The Pitt 🎾 Tennis AU - Jack Abbot Coach x Samira Mohan Tennis Star
Queue Yeah x 10 by Trent Reznor and Atticus Rose
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Mohan followed him tracking his dark grey suit as it weaved in and out of the crowd.
Turning the corner, she came face to face with Jack Abbot, almost slamming into his chest before digging her heels in.
“Shit!” she exclaimed.
She backed up a few steps. He didn’t even flinch under the threat of the near body check Samira had almost inflicted.
“Mohan.”
She took a moment to collect herself.
“Abbot.”
Her eyes tracked his posture. The way he shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked uncomfortable. Like she was the absolute last person in the world he wanted to talk to.
“You’re following me,” he said coolly.
“I---” she stopped pursing her lips. There was no way to sugar coat this conversation.
“Santos,” she spat.
“Santos?”
“Oh don’t play dumb,” she retorted.
His eyebrows quirked up.
“Tell me why.”
“Why what?” he questioned.
Oh, so this was how it was going to be. A rally. Just like on the court. Shot for shot. Fine. She could play that game---had played it all her life.
“Why didn’t you take my offer?”
“This isn’t professional.” He started in the other direction. Samira fell into step behind him.
“Oh fuck professional. Why won’t you coach me?”
“Because I’m already under contract,” he huffed. “Santos signed a full-season agreement. Same tournaments. Same surface blocks. I can’t split focus at that level.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It’s not.” His voice hardened. “The WTA doesn’t look kindly on conflicts of interest. I won’t risk compromising either player.”
“So this is about politics?”
“It’s about doing the job right.” He turned to face her. “And about fit.”
The sudden attention of his gaze was so direct Samira found it hard not to look away.
“The fit," she repeated mockingly. "You must be joking."
"And thats not even the main---." He stopped himself.
"No please go on. I wanna know why you passed on me for Santos."
She could see right through his facade. The gears turning behind his eyes. Clearly and carefully debating his next words.
"Lets hear it." She exclaimed.
“You see the court too well.” He blurted.
She frowned.
“You read patterns early. Grip changes, footwork, when someone’s about to blink. You don’t miss much.” A beat. “But you don’t know when to stop reading.”
“That’s called awareness.”
“It’s called overprocessing when the score’s tight,” he said. “You’re up a break and instead of running the pattern that got you there, you start looking for a cleaner answer.”
“So you suggest I play dumb?”
“No. You’re supposed to trust the diagnosis you already made.” His jaw tightened. “You shorten points because you want resolution---one swing, one winner, done. But the match doesn’t need closure right then. It needs repetition.”
“What I do works. Aggression is necessary.”
“It’s impatience when it costs you matches,” Abbot shot back. “And when the insight doesn’t pay off immediately,” he continued, voice sharper now, “you look for something external to argue with---an umpire, a clock, your box---because in your head the answer was right and the result wasn’t.”
Silence stretched.
“I coach players who can manage tempo,” he finished. “Think when there’s time. Execute when there isn’t. Right now---you don’t.”
“So I’m unworthy.”
“You’re volatile.”
The media had used that word too many times to count. In articles, commentary during her games, and even the occasional interview. It stung hearing it pour out of Abbots mouth which was now a tightly pressed line. Maybe she should have just left it all alone. But she knew deep down she needed closure. She needed to hear his reasons. Even if she unequivocally disagreed with them.
“Well, you’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
“I’m going to be the biggest mistake you’ve ever made.” She stated decisively.
He paused, as if he were thinking it over. Thinking her over. He scanned her face. It was as if he were sizing up his opponent from across the net and yet here they both were--- bodies less than a foot from each other. His gaze stumbled to her lips and darted back up to meet her eyes. But what he said next was the match ending shot.
“No" He shook his head. "--you would’ve been.”
She went silent. She stared at him, stunned by the certainty in his voice--- by how much he clearly believed it. How clearly he believed that coaching her would have been the worst decision he could make. It was the utmost disrespect. She couldn't see or feel it any other way.
“Fuck you.” Samira whispered.
Her heels were sharp, quick, and loud echoing off the tiles as she hastily walked away. Her figure disappeared as she turned the corner.
Jack hung his head slightly in the dimly lit hallway, silently cursing himself, the silence and darkness clouding in around him.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
1 2 3 4 5 - ongoing
SUMMARY: In the bible, "Babylon" is used as a symbol of sin and rebellion. Based on originally on this request and influenced by others in my inbox.
"How many miles to Babylon?
Three score miles and ten.
Can I get there by candlelight?
Yes, and back again...
If your heels are nimble and your toes are light,
You may get there by candlelight."
