she’d soothed Lieutenant Rutau and that Republic ensign alike. The way she’d granted Rylon an honorable death.

He remembers stories.

“I see,” he mutters, and looks away.

“...It's not my place, Lord Baras. I leave that for your apprentice to convey.”

It’s nearly midnight. Putting the city to rights and cleaning up the spaceport to an even semi-usable state had taken hours. He’s pretty sure the slaves and droids are still working on it. The Jedi has been placed in the most secure wing they could find. The guards had asked him when to schedule the inquisitor; he’d swallowed his gorge, been reminded of the Imperial armed forces is made of sentients, not beasts and told them it could wait a while. That he’s still upright and talking to Baras—who had demanded a report immediately—is solely due to his decades of military experience.

Yaellia’s near-emotionless voice from the doorway saves him. “I am here, master.”

She looks half dead on her feet; most likely the adrenaline crash. Vette follows her like a second shadow, positioned in such a way as to unobtrusively offer physical support.

As they enter, he stands a little straighter. She shoots him a quick glance, squares her shoulders, and does the same before bowing to Baras as deeply as she probably can without falling over.

“Nice of you to join us,” Baras snorts. “Quinn refuses to update me, insisting the privilege be yours. I assume the Jedi investigator has been stopped?”

She stares straight past him. “...She is no longer a concern, master.”

Baras grumbles, “I had hoped to avoid confronting her, but our hand was forced. What matters most is that Rylon can no longer be exposed.”

That’s right, Malavai thinks. And it’s all because of her. You have a rare find in your apprentice, my lord. And then, traitorously, You had better appreciate her.

“And how would you assess Lieutenant Quinn’s contribution?”

His parade rest is suddenly a statue’s pose. His hands clench into fists behind his back. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she dismisses him. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she doesn’t.

But the question seems to have the same effect on Lady Yaellia as an intravenous line of pure caffeine straight to the heart, because she jolts a little on her feet and blurts out, “Lieutenant Quinn? He’s an exceptional officer! Really, the best support I could’ve hoped for. I couldn't have done it without him! If you ask me, master, he is wasted in a place like Balmorra.”

His heart skips a beat. Baras tilts his head, studying him from behind his mask. “High praise indeed,” he says finally. “Quinn, I believe you have sufficiently repaid the debt owed to me. I'm putting you up for a captaincy and transmitting an executive order allowing you to station wherever you choose. You are dismissed.”

He can feel his mouth moving and knows words must be coming out, knows he’s thanking Lord Baras and expressing his sincere gratitude. His mind is a thousand light-years away. A captaincy. Freedom. I’ll never need to step foot on this blasted rock again. I could go anywhere—could make a real difference for the Empire—I could go home—

Lady Yaellia is looking at him. Heart hammering in his chest, he bows to her. “My lord, before I depart, it's been my extreme honor to serve you.” Swallowing hard, he adds, “You are...you are the epitome of everything the Empire stands for.”

It’s not a lie. It’s not even an exaggeration. Honor. Strength. Order. As odd as some of her decisions have been, she displays every Imperial virtue. More than that, she inspires other people to follow her example—or at the very least, she should. He can’t imagine the sort of person who would purposely disappoint her when she holds even her own actions to such high standards.

And she flushes dark at his words. He can’t bear it. “The honor has been mine.” She pauses, and a tired smile breaks across her face. “Captain Quinn. I shall miss you.”

“Maybe our paths will cross once more, my lord,” he murmurs. He can’t look at her face anymore.

As he leaves, Vette turns to call over her shoulder, “We’ll probably be off this rock by tomorrow afternoon!”

So there’s a time limit. And then she will be gone, and he’ll probably never see her again. The thought is a knife to his heart.

He walks home, the wind ruffling his hair and stinging his nose. He doesn’t smell smoke anymore. When he reaches his street, the whole building is dark and quiet, and his apartment feels like a tomb. He stands in the doorway and thinks that he should be overjoyed at this unexpected good fortune. He should be celebrating. At the very least, he should make himself a cup of tea; he doubts he’ll be getting much sleep anyway.

Instead he sits at his kitchen table and stares out the window. There’s a light on in the apartment across the way. He wonders what they’re doing, if they were on duty tonight. If they’ve had their life irrevocably changed by any young, idealistic Sith lately.

“The honor has been mine.”

He wants it to be insincere. A lie, a trick, something. Who says that? No, he rephrases, what kind of Sith says that? He knows he shouldn’t trust it. If he was as intelligent as he likes to think he is, he’d be glad to see the back of her. Honor never lasts, no matter what the stories say. Fiction is fiction for a reason; the greatest Sith, those who made the galaxy quake at their whims, cared nothing for the lives of ants like him.

But.

But when he closes his eyes, he sees her tired smile. Hears the way she gushed about him to Baras, her eyes shining. Remembers the desperation in her voice when she’d told him not to risk himself against the Jedi. “I refuse to let that happen,” she’d said. As though he matters. As though he, Malavai Quinn, thirty-seven years old and a disgraced lieutenant on one of the most backwater rocks in Imperial space, with no status or influential allies or access to any particularly juicy blackmail, is important. Not because of what he can do for her or who he is connected to, but because he is a person.

He is suddenly furious. Where were you ten years ago, twenty years ago?! Where were you when I was new? How dare you come to me now, Yaellia Ivros? But even as he balls his hands into fists to stop them shaking, he imagines how that would have went. Twenty-seven year old Malavai had been going through the worst year of his life—his father’s death, Druckenwell, the war’s unceremonious end—and he wouldn’t have appreciated being reminded that such things as hope and decency existed in the galaxy. Seventeen-year-old Malavai frankly doesn’t bear thinking about; he’d been an insufferable teenager, and she probably would have stabbed him. He can’t say he would have complained. It would have been normal.

Then again, normal isn’t a word he can truthfully use to describe her. Despite the incredible results she gets, he knows her methods won’t make her popular. He can’t imagine even Baras approving. Then again, he also can’t imagine her letting his disapproval change anything. His heart is racing, and he’s not sure whether it’s terror or something else. She really could change the galaxy. If she lives.

If.

His heart sinks. Sith politics will eat her alive. Stars, if Baras finds out how she interprets his orders he’ll probably eat her alive. He tries to imagine a galaxy without her, without her lightning-fast sabers and strange sense of compassion and the sheer joy she takes in opera. Without the change she effects everywhere she goes just by existing. It should be easy; he’s only known her for a few days, and they’ve barely spoken. They are nearly strangers.

He wants to change that. He can change that; he’s a captain now, he can take any posting he wishes. He can find her ship, join her crew, serve at her side. For the first time in a decade, he can do anything.

By the time he wakes the next morning, he has made his decision.

Everything he owns fits into two suitcases. He could probably narrow it down to one, but he remembers sparkling gold eyes and decides to pack every music-related disc he has. He showers and shaves with particular care; after a brief internal debate over whether he should wear his dress uniform, he settles for his best everyday one instead. Too formal and he’ll appear ridiculous instead of sincere, and he can’t bear for her to think he’s not taking this seriously. He makes himself a cup of decaf tea before he leaves.

Afternoon, Vette had said, but he has no idea what a Twi’lek considers afternoon and he barely slept last night out of fear of somehow missing their departure entirely. It’s 1100 on the dot when he makes his way into the hangar at a brisk walk, looking for the ship registered under Yaellia’s name.

