#it matters if what they figure out makes sense and stands on its own two feet

[romanoffsdarling]

Later Never Comes

Pairing: CEO!Silver-Fox!Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your love for her knew no bounds, but there’s only so long you can hold on— only so many empty promises you can stand— before you finally have to let go. Before you finally realize that later may never become real.

Word Count: 4,779

Warnings: G!P Wanda, legal age gap, brief oral (R receiving), dirty (and slightly possessive) talk, mommy kink, slightly rough sex, neglect, and angst (with a bittersweet ending). 18+, Minors DNI.

Author’s Note: I know I promised a second part to Summertime Sadness and Time To Say (Goodbye), but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. I hope you can forgive me!

Great love always ends in tragedy.

That’s the saying, right? A stupid one if you had anything to say about it. What’s so great about love if it only ends in heartbreak? If you don’t end up with the person that makes your entire being thrum? If everything that had once been so colorful is suddenly black-and-white due to their absence?

Is the love great due to the story? To the emotions, the events, that occur throughout its long winded saga? Or is it great because it was doomed from the start? Because, even though it’d end one way, two people were still willing to fight the odds, to fight fate, even if they’d never end up winning.

You’re not sure, nor do you care, because there’s no way a love of that kind could be anything except terrible— except bone-chillingly agonizing in the way you’d have to figure out how to move on without it. Figure out how to be without the person that made everything make sense, that made you feel like the person you were always meant to be.

Even if it’s been years since you’ve seen her, years since you’ve felt her lips against yours, an elegantly lithe body pressed to your own, and the sweet scent of sandalwood and lavender mixed perfectly in your nose, you haven’t been able to figure that out. Haven’t been able to get her out of your system, no matter how much you may try.

How could you? When you’ve loved, and been loved by, Wanda Maximoff?

[Past]

“I’m just saying she’s been interested to meet you since she saw our group picture from Fiji.” Your best friend, Agatha, relayed, jovially leading you towards the small, yet upscale, café that Wanda Maximoff— CEO of Scarlet Entertainment— agreed to meet you. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, sweetie. Especially one that came about due to my own propensity to lose bets with that witch.”

Your brow furrows. “I’m just not sure what exactly this meeting is supposed to be about. I just graduated college, I barely have any experience under my belt.”

“But you have me as a mentor,” she rebukes, a small smirk on her lips. “And that’s all that you need to get into Wanda’s head.”

“Ah, yes.” You roll your eyes, amusement welling within your chest. “How could I forget about your age-old rivalry?”

“Don’t phrase it like that. Makes me sound old.” Agatha bumps her shoulder against yours, eyes narrowed.

“And mentor doesn’t?”

“Nope.” She pops the ‘p’. “That makes me sound wise.”

“And what does wisdom come from again?”

You’re just able to dodge the swat directed at your arm, a bright smile tugging your lips upward, as you finally enter the quaint café— the aromatic smell of coffee, a hint of cinnamon, and something slightly citrusy, hits you all at once. A combination that shouldn’t have worked as well it did.

Once you placed your order— a simple coffee with your usual additions— you turned back to Agatha with an expectant expression. “Anything I should know about this meetings, Ags?”

She shakes her head, tendrils of brown hair escaping the haphazard bun she had thrown them in. “You’re here.” Agatha hands you the drink the barista had just put beside you, a wane smile on her lips. “That’s the important part to achieve for any date.”

Your steps stutter, nearly causing you to trip into a nearby table. “W-What?” Widened eyes meet Agatha’s unaffected one, a certain level of calmness that you found irritating. “What do you mean date? I thought this was a meeting?”

Agatha waves her hand. “Lunch meeting, lunch date. Means the same thing in the end.” She shoulders her purse, clearly not planning on staying any longer than she has to. “You’ll be fine, Y/N. You’re a catch. Maximoff would have to be a bigger idiot than I think she already is if she lets you go.”

Before you’re able to respond, Agatha places a chaste kiss to your cheek, offers one last cheeky wink, and saunters her way out of the café, leaving you completely alone. You’re honestly tempted to just abandon ship and get out of dodge— you weren’t good on dates, let alone blind dates. Something your best friend is well aware of, and would definitely be getting in an earful about this later.

However, before you’re able to make a concrete decision on your exit strategy, a husky voice speaks up from behind you.

“Are you Y/N?”

The most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen stood in front of you when you turned around: long auburn hair, speckled with the beginning signs of gray, paired perfectly with the sharp emerald green of her gaze. An elegantly lithe body, encased in a form-fitting suit, tailored made to enhance every perfect curve, relaxed in a way that almost seemed arrogant— if it was for the confidence that exudes from her very being.

“Yes.” Your brain finally catches up with you, remembering the question she had asked. “Y/N.” You hold out your hand for her to shake. “Y/N L/N, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

A small smile catches full lips, a slender hand grasping your own in a firm shake. “Wanda Maximoff.” Green eyes trail down your body. “And, trust me, the pleasure is all mine.”

The months that followed the blind date went by in a blur. You could honestly say that you’ve never met anyone else like Wanda Maximoff— a woman that personified ice and fire. Watching her work— whether it be as you’re lounged on her large leather sectional, laptop balanced on her lap as slender fingers gently stroke your back, or she’s pacing back and forth with her phone pressed to her ear; voice dripping with barely concealed annoyance, underlined by a calm collectiveness that never failed to make you swoon— was an art form in itself, but being able to see the woman that appeared at the end of the day?

Where an icy facade of professionalism melts into warm smile and gentle eyes. Sharp words being replaced by sweet nothings and gentle humming.

In Wanda’s arms you’ve found a place you never even knew you were missing— home. You had a couple relationships in the past, but none of them made you feel the way Wanda does; all paling in comparison to the beautiful Sokovian.

The one thing you hadn’t expected upon beginning to date the older woman was how insatiable she was— not that you were complaining— but Wanda needed to have you as often as she could. Taking you the bedroom of your apartment, the various rooms in her penthouse, in her office within Scarlet Entertainment, hell even in the back of a limo on the way to an event. Wanda needed to have you and you needed to have her right back.

Another little thing you’ve learned about her? Or, you should say, not so little? The Sokovian sported an extra appendage that had quickly become your new best friend— not that you were going to tell Agatha that— who seemed to want you as much as Wanda did.

Which is how you found yourself where you are now— on your back, thighs clamped around Wanda’s head, as she thoroughly ate you out on the couch of her office.

“Yes.” You arch sharply, a sob being torn from your throat as Wanda’s tongue plunges even deeper into you. Your girlfriend hums happily at the sound, the vibrations sending a shockwave across your clit, and another wave of wetness gushes out of you— something that Wanda is all too happy to lap up. She had told you on more than one occasion, after she spent hours upon hours between your thighs, that you beat out even the finest of wines to her. “Please. I need you.”

With clear reluctance to leave, Wanda pulls back and easily settles on top of you. Lips and chin shining lewdly in the dim lighting of her office, darkened emerald eyes sparkling even brighter.

“You taste great, detka.” She lowers her head, offering her tongue for you to suck on. Giving you a taste of yourself, mixed intoxicatingly with her own natural one. “Could spend hours eating up your perfect pussy, but that’s not what you want, huh?” She jerks her hips, rubbing her cock against your wetness. “You want mommy to be inside you, right? Want her to stretch you out and make you scream?” Another roll of her hips causes you to arch, a breathless gasp leaving you, but Wanda doesn’t relent. “Answer me, detka. Be my good girl and I’ll give you what you crave. What do you want mommy to do?”

“Fuck me.” The cry is practically wrenched from your chest, a deep felt plea for her to just plunge into you and ruin you for anyone else. Not that she hasn’t been able to accomplish that already. “I want you to slam your cock into my pussy and make me yours, mommy. I want your cock to make my pussy its own, to shape me in its image.”

A deep, almost rumbling, snarl erupts from Wanda in response, her hips snapping forward and you’re finally filled; stretched out so fucking perfectly, an obscene slurp echoed across the room the moment Wanda’s hips met your own. She hadn’t made you cum with her mouth, but you had been so close, she had given you a mini orgasm just by entering— a feat that brings a smug smile to Wanda’s lips.

“You feel that, detka.” She takes your hand and brings it down to the slight bulge in your lower abdomen. “That’s my cock ruining you for anyone else. No one will ever be able to fill you the way I do, make you scream yourself hoarse.” Wanda snaps her hips forward after a shallow pull-back, giving out a satisfied hum at the feeling of your slick walls pressed around her. “Your pussy belongs to me, your pleasure belongs to me, and you belong to me.”

Wanda lowers her head, lips pressed firmly to your own, giving you even more of a taste of yourself than before, as her tongue practically fucks your mouth while her cock fucks your pussy. When she detaches her lips from yours, only a thin trail of saliva is left, before she’s far enough away for it to snap.

The sound of flesh slapping against flesh permeates the air, an occasional grunt or moan intercepting it, and you’d be concerned about the noise level if Wanda hadn’t sent Peter, her assistant, home early— having planned to have you like this from the very moment she had invited you over.

“Just like that, mommy. Keep fucking me like that,” you babble, drunk on pleasure as Wanda kept driving her hips forward, one slender finger roughly rubbing your clit in time with each thrust. It’s of no surprise that you find your release quickly after, gushing over Wanda’s cock.

The tight contractions around her cock— as your second orgasm was much more powerful than your first— causes Wanda to groan, hips stuttering in their brutal pace. It’s clear that she was close, sweat slicked brow, causing strands of silver hair to cling to fair skin, but she obviously wanted you to come one last time— to be tossed over the edge with her.

With a shake breath, Wanda roughly brings you to the brink of your third orgasm, not even giving you time to fully get through the second. “One more, detka. You’ve got one more in you for mommy.” She dips her head, lips tenderly brushing across your forehead. “And when you come around mommy’s cock, I’m gonna fill you up like the good girl you are. Would you like that?”

You nod, practically whining. “Yes. Please.”

The older woman snarls once more, clearly affected by the look on your face, and, before you’re even aware of it, you’re crashing over the edge again— a cry of Wanda’s name passing over your lips as you spasm around her. Barely being able to catch Wanda’s own groan in response: “Yes.”

Jets of her cum paint your inner walls white, warming you up. It’s a feeling you don’t think you’ll ever get used to— or want to get used to, if you’re being honest.

Once she’s spent, Wanda gently lowers herself onto your still slightly spasming body, lips pressed softly against your cheek. “You did so good. So perfect for me. My beautiful girl.”

You happily nuzzle into Wanda’s neck, eyes drooping out of contented exhaustion. “I love you.”

You’re too out of it to feel Wanda stiffen in surprise, or to really understand what you had just whispered, but you are aware of Wanda’s arms tightening around you, her lips pressing more firmly against your skin, as she cuddles you closer to her.

And, as you begin to drift off completely, happy in Wanda’s arms, you faintly feel Wanda exhale across the shell of your ear, a shaky breath, uncharacteristic for the older woman, before her soft voice breaks through the silence: “I love you too. More than I ever thought I’d love anyone.”

[A Few Months Later…]

“How many do you want?”

It’s asked softly, one of Wanda’s hand gently running up-and-down your back in a soothing motion. Her lips pressed against the crown of your head, your face nuzzled against the crook of her neck, a place you don’t feel like leaving anytime soon.

“How many what?” You snuggle closer, delighted in the way her arms tighten instinctively. “I want a lot of things, Wands.”

Wanda huffs out a light chuckle. “Children, Y/N. How many children do you want?”

You stiffen in surprise at the question— Wanda hadn’t made it a secret that she didn’t plan on having kids. That she didn’t think she’d make a good mother due to her childhood and her busy lifestyle, but you also know that your girlfriend wouldn’t ask something unless she’s serious about the answer. Something you’ve figured out after all these months together. Regrettably, you pull your face away from the warm nest it had made so you’re able to look at her, and Wanda met your eyes calmly, sharp green softened in a way that’s only ever meant for you.

“What’s this about, Wanda?” You roll your lips, trying to process your next words carefully. “I thought you didn’t want kids?”

Emerald eyes flash warmly. “I didn’t want a lot of things, Y/N.” She easily tugs you back into her arms, lips pressed to your forehead. “But that was all before I met you.”

Touched by her words— and the clear sincerity within them— you decide to just bite the bullet, there wasn’t a point in delaying your answer. Especially if Wanda expected it.

“Two.” A gentle kiss is placed to her collarbone. “I want two boys. Twins.”

She breathes out another chuckle. “Twins, huh?” Maneuvering you both, you’re suddenly pressed against the mattress, Wanda hovering over you, smile still in place, with a familiar hardness nestled between your thighs. “That seems like something we’d have to get just right, correct?”

Even though it’s posed as question, you can tell that Wanda meant it rhetorically. That she already knew the answered you’d both settle on— an answer you always agreed upon.

Wiggling your hips, grinning mischievously at the sharp gasp that leaves Wanda’s lips at the added pressure, you throw your arms loosely around her neck.

“Yes.” You pull her closer, lips millimeters from her own. “I think it’s something we’re going to have practice quite a bit.”

Not needing any more prompting Wanda descends onto you with a ravenous hunger. One that you’re all too happy to match.

You can’t wait to experience your future if this is what’ll be waiting for you there.

The phone is cold against your overheated flesh— a concoction of anger and disappointment courses through you like lava.

“Wanda—” You pinch the bridge of your nose to stem the tide of anger. “This is the eighth time this week alone. What the hell am I supposed to tell the caterers? Again.”

A soft sigh resounds through the speaker. “Just tell them that I won’t be able to make it, Y/N.” The response, in a clearly distracted tone, does little to ease your growing ire. “I know you’ll be able to handle it.”

“I don’t want to handle it, Wanda. This is our wedding, I’d like for you to also have a say in it.” From the time on the clock, you didn’t have much time left to leave the penthouse. Not if you wanted to get to the appointment on time. “I’ve been planning this entire thing by myself, I want your help. I want to hear your opinions. I want you.”

To care goes without words, but you’re certain it rings out just the same. You had been so happy when Wanda had suddenly proposed, seemingly out of the blue. Though wasn’t that the point? Taking you to a rooftop restaurant, which she had rented out, and offered you the rare chance of getting to taste her impeccable cooking; all dishes she had learned from her mother back in Sokovia. It had been a night you’d forever cherish, memories forever ingrained in your heart: the way the stars made the green in Wanda’s eyes sparkle more, the subtle wind allowing you to be surrounded by her comforting scent, the bright smile she had given you when she dropped down to one knee, and the happy laugh that had escaped her when you said yes. It had been a fairytale, everything you had ever wanted.

Until you realized your Disney fairytale was beginning to turn into Brothers Grimm.

“You have me, Y/N.” Wanda lets out another sigh. “Look, I can’t keep talking the investors for the meeting just arrived and I need to get prepared. I promise that I’ll go over everything you discuss later, okay? I love you.”