Nursery Rhyme, Unknown, 1801
PAIRING: Remmick x f!reader (human)
WORD COUNT: 6.8K
WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled 'enemies' to lovers, religious themes, blood/violence, inner turmoil, smut (18+), m!masturbation and the aftermath, angst, pervy landlord, protective!Remmick, angsty!Remmick, inspo from Robert Frost, other authors, web-weaving on Pinterest (credit goes where it is due always), etc.
A/N: I blacked out writing this fr. I incorporated some requests into the story as well, so I'm not ignoring my inbox. An overwhelming thank YOU to @fuckoffbard for helping me SO much and listening to me and everything in between, you literally inspired this with this one shot! Comments HEAVILY encouraged, it makes writers' hearts full and encourages me to continue writing. Enjoy.
part i
Remmick didn’t run—couldn’t.
He tumbled over his own feet, hands barely able to catch him before he hit the dirt. The sun left nothing untouched, even his palms blistered.
The still air created a dance of light that wavered against the heat; a deceptive shimmer, a fleeting, false delight. Remmick followed it until he collapsed.
The scene was explicit—nothing could be saved from the carnage.
The gore set the air with dust that could never settle; a blood-warm heat had set into your marrow, never to be forgotten; Remmick had crawled to your doorstep like a cat bringing in fowl.
“Was always curious ’bout what happened to the fallen angel once he hit the ground…” Your shock was instantly buried so deeply that you doubted it would ever surface. “...here you are.”
The shade of the porch helped, but Remmick’s skin didn’t heal. It festered. His breath felt hot in his lungs as if he were burning from the inside out. It had nearly burned the wit out of him.
“Pretty, ain’t I?” Remmick squinted, afraid of more light entering his body.
“Act like you have some sense—” You gestured for him to get up. Even if he couldn’t, he’d have to. “—c’mon, before I change my mind.”
You couldn’t refuse him, and in any case had no choice of doing so; your body reacted long before your mind did, and the meat of your meat and the flesh of your flesh invited him in.
The door was left open, your words a lingering invitation that Remmick was slow to process. He wasn’t sure how many steps he gained from adrenaline alone, but he entered your home.
Regardless, relief was found behind the lace curtains that hid you well from the outside world.
Like lace, Remmick recognized you and your position in the very fabric of society, a tapestry of togetherness that consisted of holes, but also threats that tied you both together for what felt like until the end of time.
“I was fixin’ to do some washin’...” You called from another room. Remmick’s daze continued, his posture adjusting to something entirely unfamiliar; an intrusion. “Reckon you could use some too.”
Your voice was deep and warm. Remmick drank it in like sweet wine, its lure willing him to worship anything he could taste. He moved slowly, like every inch of him ached, and maybe it did.
The doorframe caught his weight as he leaned there, eyes on you. You were kneeling by the tub, fingers curled under the faucet, testing the water. The pipes groaned. The water was cloudy, untrustworthy. But you didn’t flinch.
“You hearin’ me?” You prompted again. “Clean up, quick. The pipes are rusty and the water runs cold.”
“Pity don’t suit you, darlin’.” He rasped, rough but quiet, like he didn’t really mean for it to sting.
You moved past him gently, your shoulder brushing his arm. Not a tease, not a challenge. Just contact. Real.
“Mercy neither.” You confirmed. “You’re barkin’ up the wrong house if that’s what you’re hopin’ for.”
“I ain’t askin’ for mercy,” he said, voice low, brittle. “Just… somethin’ that don’t hurt too much.”
You paused, but you didn’t pull away. And the silence you eventually left him with held more than anything else could.
—
Remmick hung his head low, his condition catching up to him.
It was rare, but he was tired. Exhausted. His body begged for reprieve, for comfort, for something that he no longer required. His skin puckered, sensitive and raw. His breathing hadn’t calmed. It refused to.
The day was quiet, giving time for Remmick’s skin to recover. Each layer he removed revealed every minute it took for him to arrive in one piece.
The blood was so ingrained in his nails that it looked like birthmarks on each of his fingers, ten reminders, ten crucifixes. His fingers trailed the old wood of the bathroom, not quite ready to drown himself in your scents. He wondered its history.
Your home was smaller than quaint, fitting for someone alone. There was very little Remmick knew about you, but your home told him enough; everything was in the right place, even the towels were folded with awareness.
Remmick watched the oils separate in the tepid water of the bath, floating away in bubbled clusters. The impromptu serenity became too sacred to disturb. This was an indulgence you hadn’t realized you provided.
This place was too real. It didn’t belong in the world he knew. He kept staring at the frayed rug, the chipped tile, the bar of soap whittled to a sliver. The intimacy of your life. The places your feet had touched.
He couldn’t see you, but knew you soaked in the remaining sun as you took down your laundry. The domesticity made him ache. Normalcy mocked him, and it hurt. It made something depraved sit deep in his chest. It mimicked hunger—thirst. But Remmick didn’t want blood.