Fortunately, it’s impossible to miss. The Zhasanai’s Grace is a sleek Fury-class Interceptor, a very common model, but instead of the standard gray she’s been painted bright red with jagged black lines reminiscent of traditional Zabrak tattoos. Zhasanai, he recalls, is also a Zabrak name. He wonders who Yaellia named her ship for, and if she’d tell him if he asked. He suspects she would. As he approaches, his attention is caught by droids loading pallets of supplies into her cargo hold, followed by a chauffeur steering a cherry-red four-door Manta Landspeeder the size of a Cartel skiff in with them. Last night’s death trap was clearly the first thing she could grab; this is the sort of speeder he would have expected Yaellia to fly.

None of the workers pay him any mind. He stands at a loose parade rest and waits next to his suitcases.

And waits. After a while, he finds himself fighting the urge to scroll through his datapad. He hasn’t had time to catch up with the news in a while, and this is around the time of year when the drafts start for cricket season. But if Lady Yaellia sees him acting so frivolously in public, the sheer embarrassment will probably kill him before any of her enemies get the chance.

He’s started to lose track of how long he’s been waiting by the time the elevator opens to reveal her standing inside it. She’s got one arm looped through the handle of a Sobrik Spaceport gift bag and the other through Vette’s; at first he can’t make out what they’re talking about, but then he realizes she’s supplementing her side of the conversation with ISL when words fail her and upgrades his mental portfolio of her to include has exceedingly strong opinions on spaceport food. His mouth does something so unfamiliar he has to pause to recognize it as a smile.

When she sees him, the ISL stops and her face lights up. “Captain Quinn! Did you come to see us off?”

He bows as deeply to her as he would to Lord Baras. “My lord,” he murmurs. “I hope you don't find my appearance here obtrusive. I beg an audience.”

She blinks, and then nods. “Of course.”

He takes a deep breath. He should have practiced this speech, but even now that it’s happening part of his brain can’t believe it. “My reassignment is an evolution I've longed for, but I assumed it would never come. Aiding you on this planet—it has reawakened the ambition I began my career with, to make the most profound impact possible for the Empire.”

Before he can second-guess himself, he drops to one knee and bows his head. Yaellia chokes. “Captain Quinn!”

The spaceport floor is freezing through the thin fabric of his uniform trousers and badly in need of a power-washing. Someone’s dropped used chewing gum not half a meter away. Yaellia’s boots need polishing, and one of Vette’s is coming untied. He notices all of this only because his heart is pounding like an artillery bombardment and if he looks up he thinks he might faint. That would certainly not help his case.

Breathe. In for three, hold, out for five. Hating the tremor in his voice, he continues, “I cannot think of a more glorious and honorable way to make a difference in the galaxy than to serve you.”

She makes a noise like a dying gundark. He risks a brief glance upwards and finds her with both hands clasped to her mouth, her face absolutely scarlet. She seems to be beyond words.

His mouth goes dry. He has to make her see. “I'm here to pledge myself to you. I'm ready and willing to serve in—in whatever capacity you see fit.”

“Whatever capacity?” It is very close to a squeak. “That’s—really?”

“Oh, stars,” Vette mutters. “And I thought you two flirting over snooty musicals was bad—”

Yaellia kicks her sharply in the ankle. It would be funny if it wasn’t also mortifying.

He’s talking more quickly now. He knows he sounds desperate—undignified—but he can’t stop. He’s so close, he knows it. “My lord, if given the chance, I know I will prove myself to you. I'm a top-notch pilot, military strategist and a deadly shot. I can fly this ship, plan your battles, assess your enemies and kill them. You won't find a more tireless and loyal subject. I will dedicate every ounce of my strength to your cause.” Please. That Twi’lek can’t protect you alone, not from the kinds of threats you’ll be facing. You need me.

She’s still staring at him as though she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. “...Captain Quinn,” she says carefully. “Are you sure about this?”

A voice, gentle yet firm. Words straight from myth. Nobility he’s only ever dreamed about. The absolute certainty that all of that stands balanced on a razor’s edge, and she will need all the help he can give if she’s not going to be sliced to ribbons.

He can only answer honestly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, my lord.”

Her chest swells with her deep breath, and it’s not his imagination that has her back straightening. She is noble in more than just her actions, after all. Fealty is her birthright. “Then I accept your service.” Her serious tone is utterly at odds with the grin that spreads across her face as she adds, “Besides, who else would I talk about opera with? I haven’t forgotten.”

He actually had. “Um,” he starts, dropping his gaze. “It would be an honor—”

A hand appears in his field of vision. It takes him a moment of confusion to realize Yaellia is offering to help him to his feet. “Now, do get up off the floor. I don’t want to think what it’s doing to your knees.”

He has a split second to think This is inappropriate, I mustn’t before his hand comes up entirely of its own accord to wrap around hers. It’s warm even through their respective gloves, and she only has to take half a step backwards to haul him to his feet. If he’d been shorter, it would be effortless. There’s a moment before he fully straightens where his eyes meet hers, and the expression in them is one he cannot bear to name.

But neither can he look away. She has yet to let go of his hand, and it’s frozen him in place like a tractor beam. “My lord,” he starts. You’ve given me my life back. You’ve given me hope. How else can I repay you?

“My captain,” she murmurs. Her voice wasn’t even this soft with Lieutenant Rutau, and that man had nearly lost a foot. Malavai just has a mildly sore knee.

Vette chooses this exact moment to ask, “Is this all your stuff?”

He jerks away from Yaellia like he’s been burnt, turning the full force of his glare on the Twi’lek. “Indeed.”

Yaellia looks over his suitcases with a judgmental eye, but when she turns back to him she’s smiling again. “We’ll get you set up right away, never fear. I can’t wait to give you a tour of the ship.” She pauses. “Ah, do feel free to make any adjustments to the cockpit you want. It might be a bit cramped in there otherwise.”

This time, he knows he’s smiling back. “...Thank you for giving me this opportunity, my lord. I will submit my reassignment papers as we depart.”

And he steps onto the Zhasanai’s Grace, ready to begin his new life.

Worldbuilding/headcanon notes:

- Quinn's love of opera comes from the fact that one of the Imperial Memorabilia gifts you can give him (his favorite type of gift) is a Sith Opera Collection. (The fact that another gift in that category is Banned Imperial History Document says a few things...) - Quinn & Yael are both super autistic. Quinn does not know this about himself. Boy You Gon' Learn. - His baby brother, Zeiran, is ~8 years younger than him and an Imperial Intelligence agent. They have not spoken since Druckenwell. - I am at least 95% sure I read the timeline right and Druckenwell/the battle of Rhen Var (Col. Rymar Quinn's death)/the Treaty of Coruscant happened in the same year. Please nobody tell me if I'm wrong. - Lord Venditor is my friend's OC! Unbeknownst to Quinn, he is a sad wet dog of a man.