“Wanda—”

You’re only met with the sound of the dial tone, barely getting the chance to reply before being hung up on, and the familiar aching sense of silence that follows— a hollow sound that distantly reminded you of what your heart has become.

It hadn’t always been like this. The penthouse, upon your first visit, had been cold, lifeless in a way that seemed almost inhuman, but slowly it had livened up— been filled with a sense of warmth and peace. Of love. It had been a place you could go to when you just needed an escape from the rest of the world, when you needed to be surrounded by things that remind you of the woman you love.

Now it’s suffocating in a way that you never wished for it to be.

You’re aware that Wanda is a busy woman— had been aware of it before your first date occurred— but she had always at least tried to be there. Always left you feeling like you were at least on the list of things that mattered, you didn’t necessarily need to be at the direct top; not when she had so many things to content with already. But, you’ve felt like nothing more than an afterthought lately.

Gentle kisses in the morning turned to brief parting words as she made her way quickly out the door.

Soft smiles, and inside jokes, turned to barely there quirks of full lips, and stretched out silences.

The warmth of her hold, the safety you felt from her touch, turned to an icy chill as she left you to the cold air— you don’t even remember when the last time was that you had been together properly. Since you had woken up in her arms.

You didn’t need a lot, you didn’t need all of her time, but you wanted to feel like you still mattered— that everything you have isn’t just another thing Wanda had marked off on her checklist of things to do before she turns 55.

Checking the time, a small curse leaves your lips once you realize that you’re going to be late, and, with one final glance towards the empty penthouse, you make your way out the door— hoping that the growing chill you feel isn’t indicative of a love grown cold.

Silence had become your greatest friend in the weeks that followed. The one thing that you’ve grown to count on as Wanda’s schedule only seemed to get busier and busier— hell, your relationship with her personal assistant had grown to the point that he’s been calling you by your first name now. Instead of the usually nervous ma’am or Ms. L/N.

Wedding appointments had come and gone, all of them spent alone, with Wanda barely perusing the choices that had been made before crashing out of sheer exhaustion. Conversation had grown stilted due to her own growing ire at you consistent worry— although she labeled it as nagging. That she’s been running her business for over thirty years, and she’s been doing fine.

Even now, on New Years Eve, as the clock moved ever closer to midnight, you were completely alone— expansive shadows, that seemed darker somehow, stretched out towards you like ghastly fingers, trying to tear whatever semblance of comfort you’ve found away. You’re not sure what you had been expecting, not even sure if you’d truly believed that Wanda would show herself, but you can’t lie and say that you hadn’t hoped.

Hoped that today, of all days, would be different. That you wouldn’t feel like a stranger, an intruder, within your own life, within your own home.

Fanciful musings and hopes of a lovestruck fool.

The small chirp of an incoming message pulls you from your reverie, a bright smile appearing instantly at the sight of who it’s from, before withering away once you read it: Sorry, I won’t be able to make it home tonight. Going to the Hamptons to meet some new business partners. I promise I’ll make it up to you later. I love you.

You don’t bother to send a message back— what could you possibly say? Yet another promise had been thrown to the wayside by the older woman. Even if it was just a cursory, and unspoken, one being as simple as not leaving your fiancé alone on New Years. Or waiting until the last minute to actually say anything about it.

A soft sigh escapes your lips, an acidic twang settling over your tongue, as bitterness seeps into your bloodstream, poisoning your heart and soul. You knew what you needed to do, have known since this had become your new normal, but hadn’t had the strength, or the courage, to make it a reality. Until now.

Until the heartbreak, the suffering, has become as close of a friend to you as the oppressive silence.

And, as the door to the penthouse gently closed behind you, never to be opened by your hand again, you feel a sense of bone-deep sorrow settle over you. For everything that could have been, for what you had hoped for, and all that you now had to live without. You could just step back inside, hide or destroy the letter, and Wanda would never know. She’d never find out how close you had been to giving up, but you couldn’t find the strength to do so. Could no longer gather up the power to keep fighting for something that’s been lost long ago— no matter how much your heart screams at it not being true.

Tears gather in your eyes as you take another step away from the door, away from the place you’ve lived in for the last two years, and your heart breaks with every step. But, it breaks even more at the knowledge that you were leaving your true home behind too— that doing this would destroy everything you have with Wanda, never to be salvaged. The penthouse may be expensive, and it may be beautiful, but it’d never be home to you like Wanda; it’d never offer you the same feeling of protection like her arms did.

You’ve been shut out of your home for months now, and being left out in the cold has finally frozen your heart enough for you to be able to do this. No matter how much more it was going to hurt once it thaws once more.

Shouldering your duffel bag, the only thing you’ve allowed yourself to bring, you step into the private elevator and press the button for the lobby. Hands tightening around the strap of the bag, trying to ignore the way your ring finger no longer felt the familiar press of metal against it as you do so.

It was time to look forward, to finally make your own laters, the things you had been pushing off, become an actuality.

Even if you wanted nothing more than to have never needed to say goodbye to Wanda Maximoff in the first place.

Losing the ring was one thing, but losing the love of your life?

It’s a wound you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to recover from.

[Present]

“Mom?” The small voice catches your attention, your eyes focused back in to see bright eyes, twin grins being sported between the pair. “Can we still get hot chocolate?”

Billy and Tommy had come into your life when you needed them to most— a blessing that you’d definitely been searching for after everything imploded with Wanda. And, even if how they were conceived didn’t lend itself to a happy tale, you’d never change a thing. They were your twin miracles. Your beautiful baby boys— even if they were eight years old now.

“I thought you decided to get caramel popcorn instead?” You poke Billy’s side gently, delighted in the giggle the actions caused. “That’s what you both told me at the theater.”

Tommy’s eyes widened dramatically, in full puppy-dog mode. “But that was before you took us past our favorite store.” He points to the small café only a few feet away— one that you frequented with the twins when you could find the time. A place that you hadn’t even realized you’d be leading them towards. “Can we please get hot chocolate.”

The twins chime in unison: “Please.”

You chance a glance towards the café— deliberating your options— but you know that you’re going to cave. After all, the reason you had gone to the movies was to celebrate their stellar report cards. What harm could some extra hot chocolate do?

So, with a faux long-suffering sigh, you relent. “I suppose.”

“Yes!” Twin cheers are your immediate response, brightening the smile on your lips, and you soon find yourself in the quaint café— one that held so many memories for you. Phantoms of your past the whispered in your ear as you placed your order and directed your boys to their usual spot.

Only half-listening to their chatter about the movie you had just seen— some superhero film— you simply bask in the simplicity their joy brought you. Observing their small faces light up, little hands waving around as they discussed various points, and your heart swells with more love than you ever thought you could feel.

“—What did you think, mom?”

Billy’s sudden question tears you from your musings, his widened eyes, alight with excitement, giving you the impression that he really wanted to hear what you thought.

“About the movie?” They both nod. “I thought it was good, bug.”

Tommy pouts. “Yeah, but what did you like most about it? Did you have a favorite scene?”

“I—”

“Order for Y/N.”

Saved by the bell, you think. A wave of relief crashing over you. “You two stay put.” Standing, you ruffle their hair. “I’ll be right back with our drinks.”

At the prospect of their hot chocolate they don’t seem to mind that you didn’t answer their question— though you’d certain Tommy would ask you again. Though you’d have more than enough time to google some things about the movie before then. Small miracles.

Stopping at the counter, you take the tray with the drinks with a smile and a nod in greeting to the server you’ve grown quite fond of.

“Y/N?”

Breath catching in your throat at the husky voice sounding out behind you, the cadence and tone so familiar that your heart still burns from it. Hesitating only slightly, you turn and meet the shimmering emerald eyes you haven’t seen in a little over eight years. Her face still as beautiful as you’d last seen it, if a bit older now.

“Wanda.”

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

Thank you, but I’ve got something real

Synopsis: In which Vox asks Valentino to give him a drug to make you love him, ideally taking you away from Alastor, your lover. But not even drugs can keep you away from your radio overlord.

A/N: Inspired by Monster high, mainly the valentine movie where Valentine hypnotizes draculara and steals her from Claud, but her love for Claud breaks her out of Valentines spell. I adore that movie so much and I just had to write this!! I also was deciding if I should write this with Vox and Alastor or Bill and Alastor, since I seem to be very into love triangles at the moment. I hope you enjoy!!

Warning: Draculara coded reader!

Navigation !! // Masterlist !!

The grand manor was eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the soft echo of your footsteps down the long corridors. There was an unusual stillness in the air, as if the entire house was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The lively energy that usually filled the manor seemed absent, replaced by a strange sense of calm that made you uneasy, though you couldn’t quite understand why.

You found yourself drifting toward the ballroom, where the light from the grand chandelier bathed the room in a soft, golden glow. Vox was there, standing at the center of the room, his tall figure cast in shadow. His eyes lit up as you entered, a smooth smile spreading across his face.

“There you are, darling,” Vox greeted you, his voice rich and velvety. “I was wondering when you’d come find me.”

A smile tugged at your lips as you approached him, an odd sense of contentment settling in your chest. Vox had always been charming, attentive in a way that made you feel special. Lately, his attention felt even more intense, like a magnetic pull you couldn’t resist.

“Here I am,” you replied, your voice soft. “What’s on your mind, Vox?”

He chuckled, a sound that sent a warm shiver down your spine, and took your hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “I was just thinking how nice it would be if we spent more time together, just the two of us. Don’t you agree, darling?”

You felt a flutter of warmth in your chest and nodded, the idea of spending more time with Vox sounding… perfect. More than perfect, even. It felt like exactly what you wanted. But as you stood there, hand in hand with him, a flicker of something else surfaced in your mind—an image of someone else, with a wide grin and eyes that gleamed with mischief. Alastor.

The thought of him made your heart skip a beat, a pang of something unidentifiable settling in your chest. It was strange, how even the mere thought of Alastor seemed to stir something deep within you, something that didn’t quite match the warmth you felt with Vox. It was stronger, more intense.

“Vox,” you began, your voice uncertain as you pulled your hand back slightly. “What about Alastor? Shouldn’t I… talk to him?”

Vox’s smile faltered, just for a moment, before it returned, this time with a hint of something darker. His grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly as he moved closer. “Why bother with him, darling?” he asked, his tone light but laced with an edge. “He’s always so busy, so distracted. But I’m here, and I can give you everything you need. Isn’t that what matters?”

You hesitated, a cloud of confusion beginning to form in your mind. Vox’s words were soothing, comforting even, and the idea of focusing solely on him made a strange kind of sense. After all, Alastor had been distant lately, always wrapped up in his own world. But then, there was that nagging thought at the back of your mind, that image of Alastor that refused to be pushed aside.

“Maybe…” you said, trailing off as the fog in your mind thickened. “But I feel like I need to see him.”

Vox’s eyes darkened, his charming facade slipping slightly as frustration flickered across his features. “Don’t we have something real, sweetheart?” he pressed, his voice tightening. “What could he possibly offer you that I can’t?”

The question lingered in the air, the weight of it pressing down on you. You wanted to give in to Vox’s words, to let the warmth he offered envelop you completely. But that image of Alastor kept pulling you back, a small but persistent voice in your mind whispering that something wasn’t right.

You stepped back from Vox, shaking your head slightly as if to clear the fog that clung to your thoughts. “Thank you,” you said, your voice trembling with newfound clarity. “But I’ve got something real with Alastor.”

Vox’s expression darkened further, irritation now clear in his eyes. But before he could say anything else, you turned and fled the ballroom, your heart racing in your chest. The further you got from Vox, the clearer your thoughts became, and with each step, the pull toward Alastor grew stronger.

You found him in the garden, leaning casually against a tree, that familiar, mischievous grin playing on his lips as if he had been expecting you. The moment you saw him, the last remnants of the fog cleared from your mind, and everything made sense again. Vox’s charm had been nothing more than a trap, a spell meant to ensnare you—and you had almost fallen for it.

“Alastor,” you breathed, relief flooding through you as you ran to him, throwing your arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry—I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Alastor’s grin softened into something more genuine as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. “It’s alright, my dear,” he said, his voice a comforting purr. “You weren’t thinking because you weren’t in your right mind. Vox has a way of getting into people’s heads. But I’m glad you’re back.”

You buried your face in his chest, breathing in his familiar scent, the warmth of his embrace chasing away the last vestiges of doubt and fear. This was real—this connection, this love. It wasn’t something that could be conjured or manipulated; it was something that had brought you back from the brink of losing yourself.

“I’m back,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, your heart finally at peace. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Alastor’s grin widened, his crimson eyes gleaming with a mixture of relief and pride. “That’s my girl,” he said, his voice low and filled with affection. “Now, let’s get you away from this place and somewhere safe.”

As he led you away from the manor, his hand firmly in yours, you knew that no spell, no manipulation, could ever break the bond you shared. Alastor was your anchor, your safe harbor in the storm, and no matter what Vox had tried to do, it was your love for Alastor that had ultimately set you free.

[princessbrunette]

one thing about kook!pope, he’s a know-it-all — and if that’s not enough, he’s also nosy.

he’d developed an interest in you from seeing you around. quiet, reserved, sweet above all. when seeing you talking away to notorious fratboy, rafe cameron at a party — pope decided now was a better time than ever to break the streak of simply watching you from afar.

his voice appeared from behind you after what seemed to be a solid minute of watching you stare at rafe, waiting for him to give you some kind of attention from across the room. he doesn’t, continuing to shotgun beer and spill it obnoxiously on the floor solving all mysteries of why frat party floors were always sticky. “rafe cameron is a bad pick for you.” its said so matter-of-factly that it shocks you out of your trance, whipping round with wide eyes to look at where it came from.

pope stands there, arms crossed over his chest almost smugly, staring you down with a small smile. you knew of him, infact he always kind of fascinated you. total academic weapon, yet in with the cool crowd and his attitude definitely reflected this. he had to be so smart that he knew how to masquerade, you’d decided in fleeting thought.

“excuse me?” is all you manage and he takes a sip of his drink, slowly wandering round to stand at your side, the two of you observing the party. he swallows the bitter beverage with a squint, scratching above his top lip as he turns to you.

“rafe. you were talking to him. that guy will chew you up and spit you out, you know that right?” he speaks and you blink at him once more. you want to be offended at his audacity to comment on your choices but you’re too intrigued to step away.

“what makes you say that?”

he inhales slowly as he stares at the blonde boy — the two of you going totally unnoticed side by side like a pair of ghosts, pope playing wallflower with you just for a moment. “because he thinks it’s cool to do that. i mean, look at him. does he look respectful in the slightest? i’m only offering my two cents because i think you could do better.”

you’re confused, but flattered and your lip curls up just a tad. “yeah?” you ask unsurely. it felt nice to be seen. “how’d you figure? you don’t know me.”