The water threatened to spill from his intrusion, making his breath tight. The porcelain was old, cracked in places, but it held him steady.
The water was cold like you promised. The sting felt righteous. The frigidness made him feel. Alive? Alert.
The grime was ready to leave his skin as he pressed his palms to his eyes. It reminded him of the fresh-water streams that mazed through the forests he once knew.
Then, he was able to find the minotaur at the center, but it had been long enough that he had taken its place; Remmick no longer trusted his own memories. There was a lingering thought in the back of his mind that his instincts were the next to go.
Remmick overlooked how that feeling in his chest weighed further, settling in his stomach.
No, further than—
Remmick stopped himself. He dampened his hair, brushing it tidily like it mattered.
Eyes closed, he tried to feel you. Hear you.
You hummed lightly. The tune didn’t belong to a hymnal or any blues he’d heard before. It was something light without a consistent beat. It kept your mind busy while your hands continued to work.
The sunset was warm and reflective. It wore you down quickly, but you didn’t give way. You hummed. It was something that had been stuck in your mind, lurking and prodding when you were both asleep and awake.
Just a few notes you chased. You’d never thought to run from them.
Remmick rested his arms on the lip of the tub. He repeated your weak notes, attempting to remedy the concoction. Only he could hear the harmonization that was created.
It took a few adjustments, but once it had clicked, the song revealed that you listened closely to Remmick.
It was a song he’d brought to you.
Heat had bloomed in Remmick’s stomach to cultivate lower and lower. That thirst grew wild, his hand now gripping the rim of the tub. His other hand was still slack in the water—adrift, shamed, unsure of what it had asked for.
The shame settled slowly, crawling up his spine like a rash. The kind that stays hidden until it's too late to treat. It laced with every flicker of memory, the way your laugh caught between your teeth, the scent of your skin after hours in the heat, the hollow in your throat where he’d once pressed his mouth and almost begged.
Something twitched deep in the water.
His skin pricked.
Remmick felt no longer bloody. Nor broken. But…breathing. The moment stretched, his breathing split between frenetic and flustered.
He refused to move; there was satisfaction in the self-torment, in the way the water suddenly turned warm, so warm…too warm.
The window was propped open, not with purpose but because the hinges were another thing rusted. A breeze came in carrying the humidity and your heartbeat. There was a little preemptive truth-telling to the way it beat; it trilled at the company you had.
Remmick had disappeared for months. The days blurred together, and at times, you felt enough time had passed for him to be nothing more than a fairytale. You had crossed a line that you both teetered from the start.
It wasn’t something fast and all-consuming. It was something always present and consistent. You didn’t realize you’d feel his absence. It was something different than missing him.
That shared feeling brought him back against his better judgment. A feeling that he’d hoped would never get old. Every time he’d admit that to himself, he felt like he’d just been handed a secret.
Needful. Cathartic. A moment of weakness—None of those sounded right. Remmick sat there, water up to his ribs, hands limp, breathing uneven, like some pathetic martyr bathing in guilt instead of blood.
The water lapped softly at the porcelain walls, whispering sins Remmick didn’t remember speaking. It sounded like your voice when you said his name—quiet, curious, uncertain if you should say it at all.
The echo of it licked his ears like flame.
A throb had finally won him over.
Remmick’s hand submerged, trailing down apprehensively.
The weight of his hand felt unfamiliar, as if it weren’t his own; a softness was in the touch, a gentleness that couldn’t belong to him. He ached to recognize it as yours.
His free hand clutched at the edge of the tub while the other continued to search for sensitivity. Remmick had to be delirious from the sun, it felt too good the way his thumb circled his tip, not quite touching its point.
Stuck in his own hold, Remmick rolled his hips. He was sure his cheeks were just as ruddy as his excitement. He moved his hand once, twice, and then stopped.
Shame bloomed red-hot across his neck. His stomach turned. He wasn’t doing this because he wanted to. He was doing it because you had touched him without touching him.
Then, once more, twice more, he moved against himself. Up and down. Up. Down. Up down.
The pain he had slowly melted into syrupy sweet pleasure, and everything quickly became overwhelming. He leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to get more; it was impossible to pull away.
The water had rippled at his repetitive motions, at the confidence in his hold. At the faint memory of his hold around the soft skin of your neck.
Remmick’s lips still burned at the memory of the salty skin he found under your jaw. He remembered restraint and how much it had cost.
He was hungry; a man so starving he imagined the heady taste of more of you.
It was the gentle offer of trust he didn’t deserve. The steady hum of your presence on the other side of the wall. It was the mercy of clean towels and cold water, of folded linens and a house that smelled like rosemary and sun-warmed wood.