#swtor #sith #malavai quinn #paladin writes stuff #darth baras #yaellia #vette #quinn is SO confused lol #“what is this?” “respect” “sounds fake”#star wars

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lazulisong · 1 year

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it's so fucking annoying how whenever i bully myself into taking a day off because "i just feel rotten" it helps

#meg what is your problem #health #self care #do u mean to tell me #that i also deserve to be treated #with kindness and respect #as a creature of this world?#sounds fake but okay

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parktheghost · 9 months

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i met a popular minecraft youtuber once and he kept flirting with me and then invited me back to his house and to this day I regret saying no purely because like. what would’ve happened. would I have lost my virginity to a minecraft youtuber?? much to think about

#he kept coming up to me bc we were in a big group and just being like “what’s up #which was funny bc he did it every five minutes so nothing was up #and then I said I had a ride home and he was like oh you can come back to my place #but the craziest part is that was the second time I met him and the first time he asked me that too I just didn’t realise it was flirting #so fucking funny imagine j lost my virginity to a minecraft YouTuber #I know this story sounds fake but it’s so serious #he was a nice guy though he just wasn’t my type #also who hears that someone has a ride and still asks them to go home with them #I respect him actually we need more people with balls like that #not gonna say who he is because he was actually a chill guy

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bluebellthesponge · 10 months

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imagining outfit ideas i saved on pinterest on some guy from a band i enjoy is weirdly such a helpful way for me to be more confident and try the outfit

#this sounds soooo insane but i will think #oooh i like this outfit idea i found on pinterest now i am gonna imagine #joey nsync wearing this outfit and oughhh ok ok i like it even more now #and it's insane too considering i KNOW most of these outfits will not be actually caught #being worn on any of these guys but still it's weirdly helpful #to make me even me less shy to try it out in the future #i'm just some transmasc loser trying to live out my imaginary wardrobe if i wasn't a coward ok #also yeah imagining band guys in these outfits does also kind of help my gender #sometimes i do worry that i feel like i am fake or that i am not a real transmasc non binary person #but then i realize that shouldn't fucking matter and that i should be happy with how i want to present myself #and that those who love me will respect my identity no matter what and see me how i want to be #but anyways but also just imagining joe fababoi in a cool outfit idea i found on pinterest #makes me giggle and lowkey gender envy even though it's fucking made up in my mind with what he is actually wearing lmao #and that me getting literal envy from an imaginary outfit idea on a band guy then maybe i do actually like the outfit and should just try i #bluebell talks

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the-kipsabian · 2 years

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feeling weirdly validated about my chosen name and pronouns today mmm

#spoilers yeah night is not my real name lol #its just the one i have rn and its making me happy and validated. along with my pronouns #like there are days i think maybe im not a they/them. what if im faking it. what if im a dude. what if #but today idk. being a genderless blob feels very nice #and the horrible ordeal of being known is hidden under a name i wanna be called by that sounds so nice when ppl use it #the sucky thing is that as much as i'd want to change my real legal name - finnish name laws are stupid and we barely have good enby names #so im here with my super feminine name being called a girl irl and im just like 😐#but um yeah with this whole night thing and the validating they/them pronouns (especially when someone asks for them!!#ive had really cool interactions recently about ppl being super respectful about my pronouns AND my name!!)#idk just feels good fam #anyways im extra mushy today im gonna go play games lol #just wanted to put this energy out there i guess idk it felt nice lol #night is an absolute mess on main

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titsthedamnseason · 2 years

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roma and juliette……..ARE ALIVE????

#i mean. i’m happy and all those are my kids and i love them #but i respected chloe so much for not pulling that punch and now i’m kinda :/#like what she faked us out???#and now everyone who reads it for the first time will know there’s more books it’s just kind of uhhhh #like don’t get me wrong bc i love them and they sound like they’ve been doing badass shit #but like. what. WHAT????#mine #these violent delights spoilers #ove spoilers #was firstprince #these violent delights

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cats-in-the-clouds · 2 years

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another day of me finding absolutely no help as to the question of whether or not you as a catholic should call a trans-identified person by the pronouns they say they wanna be called by or if you should refrain from encouraging their delusion with their gender in any way

#everyone’s like ‘just use the name they wanna be called! bc what’s really in a name? anyone can have multiple names’#and i’m like ok sure sounds great no problem #but then everyone’s like ‘when it comes to using pronouns/honorifics/simple words such as man or woman uhhhhhhh #well we advise that you simply avoid the subject ;)’#HOW ON EARTH IS THAT HELPFUL if you’re gonna have any sort of conversation with that person ever #if you’re ever gonna refer to them in the third person in polite society in front of other people who might tear you to shreds #for not using the person’s preferred pronouns bc they’re all liberal-biased #like. this advice falls apart so fast the moment the conversation is more than just you and the person in question alone #you could use the same argument and say call them what they wanna be called to demonstrate your respect for them as a person #but then it’s like. proper names don’t really matter but pronouns specifically indicate gender in our language.#they mean something and we all know and understand it. it is socially understood. it just is #there is no firm case to argue otherwise when it comes to linguistic discussions. you are just confusing people by muddying it #so then that absolutely counts as encouraging gender delusion doesn’t it #man.#as someone who’s escaped the gender identity cult i have experience with switching pronouns and language on a dime #so it’s not like it’s difficult for me to do it in either case i’ll use dumb fake language if i have to i can do it #but. should i have to????? idk man..;;;#avoiding the subject altogether usually would have to mean avoiding the PERSON altogether #or like. refusing to acknowledge their existence outside of direct communication with them #does that not feel insanely disrespectful??? far more than either of the other options???#we cannot morally afford to simply ignore this kind of question and we cannot function in society that way

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veritasangel · 2 months

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⋆ ｡⋆ any pov (petnames 'sweetheart/love') ୨୧˚ warning: nsfw {mdni} ↣ {wc: 465}

P★rnstar!Simon who was ready to leave the industry until Johnny showed him a video of yours one night.

Maybe one more video wouldn’t hurt.

P★rnstar!Simon who’s on the phone the next morning telling his manager to get something booked. He doesn’t listen when Price rambles on about how you have completely different audiences so it might not work.

“All due respect, I don’t care. Either way if I’m in a video, people will click regardless and by the looks of it the same goes for them and their viewers.”

P★rnstar!Simon who insists the two of you get to know one another before filming because if you want an intimate shoot, he’ll give you exactly that. What better way than to become familiar with each other? You know, just to double check the chemistry will be convincing. And who are you to turn down a free lunch date with an attractive man?

“No no, don’t worry about the bill, it’s on me.”

P★rnstar!Simon who brings you your favourite tea on the day of filming and thoroughly listens to you over everyone else on how you want it to be carried out. His usual genre isn’t so tame but he finds himself looking forward to this scene with you more than anything he’s ever done in his career.

P★rnstar!Simon whose touch is so gentle and caring whilst filming. He takes his time, making sure everything he does is the way you want it. He keeps an eye on your every reaction, every sound he brings out of you. The scene is raw, natural and he forgets for a moment that the cameras are on the two of you. Has to stop himself from getting carried away, reminding himself that it’s all fake, even when it feels truly genuine.

“God, you feel so good wrapped around my cock, love.”

P★rnstar!Simon who has tons of videos published, and not a single one of them has him kissing his scene partner. Yet he just can’t stop his lips from connecting with yours as he shoots his cum deep inside you, hands intertwined.

P★rnstar!Simon who checks on you as soon as the cameras are off, making sure that you’re alright and everything's good.

“Y’alright sweetheart? Can I get you anything?”

P★rnstar!Simon who manages to get your number but is too scared to contact you after that day in case he screws up and says something that comes across as weird. It takes a lot of convincing from Johnny before he finally calls you one night.

P★rnstar!Simon who smiles to himself when you pick up. The two of you talking on the phone for hours about the most random things in the world until you both fall soundly asleep, phones still in hand.