“don’t i?” hes quick to respond with a smirk, like the mystery was exciting to him. “you were invited to this party, and if you haven’t already noticed i kind of know everyone. i’ve seen you in the library. you’re a hard worker. i can tell by the way you’re able to ignore everyone around you to get your head down to work that you’ll go places.” he praises, and you’re hooked, staring up at him for more. he turns his body to rafe, gesturing out to him with an arm. “rafe? not so much. he’s flunking every class, rumour has it he’s close to dropping out, daddy issues, coke problem, doesn’t tip waiters and he doesn’t go down on girls.”

the last sentence shocks you, but what shocks you more is the speed at which “do you?” flies out your mouth before you can stop it. your eyes widen, and he looks at you and chuckles — but not in a mean way. “wouldn’t you like to know?” he beats around the answer as he finally turns his fully body to you.

“pope heyward. am i making any sense at all with this whole warning thing?” he holds a hand out for you to shake and you smile. it’s been a long time since someone’s offered you a handshake, and from his slightly dorkish cadence this was the final nail in the coffin to prove your own theory in that he had to be the biggest nerd in high school.

“yes.” you nod jerkily as you grasp his hand and shake it before telling him your own name.

“nice, i like that.” he compliments before a group of guys begin to call his name, hollering something about beer pong. he laughs, before turning his attention back to you. “think about what i said. don’t go with an asshole like him, trust me it’s bad news. you’re way better than that. anyway, it was nice to meet you.” you don’t realise he’s still grasping your hand until he brings your knuckles to his lips and presses a parting kiss there— hand lingering on yours for a moment and letting go, taking a step past you to greet his friends.

as he leaves, he turns back to you — now standing at your other side. “oh, and to answer your question — yes. i do go down on girls. i think men who don’t should be castrated.” he speaks so simply, before just like that he’s disappeared into a sea of bro’s, a fresh drink thrusted into his palm.

rafe was staring over the crowd to check on you now, to see if you were still fawning over him. however, your eyes were on someone else now — still watching the back of popes head as the smile lingered on your face, fingertips ghosting over your knuckles where he kissed you.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-down AU Part 31

Part 1 Part 30

It’s felt like hours since Eddie was left alone in the small room, but the large clock ticking away in front of his eyes is its own form of psychological torture, telling him it’s been less than fifteen minutes.

Is this the way time passes for dogs? Years passing within hours, until suddenly you’re on your deathbed. The clock ticks again. Eddie starts screaming to be let out. For the fourth time.

It must work because the door bursts open, random goon number five leading the way in, crouching behind Eddie and uncuffing him. His wrists feel raw from his tugging, fingers full of ants from his circulation being cut off. He cradles them to his chest, rubbing the feeling away.

“Get up,” Hopper says from where he’s standing at the door, Wayne by his side. “We’re wasting time.”

Eddie stands up slowly, eyes darting from person to person, trying to figure out what’s happening. “I don’t understand.”

Hopper turns and strides out of the room, not waiting for anyone to follow. Wayne gestures for him to hurry it along as Eddie rushes to his side. It’s only once he’s out of the small room that he realizes Hopper isn’t leading the charge but following two more goons with guns in their hands.

Eddie jogs to catch up, Wayne trailing behind. “What’s happening?” he asks, once he’s at Hopper’s side.

“We came to an agreement.”

“What?” Eddie demands loudly. At Hopper’s warning look, he lowers his voice and asks, “what agreement?”

Hopper sighs. “Look, everything that’s happened here, and everything that’s gonna happen? We don’t talk about it.”

“What?” Eddie asks, voice raised once more.

Hopper stops, sending their entire precession of goons with guns into an awkward fumble to keep them in sight and close ranks. “You want Steve back?” Hopper asks, glaring at Eddie like it’s somehow his fault that Steve is there in the first place. “This place had nothing to do with it. That’s the deal. You got it?”

Eddie glares incandescently furious at the thought of them getting away with it. All those days rotting alone in the Upside-Down, the way he can still feel ash coating his tongue, all these hours later. He bites his lip on the rage and says, “I’ve got it.”

They continue on.

The passage gets narrow and bright, more like a hospital than a shady government agency. It leads to an antechamber, just as full of white paint and emptiness, except the pops of color that are the three suits lined up – vacant and waiting.

They’re yellow and plastic-looking, like a cheap costume from a ‘60’s horror movie.

“What’s this?” Eddie asks.

There’s a man in a lab coat, holding a clipboard as he looks things over and makes little tick marks on his paper. He doesn’t look up from his task as he answers. “Protection,” he says casually, like they’re discussing the weather, “the atmosphere is toxic.”

“My boy was in there,” Wayne says gruffly.

“Steve is in there right now!” Eddie says, feeling his heartbeat tick up and skip around.

“Hey!” Hopper says, clapping to get their attention. “Put them on.”

Wayne and Eddie share a look, but both comply. The suit sticks strangely to his bare skin, like it’s a crappy rain jacket, and not a device that’s supposed to be able to protect their lungs and skin. The helmets are even worse – boxy and claustrophobic. Eddie wants to take his off immediately. As if sensing his thoughts, Wayne gives him a squint-eyed look. He leaves it on, grumbling about all the toxic fumes his already taken in.

They go, Wayne leading the charge with his shotgun in hand. Goons of both science and gun varieties watch them go from a distance that Eddie finds suspicious.

“How much do you want to bet that they don’t expect us to come back?” Eddie asks.

“Don’t matter,” Wayne says, keeping his eyes trained on the prize. “We’re getting your boy.”

Hopper twitches his head like he wants to glare at him, and Eddie’s suddenly grateful for the shelter the boxy helmets provide.

The gate, when it appears looks like the mouth of a cave, slimy and dripping, looking almost organic as is secretes and pulses in tandem to some heartbeat Eddie can’t even begin to comprehend. Ash is billowing out like snow. And it’s all that same, familiar red.

Eddie feels like he should be afraid, but it doesn’t come. Squeezing through the entrance behind Wayne feels like going home. Even as the other two look around at the wasteland of a place in shock, Eddie wants to take off his helmet and breath it in.

No one speaks as Eddie leads at a brisk pace that has his lungs burning immediately. Every snap of a twig under one of their boots has Wayne raising his shotgun and Hopper reaching for the holster at his hip as Eddie plows doggedly on.

It’s like now that he’s on the other side, the fishhook in his sternum is urging him on, faster, faster. Toward Steve.

The Harrington house looms large above them, but Eddie already knows it’s too late before they reach what’s left of the front door. It’s caved in, mahogany splintered straight down the middle. Anything could walk inside.

“He’s not here,” Eddie says, hoping the tug at his sternum means that Steve’s out there somewhere, and not just dead.

 Hopper doesn’t listen, just shoves his way past the shards of what’s left of the Harrington’s austere front door. Wayne waits for him, mutters a quiet, “we’ll make it quick,” as they follow.

Eddie knows where to go, leads the way up winding stairs to Steve’s empty plaid bedroom in this empty house. The closet door has been ripped clean off, bolts attaching it to nothing but air.

Eddie looks down at the next of blankets on the carpet, looks for blood by rote, doesn’t find any.

It looks just the same as Eddie last saw it, past the destruction. His dirty clothes are still puddled on the floor, somehow still wet days later. Eddie’s pillow is nestled into the same place in the closet, like Steve was saving him a place for when he came back.

“He’s not here,” Eddie repeats, leading the way back out of Steve’s empty bedroom and down the winding stairs.

Wayne and Hoppers footsteps follow, Hopper pausing to look around like he’s casing the joint. “It was hurt,” he calls.

It almost hurts to turn away from the front door, from that tug tug tug. Wayne and Hopper are both peering down at a spot on the Harrington’s white living room carpet. It’s pooled with blood black enough that it looks like a misplaced shadow.

“Where is it?” It sounds like Nancy’s voice, echoing over from the other side.

“It has to be dead.” And there’s Johnny boy.

“Wheeler?” Hopper calls, alarmed.

“She’s not here,” Eddie replies. “Her and Jonathan must have done something stupid.”

Wayne, who had only caught the tail-end of their mad-dash plan to lure the Demogorgon to the other side, eyes the stained carpet and says, “that explains the blood.”

Eddie reaches out, brushes his hand across a lamp as he passes, basking in the way the light feels almost warm in his palm before he walks back out into the broken world through the Harrington’s broken front door.

The fishhook pulls. Eddie follows.

Part 32

[tenthgrove]

Reverse Engineering the OIAR Tagging System: Part 2

I've had another look at things and I have managed to create a more concrete theory for how the tags work, though at this stage I would be very surprised if it were all correct.

A reminder for the unfamiliar- every TMAGP statement comes with a long code, consisting of a CAT (category?), R (rank? - two statements do not have this), a four digit number which seems to be totally random, and the dates of both the statement's origin, and when the episode is set.

I've created this theory by identifying patterns between the CAT and R values and the themes, characters and dates of the statements. It is clear we need some more statements to be sure, so I will update this as new episodes come in. That said, here is my theory.

CAT = Is the Monster an External and/or Being Actively Taken Advantage of by the OIAR?

CAT 1 = Yes. CAT 2 = No, but there are plans to acquire it. CAT 3 = No, and there are no plans to acquire it. CAT 23 = The monster possesses some special quality which the OIAR would like to take advantage of, but currently has no means to do this (hence making it both a CAT 2 and 3 in a sense).

Our only confirmed external, Mr Bonzo, is a CAT 1. The two other CAT 1s are monsters that could very well function as OIAR assassins. Granted, Needles seems to be killing for his own pleasure and seems very ‘green’. BUT- how in the living hell did he murder a man on the streets of London and it wasn’t national news? Maybe, just maybe, Needles was recruited as a result of that incident and the OIAR pulled strings to clean up his mess. Additionally, two of the CAT 1s are delivered literally days before we learn of them. One is older but refers to Bonzo, who we know for a fact is still active. The other was delivered in May 2022. All these statements are live matters, referring to beings who are almost certainly still out there making body counts.

Moving down to the lower rankings, the current CAT 2s are plant guy, Vouyer, the charity shop volunteers and the backrooms service station. These are all statements that leave huge question marks. None of them are delivered by a primary source. They are all 1-15 year old statements. This could mean the OIAR is trying to locate the beings within the statement to potentially take advantage of them, but have not yet tracked them down.

The current CAT 3s are InkSoul, the violin guy, and the bone dice guy. Violin and dice guy are both dead, and the dice were presumably lost in the destruction of the Magnus Institute. It’s clear why the OIAR wouldn’t be interested in them. Now what about InkSoul? Well there are a number of reasons why the OIAR would not want to recruit them. Maybe their power is not reliable? After all, it seemed the effect they had on their victim in the statement was linked to her being an artist. Maybe they’ve already tried to recruit InkSoul and it didn’t go well. Or maybe InkSoul has become inactive since the statement in 2022.

Now, what about CAT 23? I’m really not sure about this one (there are only two CAT 23s so far, one of which is the Red Canary statement) so my theory here is a stand-in. I previously suggested CAT 23 could refer to dimensional cracks and it’s possible that is also the case. It could be that CAT 23 IS the ‘Magnus Protocol’, and that ‘Magnus’ doesn’t specifically mean ‘pertaining to the Magnus Institute’ but ‘pertaining to the Magnus Institute or similar known cracks in reality, of which the Magnus Institute is the one we know most about’. It could be that the OIAR has an active interest in manipulating dimensional cracks but hasn’t yet figured out how, and CAT 23 is created to reflect this.

R = How Useful is this Monster to the OIAR?

A = Frighteningly powerful, possibly equivalent in its impact to the rituals. AB = Between A and B value. B = Pretty useful, but not going to massively improve the OIAR's position by itself. BC = Between B and C value. C = Not especially useful for the OIAR's purposes. Unranked = Value either not investigated or pending investigation. We have no Rank As thus far, and the only rank AB, the Red Canary statement, is widely believed by fans to be the most crucial piece of the puzzle so far to the wider mystery. I believe the first rank A statement is going to be truly massive.

Current Rank Bs include Bonzo and Needles, as well as the bone dice and the Voyuer movie. Bonzo is a known OIAR assassin and as above, Needles very well could be/could become one if the OIAR wanted that for him. However, they can't exactly take down society. Equally, the dice and the movie have limitations that only allow them to target one person at a time - the dice only affect the person who rolls them and the movie relies on only having one audience member to customise itself for.

The Rank Cs are, so far, just the charity volunteers and the ship tattoo. I admit this may be the weakest part of the theory as it's not clear how these two are 'useless', especially if CAT 23 means what I theorise above. Maybe Rank Cs are useful to study but not important to the main goals of the OIAR, whatever they be.

The two unranked statements are the plant guy and the violin. The violin statement could be unranked because it is just that old, and the plant guy could be unranked for a number of reasons. Maybe he is CAT 2 because the OIAR want to study him, but they don't actually have a use for the anomaly that sired him.

Conclusion

As you can see there are various weaknesses to the theory and I would be very surprised if it turns out to be entirely right. The biggest gap right now is the rank C/unranked theories which are not entirely apparant why they're so low. If Protocol is anything like Archives, almost all these monsters will be revisited, so reasons for their placements could still be revealed to us. I am fairly certain the OIAR already knows more about most of them than is let on. I will revisit this theory as more information becomes known.

[draculasfavoritewife]

Hunted

Summary: Tatooine is a planet filled with old ghosts, and when one of yours rears its ugly head again, your Mandalorian takes matters into his own capable hands.

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence and minor OC death at the end. Allusions to hunter/prey roleplay and bondage, my voice kink makes a couple of cameo appearances. I the writer was particularly thirsty for Din Djarin the day I wrote this and thus take full responsibility for the results.

This is really one of the most blatantly self-indulgent things I've written, born of many long daydreaming sessions and my love for any episode where my man rubs elbows with the delightful and despicable denizens of the OG desert planet. I truly can't explain it, Tatooine Din™️ just hits me different, so please enjoy this very long fic about it.

*Translations of less common words/phrases in Mando'a at the end

You step into the crowded main street of the city, taking a moment to let all of your senses adjust to the stark difference. The last week or so has been spent on the ship in a cold vacuum, the gleaming blur of hyperspace and the steady thrum of engines a constant gentle halo in the background. It was nice, if a little quiet for your personal taste. Your partner certainly doesn’t talk much, and you tend to spend much of your time alone with him less conversationally inclined as a result.

He’s rubbed off on you that way. 

Now the twin suns of Tatooine scorch down on you from above, making eyes that have become accustomed to soft darkness sting. A throng of street vendors, lowlifes, and ne’er-do-wells streams through the ragtag market on all sides, moving bodies chattering nonstop in floods of Basic, Huttese, Aqualish, Droid, and snatches of more exotic tongues. 

A moment, and you feel yourself suddenly at ease again, as your brain resets back to your old lifestyle in the Core Worlds. It feels like putting on a well-loved shaak-leather coat that remembers all your contours just right. 

“You look happy,” the Mandalorian observes from beside you. 