It was everything he had been denied—everything he had forfeited—and now, held like a sacrament in the small, careful ways you lived.
He moved without pattern, without pride—just pressure, just friction, chasing something nameless that built in the pit of him like floodwaters against rotted levees.
A picked up force. A raw need. Strokes of desire. Slick and hot. The ache deepened. His breath hitched. Solid. Warm. Present.
Muscles drawn taut, his hips moved on their own accord, driven by a dangerous mélange of frustration and lust. The next thrust was rougher than intended, forceful in a way that bordered on needy.
Remmick pressed deeper. Edged further. Harder. Thumb stroking exactly where it was needed.
A choked breath escaped him as his release overtook him—sharp, voiceless, spent. It was grief made physical. He let it come, whatever it was: sorrow, want, remorse, hunger.
You had undone him, and you hadn’t even touched him.
The tension shattered like old bone, leaving only the aftershocks to ripple through his limbs.
Remmick’s forehead fell to the edge of the tub, and he gasped like he’d drowned and come up begging.
The water shifted, swirling in soft spirals. It took him a long moment to look down—too long. When he did, his breath caught.
The water had changed.
Not violently, not obviously. But something delicate now drifted there, pale and suspended in motion like a prayer released into the wind. He watched it coil and dissolve in slow, ribboning threads, weaving into the bathwater like it belonged there. Like he belonged.
Remmick’s chest ached. It should have felt vile. Contaminated. A defilement of the clean you’d drawn for him.
Instead, it looked… joined. Blended. Something of him, something living, swirling with what could only be imagined as the essence of you. The oil from your soaps, the faint trace of your skin, the quiet peace that had settled into the room simply because you had touched it.
It shouldn’t have been possible.
You and he, your warmth, his ruin—should never have touched. But here it was, suspended in front of him, proof that even in his solitude, something had mixed. Become inseparable.
Shared.
Remmick leaned forward, his hair dripping into the water as his chest shuddered. He watched the ripples distort his reflection, the surface stained with a milky swirl that turned the bath into something shameful. Sacred.
A flutter of wind pushed through the broken window hinge. The scent of the outside world drifted in—laundry soap and cedar, wild grass and the faint salt of your skin—and with it, the cruel reminder that you were close. Just beyond the wall. Humming.
The water stilled.
Remmick stared down into it, unable to look away from what lingered there. It felt like evidence, like he’d left a part of himself behind, like he had shattered something so delicate. It unraveled him more than violence ever could.
Suddenly, to be made of flesh was humiliation.
—
“That new?”
The cross hung short, like the chain had belonged to you since you were a child. It was never long enough to reach true redemption. It was created to be plain, to ward off vanity, and to remind you that sin was innate.
“Old.” You shook your head. “Been collectin’ dust.”
“Silver?”
“Look like I can afford gold?” You narrowed your eyes, wary of the sudden prodding. “What, plannin’ on robbing me?”
You came into your home and were met with quiet. The sun was gone, and you assumed so was your guest. Until you saw how his face was pale and without expression, like that of a man submitting to fate.
Remmick’s skin was as fresh as your environment would allow. You read the effort he took to pull his hair back evenly, like a boy meeting his maker. Vulnerable and boyish. Must have been the sun, you told yourself.
He seemed drained to the point of melancholy, like his presence was wrong. Like he had a chestful of regret. It was easy to read when his suspenders hung at his waist, soiled shirt ridden and lost forever, only an undershirt to hide his sensitivity.
You stalked towards him now, always audacious.
“Or what? You don’t like that I’m displayin’ my sin?” You pushed, necklace looking forlorn.
“Prefer a locket.” His smile seemed…innocent. Unfitting for a mongrel dog like him. Unfit for someone addicted to the unholy. “At least that holds meanin’.”
Remmick met you with a few steps.
Your eyes flicked to his neck. The knotted gold chain was wound up together, left to right, top to bottom. You couldn’t see the end or the beginning because it had been tangled by the water into a ball that let no light through the crevices.
It was useless the way it was and not fulfilling its intended purpose. It begged to know who would take the time to gently rub it between their finger and thumb to loosen the sphere so that little by little a small portion could be freed; once that piece was free, the rest was sure to follow as long as patience was applied.
Then, the snarled mess could begin to add beauty to what it was placed upon.
“I prefer this one.” You said, brushing your fingers along the edge of the gold at Remmick’s collar.
The metal caught the low lamplight, warm and ancient. But it wasn’t the gold that held your gaze, it was the skin beneath it. Worn. Weathered. Touched by time that hadn’t been kind.
“Nothin’ gold can stay,” Remmick warned like he was reciting something older than scripture. Something fleeting, even for him. “Nature’s first green was gold, but it’s her hardest hue to hold.”