༄ cod m.list ༄ reblogs are appreciated if you like it

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #cod #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod smut #ghost #ghost x reader #ghost smut #simon riley #simon riley smut #simon riley headcanons #cod drabble #cod headcanons #simon riley drabble #simon riley x you

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crystallinestars · 17 days

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Jealousy Headcanons

Headcanons about how HSR boys react when they see you being flirted with by an acquaintance of yours. This turned out longer than intended, and I apologize if anything sounds repetitive or incoherent. Characters: Aventurine, Argenti, Jiaoqiu, and Jing Yuan

Aventurine

🦚 Aventurine wears a mask of smug confidence even when staking his very life on the line, but for some reason, he finds it difficult to maintain that grin of his when he sees you being flirted with by another man. A heavy pang of jealousy squeezes his heart when he sees the two of you together. The cheerful mood he sported at the prospect of spending time with you earlier evaporated, replaced by ice-cold despair.

🦚 If you are not in a relationship with Aventurine, then the gambler doesn’t interfere with your meeting. He settles for quietly observing from the sidelines, trying to gauge what your feelings are toward your acquaintance. Since he is not your boyfriend, Aventurine knows he shouldn’t get between you and your acquaintance due to his jealousy. He has no right, and the last thing he wants is to make you uncomfortable with his uninvited presence. Still, it pains him to see you laugh and smile at another man, watch you be wooed by someone else the same way Aventurine has subtly tried to all this time. If your acquaintance is the one you prefer, then so be it—Aventurine will respect your choice. He casts one more longing look your way before turning his eyes away from the painful sight, and quietly walking away. Though he is said to be lucky, perhaps that luck doesn’t apply to the field of romance. He has lost the bet for your heart.

🦚 If Aventurine sees you are uncomfortable with your acquaintance’s attention, he casually strides over to you and places an arm around your waist, pulling you close to him. With that same smug, confident grin, he introduces himself as your boyfriend and confronts the other man about his intentions toward someone who is taken. Aventurine hopes you'll play along to better sell his boyfriend act and will do his best to discourage your acquaintance from pursuing you.

🦚 Even if your acquaintance grows aggressive at being rejected, Aventurine’s smile doesn’t fade. Instead, he switches tactics and informs the fellow that he’s a high-ranking IPC executive—a member of the Stonehearts, to be exact. His status is well-known enough to scare the average person into compliance because messing with the IPC and a Stoneheart, no less, is practically a death wish. Though Aventurine is not fond of flaunting his status, it does the trick of sending your acquaintance scampering.

🦚 After the fact, Aventurine tries to casually shrug off any of your questions regarding his lie about being your boyfriend. As much as he yearns to be that close to you, he’s afraid of making you uncomfortable with the idea, so he prefers brush it off as no big deal and move on. He checks to make sure you’re alright and tells you to call on him if your acquaintance comes back or you find yourself in a similar situation in the future. It might sound fake, but he means it when he says he’ll help you out. Even if he’s not your boyfriend, he will do his best to be a deserving friend.

🦚 If you are in a relationship with Aventurine, the gambler acts on his jealousy. It’s not immediately obvious that he’s jealous, but the way he saunters up to your duo and pulls you into his side in an almost possessive manner is telling of his inner feelings. Aventurine smoothly inserts himself into your conversation, smiling and chatting up your acquaintance to try and get as much information out of him as possible. The blond wants to know what kind of person your acquaintance is. If he’s someone with nefarious intentions or a sketchy background, Aventurine will take precautions to keep you safe.

🦚 He still introduces himself as your boyfriend to discourage the other man from flirting with you further, but it’s not enough to chase away the jealousy digging its roots into his heart. His chest still feels heavy when you finally part ways with your acquaintance, so Aventurine spontaneously takes you out on a date. He takes you shopping and spoils you with luxurious items and expensive foods, sparing no expense in pampering you. It’s his way of proving himself, showing that he can provide and give you everything you want, so please, stay with him.

🦚 Behind his self-confident veneer, Aventurine lacks self-worth and a sense of belonging. To him, the possibility of you leaving him for someone better feels all too real since he thinks so little of himself, which is why he’s desperate to keep your affection by spoiling you rotten. His confident mask is the same as ever, but you can tell he’s quieter and less playful than usual, and the way he showers you with gifts feels almost like he’s desperately trying to buy your love. Aventurine won’t admit he’s jealous even if you probe him on the reason for this sudden behavior, but it’s obvious that he isn’t feeling his best. Take his hand and spoil him in return, tell Aventurine you love him, and hold him close. Your affection is the only thing that will reassure him that you truly are happy with him, and it will make him feel better.

Argenti

🌹 Argenti is very accepting of the people you surround yourself with. His motto is that your friends are his friends, and he will at the very least try to be friendly with them. However, that male acquaintance of yours makes his heart heavy with an ugly emotion he doesn’t want to acknowledge. Despite Argenti’s amicable disposition, the way that man flirts with you fills the knight with jealousy. Though Argenti also showers you in compliments and praises, the way your acquaintance does it feels bereft of the beauty with which Argenti presents his words. Something about your acquaintance’s flirting distresses him.

🌹 If you and Argenti are not in a relationship, Argenti won’t interfere between you and your acquaintance. Though it hurts him to know your feelings for him are not as deep as his are for you, Argenti tries to put a lid on his jealousy and befriend your acquaintance, hoping that his impression of him may be mistaken. Argenti would rather feel positive feelings towards the man than negative ones formed solely from the heartache he feels at not being the one you love, but he knows he has no right to control who you spend time with. He is not your beloved, so he shouldn’t step out of line and risk upsetting you by acting on that unpleasant jealousy, though it doesn’t go away, much to his chagrin.

🌹 If Argenti sees that your acquaintance’s flirting makes you uncomfortable, he rushes to your rescue. His first instinct is to stand by your side and attempt to peacefully resolve the situation. He informs your acquaintance that he’s making you uncomfortable and should stop doing so. If your acquaintance grows angry and aggressive in response, Argenti doesn’t hesitate to shield you with his body and summon his weapon. He doesn’t want to hurt the man, but he is prepared to fight to protect you. If your acquaintance doesn’t understand things the civil way, perhaps a more physical approach will get through to him.

🌹 After successfully fending off the perpetrator, Argenti apologizes to you for causing a scene, and makes sure you’re alright. He understands such situations can be scary to deal with, but that’s why you have him—a chivalrous knight—to protect you. If you find yourself in trouble in the future, feel free to call on him and he will come to your aid. Even if your heart is not his, Argenti still vows to be a loyal and reliable friend to you.

🌹 If you are in a relationship, Argenti still tries to befriend your acquaintance at first. However, the Knight of Beauty feels neglected each time you choose to spend time with your acquaintance instead of him, and though he knows you’re probably just catching up with an old friend, it still makes his heart heavy. Jealousy is an ugly emotion—the antithesis of beauty—and Argenti hates feeling this way. It makes him feel guilty and selfish for wanting your attention on him and worrying about you growing an interest in someone else. He tries to win your attention back by giving you bouquets of roses and showering you with even more compliments than usual, but it’s not enough to quell the unrest in his chest.

🌹 There comes a point where Argenti is unable to tolerate the feeling any longer, The Knight of Beauty has a private talk with you, laying bare the fact he dislikes seeing you give so much attention to another man. He feels guilty when admitting this weakness of his, but he hopes this confession can help the two of you arrive at a mutual resolution. Argenti doesn’t want to ruin your friendly relationship with your acquaintance, but neither can he bear the weight in his heart when he feels neglected by you.