You always wonder about him, how he's actually faring under that helmet, so shiny in this harsh light that you come away with spots in your vision after glancing at him too long. Din walks with the easy confidence of a man that’s walked these alleys many times before, but you know him more personally than most. He’s a quiet man under that shell, one who vastly prefers his solitude and finds the company of most beings in the galaxy a soul-stealing chore after two minutes. 

And unlike you, he never relaxes. 

“I am.” You side-eye him, briefly admiring his prowling stride as he diligently scans the moving figures surrounding the pair of you. “Sometimes I really like big crowds.” 

“You’re crazy,” he remarks. “This many people add too many variables.” 

“Your comment stands.” You draw closer to him in order to reach into the satchel slung across his body and ruffle the Kid’s long ears. “But to me, it’s almost easier. I can usually read people’s intentions pretty well. Bodies speak louder in crowds.” 

“I suppose.” He hasn’t stopped his surveillance yet. You can guess at how his eyes are darting here and there beneath the visor. He probably has at least two escape routes planned out already, if not more. 

You want nothing more than to tell him to relax and enjoy himself — you’re not even here on hunter business, simply to refuel and stock up on supplies before your next run — but you know that’s a useless endeavor. 

“I found that strangely hot, by the way,” you say instead, since it HAS been taking up space in your mind for some time. 

“What?” 

“Finding out you speak Tusken. That’s VERY attractive.” 

It was. When he had to negotiate with the scouts on your way into town, you couldn’t deny the fluttering in your stomach at hearing his low, smoky voice bark out the harsh sounds as he supplemented his meaning with crisp sign language. 

And besides the sound of it, you certainly find it very hot for a man of his stature to be so willing and ready to communicate and settle fraught situations peacefully. 

“I — what — I don’t — ?” 

It still makes you grin, how easily flustered he is when you catch him off-guard with flirting. 

“Don’t you think so, Grogu?” You poke the Kid’s tiny nose. “Isn’t it attractive when your buir talks like that?” 

The little one squeals enthusiastically in response, probably more to your teasing than the actual question. 

“Stop that, don’t encourage her.” Din casts a disapproving look first at the Kid and then at you; it strikes you as funny how well you can translate such a simple tilt of the helmet. “And don’t you ask him that, he’s just a kid.” 

“I think you’re blushing under that bucket,” you smirk, sidling away. 

“I’m not.” 

You subside with the teasing for the time being, and the Mandalorian releases a sigh of relief as you start wandering, letting handmade jewelry and stoneware snatch your attention away from him. He’s getting better at keeping up with your rapid changes of interest, but somehow your more romantic moods still manage to get the better of him when you’re out in public. 

He blames the environment. When it’s just the two of you alone, he can see what’s coming in the slant of your lips or the way you suddenly decide to plant yourself right in front of whatever he’s working on. And he’s almost as likely to initiate now, so long as the Kid’s not in the same room. But out here, as his field of vision constantly shifts in the sea of bodies, and his right hand drifts between Grogu in his satchel and the pistol at his hip, he just doesn’t possess the bandwidth to also process what the kriff could possibly turn you on so much about his language skills. 

He tucks that particular piece of information away in a metaphorical corner, to dissect and possibly use at a later time. 

You return to him after your little side trip, flirtation seemingly forgotten for now. “I saw a ring at that one booth —” you gesture over your shoulder “— that I’m almost positive is dolovite. So pretty. I’m not even sure the vendor knows what he’s got. It’s tempting.” 

“I bet.” He notes the tone of your voice, the way you glance back one more time as the pair of you move on. 

“But we are here for the essentials, first and foremost. Maybe if it’s still there by the end of the day.” 

He nods thoughtfully, and listens as you ramble through the list of what the three of you need, both in terms of provisions and to keep the ship flying. 

The sooner you’re all able to leave this crowd and noise behind, the better. 

He doesn’t care for the feeling that his little clan’s safety isn’t completely under his control. 

Hours later, stewardship of the satchel carrying the Kid has passed over to you. Din carries the day’s purchases, slung from either end of the pole balanced across his wide shoulders. He watches affectionately from behind his immobile visage of beskar at the sight of you spiritedly haggling with a Twi’lek vendor over the price of fruit. The arm not being used to illustrate your point cradles Grogu, half-asleep, close to your torso, and it touches something deep inside him, to see you care for his foundling so naturally. 

The image almost — almost — lulls him into something resembling a dangerous sense of peace.

Almost, but not quite. 

Which is why, when the blaster bolt narrowly misses your shoulder and instead blows a crate of produce into a violently sticky explosion, he’s only a half-second slower than he normally would be as he pivots sharply and yanks out his own weapon. His shot drops the sniper leaning out of a second-story window across the street, a Rodian crumpling to the ground in a tangle of ragged cloak. 

His armor-clad body is positioned in front of you in another second, keeping you and the Kid sandwiched between the booth and his beskar as he rapidly searches for any more guns to rear their ugly muzzles. 

The market has dissolved into chaos around you, but no more fire is heard. 

You slip your DL-44 out of your back holster with one hand and push the satchel carrying Grogu further out of the way with the other. The road had cleared in seconds, the trembling fruit vendor ducking down behind his wares. The atmosphere is suddenly quiet, too many people holding their breaths all at once. 

“See anything?” you whisper to Din. 

“Negative,” he mutters back. “He was acting alone, or else the others have retreated. Looking for heat signatures is useless, they’re everywhere here.” 

A grim suspicion starts to rise in your chest, but you keep your voice removed as you step from behind him and give him a sharp nod. “Cover me? I need to take a look at our shooter.” 

He stalks behind you as you cross, your trigger finger settling into its well-worn spot in readiness. Grogu is silent; only the tips of his giant ears poke up from the top of the bag. 

For a kid, he’s been in enough firefights to know the drill by now. 

Arriving beside the smoking form of the Rodian, you flip him over and push aside the cloak, your hand drawing back when you see exactly what you were afraid you would find. 

The sigil of a sand ape emblazoned on his jacket in red. 

“Talk to me,” Din urges, voice tight. “Do you know why he was targeting you?” 

You straighten up and bite your lip for a second, struggling over the best way to break the news to him. You’d thought it was long enough ago that old scores would be forgotten, but on Tatooine, grudges rarely die, instead simmering deep beneath the filth like a krayt dragon awaiting its next meal. 

And now you’ve unwittingly brought your riduur and his ad’ika into danger. 

“I lived in Mos Eisley for a bit at one point.” You sigh. “And I left under…difficult circumstances. I’m a bit of a loose end as far as a local gang is concerned, Din. They paid well for some mercenary jobs — it was a nice temporary setup. Last hit I was hired for turned out to have a Guild bounty on him though, and they paid more to have him delivered alive. I saw a business opportunity and didn’t look back. But I made some powerful people here pretty angry.” 

“Dank farrik.” He curses under his breath. You can nearly hear his exasperated thoughts — can’t I have ONE uneventful outing? Just ONE? — but he shakes it off swiftly and is soon all business again, his next query clipped and brusque. “Does he have a tracking fob?” 

You shake your head. “They don’t want Guild here anymore, if you recall. No, it’ll be a more intimate affair, I’d bet my blades on that. This is about revenge and closure; if there’s a reward payout it’s from the boss man himself, and probably only advertised by word of mouth.” 

The Mandalorian refocuses his thoughts from where they ever so briefly derailed at your casual misuse of the term “intimate affair” and grunts his acknowledgment. “I gather the boss man wants you alive, then?” 

You laugh, a dry, ironic sound. “Oh, he will. I have a feeling he wants to watch me suffer a bit before he kills me. Or who knows?” With a shrug, you shove the body into an alleyway and return to where you both left your purchases, only the dance of your tense fingers across the grip of your blaster giving away your readiness to protect yourself. “Maybe he’ll make me his own personal slave instead. I knew all that club dancing I did would come in handy someday.” 

Din makes a hissing sound of annoyance at your flippant tongue as he follows. There’s something about the way you can talk so carelessly about such degrading fates that truly distresses him. He knows you don’t need his protection on the same level the Kid does, but the thought of either of those options actually befalling you under his watch makes his hands clench into fists, leather gloves protesting as they stretch across his knuckles. But he knows too, that dark humor is often your way of dealing with stress, so he endeavors to let it slide and not see red. 

“Do you know where he is?” he demands suddenly. 

“The boss man? I used to. And there are people I could ask.” You take the satchel with the Kid off and hand it back to him, opting to take the parcels instead. He can fight with a baby strapped to him better than you can, and knowing you’re the primary target this time, you’d rather keep him safer. “Why?” 

“Later.” His voice has gone tense again, he must have seen something you don’t. “Right now we have to get out of here. You’re too exposed.” 

Your gaze falls on a nearby speeder bike with no obvious owner nearby. “They’ve gotten lax without me around,” you smirk, straddling the bike and revving its powerful engine. “Leaving their valuables all helpless and unattended. It’s a real shame.” 

The Mandalorian is staring at you, the drop of his shoulders suggesting surprise at your brazenness. 

“Get on,” you encourage him, laying the carrying pole across the seat behind you. “You’re getting twitchy, so there must be trouble. What’s got your cape in a twist?” 

He takes a seat behind you and settles his pulse rifle across his knees. “There’s a couple more in similar jackets closing in,” he reveals in an undertone. “And I just haven’t seen you…steal a vehicle before, is all.” 

A shot pings over his helmet before you can properly react to that. 

“Drive!” he orders, pivoting to return fire. 

You oblige, gunning the motor and tearing off down the main thoroughfare. “There’s still a few things you haven’t seen me do, Cyare,” you toss back as he dusts one of the gang members on your way past. “You and the Kid made me go soft.” 

He huffs doubtfully and nods to a narrow opening between buildings up ahead. “Can you get us out of sight?” 

“If you hang on tight enough.” You execute a tight turn at the last moment and shoot down the alley, glad the bike is compact enough to follow the cramped tunnel between the crumbling dwellings. “It’s gonna be rough ’til we’re in the open, though.” 

Din doesn’t answer in words, but his free arm wraps around your waist and you can feel the Kid’s small body tucked between the two of you. 

And it’s almost an oddly pleasant feeling, outrunning any would-be pursuers with the two of them held so close. 

By the end of the hour, supplies have been loaded into the ship and Grogu has been left in the doting care of Peli, who as always is more than happy to entertain the little guy as long as you and Din keep trouble far away from her repair station. You and the Mandalorian are now camped out on a rooftop overlooking the marketplace, a tattered fabric canopy mercifully providing some scant relief from the sunlight if not the oppressive heat. As always, your riduur appears totally indifferent to such a thing as physical discomfort, leaning out from under the awning to scope the street below through the sight of his rifle. 

Does his armor have an internal cooling system? Or are Mandalorians really just that tough? 

“You know, we could just leave,” you finally suggest. “It’s not like this particular group ever goes off-world.” 

“We could.” 

You can tell there’s a reason why he won’t. 

“But I return to Tatooine semi-frequently. And I don’t want you to constantly be looking over your shoulder every time.” 

You sit back with a sigh, idly tuning up your blaster. His ways are still foreign to you sometimes. Before your partnership, you made a life depending on adaptability and quick thinking. Having only yourself to worry about, and knowing there was no one else out there worrying about you, made it easier to simply uproot and go elsewhere whenever the heat was on you. 

Din is nearly the opposite. If there’s a way he can make things more secure for those in his care, if there’s a good enough reason, he won’t ever back down from a struggle.

He already has his mind made up. 

It’s just a bit jarring to realize that you’re the good enough reason this time. 

“What are you thinking, then?” you prompt. 

He doesn’t break his focus on the area below as he answers. “I’m thinking I just killed a couple gang members and got some interesting information out of them. I’m ex-Guild and looking for work, and being a ruthless mercenary, I might just be willing to turn on a crew member if the price is right.” 

You can’t help your sudden intake of breath at his ingenious plan. “And once we get there?” 

He finally turns to face you, his next words cold and hard as tempered beskar. “Then we kill him.” 

And there’s something a little bit more menacing in there than simple pragmatism. He has taken on the role of cabur for you and the Kid; this isn’t just about keeping trouble off your backs in future. 

Someone has threatened you, and he will not rest until that threat has been put down.

That is his duty, and he will not shirk it. 

“I love you,” you murmur, barely above the hot breeze that rakes through your hair. 

He rises to his feet, shoulders his rifle. “And I you. Which is why we’re going to have to make this look convincing. You get a two-minute head start. Whenever you’re ready.” 

You swipe a dull sand-colored cloak from a stall as you pass, immediately diving into the heart of the throng, which seems to have recovered from the earlier incident. Mos Eisley is nothing if not desensitized to crime and violence, and for a moment, you almost lose yourself in awe at the apathy of the average citizen as you let the flow of movement carry you along. Nobody cares what happens around here, so long as it doesn’t happen to them. 

It’s…odd, to remember how it felt to think that way. 

Shaking yourself back into the moment, you weave between beings of all shapes and sizes, focusing on making yourself forgettable and not appearing in too much of a hurry. You know Din will find you no matter where you end up — he’s just too good at his job not to. So for the moment you let yourself enjoy this little game, a moment spent as the quarry of a very desirable predator. 

It would be a lie to say you haven’t fantasized about this before. 

A ripple passes through the crowd to your left and behind you, people shifting to make room, like river currents split by a large stone. Only one person you know could possibly cause such a stir.

Only idiots choose to stand in the way of a hunting Mandalorian. 

Which means he’s here. 

Your heart accelerates and you try to think of a way to stall him just a little longer. Reluctantly pulling a few credits from your belt pouch, you regretfully let them scatter in the dust, knowing the only thing that reliably beats fear is greed. The people nearest to you devolve into pushing and shoving in their eagerness to get their hands on them, a writhing wall springing up between you and your pursuer. 

With a grin, you slip backwards, drifting in the opposite direction of where you had been headed before, catching the barest glimpse of sun glaring off metal as you pass. 

That's a little longer. 

He’ll expect you to be thinking the way he thinks, not the way you do, so you stamp down the inclination to think that way and instead travel into a seedier part of town, seeking out more raucous company. Wandering through cantinas and gambling dens, you pick up a refreshing blue milk along the way and almost start to let the tension ebb from your muscles. But when you see him emerge from the street and gaze through the window of the same building you were just about to exit, your adrenaline shoots up again. A dash through a maze of alleys and one stolen ride on the back of a droid rickshaw later, and even you aren’t so sure what part of the city you’ve made it to. 

The twin suns are finally beginning to sink lower in the sky as you thoughtfully chew on a piece of bantha jerky and walk through a crowded residential section, no doubt where the lower classes live. It’s much quieter here, the low-income strata not having the credits to spend on frivolities at the market. 

It’s almost…too quiet. 

You hear him before you see him, an almost deceptively musical clink of the explosive charges on his belt against his vambrace as his arm brushes past. There’s nowhere to run anymore, so you pull back your hood with an admittedly dramatic flourish and discard your savory treat, hands sliding to the twin vibroblades sheathed at your thighs. 