Your fingers ghosted over the chain again, teasing the space between closeness and invitation. You tugged, just a little. Not enough to break, but enough to tempt.
Remmick came closer, fingers twitching to invite you to finish what he had started. Instead, he stood there and offered only silence.
“You’re no fun tonight.” You admitted. “No fussin’, no fightin’. What’s gotten into you?”
You didn’t say the rest, but it lived there, thick between you: Isn’t this what you wanted?
He had finally crossed the line, left carnage behind for something like calm. You should’ve felt relieved, but you didn’t. You waited with bated breath for something lethal. You waited for a flicker of something cruel in his eye; the thing that made you feel alive.
Instead, he tilted his head, a mockery of reverence. “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…”
A conditional request for forgiveness, tied to your willingness to forgive him for his state. Maybe forgiveness would mend his wounds more than his own touch.
“But deliver us from evil.” A smirk curled your lips before you could stop it. “Guessin’ that makes you the devil?”
Remmick’s eyes darkened. “Depends who’s prayin’.”
Your laugh was light, but it skimmed the edge of dangerous. It carried something unintentionally provocative straight to his core.
“I been nothin’ but good to you. Reckon a ‘thank you’ is in order.” Your voice was a little too close to a dare. “Or are you really no fun?”
Then—a knock.
Not gentle. Not polite.
A harsh, heavy-handed bang against the door, cutting clean through the air like a threat.
You froze like a sinner caught mid-confession.
Another knock. Not unlike a summons. Not unlike a warning. The rhythm of someone who didn’t care if they were welcome.
Another knock followed—slower, heavier. Like the hand behind it wasn’t just asking for entry. It was declaring its right to take it.
You muttered something under your breath and moved toward the door. Something sharp. Something that sounded like a plea, a prayer.
Behind you, Remmick didn’t stir. But you felt him shift. A presence too vast for his frame, like the weight of judgment itself, had stood up inside him.
You cracked the door open.
“Evenin’, sugar—” Your landlord slurred, breath ripe with bourbon and whatever cologne he thought masked it.
His eyes dragged over you like molasses spilled on hot pavement. Slow, sticky, unwanted.
“Sorry to come knockin’ so late, but the Lord don’t wait for the righteous, and neither does rent.” He continued, eyes flicking into the room behind you. “But seems rent’s still sittin’ in the red. A few months now, ain't it?”
You said nothing. You didn’t need the reminder.
“Now, I been patient…” His tone tightened. “Gave you time. Sympathy. Hell, I gave you grace, didn’t I? Let you wallow after whatever loss you was nursin’. But grief don’t pay the bills, sweetheart—”
He tsked and leaned in a touch too close.
“—that little mourning period of yours? Over and done with. Ain’t my job to carry it.”
Your jaw clenched. Pride and shame curled in your belly like twin serpents, both too stubborn to back down. Behind you, Remmick shifted just slightly, and the air grew colder.
“I don’t have it tonight.” You replied flatly.
“Well, then, maybe I come inside, see if there’s anything I can… take in trade.” His eyes dipped lower. “Collateral, y’know? Just ’til you catch up.”
Your spine stiffened, hand tightening on the doorknob.
Before you could speak, the door creaked wider, not by your doing. Remmick stepped into the light. Slow. Measured. The kind of movement that didn’t feel rushed because predators didn’t need to be.
He stood just behind your shoulder, posture relaxed. His body was a cross between temptation and wrath, framed like a prophet at the end of the world. His expression didn’t change, but the atmosphere around him did. Suddenly too still, too sharp. Like God holding His breath.
Your landlord blinked, taking a small, instinctive step back.
“Friend of yours?” He asked, voice faltering, his bravado slipping lamely.
You didn’t answer, nor did Remmick. Rather, he looked at the man as if measuring his worth and finding him painfully mortal.
Remmick’s voice, when it came, was low and smooth. “You’ll take what’s given.”
The landlord tried to puff himself up. “Now hold on—this is between me and her. You can’t just—”
Remmick reached into his pocket. What he pulled out didn’t belong in this century: three gold coins, not modern, not clean. They gleamed with old weight, marked with symbols that no nation claimed anymore. Coins you paid with when souls were the currency.
He didn’t hand them over. He dropped them into the landlord’s palm—
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Each coin fell with finality. Each one louder than the last.
“Paid,” Remmick said, voice soft and dark, like a secret meant only for the dead. “Don’t come round knockin’ like this again.”
The landlord looked down at the coins, confused, then up at Remmick. And for the first time, he saw him. Not the coins, not the charm, but something else; something ancient that had survived wars and winters and worse.
Red eyes gleaming, Remmick smiled. No teeth, all intimidation.