🌹 It’s best to reassure and comfort Argenti that he’s the only one you love. Give him a kiss, go out on dates, and hold his hand. All he truly wants is some of your attention, so if you give him just that, he’ll be quick to cheer up. Argenti might still feel troubled when someone flirts with you too much, but at least he can find solace in knowing your heart belongs only to him.

Jiaoqiu

🌶️ Jiaoqiu takes pride in his ability to keep cool and diplomatically steer through any difficult situation. This ability of his was coming into great use as he watched you being flirted with by a man he’d never seen before. The healer sported that same fox-like smile of his, remaining polite and cordial, while internally, he felt irritated that someone else was stealing your attention away from him. You were supposed to help him shop for groceries, and Jiaoqiu was supposed to have fun teasing and spending time with you, but now those plans came crashing down because of some man.

🌶️ If you are not in a relationship with Jiaoqiu, then the foxian healer stands by the wayside, pretending to pick out ingredients while keeping a close ear on the conversation between you and your acquaintance. Each time he heard you respond positively to the man’s flirting; his chest felt heavy. Jiaoqiu didn’t think his heart was capable of breaking any more after the war had crushed it into dust, but oh, turns out there was still something left to break. Should you choose your acquaintance as a romantic partner, then Jiaoqiu respects your decision, though it leaves him numb inside. When you next eat with him, the food is spicier than usual, even for Jiaoqiu’s standards. It is practically inedible due to the spice content, but Jiaoqiu just smiles and says the burn makes him feel alive.

🌶️ If your acquaintance makes you uncomfortable with his flirting, Jiaoqiu abandons shopping and comes to stand beside you. He smiles at the man, but there’s something sinister behind that smile, something intimidating and foreboding. Jiaoqiu cuts into the conversation and tries to delicately extract you from the situation by making up an excuse. Something about you needing to finish shopping and make dinner for the Merlin’s Claw, and that you shouldn’t keep her waiting.

🌶️ However, if your acquaintance proves to be an idiot and gets aggressive, Jiaoqiu’s smile falls and he opens his eyes, leveling the fool with a threatening glare. The menacing gleam in Jiaoqiu’s golden eyes promises serious repercussions if your acquaintance dares to push his luck. With a thinly veiled threat directed at the man, Jiaoqiu leads you away with a hand placed on your back. He makes sure you’re okay first before informing you that next time something like this happens, you should call him, Moze, or Feixiao for help. One of them will definitely come to your aid if you’re unable to safely deal with the perp. Later that evening, Jiaoqiu cooks a super special dish infused with a high concentration of spices and laxatives and sends Moze on an errand to deliver it to your acquaintance. You won’t mind if you don’t see your acquaintance for a while due to his indigestion issues, right?

🌶️ If you are in a relationship, then Jiaoqiu is more assertive about keeping you away from your acquaintance. The foxian is very patient when it comes to you. He doesn’t like the idea of someone else flirting with you, but if it’s someone you want to talk to, then Jiaoqiu reluctantly lets it go. After all, he doesn’t want to be controlling since he also wants the same freedom from you. However, if you consistently ignore him in favor of your acquaintance, Jiaoqiu’s jealousy bubbles over and he saunters over to you. He smoothly inserts himself into whatever chat you’re having and introduces himself as your lover to halt your acquaintance from flirting with you more.

🌶️ Jiaoqiu tries to get your attention on him instead of your acquaintance, and he goes about this in a variety of ways. At first, it starts subtly: a discreet brush of his tail against your leg and a graze of his hand against yours. However, if that fails and you continue to ignore Jiaoqiu, the foxian’s irritation grows. His tail twitches and bristles in annoyance, and he has to hold his fan in front of his face to hide the frown pulling at his lips.

🌶️ If drawing your attention to him doesn’t work, then he needs to change tactics. Shooing this annoying man away ought to do the trick. With a sly smile, Jiaoqiu manipulates the conversation in his favor, making jabs and backhanded compliments at your acquaintance all the while keeping his speech polite and cordial to seem oblivious to his wrongdoings, though you quickly catch on that he’s doing it on purpose. Whether your acquaintance leaves of his own free will or you become mortified and bid a quick goodbye before dragging Jiaoqiu away—it doesn’t matter to the healer much. All that matters is that the annoying man is gone, and he has you all to himself again, even if you scold him for his behavior. Truth be told, Jiaoqiu couldn’t care less if he insulted your acquaintance. He doesn’t like him, and if he managed to offend the man, then good. He got his just desserts for flirting with someone who was already taken.

🌶️ However, Jiaoqiu is petty and doesn’t take well to being wronged. Whether intentional or not, you made him jealous and ignored him for longer than he deemed acceptable, and the foxian doesn’t like that one bit. In revenge, he cooks a delicious meal full of foods you dislike. Oh, you don’t like mushrooms and onions? How unfortunate, Jiaoqiu spent so much time and effort making this just for you. You’ll still eat it all for him, won’t you? (Don’t worry, he made sure you wouldn’t feel the texture and flavor of the foods you dislike. It still tastes delicious.)

🌶️ Jiaoqiu can remain petty for quite a while unless you comfort him. Though he doesn’t state it outright and denies if you ask (Him? Jealous? Are you sure you’re not the jealous one?), it’s obvious he’s jealous, judging by the annoyed twitching of his tail and the pointed jabs he throws your way. It’s best if you made it up to him by apologizing for ignoring him and reassuring that you love him with some pampering and praises about his handsome looks and amazing skills. Jiaoqiu might tease you over this incident in the future, but your reassurance makes him feel much lighter inside.

Jing Yuan

🦁 Jing Yuan wanted to skip work and was on his way to loaf around in your company when he spotted you chatting with an acquaintance of yours. The man was obviously flirting with you, and though Jing Yuan’s long life made him jaded to most things, something about that sight in particular made him feel uneasy. After all, even wise leaders like him can still fall victim to strong emotions.

🦁 If you’re not in a relationship, Jing Yuan carefully observes the friendly atmosphere between your pair and how happy you are talking with your acquaintance and concludes that now is not the time to interrupt. He’s mature enough to not allow his emotions to sway his actions, and instead bottles up his jealousy and quietly walks away. As a man, he is reluctant to let things be. He doesn’t like the thought of you being someone else’s other than his, but as your friend, he respects whatever decision you make. As long as you’re happy, then all is well, even if the disappointment gnaws at him from within.

🦁 If he notices your acquaintance is making you uncomfortable, Jing Yuan quickly thinks of an excuse and approaches your pair with a lazy smile and a wave. He calls out to you and says, “Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. There’s something urgent I need to discuss with you.” He acts oblivious to the situation so as to not escalate things and tries to calmly lead you away.

🦁 If your acquaintance is not deterred by Jing Yuan’s attempts to separate you, or if he starts to act aggressively, then Jing Yuan is quick to remind him that he’s the General of the Luofu, and civic misconduct will not be tolerated. You know Jing Yuan means business because his lazy smile is replaced by a serious expression, one that is seldom seen on the usually laid-back General. Should your acquaintance not get the hint and lash out, Jing Yuan subdues him with his martial prowess. He then calls for the Cloud Knights, and they arrest and escort your acquaintance away, leaving Jing Yuan to check if you’re alright. He comforts you in whatever way you need, be it a hug or giving you space to process things, before escorting you safely home.