“So, its finally come to this, Mando.” You pull your knives and take up a fighting stance. “No use in trying to sweet-talk you out of this, is there?” 

He doesn’t answer, just pulls his own blade and gestures with his chin as if saying “Try me”. 

So you do. 

The pair of you has sparred many times before, and this altercation is brief but outwardly brutal. Finesse is nice, but necessity calls for any potential advantage to be pressed and pressed hard. For the agility your much lighter choice of clothing grants you, you can’t dent him when fully armored, so finally you resort to simple but effective tactics and throw dust in his face. 

Even a visor with a heat sensor takes a second to recalibrate from that. 

You do, however, have a scripted ending for this outing, and as you sprint off, his grappling cable snakes around your hips and down your legs, dropping you in the sand. He strides up to you, tosses a pair of binders down next to you. 

“Cuff yourself,” he orders, breath coming in heavy pants after your scuffle. “I’m taking you in.” 

And since it’s him who just captured you, who would have captured you eventually no matter what because he’s just THAT good, you don’t mind. 

No, you reflect as he hefts you over his shoulder and walks away from the few scattered spectators your fight drew out, you really don’t mind this arrangement at all. 

Maybe you’ll have to tell him that, later. 

Your former employer’s headquarters are still where you remember them, and you almost smirk at the sense of uncomfortable familiarity when Din lowers you to the floor and unties your legs. Still cuffed — and a bit tired after spending the afternoon trying to outwit the best hunter in the parsec — it’s not difficult to look angry and beaten down, kneeling there in the dust. 

The boss man rises from his seat at the table, a hulking Devaronian with a chipped horn and a hungry grimace. He swaggers over, nods at the Mandalorian standing behind you. 

“I suppose I can turn a blind eye at the loss of a few good men for this. You have absolutely no idea how this one little troublesome scavenger has been occupying my thoughts.” 

Din remains silent, simply holding out a hand, a wordless demand for payment. 

Your old boss grins, nods to a couple of lackeys to bring over the credits, hauls you to your feet by the back of your shirt. 

The Mandalorian’s hand brushes past your leg as you move, and one of your knives is quietly returned to its sheath. 

“Since you turned tail and ran so quickly after disobeying me, I assume you have some idea of what I do to clever little turncoats, don’t you?” sneers the Devaronian, leaning altogether too close for your liking. 

Your cuffed hands lower in seeming fear as you shrink beneath his intimidating glare. 

“This is going to be fun,” he threatens, a hand drawing up your neck and along your jaw. “You need to learn some respect, and I’m going to —” 

The vibroblade sunk deep into his chest cuts his words off rather suddenly. 

There’s a lot you can still do, even in binders. 

The outraged lackeys are swiftly dropped by precise shots from Din, and the two of you are left gazing at each other in a now oddly quiet room. 

“I don’t know if I’d call that ‘fun’," you remark to your limp ex-boss, crouching to retrieve your knife. “A little anticlimactic, actually. Bit of a shame I had to do that. But also satisfying to see your plan turn out so well, don’t you think, Mando?” 

Din doesn’t answer right away, tucking away the bounty that he earned by catching you. “We should be on our way,” is what he finally grunts. “There’ll be more gang members swarming this place any minute now.” 

“I agree.” Rising to stand in front of him, you hold out your arms expectantly, casting a flirty smile up at his dark visor. “And, much as I enjoyed being your prisoner for a day, you can let me go now.” 

There’s a long pause. 

He stares down at your bound wrists, up at your face, down at your wrists again. He appears to be pondering something very intently, and your breath turns a little choppy for some reason. 

“I don’t think I will,” he says simply, after a little more consideration. 

“You won’t?” 

“Not yet.” His large hands tenderly find your hips, and he throws you over his shoulder again, walking out the exact same way you came in. “You’ve caused me quite a day here, you know. Keeping track of you like this might be the only way to make sure we don’t run into any more trouble.” 

“What would happen if I screamed ‘Help, I’m being kidnapped!’ as you carry me down the street?” 

He snorts. “No one’s going to help you here, Cyar’ika. Who’s going to challenge a Mandalorian over his prisoner?” 

You smirk. “No one in their right mind.” 

“Besides, you just said you enjoyed this.” There it is, a sly edge to his filtered voice, the indicator that he has more going on in his mind than simply staying out of more trouble. 

“Oh no, caught by an attractive bounty hunter! I’ll probably never see the light of day again.” You groan dramatically and drape yourself a bit more comfortably as he loosens up into an easier stride. “I’m completely at his mercy — who KNOWS what devious things he’ll do to me behind closed doors?” 

“This bounty hunter is hot and tired, and in need of a shower, if that gives you any consolation.” 

“Ah.” You poke him in the back. “Are you saying you’re all sweaty under this shiny shell, Cyare?” 

A hand slides up the back of your thigh, a subtle reminder that you ARE currently at his mercy, as you just said. 

Undeterred, you try again, knowing he must be getting more riled up than he lets on. “Have I ever told you how much I like it, when you take all these awful layers off for me and you’re all sweaty underneath…?” 

“I would rein in my suggestive tongue a little, if I were you.” He’s still looking straight ahead, but the edge beneath his words is a bit more strained now. “If you behave for me until we get back to the ship, maybe I’ll even take those binders off.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

He sighs. “My belt compartment back there. Take a look.” 

You manage to get it open, and can’t quite stifle a delighted sound as you pull out the dolovite ring from much earlier. “You sneaky son of a — ! How — ?” 

“I gave you a two-minute head start,” he shrugs, by way of explanation. 

“I adore you,” you inform him as you slip the ring onto your finger, admiring its burnished color. “I’ll be a good little prisoner for you, Mando, I promise. And who knows…,” you nudge him again. “Maybe I’ll let you keep these binders on me after all, since you’ve been so good to me today.” 

He can’t find anything to say to that, but by the fact that you can see the flush creeping up the back of his neck in that tantalizing gap between cowl and helmet, you know he’s definitely sweating now, if he weren’t before. 

“Is my big bad bounty hunter at a loss for words?” you tease softly. 

He clears his throat. “Just saving my voice, Mesh’la. If you’re REALLY well-behaved, I might — possibly — be persuaded to talk Tusken to you later. Possibly.” 

The idea takes a moment to fully crystallize in your brain; Din, and a shower, and binders, and if you just stop teasing him so naughtily in public he might actually bring that unreasonably provocative language into the bedroom? 

You finally let yourself relax into his hold, and after a bit you hear his breathy sigh of relief that you aren’t going to keep tormenting him anymore for the moment. 

After all, he has put forth an offer you can’t refuse. 

Ad'ika = Little One/Small child

Cabur = Protector

[insomniakisses]

Hi, I am new in your blog and have a request, could you make an Alpha!Rhaenyra and Omega!reader where the reader is Rhaenyra's younger sister and both are in love with each other but Viserys doesn't allow them to marry, so the two go to Dragonstone to marry and consummate their marriage

sorry if there are any words wrong english is not my first language

Forbidden Love

Character: Rhaenyra Targaryen (HOTD)

Warnings/notes: Omegaverse au, mentions of arranged marriages, incest, sister!rhaenyra, alpha!targaryen, omega!reader, fem!reader, your dragon is the cannibal, nicknamed chomp by cowboy anon and me, sexual scenes later on. NSFW MINORS DNI (Viseyris is an omega lets be honest sooo Alpha! Alicent and Omega!Viserys)

“HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU NO!” You wince at the sound of your fathers voice carrying through the halls, knowing exactly what it is he is refusing, the marriage between you and your older sister rhaenyra had been a topic of discussion these past months. Ever since the death of laenor velarion, she seemed intent on marrying you.

You couldn’t argue, having loved her for a while now. There was however a great many obstacles to overcome before any type of marriage could be discussed.

The main, and most obvious obstacle was the king and queens adamants that the two of you would not marry. For your father, you knew it was simply that he wished to marry you to a stark to further cement an alliance to from north. Whereas, you weren’t certain on the Alicents reasoning. Perhaps it was that you would be a praised and perfect consort to rhaenyra, strengthen the publics reasonings for supporting her claim. Maybe it was that she saw you as her own and to think of you mated to her once friend, now enemy would be hard. You would never truly know the reason and you didn’t care all that much. You simply yearned for the comfort only rhaenyra seemed to grant you.

Taking a deep breath you entered the chambers of your father, alicent bolting to stand and welcome you in with a hug seeing thankful for the presence of someone not screaming at full volume.

“Father, please.”

You let out with a whine and he sighs cupoing your face before shaking his head. “My dear daughter, you are already promised.” He concludes flopping down in his seat as if the matter was simply over.

“BUT FATHER-“

“Enough! Your father needs to rest and I am quite frankly sick of hearing about this nonsense, seven hells!” Alicent all but roars, the alphas tone coming harsh and you whine in submission on instinct.

She softens at that, “come my dear,” she grabs you face leaning to kiss your head “you too should rest. Busy day tomorrow you will travel north to meet your betrothed.”

You sigh in defeat your eyes watering slightly at the feeling of how trapped you really are and you push her off angrily whipping your tears as you run to your room ignoring rhaenyra’s calls after you as you head to your chambers.

-

The sound of your door opening and closing alerts you from your place in bed. Climbing to your feet you make your way to the door freezing with a gasp when you see a hooded figure standing in the dark. As if sensing you were about to scream they made quick movement to you clasping their hand over your mouth.

“Shhhh baby, its me” you feel your whole body relax hearing her voice.

“RHAENYRA!” You whisper yell glaring as you slap her shoulder, she simply chuckles pulling you to her and placing a few kisses to your head.

“The boys are asleep and our dragons saddled, we should make haste” she whispers moving to wrap a cloak around you oblivious of your confusion.

“Make haste? Make haste where, where are we going!?” She smiles cupping your face ever so softly “To get married of course!”

You stare at her her in complete shock, “But the king-“ she rolls her eyes, “our father, will have to deal with it” she cuts you off leading you out of your room and through the secret passages until you were out of the palace, and in the dragon pit.

The soft chirps of Syrax and Chomp greet you as they make their way out from the dragon pit. Rubbing his snout you climb on chomp as rhaenyra sets off on syrax signalling for you to follow.

When you both land, she dismounts first moving to help you down and pulling u into a soft kiss before passing you a bag full of wedding clothes for you. Turning around and starting to dress into her own.

Now fully dressed you turn to each other walking hand in hand to the alter where the ceremony begins. You both go through the motions, until your cutting each others lips, drinking from the cup and leaning in for a soft kiss.

-

Your heart flutters at the knowledge your finally married, and you know she feels the same when she moves to pull you against her kisses you a few times before grinning against your neck.

“Well you may be my wife, but now I need to make you my mate” she smirks.

You blush as she picks you up, helping you to get seated on syrax before sitting behind you. She makes a point of kissing at your neck the whole ride her hand roaming wherever she felt like it.

The rides quick landing on a cliff somewhere that she had set up a few blankets and when you land she helps you down sending syrax off to give you guys some privacy.

She makes quick work of undressing before capturing your lips with hers. Her hands eagerly pulling the clothes from your body until you lay naked under her.

She cups the side of your neck and places gentle kisses and love bites till she reaches her desired target your scent gland that she places her mouth on and starts sucking and licking at letting out a deep rumble when you let out a whine and grip the back of her neck.

“Patience sweetling” she hums moving to capture your lips with her own in a wet kiss.

“Rhaeny-“ her lips on yours cut you off, moving to rub at your clit while she continues the kiss. The moving of hers on yours becoming faster and more heated both of you moaning into the kiss as she picks up the pace she rubs your clit.

“Seven hells” she grunts against your lips “so fucking wet for me” shes cocky, in the way she speaks, smirk pulling at her lips as she continues her kisses. Trailing her lips lover and lower taking the time to grope and suck at your breasts. Pinching the buds between her fingers and rolling and tugging at them cooing in fake sympathy when you whine and moan in response. Leaning to suck harshly at your skin.

“So so pretty, my baby, my sweet sweet sister all mine to use and breed” she groans, running her tongue against the skin of your thighs sucking and nipping the soft skin leaving purple and red marks in her wake. A trail leading right back up to your neck where she had started.

“P-please” you beg bucking up into her face as you clench around nothing your hole just begging to be stretched and abused by her thick cock.

“Patience baby, gotta make you nice and wet to take me don’t want to hurt this pretty little pussy now.” She seemingly takes pity on you then licking a stripe from your hole up to your clit. Her lips wrapping around it and sucking gently as she held your legs open her cock leaking pre against the mattress as if crying for her to give it some attention.

She gives your cunt a few more licks before focusing again on sucking your clit pushing two fingers into you slowly. “I know sweetling i know, be patient baby I promise to make it feel good” she coos when you whine in discomfort the feeling of something entering you for the first time slightly painful and uncomfortable.

She focuses on soft deep thrusts of her fingers twisting and curling them as she sucks your clit, moaning against you when she sees you reach to play with your tits. Biting your lip as you stare down at her. It spurs her to go faster until she has you cussing and crying out as your juices run down her chin and you shake clenching hard around her fingers as an orgasm rips through you.

“Mm,” she moans licking her fingers and lips clean as she moves up your body. “Think your ready baby”

Moving to rub her tip against your pussy she gathers your juices along her cock, pushing in slowly as she rubs your clit pulling you into a deep kiss.

Her thrusts start slow and deep getting you used to the stretch and weight of her big cock, before she slowly begins picking up the pace. Your pussy sucking her in with ever thrust and pre spurting into you every time you clench around her. She fights her every urge to jus grab your hips and pound, wanting your first time to be gentle and soft.

Shes kissing you softly as you moan into each others mouths, her hips picking up speed and she pulls all the way out before slamming back in you move to rub your clit while she gropes at your chest. Another orgasm rips through you as you yell out her name and a string of cuss words. “FUCK RHAENYRA! SHIT OH GOD! Mmm FUCK!”

You clench hard and she gasps closing her eyes. “Thats it baby fill me up” you groan and she can’t take it anymore, loud yell filling the room as she freezes spurt after spirt of cum filling you deep.

“Mm fuck you have the best fucking pussy baby” she kisses at your neck hips stuttering and dick still twitching from her orgasm.

Moving to pick up your legs she pins them against your chest moaning when she slips deeper.

“Ready for some more baby?” She smirks rubbing at your clit as you moan eagerly clenching around her cock silently begging for her to fill you up more. Give you all her cum and make you round with her pups.