“If you’ve got horse sense, you’ll be forgettin’ tonight…” Remmick added, voice like smoke curling under a door. “If not, you’ll come back, and we’ll see what else I’ve got in my pockets.”
The landlord’s mouth opened, then closed again. He backed away, fast this time.
“Right. Well—appreciate’cha.” He muttered. And then he turned, nearly tripping over the bottom step of your porch in his hurry. “Didn’t mean no offense. Just business.”
You closed the door. Not fast. Not loud. Just steady. Controlled. But your fingers were trembling at the latch.
“You didn’t have to do that.” You said without turning.
“Didn’t do it for you,” Remmick said from behind you. “Did it so I wouldn’t have to bury another fool.”
When you did turn, when you saw the way he was looking at you, jaw tight, eyes still shadowed from whatever almost broke free, you knew he had done it for you. And that was somehow more terrifying than if he’d snapped the man’s neck.
Because whatever line Remmick hadn’t crossed…he would. For you.
“I don’t need protectin’. ” You turned on him, pride rising like fire on dry kindling. “I’m not helpless.”
“No—” There was something in his tone that almost hurt, like he knew you’d take it wrong. “Just broke and cornered by a man sniffin’ at your door after dark like a dog.”
“Ain’t that what you do? All those nights, showin’ up, askin’ for something…” You snapped harshly. “...just don’t like it when it’s someone else’s doin’, that’s rich comin’ from you…”
The silence between you hung thick, heavy with all the things neither of you had the guts to admit. Not yet.
Finally, Remmick glanced toward the window. The dark pressed up against the glass like a beast trying to sneak in. He should’ve left by now. The night didn’t bother him, but it whispered to him. Called him elsewhere. Still, he didn’t move.
He always lingered. You watched him, arms crossed, war still in your chest.
“You can go now.” Your fingers curled at your sides. Not from fear, not exactly. Frustration. Shame…Something too close to want.
It was arrogant, assuming he’d listen.
Remmick didn’t look at you. Just ran a slow hand through his hair, fingers catching on the drying knots near the nape of his neck. His movements were sluggish, heavier than usual, like something primordial was settling back into his bones.
“Reckon I’ll stay the night.” He said it almost offhandedly, like he was commenting on the weather.
You narrowed your eyes. “That right?”
“Feel like hell.” He shrugged. Non-committal for his benefit only. “Tired.”
Your brow rose. “You expectin’ me to believe that?”
You let the silence stretch, just long enough to prove you didn’t buy a word of it. The way he said it wasn’t casual. It was heavy. Like the weariness he claimed wasn’t about sleep at all, but something deeper.
You hated the way his voice sounded in your home. Low and warm and wrong. Like a hymn sung backward. Like temptation, you’d already failed to resist.
“Plannin’ on killin’ me in my sleep?” Your gaze cut to him like a blade.
That finally earned something from him. It was a flicker of amusement, faint but real.
You stared at him. Waiting, wanting something—you weren’t even sure what. A fight, maybe, or an apology. But all he did was exhale through his nose and glance toward your couch, like the conversation was already over.
You both knew the answer to your question. It made something hot rise in your chest. Anger again, but not clean or simple. It rubbed against all the places in you you kept carefully buried.
“I don’t need your help, Remmick.” You said, voice flatter now, quieter but not softer. “Not with that fella. Not with money. Not with anything.”
He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t say you did.”
You blinked. Thrown by how simply he said it. No sarcasm. No challenge. Just the truth. It disarmed you in a way you weren’t ready for. So, you looked away first.
The pride in you roared, still burning fiercely, but the rest of you, the tired part, the one that’d been clawing to survive the last few months like a sinner begging for a second chance, let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.
Remmick cemented his presence further in the house. Quiet as dust settling. He didn’t ask where to go, didn’t need to. Just drifted toward the couch like it was something he’d earned.
You hovered in the hallway, half-turned, pretending not to watch. It was a strange thing, watching a man come undone in your house. A stranger once, dangerous once. Now barefoot and standing in your domain, unsure where his edges ended.
He didn’t look at you, but maybe that’s because he felt you. Felt your eyes on him.
You didn’t realize how tightly you’d been holding your arms around yourself until they ached.
“There’s a—” You started, but stopped. Your throat felt dry. You tried again, trying not to show how rattled you were. “There’s a blanket over there, in that basket. Couch can be stingy with warmth.”
Remmick wasn’t looking at you, just toeing off his boots with an unceremonious practice. Not rushed. Not cautious. Comfortable, like he meant to stay.
That made it worse, or better, you couldn’t decide. He wasn’t posturing, wasn’t making a show, just coming undone in your space with the quiet confidence of a man who knew you wouldn’t send him back out into the dark.