🦁 If you are in a relationship with him, then Jing Yuan still tries to remain cordial when approaching your duo. Before letting his jealousy control him, he would rather have a friendly chat with your acquaintance and see what kind of person he is. Perhaps the man will back off once he realizes you and Jing Yuan are together, and the General could make a new friend. However, if he suspects something amiss about your acquaintance, he’ll do some investigating.

🦁 Though Jing Yuan puts on a friendly and detached attitude, once you’re home alone, he becomes clingy. He wraps you up in his arms and requests that you pamper him with some head pats and kisses. If you refuse, he teases you until you give in. It’s difficult to tell that he’s jealous because he doesn’t act too differently from usual, but the playful requests for more of your attention are a giveaway of his true feelings.

🦁 However, if you continue to frequently meet up with that acquaintance of yours, Jing Yuan’s jealousy will grow. He still acts lighthearted about it, but when you’re getting ready to head out, he clings to you and playfully begs you not to go or says that it’s been a while since you spent quality time with him, so why not use this opportunity to go on a date instead? It may seem like a lighthearted act, but deep down, Jing Yuan means it. Please don’t leave him, he hates the idea of you being flirted with by that man. If you still leave despite all his signs of jealousy, expect Jing Yuan to seduce you into bed and mark your skin with bite marks. He leaves some in visible places, so everyone who sees them knows you’re taken. Even if you scold him for leaving marks, he won’t feel sorry at all.

🦁 This roundabout display of jealousy can be easily stopped if you give Jing Yuan the time and attention he craves. He always makes time in his busy schedule to see you because he loves you, and he just wants to feel that same love in return. It would be even better if you stopped seeing your acquaintance as often, or at least told him off for flirting with you, but just having the reassurance that he’s the only man you love is a relief.

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #star rail x reader #aventurine x reader #jiaoqiu x reader #jing yuan x reader #argenti x reader

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manmuncher777 · 2 months

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I am BEGGING YOU to write something about Aegon being literally OBSESSED with the reader, like to the point that it’s dangerous.

a/n - I love this idea, I think it matches Aegon’s character so well. I felt super motivated to write this so thank you my love. I hope you enjoy. xoxox

⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆ 𝘼𝙚𝙜𝙤𝙣 𝙏𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙣 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 - 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 ⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆

𝐍𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬

NOT proofread lol. If you have sent a request I promise I will get to it, one fic takes me a while to write so ill try to get to it asap. LOVE YOU

𝐀𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐲

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 - 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞(𝐀𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐮𝐩), 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐯, 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐩𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬

Aegon craved you. Aegon needed you, if you weren’t around, he would loose his mind.

For a few years now you had been one of the maids that Aegon had, starting in the lower ranks before being the personal lady to the king. Of course Aegon had others, but you were different, you were special. You saw the king for what he truly was - a broken young man. And instead of hating him for it, or offering him some fake pity. You helped him.

You could understand why he so craved the support, you had witnessed his family interactions, and heard the gossip that would travel through each servant of the crown. You understood he had a complicated relationship with his family, and a lot of external pressures to deal with. Every encounter that one would expect to be private was known by every maid, cook, cup bearer and servant. So after having heard so much over the years, you felt empathy for the king, aware of his lack of someone to talk to.

So on that fated night when you came in to change the kings bed sheets and found him crying, thats all you were, just someone to talk to. Aegon had never had this before, never had such a simple kindness been shown to him. And for that he was ever grateful. This greatfulness soon blossoming into something more. A deep sense of caring, a deep obsession. This would soon form a routine for you. Not long after that night he told his mother he wished for you to be his main lady, of course his mother had worries about this, but accepted his proposition. Most evenings instead of completing your nightly chores (Aegon had this duties bestowed upon someone else) you would sit with the king in his chambers, and listen. He would treat you with such respect and kindness that it was enjoyable for both of you. You would share his wines - some of the finest you had ever tried- and eat his food (he would have the cooks prepare his extra dinners and fruits to snack on because he wanted you to have them). Some nights were filled with lighthearted talk, some with laughter and drinking, others were filled with deep emotion. All of which you enjoyed.

“hello Issa gevie hāedar” he would say to you each evening with that handsome smile on his face. my beautiful girl

He would watch you enter with a glint in his eyes, each time you would knock in the same pattern so he knew it was you. That was a sound he soon began to adore.

You never understood valyrian, but it warmed you to know he gave you nicknames.

“Hello my king” you would blush in response before sitting on the edge of his bed, beggining your nightly conversations.

Aegon never failed to ask you about yourself also, but you rarely kept on the subject. You knew he was the one who carried the heaviest burden of all. You wished to relieve some of that pressure.

Aegon loved how shy you were, it was so much fun for him, to watch you blush under his gaze. He loved it, loved the effect he had on you. So of course he couldn’t just leave you there sitting so far away from him, soon the sitting on the edge of the bed each night became lying next to him, both sat up with pillows behind you. That soon became him resting his head on your lap, looking up at you. And every now and then, it would end with you holding each other. Nothing scandalous. Just enjoying each others embrace.

Soon Aegon got bolder, wanting to watch you become a blushing mess around him. He would reach up slowly towards your face, brushing some strands of hair behind your ear before gently caressing your cheek. Of course your skin would burn with the sensation of his hand touching you for hours after it had actually occurred. As if his touch awakened something inside you.

You cared for the king greatly, but you weren’t a fool. You knew that if anyone found out about what went on each night you went and visited him - despite it being nothing overly scandalous - you would be put at risk. You knew it wasnt a good situation to be in. There were already rumours that you were sleeping with him, some of the other maids even being bold enough to ask you if you were sleeping with the king to which you had aggressively denied. But it did nothing to stop you visiting him. There was just always a voice in your head warning you not to get too close.

But there was that part of you, whenever you saw him that would swoon over how handsome he was, how beautifully his hair was frame his face, and how his violet eyes would sparkle in the candle light. how good he smelled and how nice it was to feel his muscular frame next to you. Everything a young maiden craved in a man.

Aegon would even go as far to gift you smalls things, flowers being left in you quarters, books you would like and beautiful ribbons for your hair. Aegon had even had a necklace made for you, a beautiful delicate chain with a singular dragon on it. as a symbol of him.

a symbol that you were his.

So when he found out that you had requested the night off as it was your birthday, and you were allowed it, he was furious. Of course he wanted you to have a good name day, but you could’ve spent it with him, he wouldve got you anything you desired. In fact you didn’t even mention to him it was your name day.

He sat waiting in his chambers for you as he usually does, only to be met by one of the older maids who would serve for him.

“Where is y/n?” he snappily asked the woman who had only just graced the king chambers

“In the town my lord, celebrating her name day”

Not saying another word he stormed out of his room. He was angry, not at you of course. never angry at you. He merely wished you had told him, he wouldve joined you, had a gift made for you. Anything.

The wooden doors of the servant quarters smashed open with aegons force, stopping the movements of all inside.

“which one of you knows where y/n is this evening?” he asks, scanning the room for anyone who looks like the have the answer

“Her uncles tavern your majesty, the red anchor” one piped up

Once again in silence he stormed out. The red anchor, he had probably been there before on one of his evening out, he couldn’t remember. no matter, he would find it.