[greyborn2]

Elisif headcanons now! (friendly tone ofc <3) Why do you think she would be a good marriage candidate? I'm curious :)

Yesssss!!! Okay - so this boils down to two categories. Personal interest in it, and underrated narrative JUICE. Starting with the former because its easier to begin with. So Elisif is just... she's neat. She's simultaneously one of the most politically important people in skyrim while also being COMPLETELY overshadowed by the men around her (Nobody talks about her, really, they talk of Torygg. The civil war isnt her vs ulfric, its TULLIUS vs ulfric. Her own decisions in court the first time we even see her are seemingly overruled on a dime by her own court, by Falk.). Its like she's this big thing of incredible importance and is constantly hidden away both in narrative and in game. But despite that, if you actually sneak in a bit, ignore all the big figures standing in front of her and propping themselves up on top of her, she has a surprising amount of meat to her.

Most of the Jarls are like... a few word summary at best. Greedy idiot boy, honourable honorman, paranoid bigot, old seer, etc etc etc. You get an initial impression of them and thats kinda it. Ulfric has a lot more, obviously, because he's a major character but it would *SEEM* that Elisif should be on the lower end of content. It takes so much to seek her out in her overshadowed little corner after all, but she has so so so much surprising stuff around her. The necromancer potema plot revolves around her, a whole big dialogue tree that isnt super common to see for a jarl, some touching personal quests that go into detail about how she saw her late husband. Its just all super compelling to me to have a character that, despite being so important, is *soooo* hidden away actually have some meat to her. Plus she's just a nice person!!! ANYWAYS!! PART 2!! The JUICE!!

For starters, I think, there should just be more opportunities for the dragonborn to play the political game if they want. Beyond just choosing a side in a war or ticking off their 'thane of everywhere' list, actually getting in on climbing the ladder and enmeshing oneself with the politics of the land they're in. BUT BUT... same can be said for Ulfric. Absolutely true. I do think he should also be a marriage candidate. BUT...

I think Elisif PARTICULARLY makes sense as a marriage opportunity that isn't one you seek out, but one that is put forward to the player. Specifically with an Imperial victory in the civil war.

The war is won. Alduin MAY or MAY NOT be slain. But either way, no matter what, at this point the dragonborn is a war hero, a champion of the people, and decorated imperial legate. And this would be fucking FRIGHTNING, I think, to the politicians back in Cyrodiil. There's a *history* of war hero dragonborns, popular with the people, turning on their commanders and declaring themselves emperor afterall. Oh boy is there a precedent. Suddenly they're the big figure in a war that was supposed to be Tullius' duty and they might start sweating in their boots a little.

SO... after the war is won... the legion starts... pushing. Just a little. A few letters, a few comments, that the dragonborn should maybe marry Elisif. Become High King by marriage. Lock them in and satisfy the war hero with a political title off in the ass end of the empire before they turn their gaze toward a ruby throne. Don't give them time to think on it. Ooooh look tasty treat right here shhhh dont think yes you did very good dragonborn yes yes be high king.

I think from there it could go one of three ways;

1) Last Dragonborn marries Elisif but with her actually agreeing to the union (after completing her personal quests) and she FINALLY steps out of the shadows. Rather than the expected you using her for power, she uses YOU for power. You allow yourself to be the thing she props herself up on and finally really starts coming into public view. Maybe to the nervousness of the Empire as she's a less eager puppet then they might have thought, now.

2) Last Dragonborn falls right into the trap the empire placed. You didnt do the quests for Elisif, she remains in the shadows, there's a loveless marriage and you get to be satisfied with a big title that hopefully keeps you occupied.

3) Last Dragonborn refuses all of this. Things seem to proceed as they do in canon but... well... maybe you notice a few more non-DB assassins using imperial weapons attacking you on the road then you did before. Curious.

[persephone11110]

Hold Me Baby

Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Warnings: low self esteem, self-deprecating thoughts, shy reader, anxiety, protective bradley bradshaw , fluffy ending

Summary: Just when she was having a great night, her insecurities sweep in and destroy her self confidence.

reader nickname is Angel

this is short compared to my other fics.

———

It’s hard picking out a time when Bradley showed you he loved you. It could’ve been when he threw a punch across your ex-boyfriend face for being an asshole towards you. Maybe it been the time he nearly destroyed the vending machine in the break room in attempts to get you your honeybun that was stuck. Overall you can’t pinpoint the exact moment but all you knew is that your heart always beat a thousand times faster around him. You loved him, he loved you—end of story.

The only man to take the time to break the walls that were heavily secured around your heart. It was with a matter of seconds you knew you loved the man who sat behind Penny’s piano playing Great Balls Of Fire. At first you tried denying how much he made you blush, you even tried building your defenses higher around yourself —which didn’t help because he your weak spots. He knew how break through to you.

No matter how time you spent in your own head denying how much he loved you, Bradley would remind you—day and night.

You nervously sat at the circular table, examining how all the people that were in ball room looked like they actually belonged here. It’s another gala organized by the brass—were everyone shows up just to drink expensive alchol and eat expensive food. Talk shit about eachother.

But most importantly make great impressions on the brass or higher ups from around the world. Yet everyone blended in together like camouflage —talking and walking with confidence while you stood out like a sore thumb with your shyness, and lack of confidence.

Your sour thoughts were back.

“You don’t belong here Y/n. Never have and never will”.

Your weak spot was your eyes. Bradley told you once while laying in bed, about how much your eyes display every emotion you felt. Whether its fear, happiness or sadness and anger he always knew what you felt. As of right now insecurity reflected off them.

Its like a six sense for him–knowing when your weren’t okay even when you desperately tried hiding it. “I’ll catch you later Phoe, save me a beer”.

You were to busy being stuck in your own head.

You atleast needed to look perfect, for him and for everyone else. You nervously smooth your hands down your dress repeatedly—attempting to fix yourself. A mirror was in your hand as you looked at your makeup picking out a flaw in each and every part of your face. One word came to mind- “ugly”.

“Pretty”. his voice broke through her bad thoughts.

“Angel whats wrong?” You turned to see your night in shining armor standing there with a frown on his face. Anything that makes you upset whether it’s and object or person is easily a negative in Bradley Bradshaw eyes.

You tearfully chuckle“I’m fine Bradley—go back to your friends”. you told him.

“Y/N”, Bradley sounded so hurt. You hated how much pain you caused him.

Who were you kidding here?, it didn’t matter if you wore expensive dresses, did your makeup straight out of a vogue magazine. You still didn’t belong with him.

Two different streets that should have never connected.

“Angel” he you pulls to him, your face easily finds his chest. Bradley tried racking his brain attempting to figure what went wrong. Just half an hour ago there was a small smile placed on your face and now tears stain his suit jacket as it stains your face.

“‘You deserve someone on your level” your voice seemed to be muffled by his chest. His fist clench—he’s not angry at you but at the people who put those thoughts into your head. Bradley feels like his lips are going to bleed by the way he’s bitting them. Because he knew the words he wanted to say were not needed right now. His wife didn’t need to hear the threats that were on the tip of his tongue, but instead reassurance and love.

Bradley swears he heard you wrong. He thought maybe your true words were being muffled.

No there weren’t.

“What? Angel, what are you talking about?”

“I’m not good enough for you Bradley, me and you—and everyone else knows it”

You sniffle again.

It seemed like Bradley didn’t hear you—or maybe he realized its—

“Not true”, He simply shook his head as if everything you just said wasn’t true at all.

“Remember what I told you on our wedding day Y/N Bradshaw?”

You nod your head shakily. “I-I will always love you, now matter what happens there will never be a time I didn’t—”

“Love you, and cherish you” he recited with a smile on his face.

“Right?, so you do remember Angel”.

“Mhm” you mumble.

“Then you also know that vows are never to be broken, and you know how I don’t break promises—especially to the ones I love” He pulls aways to take his thumb across your face- wiping away the falling tears.“Don’t ever think you don’t deserve me Angel, sometimes I don’t even think I deserve you—" A small tear rolls down his face.

“I’m sorry Bradley”, your voice wobbles “I love you” you tell him without hesitation.

“Don’t be Angel, I love you too” he gently pulls you out his chest. “I think we should end our night with a dance— whaddya think Angel?”

“I think we should too” he pulls you by your hand to the dance floor.

“Hey Rooster you big stud”

[samdeancrimespree]

it’s time to overanalyze the impala destruction scene <3 with actual screencaps this time. my analysis of the shot will be Above the screencap. hopefully that makes sense

so sam tries once again to talk to dean about dad. dean yells at him again for suddenly wanting to do what dad would’ve wanted and sam opens up to him about feeling guilty. then sam says he’s dealing with dads death, but dean isn’t. dean doesn’t say anything, just looks at him like This.

we don’t know yet, what john said to dean before he died. but it’s hanging over dean. i think sam’s reaction to dad’s death makes dean want to keep johns words a secret even more. if he tells sam that’s what dad wanted, sam might go along with it.

every time someone brings up john, dean hears his words again, and he feels even worse. he can’t deal with dads death because that means acknowledging what he said, and it’s just too much. he already lost dad, he can’t lose sam too.

sam says “i’ll leave you alone.” and walks away. we only hear a few steps, but that might just be for clarity. who knows. or he just. took a few steps then stopped.

either way, dean turns around and calmly picks up a crowbar. he smashes the window of a random car. takes a few breaths.

as he turns around, he looks up from the ground. looks at something in front of him. it seems for a second like he’s going to stop.

then he looks down at the impala. he glances back up, just for a second. right where sam was standing before. it looks like he’s making sure sam is watching him. you want me to deal with it? fine.

“next time someone asks me if i’m okay, i’m gonna start throwing punches.”

so he goes crazy on the impala. we all know that part.

he destroys the car right after he fixes it. specifically the trunk of the car, where they keep their hunting arsenal. maybe that was just the closest part, or maybe he’s had enough of his family dying because of hunting. he didn’t want to find the demon if it meant sam would die, but now sam might die anyway. no matter what he does, the car/his family will be destroyed. he can’t fix it, and it’s futile to even try. all his work, all the time and love he put into sam might have been worthless.

when he finally stops, he looks wrecked. this is the most emotion he’s allowed himself since dad died.

this is the last shot of the episode. him staring for a good 10 seconds, still on that same eyeline. he seems like he’s looking at something.

he lets himself look sad for a second, but he doesn’t turn away like he normally would. he wants sam to see. this was all for him. it’s like… there. i’m upset. was that enough? can you stop asking now?

then his expression hardens, shutting down and covering his emotions again. it’s like he’s warning sam. dean can’t be sad, only angry. only destructive. this time, it’s the car. next time, it might be sam. the two things he’s supposed to look after, both ruined. and dad isn’t here to fix it. dean has to figure it out on his own.

it looks like he’s asking sam to just leave it alone. don’t ask me about this. i can’t talk about it. and for now, sam believes it’s just about dad dying.

and then the episode ends. i genuinely cannot tell if im supposed to think sam is there or not. but like its the same eyeline!!! and the shot is pushed in and to the right!! sam could be standing in the same spot for all we know !! also what else would he be having a silent convo with in bobby’s junkyard? the dog? his own reflection? the only thing that makes sense to me is that sam is there. that he’s doing this For sam. maybe this is something everyone noticed but me until rn but. im going insane

[suffrin]

To the ones who voted yes on making this dream into a shitty x reader

Disclaimer: i do not write often, this is just for fun, etc. There will probably be puctuation errors and typos and the like. I dont beta<3

ISAT | MAL DU PAYS X GN! READER

A sleepover with your friend Siffrin! How fun! You two had had some sort of something going on that neither of you cared to define, really. You enjoyed eachother's company and Siffrin enjoyed how comfortable your bed was. That's what mattered. As they came back from your bathroom, dressed in their admittedly amusing sleepwear, snork mimimi cap and all, you settled into bed yourself. He climbed up into bed beside you, the fabric of his clothes meeting yours for a split second as he adjusted to get himself under your covers. Not too close, though. Once the both of you were comfortable, you give them a smile, which they return. "Goodnight, Siffrin." You say, but its too late for them to say it back. They are Already asleep. Your bed does this!

You wonder if they're as weird about being so close to you as you are about being so close to them as you slowly drift off.

-------

It's dark. Cold, even. Are you dreaming? You hear a faint and uneven breathing. Where is it coming from? You don't... see anything. You turn around. A figure stands in front of you, saying nothing. It opens it's mouth to speak but no words are produced. Is this... a nightmare? You step closer. It steps closer. ....It looks a lot like Siffrin now that you can make out its features. It seems to examine you, uneven breathing still enveloping your senses. You let it watch you for a few moments. "Woah....You're like Siffrin but. hotter

.."

As soon as the words leave you mouth you cringe. Why would that be the first thing you say to it!? You meant to just THINK that.

Luckily, it doesn't seem to care, spiral eye still silently staring you down. Finally, you wave. "Hi...?"

The figure nods, lifting its hand in what seems to be a wave back. Oh, so it does hear you! ......Great.

"Do you like watching people..? Me too." You nod back. The fact it returned your greeting draws you in to keep talking to it. The figure nods again. Its movements are eerily inhuman, which you can't say you mind. It doesn't move, still watching you. Something tells you this ISN'T a dream. That its the work of something else. You look around. The room(?) Is devoid of anything but you and the figure.

"I don't know how it's possible for me to...be here, but I'll stay, if you'd like.." You offer, wondering if this could be some sort of wish, or something divine. It wouldn't be right to analyze it! Just enjoy.

It takes a slight step closer, seemingly agreeing. As it steps closer, you wonder if it works on the same rules as Siffrin; not wanting to be touched. You shakily extend your hand in greeting to find out. "I'm _____, if you'd like to ...shake hands. You don't have to-"

The figure studies your hand for a moment before slowly reaching out to shake it. Its grip is cold, strange, almost otherworldly. The shake itself is gentle,hesitant. As if its never made contact with anyone.

You shake its hand back before loosening your grip so it can easily pull away when it wants to. Who knew a sleepover with siffrin would bring you....here?? It feels so real.

"It's nice to meet you.." As you come to terms that you'll be here a while, you look around. "Could we sit?"

The figure nods and releases your hand, shaking it's own of your touch. It seems to have liked it, though. It taps an area free of any debris, indicating you should sit there with it. You do so. Immediately.

"Thank you. I wish I knew your name- oh!" You stop your sentence to pull your small notepad out of your pocket. You take it with you everywhere, even your dreams(?) apparently!

"Can you write? If so, you can write it here..."

The figure watches you curiously as you take out your notebook, as if wondering what you're going to do with it. When you ask if it can write, it nods slowly, then reaches out to take the book from you. It studies the page for a moment before carefully writing its title in your black pen.

You wait, patient as you swing my feet. You wonder what it will do. In the waking world, Siffrin is sleeping soundly and you're here with their....weird shadow? Subconscious? Something? Is this some sort of wish magic? It has to be. You don't care about the logistics, remember?? You're having fun. You're... really enjoying this thing's company. You continue waiting for it to hand the sketchbook back.

It does so after a moment, breaking you out of your thoughts. The page has 'MAL DU PAYS' written on it.

Oh. A name like that makes sense. You smile sadly, placing the sketchbook down beside you.