Something inside you twisted—not fear, not want, but something sharp.
He looked smaller here. Not weak, but stripped. And you, quiet and still as the grave, just stood there and watched him ease himself down onto the edge of your couch.
The room stretched long between you.
You tilted your head, just slightly, studying him. The way his shoulders curved inward, hands resting heavy between his knees. A man shedding armor he hadn’t even realized he was still wearing.
You watched him become something less. Not weaker—no. But softer. In your house, that made him more exposed.
“…don’t haunt the place too bad.” You offered, leaning against the frame of your bedroom door. The words came out quieter than before, but they held a weight, a subtle kind of dare.
He didn’t answer at first. Just sat there, elbows on knees, hands clasped, like he was waiting for judgment or absolution.
Then, after a breath:“...I’ll try not to.”
Remmick drew on his southern twang, nodding politely with promise. Soft, almost reverent, like the house might spit him out if he lied.
And you, in turn, didn’t close the door behind you. You left it open. Wide as an invitation scrawled in blood and fire. A choice Remmick couldn’t unsee.
You disappeared into the bedroom, knowing he’d notice the absence of a latch clicking into place. That he’d sit there in your quiet little living room, in the dark hum of the house, wondering what it meant.
Wondering who, exactly, was safer with the door like that.
—
The hours slid by like oil over water, slow and thick with silence.
The house held its breath. Only the occasional groan of old wood marked the passing of time, the weary bones of the place shifting under the weight of night and memory.
Remmick sat still, shoulders hunched in the half-light, his fingers twitching like they itched for violence or prayer. His eyes were open, unfocused, fixed on a point no one else could see—seeing nothing, and seeing everything.
His thoughts were a fever dream: snarled things with teeth and thorns, looping endlessly through want and warning, desire and dread.
You haunted them. Not you exactly, but the shape of you. The myth of you. The altar you’d become.
He reached into his pocket. Not for the gold coin, not the one that bought him your landlord’s silence. This one was different. Older. It came out like a secret — dull with time, warm with the ghosts of worn edges and too many nights like this one.
A worry piece, polished by regret.
He turned it between his fingers, slow and methodical, the weight of it a tether. A small ritual to keep the dark inside from spilling out. From blooming sharp beneath his skin.
Your scent still clung to the air, low and stubborn. Not perfume, not false sweetness —no, it was you. Soap. Sheets. Skin. That stubborn, ordinary risk of the living.
It stirred something feral in him. Not hunger, not just hunger, but hollowness. Like he’d missed a thousand meals and forgotten what fullness was supposed to feel like.
Remmick stood after a long while, slow as a man trying to outrun his nature.
The movement was slow, like a man not rising, but unraveling. His shadow stretched long behind him, and his body moved with the silence of something that knew how to stalk without being heard.
Your door was still ajar, left open like an omen. You were there. Curled in sleep, soft and folded into yourself like something untouched by the rot of the world. Breathing steadily, chest rising and falling like the tide.
His hand clenched the coin until his knuckles gleamed pale in the dark. He hadn’t expected to still be here, standing in front of your door, watching you as though you were a rare treasure he’d found—and then just as easily destroyed.
Remmick had seen sleep before. He’d seen bodies stilled by time, by death, by the quick flick of a blade. But not like this. Not you.
Remmick could feel the heat of your blood, the soft hum of life just beneath your skin—God, he could feel it. That slow, molten throb beneath your skin, the rhythm of your life calling to the worst in him.
The hunger was raw, clawing at him. He could do it, he could cross the threshold and sink his teeth into that sweet warmth. It would be easy.
So easy.
The temptation burned behind his lips, pooling in his throat. His tongue brushed against his teeth, slow and deliberate, measuring the hunger that rose in him like a tide he couldn’t hold back.
But then—
He stopped. And the words scraped out of him like gravel: “But I won’t, will I? Not this time, not last time.”
Remmick’s gaze roamed over you again, slower now. Reverent. Like he was standing before a holy thing he had no right to touch.
That kiss—your skin against his lips—it could’ve been more. It should’ve been much more.
He could’ve taken your life that night, could’ve hollowed you out and made you part of him forever. Should’ve. But instead, he hadn’t. Not because of you, but because some crooked, crumbling thing inside him had whispered that to do so would damn him beyond saving.
And Remmick knew damnation. Lived close to it. A place he feared, even if he belonged there.
That had been months ago. And he hadn’t come back. Not since. You made it too hard.
“You made it too hard,” Remmick whispered, barely louder than the wind nudging the windows. “I thought if I stayed gone long enough, it’d bleed out of me. I thought it would rot and die.”
He had told himself it would be enough; the distance, the time away, the silence, but none of it had worked. The weight of you, of your breath against his, the pulse of your heart beneath his lips, it was still there.