Determination flowed through the young prince. He couldn’t understand why you wouldnt tell him. Honestly he didn’t even know what he was going to say when he found you, but to have a night without your presence already felt crippling for him.

His steps echoed on the castle walls, each step carrying him closer and closer to his destination, you. As he passed through the halls, he was spotted.

“My king, where are you off to in such a hurry tonight, the hour is late” Ser Arryck asked from his post.

Aegon not even bothering to stop responded to the man with haste “I have some business to attend to in the city, I wont be gone long.”

“The hour is late my king, allow me to accompany you” Arryck was walking too now, having to match the kings pace that didn’t show any sign of stopping. confusion clear on his face about why he was determined to go alone.

“No, I don’t need any assistance. I will go alone” Aegon was getting more and more angry as the seconds passed. Angry that he couldn’t see you, angry that Ser Arryck was trying to stop him from seeing you.

“My king, my apologies but I must come with you into the city, if it is found that I allowed you to go with no protection I could be expelled from my position” Ser Arryck wasnt wrong, kingslanding was a dangerous place, and selfishly he feared that if something bad were to happen to the king he could be worse than just expelled, it put his life on the line. He has sworn to protect his king. But Aegon wasnt feeling rather empathetic in this moment, Arryck couldve been on fire and it still wouldnt have stopped him.

“Fine then ser, as you king I command you that I will not be accompanied this evening. Is that fucking clear?” Luckily for Aegon this conversation had allowed him to get closer and closer to the door, but it didn’t stop the rage at Ser Arryck’s questioning. If Arryck did come with him, then Aegon risked putting you in danger also, he understood that for the moment no one could be aware of the unique relationship you shared.

“Your majesty please-“ Ser Arryck had made the fatal mistake of touching the king. He had stopped Aegon in his tracks by gripping his shoulder. Aegon couldn’t explain where the flash of rage came from, but it gave him the strength to twist around, landing a punch directly of Arrycks nose. The punch catching the knight so off guard that it sent him flying backwards. His armour clashing against the stone as he fell. But Aegon didn’t stop there, he mounted Ser Arryck - landing multiple brutal shots to his face, aegons fists becoming bloodied from the mans face.

How dare he try and stop the King from seeing you. How dare he try and stop Aegon from being with you. No one was every going to take you away from him.

Aegon only stopped when he was sure Arryck was unconscious. arrycks face was bloody and bruised, already swelling with the punches it had just recieved. And without a second thought Aegon left him there.

Finally, he thought. finally out of the castle and one step closer to you. He swiftly grabbed one of the cloaks he would leave stashed outside of the doors incase he wished to make a speedy night time trip into the city. Yet with even the hood pulled up over his head, it couldn’t even block out the thoughts of you. you were like a drug and Aegon was going through sever withdrawals. He missed everything about you, he missed the scent of roses you would bring into his room with you, he missed the way you laughed, he missed the sound of you saying his name. He missed being able to glance down and see the dragon necklace sitting perfectly presented just above your tits.

He couldn’t believe it, hes always thought of you romantically, thought of how you would look on his arm, as his wife. But hed never felt this way about you, you had always been with him. so when you were finally taken away from him, it sent him crazy.

He could feel himself getting more and more overwhelmed the further he went into the city. To any other onlooker he looked drunken and crazed. In truth he felt like he was going through some kind of frenzy. His head was snapping and pinning in each direction, scarred he would miss you in the crowds of people, his steps becoming messy and unbalanced due to him not looking ahead.

His mind was playing tricks on him, making him think that he had seen your beautiful silhouette on the side of the street, only for it to be a shadow and nothing more.

With everything going on around him his mind started to race, kingslanding was a crazy place at night. The street performers displaying their talents with flames in al different colours flying about the place, a man on stilts in the distance making his way though the crowd. Fortune tellers on the sides of the streets calling aegons name as he passed the. Groups of drunk people, fighting, fucking and laughing. He couldn’t take much more of this. What if you were out here and in trouble, what if you were with someone else.

Aegon couldn’t take much more, he grabbed the nearest person to him which turned out to be a drunken old woman who was shouting with a bunch on gamblers at a card game

“Where is the red anchor?!” He had the woman by both of the shoulders, demanding in her face for her to tell him

“Your stood in front of it you fucking blaggard.” she said unhappily wrenching herself from him grip before returning to her jeering at the ongoing card game.

Aegon could scream. If only you knew what effect you had on him. He was certainly about to show you. There it stood in clear letters on the sign hanging above the tavern “The Red Anchor” with the corresponding symbol underneath. Without waiting another second the tavern doors were shoved open by the king. Who was eagerly scanning to find you through the crowds of busy drunk men.

He had been here before, many times. He recognised the layout. He couldn’t yet spot you so deeper into the pub he dove, walking much slower now into the main bar area, hoping to arch a glimpse of you

And as if the Gods had answered his prayers, there you stood. In centre stage of the room, there you were stood by the bar, talking to the man on the other side. Your uncle Aegon assumed (And hoped he was right).

You looked so different, so free. You wore a beautiful dress that complimented you well, it was simple but the nicest you could afford. The colours and style suited you perfectly. much nicer than the uniforms you had to wear at the castle. Your hair was down and flowing freely unlike when you wear it up at the castle. Aegon could tell you were in your element. You looked ethereal, a smile gracing your features as you chatted with those around you.

Aegon was about to make Hi way over to you when out the corner of his eye he spotted it. A fat drunk man making his way over to you, predatory look in his eyes. Aegon watched as the happy girl you were moments ago now shrivelled at the mans advances. You clearly having turned him down because the mans expression changed, him placing a hand on your shoulder and pulling you closer to him.

He was touching you, he was touching what belonged to Aegon

Zȳhon gevie hāedar. his beautiful girl

Wishing seconds Aegon was next to you. The hand that was previously resting on your shoulder was now pinned against the wall with a dagger through the palm. Aegon’s dagger.

Rage filled Aegon as he slammed the man into the wall, pinning him there tightly, staring into his eyes. The man screamed out in pain, only silencing a few of the near by people, the rest of the tavern paying no mind. Aegon could tell by the mans face he was scared. good.

“Don’t ever lay a hand on her again” He gritted out in the mans face, eyes wide and bloodshot. Aegon ripped the dagger from the mans hand causing him to let out another agonised scream before silencing himself due to the feeling of the same blade being pressed up to his throat.

“Do you understand me” The cowards in front of Aegon merely mustering a nod yes to his question.

god Aegon wanted to kill him, Aegon wanted to cause him so much pain. To drag it out and make it as gory as possible. How dare he lay a single finger on what belonged to the king. How dare he make you uncomfortable and try to damage something so perfect. Aegon couldn’t remember feeling a rage like this, it was like nothing he had ever felt before. He had never felt so protective over you before. It took everything in him not to push that blade into this scumbags neck, but he didn’t want to do that in front of you. So with a sigh he let the man go, who quickly ran out of the tavern.

You were still yet to recognise Aegon as he still had his hood up, so it was a shock for you when this hooded man grabbed you by the arm and lead you through the busy crowds of drinkers and locked you both in a storage room.

“what in seven hells - Aegon?!” once the man finally pulled his hood down to reveal himself, you were shocked. Aegon was your saviour, the one who so violently apprehended the man previously bothering you. But why, how on earth did he know you were here. why was he here?