"It's really nice to meet you, Mal Du Pays. Is... Mal okay?"

The figure nods its head slightly in response to your question, seeming to accept the shortened version of its name. It seems to appreciate the fact that you're attempting to connect with it, even if it cannot talk back to you. Seems you've already made it less lonely.

"Well, Mal... I suppose we're... friends now?" You seem to blush at the prospect.

"Ah- acquaintanted at least!"

The figure's unreadable expression seems to soften as you call it your friend. It gives you a slow nod in agreement, as if accepting your friendship. It's hesitant to do so, but not unwilling. Its used to being alone, and your presence is having an effect on it that it can't quite ignore.

"Friends, then...? I'd um... I'd love to consider you one. You're.... very nice to look at." You swear you feel yourself blushing more, further embarrassing yourself.

The figure's expression seems to become perplexed as you compliment its appearance. It looks down at itself for a moment, as if unsure how to react, before looking back up at you. There's a hint of confusion in its gaze, as if its unused to receiving compliments. It has no idea what it looks like.

"Oh- well, I guess there's no mirrors here, are there? ....Um... hang on, Mal. Stay still just for a second?"

You pull out your pen and grab your notebook again, studying it for a brief moment before doing a quick doodle of what it looks like, turning the page toward it.

"...There. See? Very nice to look at.."

The figure watches curiously as you quickly sketch a picture of it. Once you hold out the sketch to show it, its expression goes from perplexed to bewildered. It's not used to seeing itself in any way, it seems.

It tilts its head as it looks at the tiny replica of itself, looking almost... intrigued. It seems to appreciate the drawing, even if it finds the very fact that you're drawing it to be a strange thing.

"It's nothing really but um......You can keep it, if you want-"

You smile, trying to ignore the way your heart swells as it looks at you drawing of it. You find it cute. Cute like you find siffrin, yet... Mal intrigues you more.

Mal Du Pays stares down at the drawing for several moments, as if studying it in detail. After what feels like an eternity, it reaches out and gingerly takes it from you, grasping it like it's something precious. It then looks back up at you, a faint hint of gratitude in its eye.

"Oh! I'm really glad you like it.. I usually just draw Siffrin and their friends so...it's nice to draw someone else."

You look down at your notebook. Should you have mentioned siffrin to it?? You don't know if that's a sore dubject or something. You don't know anything about it at all. You look back at it.

"Did you want to try drawing something, Mal?"

The mention of Siffrin's name seems to cause a subtle shift in the figure's demeanor.

However, it quickly pushes the thought aside and instead focuses on your question. The figure is silent for a long moment before giving a slight nod. Its eyes fall on the book once again.

You notice its change in demeanor when you mention siffrin and make a note to be careful about that in the future. Though.... the thought of it being upset with you is um....... nevermind. You flip to a new page and hand the sketchbook and pen off to it with an inviting nod. It gets to work and you take care not to look until its done. It hands the book back to you. On the page is a simple, albiet slightly scratchy drawing of you and itself, sitting where you currently are.

As you scan the paper, you cover your mouth with your free hand, absolutely touched that it drew the two of you sitting together.

"Oh, Mal! you drew us!"

You have a strong urge to hug it... or even kiss it due to how honored you are but I

You don't DARE act on that. No. Even if its all you've been thinking about since you laid eyes on it.

"I love it..."

Though not quite able to properly convey it, it seems pleased that you like its drawing.

When you cover your mouth, its gaze seems to linger on your lips...

You notice that. It doesn't help your situation. You set the drawing down, eyes darting from it to Mal.

"Um...Can I ask you something?"

It tilts its head at that.

You look away, suddenly feeling self conscious under its gaze.

"...Has anyone ever come here?" Wherever here is. Siffrin's head? Yours? Somewhere else entirely?

Mal seems to think for a moment, before slowly shaking its head. No one but Siffrin at least, and he didn't count. So no.

".....I didn't want to assume that, but..."

You trail off, sighing sadly. You can't help but move just the slightest bit closer as you sit together,still not touching it, but much more within reach to.

The figure keeps its gaze on you as you move closer. As you get within reach, it seems to stiffen, as if not expecting the movement... but it does not pull away.

It remains seated silently, a strange mixture of uncertainty and hope in its eyes as it watches you approach. It seems strangely starved for contact, yet also hesitant to accept it.

"Oh-- no, no I promise I won't touch you- I just... felt really far away for a second." *

You blush nervously, messing with you hands in your lap. You see it does seem to share Siffrin's thoughts on touch, so you keep my hands fully to yourself.

The figure relaxes slightly as you assure it that you won't touch it. It seems relieved that you've picked up on its reluctance to be touched. However, it also looks a bit... sad, as if it's yearning for some sort of contact, even if it fears it.

It continues to watch you silently, its gaze flicking back and forth from your face to your hands, as if longing to feel your touch while fearing it at the same time.

You notice their pointed gaze. ".......Um........."

Your face burns and you hide it in your hands. ".....Unless you.....want me to.....do that...."

You laugh nervously behind your fingers, thoroughly flustered and worried you might be reading it wrong.

Mal watches you, its expression stoic and unreadable... Then, ever so subtly, it nods.

It glances at your hands, then to its own body... as if silently giving you permission to touch it, though it's still hesitant. The air seems to crackle with an almost unbearable tension as you wonder what to do next.

"Okay I'm going to. Right now.."

You shift closer, hands falling from your face to your sides.

" .....Tell me if it's ...too much."

You slowly, gently place an arm around it in a sort of side-hug, making sure it's not too suffocating, and easy to push away if needed.

The moment your arm gently wraps around its form, it stiffens once more, its body going rigid with what seems to be.... fear. But slowly, ever so slowly, it relaxes into your touch, its body losing its tension.

It doesn't move to pull away, but it doesn't embrace you either. It simply sits there, feeling your arm resting around it, as if it's both afraid of and savoring your touch.

You notice it tense, but it hasn't said to stop, so you don't. You slowly bring your other arm up to hug it properly, gently leaning your body into it.

"...You feel nice..." You say absently, face burning against it.

It remains silent as you wrap your arms around it, gently hugging it. The tension in its body seems to slowly fade away, replaced by a curious mixture of acceptance and uncertainty. Its skin feels cool and smooth against you.

At your words, it seems to shiver slightly, as if not used to being flattered. It leans into your embrace, but only hesitantly and timidly, as if it's still afraid of physical contact. yet its obvious it desperately needs it.

"You can... touch ME all you want, I don't mind it.."

It's an embarrassing invitation to let it explore what a person feels like, but it's genuine. You keep hugging it, relaxing comfortably into its cool skin and the shadowy fabric of its cloak.

The figure seems to take a moment to process your words. It lifts one of its hands shakily, as if testing to see if you're serious. You can almost feel its surprise.

Slowly, it places its hand on your side, its touch tentative and careful. It lets its fingers linger there for a moment, feeling the warmth of your body, before slowly moving its hand slightly higher, exploring you.

You shiver at the feeling of its hand on you. It really took up your offer. You lean into it slightly, content letting it explore. Your own hands stay where they are, just loosen a little. A strange guilt eats at you ever so slowly as you remember Siffrin is sleeping soundly right beside you while you do.... this.

The figure continues to explore you, its touch becoming more confident as it slowly runs its hand across your torso and chest. It seems to be relishing the feeling of flesh under its fingers, its touch now less tentative and more inquisitive.

As it moves its hand higher, its fingers brush gently against the skin on your neck, feeling the warmth and life pulsing underneath. It might be envious of the heart that beats in your chest.

"Ah....Mal, you're getting really friendly with those hands real fast-"

You gasp out, flustered but absolutely not protesting.

"Feels nice..."

You reassure, leaning into it a bit more as it continues to roam your skin.

It brings a second hand into the mix, now fully examining you. You can't possibly go anywhere now. You can't help but feel a desire that's better kept to yourself. You seem to melt under its touch,unable to do anything in response but just invite it. You again, feel guilty having this kind of dream(?) next to your friend Siffrin in the waking world, but he never has to know you did!

" I'm comfortable with whatever-"

You suddenly say, tone much more fond than you expected.

It nods, bringing one of its hands to your chin, lifting it to make you look at it. It looks... like it wants something from you.

You shiver again, meeting its gaze, face burning hot. You lift your hand to your lips quizzically. The way it's staring... the way it has your chin between its fingers.... could it want...?

" ......Do you want me to ...?"

I leave the question in the air.

It swallows. is it nervous? That's cute... so are you. It's gaze sharpens as it nods.

"Oh......"

You blush even harder than before, slowly leaning in so you're inches from where its mouth would be if it had one. You lean in more, shakily pressing your lips to it before pulling away.

The figure seems almost frozen in shock as you lean in and press your lips to the shadowy spot where its mouth would be. For a second, it doesn't move, its fingers still holding you.

Then, slowly, very slowly, it almost seems to lean into your kiss. It doesn't know how to react, but it seems to crave it, silently aching for more...

You look for its approval and then come back in for another kiss, savoring the strange feeling of its shadowy skin against your lips. As the dream goes on, you wonder if Siffrin really is sleeping soundly beside you while you... essentially make out with Mal du pays. Yoy breathe softly, kissing it once more before leaning into the crook of its neck. Banish the guilt.

It seems almost overwhelmed, breathing a bit heavier than usual. That's.... hot. Oh, but it's frozen against your own body. You notice that and come down from thr high of kissing it, blinking apologetically.

"T-Too much?"

It exhales , shaking its head no.

"Not... enough?"

You raise a brow, still resting softly against it. It nods, now looming over you. Oh. How much of you does it want? Are you ever leaving?

-----

The light shines through your bedroom window. It's morning. Siffrin is still sound asleep. You're sweating. You touch your lips, but they feel cold. You can't look at him. You turn your head to bury your face in your pillow until something wakes them. Your face is hot. Siffrin shows no signs of stirring. You close your eyes and try to get back to bed, too. You wish you were still asleep. You wish you were still with Mal. It's. what. you. want.

[askthefivefallen]

“Okay, so the key to a good sand castle is a good sand to water ratio. If you have too much water, it’s mud, too much sand and it won’t stick. You want it to stand on its own but still be pliable. Like this,” *Emily squeezes a handful of sand and it keeps the shape of the space between her palm* “Once you have that, you can build it up and shave away what you don’t need. If you make a mistake, just add a little more and fix it.”

*She offers the sand castle building kit to Shamira* “Here, now you try!”

Alright, Sugar, here you go. Go ahead and summon your mask; it's your time to shine.

Shamira smiles, snapping her fingers to summon a periwinkle mask into place. It wasn't the same as her face guard, the fabric far more flexible and permitting her to speak, but it brought her a similar level of peace. She then took the kit Emily handed her, tilting her head as she puzzled through the various pieces. Aside from the bucket that carried the kit, there was a small hand shovel and several molds to build the actual castle. "It seems fairly straight forward."

She kneels down and familiarizes herself with the various components before taking the bucket to dig out a small pit, intending to use it to create a pool of water she could easily draw from and using the displaced sand to build her castle. Then, she went to gather water.

You know, now seems like a good enough time to ask- why sandcastle building?

I'm unsure what you mean with that question.

You're pretty invested in doing this and I'm just curious what about sandcastles has your attention. Not like either of us knew surfing was a bad idea until this morning.

Shamira gathers up water in the bucket and ferries it back to her pit, going back for a second trip as most of the water began seeping through the sand at the bottom.

I am intrigued by the concept and I hope to better understand our dynamic by experiencing the process myself.

Our dynamic?

Yes. We're very much like a sandcastle.

Sugar, I'm pretty good at reading you, but ya gotta explain this one.

Shamira continues bringing water, focused solely on creating her pool of water and conversing with Ass in her head.

Sandcastles combine two concepts that should not make sense together. Sand is malleable, always shifting, dynamic; a castle is not. The stone is immutable, worn away only after ages have passed. You are the sand- dynamic, changing, adapting, and yet you remain true. No matter how the ocean beats against you, you are still the same Ass, despite how much you've changed,l just like you may never walk on the exact same sand but the beach endures. I am the castle; I am set in my ways, virtually incapable of changing easily, and I fear I may be worn away entirely one day.

What makes you think you'll be worn away?

A few things. I'm not as strong as you- spiritually. It's as Emily said; you are a wild, blazing flame. I am not.

Just because you're not a flame doesn't mean you can't endure. Look at the Palace; that's a type of castle and it's been around ages.

... I suppose.

And, even if you're always going to be a castle, that doesn't mean you can't change. You were once a castle dedicated to Sera. Now you're dedicated to Emily.

I changed because you showed me how. In that way, we are a sandcastle- two things that, by all rights, should not be even remotely considered relevant to each other. Yet, we are.

Okay. Well. Couple things. First, whatever our 'dynamic' is, I promise it's gonna be stronger and hardier than any fucking sandcastle.

Noted.

Secondly, sandcastles, even well built ones, are still messy and imperfect. So, it's okay if we're a little messy and imperfect, too.

Reasonable.

Finally, trust Em's word. It's about finding the right ratio, the right balance. It might not be intuitive. But, if we keep working at it, we'll figure it out.

I believe that's a sound strategy.

Awesome. Now, you've been fucking silently filling up that hole with water for, like, ten minutes. Em's probably a little worried.

Shamira blinks and looks up, turning her head to meet Emily's gaze while holding up the bucket. "Preparations are almost complete. Then, construction can begin."

((@ask-emily-em-emmy))

[notapaladin]

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 (piratequeen@kci.net). To: m.quinn@imp.mil. 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.

[mccnstruck]

hold me like you understand.

characters: kazuha x gn!reader

tags: TW!!: implied depression and $u!cida! thoughts, mention of sh, vent fic, op is going through it, not proofread, hurt/comfort, kissing, the ending sucks

a/n: sorry guys 😭

the people down in the shops wandered around, yelling prices and selling different products. kids ran outside with the ball, yelling and laughing underneath the joyous warmth of the sun. friends gathered to drink tea, warriors trained amidst the green fields.

the wooden floor began to slide underneath your bed, yet you didn't seem to care; your eyes unfocused and stoic. your bed piled with clothes of the past day, your blanket had a eerie smell of sickness, yet you didn’t seem to care; you hands were too weak to pull the blanket over you fully. your throat felt like sandpaper and your stomach yearned for at least a small meal, yet you didn’t seem to care, your lips broken and bleeding.

nothing really mattered anymore, did it? it felt like weeks have turned into days, and your sense of time slipped away from the grasp of your fingers. you were too tired to grasp it back; letting reality slip away. nothing really mattered, did it? the red scars testing the fragility of your skin, the cold air making the hairs on your skin stand. your desk remained clattered of the endless amount of work given to you 2 days prior. your eyes consisted of red, either because of the 2 hours of sleep or the tears that fell onto your bed.

when was the last time someone had visited you? now that you think about it, when was the last time you talked to someone out of your own desire..?

it didn’t matter anyways. they wouldn’t want to talk to someone who doesn’t even know how to take care of themselves.

so, you laid there for a undefined amount of time. the soft promises of warmth and comfort from your bed soon turned into a confined suffocation; forced to face the thoughts in your head.

your chest hurt. you were tired. you wished you could see light, literally and figuratively. would you feel some relief? or would that light overwhelm you; the burdens of life forcing you back into the darkness of your room?

there’s nothing for you here. all of your loved ones were better off if they weren’t forced with the burden of acknowledging you anyways.

and yet, the knock on your door says otherwise.

a soft voice echoes through the walls of your home. “[name]?”

kazuha? what was he doing here?

your voice cracks, yet somehow you find the power to reply.