You didn’t actually get to ask him any of these questions before he trapped you in a searing kiss. He pinned you up against the wall - the stone of the wall biting into your back slightly. You moaned into the kiss as the Kings hands held onto you waist. His body was pressed into yours as he kissed you hungrily. All the many days of wanting, the house spent obsessing over you and the feelings of tonight’s events all put into one kiss. And you could feel it, feel all the emotions - hunger, lust, desire maybe even love. You kissed him back wiht just as much passion, the kiss as fulfilling for you as it is to him. One of your legs now wrapping against his wait, hid rigged hand gripping your thigh. Pushing himself into you with a light groan. Your hands found his hair, gripping at the silver strands as he tongue enters your mouth.

Finally he gets to taste you. He could taste the ale you had been drinking on your tongue. He broke the kiss only for a second to look at you. Gods you looked perfect. Your lips now pink and plump from your kiss, hair slightly dispelled and dress begginging to bunch up at the sides. Your chest heaved slightly with a light pant as you tried to catch you breath. Your cheeks coated with a dusting of blush. You were the image of beauty. He could still se your shy nature on your face but was sure you were a lot more confident tonight.

“Aegon…What are you doing here.” you whispered, your leg still wrapped around Hi , his face mere inches away from yours.

“I couldnt take it anymore. I must have you, I must call you mine. No one else will ever come close to you again.” he confessed, hunger in his eyes as he speaks to you. His frame towering over you as he watched your eyes widen at his words

“Aegon-“

“Tell me you want this too gevie hāedar. Tell your king what you need.” he whispered, lips brushing against your ear. beautiful girl

You were silent for a second, no longer. And in this second thousands of thoughts flashed through your mind, what were you going to do after this? what would be the consequences? But those thoughts were clouded with want, and there was nothing in that moment that wouldve stopped either of you.

“I want you Aegon.” You whimpered, completely at his mercy.

This was everything the young king had dreamed of and more. His beautiful blushing girl looking up at him, begging for him. Needing him like he needed her and who would he be to decline such a polite little thing. A smirk graces his face before his lips are on your again. His tongue invading your mouth. You moaned again louder this time as you could feel his hardness pressing into you.

When you were back in the castle he would take his time with you, exploring you with his hands, his mouth. UNtil he had every inch of you memorised. You were his now and no matter the consequences, everyone was going to know it. You were untouchable with his favour. But until he could get you back in the castle, he needed you right now.

He pushed the skirt up, bunching it at your waist with desperation as he kissed at your neck, nipping at the skin lightly just to get those beautiful noises you made. He would never be able to forget how you sounded. His toungue licking and sucking at the sensitive skin while his fingers brushed over your already wet cunt. He cold feel it over your underclothes, and couldnt hide the chuckle that left him when you moaned so sweetly.

“Are you enjoying yourself Byka mēre?” he questioned, and you could hear the smugness in his voice. You could only bring yourself to nod. Your head already fuzzy. little one

“Oh my dear, don’t tell me you’ve already gone quiet, I’ve hardly even touched you yet” his face now back in view, smirking at you. His fingers now working their way past your underclothes - gently brushing through your folds. You gasp at the feeling, innocent little eyes begging for more.

“Tell me, has anyone ever touched you like this before?”

“No, my king” Gods, he felt his cock throb in his pants, what a naughty thing you were using his title like that. Maybe not so shy as he thought. He would be lying if his heart did jump at the idea of being your first. He felt it was right, he would be the only man to ever touch you in this way

“Good girl” he whispered, before pushing one of his fingers into you, watching as your mouth hung open in pleasure. Slowly he began to pump him finger inside of you, before taking another and gently pushing it inside. You were glad for the busy night in the tavern because you couldnt control your moan. Your head lolled back against the stone and your hands gripped aegons forearms tightly, squeezing him. You hadn’t felt anything like this before, it was amazing. With every thrust of his fingers Aegon’s palm came into contact with your clit, the sensation jolting through you, giving you goosebumps all over. You whined and moaned, unable to do anything else but take it as he watched you, smile on his face. He was proud to be the one that left you crumbling beneath him. Your leg hooked around his waist for support, you worried your legs would give out. A strange sensation began to build in your stomach as Aegon kept the same torturous pace, listening to the sounds of your we cunt as his finger would leave you hole briefly to play with you folds, seeing you cry out at the teasing.

“Feels so good Aegon, please don’t stop.”

“I wouldnt dream of it my love.” he says, completely true. All he wants is to give you what you deserve, the pleasure that you deserve. He can feel you tightening around his fingers now, he can tell your close

Your whole body is on fire with pleasure, not only at what his finger are currently doing to you, but the whole situation, his handsome face smiling down on you as you come undone for him. You cant control the moans coming from your mouth as the feeling grows

he leans down right next to your ear and whisper to you, “let go for me Issa jorrāelagon”. my love

And that was all you needed. All you could think to do in that moment was scream his name as you came all over his fingers, the feeling far more intense than you expected. Black clouded you vision as his fingers never stopped, coaxing you through your orgasm. You barley had enough time to catch your breath before he was kissing you, pulling himself free of his trousers and lining himself up at you entrance.

He waited, looking for you to signal to him you wanted this. you nodded and he sheathed himself inside you. The slick from your orgasm allowing him to slide in with ease.

You both moaned in unison as the feeling, both being so close to each other finally. And he was about to show you how much he craved this. Aegon couldn’t hold off long before he was pistoning inside of you, his pace hard and fast. The feeling of you being so tightly wrapped around him causing guttural moans to leave him. Gods you felt amazing, better than anything he imagined, better than all the nights he used his hand while thinking about how good you would look on his cock. His imagination falling short of this moment.

A slight sheen of sweat coated your skin, your tits basically bursting from the top of your dress as his cock pounded your tight hole. Once again the necklace he gifted you taking pride of place on your chest. Your eyes rolled back so beautifully, struggling to stay on him. Your moans consisting of his name and a string of curses.

All you could do was tell him how good he felt. Good being an understatement, you could basically feel him throbbing inside of you. He was big, stretching you out so perfectly, hitting a spongy spot inside of you that had you seeing stars. When his pelvis connected with yours, it would brush against your clit. The pressure against the bundle of nerves causing you to tighten around Aegon. Which made him release the most delicious sounds you had ever heard.

Aegon looked down, watching where you both connected, this moment was surreal, all of the anger and stress from earlier now melting away each time he plunged into your soaking cunt. He watched himself slip in and out of you, his hard cock coated in your wetness. Already he could feel himself nearing his end, he wasnt surprised, all these days spent dreaming about you had him riled up more than ever.

One of the hands that was gripping your hips so tightly travelled down between you both to rub at your clit, the squeal you let out not going unheard by Aegon.

“So good for me my love, you have no idea how long ive waited for this.” he huffed out “so beautiful”

Your legs were quivering and you were glad you had him ther to support you or your legs would have failed you, the same feeling building in your stomach began, only stringer this time. The stimulation from his finger and his cock was almost too much for you to handle

“My king!” you squealed out as his thumb drew quick circles on your sensitive bud.

“I know little one” he muttered to you sweetly as you feel apart for him once more. Your orgasm hitting you even harder this time. Clenching around Aegon so tightly that he couldnt hold off anymore, his hips stuttered before he bottomed out inside you.

You could feel him throb as his seed filled you. Both of you left panting for breath, staying as you were fore a moment, with him inside you. He kissed you once more, much gentler this time.

“you are mine now Issa gevie hāedar” my beautiful girl

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