“sorry, give me a minute…!”

with the task of not disappointing kazuha, you rushed to get up and change into the clothes on your bed. your legs almost crumble after curling up into a ball for so long, yet you will yourself to walk to the main door.

you squint your eyes when you peek outside to see kazuha with something in his hands. the light of another day shined into your home from the crack of the door. kazuha softly laughed when he saw two eyes peek back at him.

“hello, you. i just wanted to pop in, if you don’t mind? it’s been a while, and i would like to spend some time with you.”

“um, its really messy inside…”

“i don’t mind. well, unless you want me to go? i don’t mind either way. whatever you wish.”

you don’t want kazuha to see the calamity of your home. but having him over would be nice.

“…promise you won’t judge?”

“of course, dear.”

you opened the door some more for him to enter. as he walked in, his eyes widened. your home looked dim and felt stiff. he looked at you in your entirety to see dark eye bags, unkempt clothes and tear stains marking your face.

he placed down the bag in his hands and moved closer to you, his crimson eyes dilated in fear of losing you to your thoughts. “my love…what happened?”

your voice cracked. your hands began to shake at his question. “it’s…. it’s been a rough few weeks. i’m sorry.”

he held your hands with caution, and let his lips linger on your skin. “don’t be sorry for not feeling alright. you should’ve told me of the thoughts that lingered in your head.”

he tugged on your hands, and you followed him to your kitchen. he sat you down on the chair and walked behind the counter.

"do you wish for a specifc food?"

"kazuha..."

"shh. let us make something, ok?"

he began to work with what you had, humming to a tune you weren't familiar with. he paced around the kitchen, while asking you where things were. you pointed to each cabinet, naming what was in there and what needed to be restocked. kazuha smiled and made his way to you to kiss your cheek. his lips lingered onto your skin and whispered, "thank you for helping me, dove."

soon, the spoons clicked at the bottom of the bowl, and your stomach was content with finally consuming something. saying your thanks and helping him with washing the plates, you finally move into your bedroom.

you were scared. the eerie smell never left your room and if kazuha were to even flinch at the condition of your room, you wouldn't know what to do with yourself.

and yet, kazuha walked in as if he didn't notice. he lit the small candle in your room and walked back to you, dazed and bewildered.

kazuha pulled your arm and let his own wrap around you. his face fit into the crook of your neck, and he gave a gentle squeeze. you swore you almost cried when he held you with such care, a reassurance that he was with you.

"kazuha...?"

his own voice was shaky, yet he whispered.

"i'm so sorry, dove. i'm so sorry for letting your mind consume you. i should've noticed sooner. "

"kazu, you didn’t have to-"

"i want to. it's not easy to face all these burdens, and you are the strongest person i know. you've done so much for me and so many other people. let me take some of those burdens, let me take care of you."

you hiccup, and a fresh set of tears stained his clothes.

"kazuha, why do you do so much for me?"

your cries echoed the room, and kazuha's heart broke. here in his arms, stood a person, who he thought deserved every bit of joy of the world, crying to him because they couldn't even find a reason for his kindness. his willingness to help was for the satisfaction of his heart, not of a ulterior motive. but to think that you, his love, would need a reason of kindness, because you thought you didn't deserve his love, you didn't deserve him.

kazuha answers, "because you are you. before you are my love, you are you. you are human. that in itself, should be all the answers to that question. but, i know your mind won't settle for only that."

he leans back, and you mourn the loss of warmth. his hand cradle your cheek, and he guides your face to look at him. "i want to help because you mean so much to me. it doesn't seem like it, but you mean so much to others too. captain beidou was asking about you the other day. she wanted your input on something, now that i think about it. and before, when i went off to liyue, the kids over there still remember you as the person who played catch with them. even your mama sent over something. i left it on the counter, but auntie told me she had made your favorite sweets."

kazuha examined your eyes, ignoring the shock written on your face.

"i don't see the stars in your eyes; it pains me to see it so dimmed. no matter how far i am willing to follow, i cannot reach you when you are so deep in your mind's cage. please, let the people care for you. you deserve this much."

he leaned in, and in the time it took you nod, he had leaned into a kiss. his other hand remained firm on your waist, and he muffled the sighs from you. your face felt unclean and dirty, you wanted to say. he telepathically answered by peppering kisses on your face, the sensation ticklish. you feel the laugh burst from your chest, and you also feel kazuha's smile on your skin.

voice muffled from peppering kisses onto you, he mumbles. "h'vent heard you laugh in so long. you sh'ld laugh and smile more."

he was right, you thought. this is the first time you genuinely laughed in... how long? you didn't care to count the time passed.

when he leaned back, he saw you smiling at him with a glint of light in your eyes. kazuha gives you a smile of his own. "mission complete."

he leaves one last kiss on your lips, before pulling you in another hug.

"thank you, kazu."

"don't mention it."

"do you want to help me gift something for mama this afternoon?"

you feel his smile on your neck as he whispers a yes.

the candle burned brightly on your desk. you hoped it forever stayed that way in your heart.

[salempie]

Hi! Thank you so much for the feedback about my Elka art! I really appreciate it. And now the question : What would Elka's mental world look like? I was wondering what you could suggest about this. It always seemed to me that the symbol of her world would be a mirror

Well actually my boyfriend and I had an idea for Elka's brain world we called "Elka's Ever-after!" I need to write down some big document for all the ideas we had about it but for now [should put a tw for like, idk, I think Elka would be an alcoholic as an adult. Theres a vague reference to that here? I mean Bobs Bottles exists so--]

It was a little 50s sitcom-type world, all in black-and-white and such, complete with it's own laugh track! Mostly it would be a representation of the "perfect" life she had always wanted for herself (the one she had pictured in all her years chasing after Nils and their predestined relationship (that as a child she conveniently ignored meant it was doomed to fail)), all with its own dandy Nils stand in, "The Husband," and their two darling regret children. The "plot" of the brain world (in the sense that, if someone were to go into it the "goal" of the world in order to "fix her issues") would be to disrupt this, although perfect, entirely fabricated life Elka, or rather "The Housewife," had made for herself.

The Housewife is stuck in a miserable marriage she pretends is perfect, but the signs are there. The cigarettes, the empty bottles, the constant misfortune written on the calendar on the fridge, the non-stop bad news on the television and the radio and the newspapers. It's obvious things are bad. But Elka is too proud, and far more than that, too resigned to what she sees as her predestined fate to even attempt to change anything. So she just tries to make sure everyone else thinks it's all as perfect as she always told them it would be, even in her own brain world.

She cant change the miserable future her visions showed to her, so why bother even trying? She feels helpless. Her visions are more in control of her own life than she is. There's a lot that I'm skipping for the sake of not rambling on and on, but the end of her world, I think, would be set in her childhood home (rather than the "perfect" home The Housewife lives in.) A little child Elka sitting in the dark of her living room in front of her TV, playing her first vision on loop. The start of all her issues, the beginning of the end of any control she felt over her life. It's mentioned she has a vision of a puppy getting run over in the Li-Po doc and I take that as being one of if not her first vision, so of course she's upset. Giving her the remote to the TV would be symbolically showing her that she is in control, that she doesn't have to just do whatever her visions say, that she has a choice in her life, that she doesn't have to just watch it all happen.

Heart! I could go a LOT into the intricacies of how it all plays out (and I will if you'd like but it would just be a written play-by-play of how I think going through the world would be (complete with bossfights!) from the perspective of Kitty and Franke since they're the ones going through her mind in my and my boyfriends Au!), with all the symbolism and whatnot, but this answer is already long enough.

All in all I have thought about this a lot (,'. Though I do think mirrors could really be a big thing for her. A lot of her issues, including not feeling in control, I also think would stem from her mother treating her precognition as a parlor trick. I think she would see a lot of her mother in herself (and father too for that matter. I figure Barney is the one who cheated (though mostly because of Mable's unhealthy obsession with bad predictions, not that that is an excuse) and I also figure he and Elka were close due to them both being psychics and having their unique precognition. So him leaving would put a lot of strain on her.) and hate that, so mirrors could be a fantastic symbol of that.

[if-mirrormine]

two of a feather

summary: grayson discovers that he and the mc are more alike than he originally thought.

pairing: yandere!grayson x yandere!mc

word count: 1332

warnings: mentions and descriptions of blood, violence, death, murder. DO NOT READ THIS IF THESE MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSUMPTION.

based on the ask: i know it's been a long time since the last yandere grayson ask but. I miss my man ☹️☹️‼️ so.... could i ask maybe...... yhhh.... yandere grayson reaction to an yandere mc please ? 🙏

**unedited//hey look its jake, remember him? it's okay if you dont, he's not gonna be around long enough for it to matter teehee**

there's something wrong with mc. grayson is certain of it. they're grumpy and quiet, a frown sitting perpetually on their face. he just can't figure out why.

sitting across from them in the library, he's long neglected the assignment before him. he studies their face; the slope of their nose, the crease between their eyebrows, the pout on their lips. an image of perfection that he's got burned into his memory. he just can't stand the stony silence.

"alright," he says, breaking the silence as he pushes his books and stationery to the side to focus on his best friend. he leans across the desk on folded arms and watches them with an intense focus. "tell me what's wrong."

"what are you talking about?" they mumble, barely glancing away from the computer screen in front of them. "everything is fine."

he narrows his eyes at them. "tell that to your face," he replies. he leans down further, his chin resting on his arms as he attempts to meet their eyes. look at me, he demands. please just look at me.

when they still don't say anything, he heaves a sigh. "you can't act all cagey and weird forever," he says, his fingers tapping against the table top. "i'll get you talking eventually."

as if his words magically flipped a switch in them, they suddenly stop typing and turn to face him, a pointedly blank expression on their face and he raises his eyebrows at them. "do you like jake?" they ask, the words tumbling out of their mouth in a such a rush that they immediately begin talking again. "i mean, its not that i- well, after last night i just thought- do you like him?"

and just like that, it finally makes sense to him. his little dove is jealous. he should've seen it sooner, what with their mopey attitude making its appearance just after jake had kissed him. he'd initially assumed that it was just because they were drunk but now it all makes sense. although they don't have any reason to be jealous. as far as first kisses go, it wasn’t all that bad but jake isn't his type. that begins and end with you.

grayson struggles and fails to hide the teasing smile that appears on his face, and the mc's frown deepens at the sight of it. "why do you ask?" he questions, tilting his head at them. "something you want to tell me, mc?"

they chew on their bottom lip and his eyes follow the movement, wishing it was his teeth instead. he lets the silence hang in the air, waiting for their answer with bated breath.

"i just... know he likes you is all," they say softly before resuming their typing.

he leans back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest and his teasing grin melts into a satisfied smirk. now this is an interesting development. perhaps one he can use to his advantage.

"really?" he asks, keeping his tone light as he picks up a pen to fiddle with. "maybe i should give him a call."

they inhale sharply at that and he quickly raises a hand to hide his smile. just as quickly, they begin to pack up their things, shoving books and stationery and loose papers into their backpack in such a haste that grayson worries they'll forget something. "i'll see at you at home," they say quickly as they jump out their chair, knocking it over in the process.

he watches them all but run out of library before he turns his attention to the computer they'd been using. what had started out as a promising essay had turned into a single word repeated over and over again that has his smile widening. mine.

it's been hours since he's last heard from the mc. he can't help but worry about them; they're his little dove. it's his job to protect them. so when later comes and they're still not home, what other choice does he have but to go out and find them?

and he knows exactly where to look.

the sun has set by the time he arrives at the fraternity and grayson walks straight up to the front door, letting himself in as if he owns the place. he's only been here once before, a party back in his first year, so it'll take some time to find jake's room but he doesn't mind. he's got nothing but time after all.

his search takes him to the first floor and he finds that it ends just as quickly as it begins. not only are the rooms labelled, elegant golden plaques adorning the wood and stating the purpose of everything laying beyond it, but there's also the distinct sound of glass breaking coming from behind the door at the end of hallway. shoving his hands in pockets, he takes his time walking over to it and smiling at the plaque reading j. sutherland when he comes to a stop in front of it.

truth be told, grayson doesn't know what he'll find inside - from what he can hear, it's something of a fight - but his excitement is building, bubbling just below the surface. what has the mc done? what are they capable of? how far are they willing to go? he's practically buzzing with anticipation.

neither of them even notice when he pushes open the door and steps into the mess that used to be jakes bedroom. he surveys the room in critical silence; a broken lamp in the corner, a toppled over desk chair, mc shoving jake against the wall and pressing a kitchen knife against his neck.

grayson's heart swells at the very sight. his best friend is bruised and bloody, chest heaving and covered in sweat but they're the most beautiful that grayson has ever seen them and he commits the image to memory.

the seconds seem to slow when jake's eyes flick over to him and they widen at the sight of him, his plea for help unsaid but clear as day on his own battered face. but it's already too late.

gray doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything to stop them. he simply watches on in awe and adoration as the mc drags the knife across jake's skin, unflinching as they're hit with a spray of blood. they push the blade in deeper, the man's blood gushing over them like a torrent of rain and grayson has to suppress a groan.

after what feels like an eternity, they take a step back, jakes body hitting the floor the same time as the knife. mc tilts their head back and shuts their eyes for the moment, attempting to catch their breath. finally, they look up to see him standing in the doorway and they freeze in place. a deer caught in headlights.

"it's not what it looks like," they try, their voice desperate as they wipe their bloody hands on their jeans. graysons eyes follow the movement, practically salivating at the sight and he's not even listening to everything else his best friend is saying in their defense.

his feet are moving again, towards them without hesitation, and while they're still desperately trying to explain themself, he sweeps them into his arm and crashes his lips to theirs. fierce. rough. uncaring of the blood smearing across his face, of the taste of copper on his tongue. he simply pulls them closer, tangles his fingers in their hair and shares his last breath of oxygen with the only person he'll ever love.

it's all too soon that they pull away and he immediately wants to kiss them again. he wants to kiss them from now until the end of time. and now he knows that he can.

sparing a glance at the dead body at his feet, he cups their face in his hands and offers them a soft, loving smile. "well," he starts, his voice low and gravelly, as he caresses their face. "looks like my little dove isn't so innocent after all."