He’d made it months. Months of wandering through the wilderness of his own thoughts, his soul a barren landscape where nothing could grow. But it didn’t matter how far he ran, how many nights he spent in the dark, trying to outpace his demons. They always caught up.
And now, now he was back, but it hadn’t.
He gripped the coin so tightly that the ridges biting into his palm, sharp enough to sting.
“Yet, here you are.” He muttered, eyes pinned to you like a confession. “Like a wish I never should’ve made.”
Remmick’s eyes fell to you again, softer now, the hunger turning in on itself, folding into something heavier. Lonelier. He lingered there, just long enough to memorize the shape of you against the dark.
There was reverence in him. A violent kind, the kind that hurts at the touch of anything else.
And so, he walked away.
—
The night stretched on, thick and suffocating. The moon hung low, thin as a grin carved into the dark. The air outside was cool, but inside Remmick’s mind, it burned.
The town was a quiet blur in his peripheral, the houses crammed together like teeth in the mouth of a corpse. Before him, the trees stood like sentinels, ancient and unmoved, their limbs clawing at the sky in supplication or threat.
He didn’t bother wiping the blood from his hands this time. Let it dry. Let it crust beneath his nails like penance. His boots sank into the mud where old rain hadn’t yet dried, and every step he took left a print that something might follow. Something hungry.
Remmick welcomed it.
His breath caught in his throat, ragged and wet, and the copper tang of violence lingered thick on his tongue. He leaned against a tree slick with moss and memory, its bark biting into his spine like it knew him. Like it had grown tall watching men like him rot from the inside out.
The cold bit at his cheeks, sharp and clean, but the heat beneath his skin throbbed with something else—something primal. Something wrong.
He’d carved his way through the night, through flesh and fear, looking for a place to set it all down. The hunger. The ache.
But nothing had sated it. Not the pleading. Not the blood. Not even the kill that had started it all.
The sound of the man’s voice still echoed in his mind as he stood over the limp body, the familiar wetness of blood staining his hands. The landlord’s death had been a spark, not a balm. A reminder that the line between control and chaos had always been thinner than he’d liked to admit.
And now it was gone.
The line was gone.
Remmick wasn’t a fool. He knew what he had done. The death of the landlord had been easy. Too easy. But it hadn’t cleared the mess in his mind. The mess of you. Of your laugh, of the way your body had shifted under his touch, of the way you had made him feel in ways he couldn’t explain.
Still, the rage gripped him just as you bloomed inside his chest like a stubborn weed in a field of bones.
His teeth ached.
He needed more.
Remmick had never truly wanted to kill you, not like the others. You were different, a reflection of everything he had lost. Everything he shouldn’t want. The hunger for your life was almost unbearable, but the act of taking it would mean something worse than death.
“I should’ve…” He rasped to the trees, to the night, to himself. “I should’ve ended it.”
You, he meant. But he couldn’t say your name. Not here. Not like this.
The wind sighed low through the pines, carrying with it the scent of honeysuckle and smoke. It reminded Remmick of you. Of your skin warmed by sleep, of your breath on his throat when he lingered too long outside your door.
You were in everything now. That was the cruelty of it.
He had broken the world trying to cut you out of it, and still, there you were—woven into the marrow of his ruin.
“I keep trying to bleed you out…” His voice cracked. Not from weakness. From truth.. “...but you just keep coming back.”
Because no matter how far he walked, how many lives he poured into the thirsty earth, your shadow stretched longer. You hadn’t tamed him. God no. But you’d marked him.
And now he was more beast than man, more hunger than heart.
Remmick looked up, through the latticework of limbs and stars, and his jaw clenched so hard it clicked. Somewhere behind him, the town would stir. The sun would rise. The bodies would be found, but none of that would matter.
Not if he went back. Not if he touched you again. Because the next time, he wouldn’t stop. And he didn’t know if that would ruin him—or set him free.
Remmick closed his eyes.
He could still feel your warmth in his bones, like the last fire he ever sat beside. And he made himself a promise—quiet, dark, and cold.
If he couldn’t burn the memory of you out, he would burn everything else down trying.
—
Morning came like a mercy.
Soft light seeped through the curtains, casting pale gold on the floorboards. The air held the hush of a chapel after mass, something sacred, something hollowed.
You blinked against it, slow to rise, limbs heavy from sleep—or whatever passed for it. The blankets clung to your skin. You felt too warm. Too watched.
You reached instinctively for the chain at your throat.
Your breath hitched. You sat up. You remembered taking it off last night, just before lying down, the clasp stiff from disuse. You’d laid it on the nightstand, right beside the lamp with the crooked shade and the half-drunk glass of water. The necklace, gone.
In its place, on the smooth wood surface, right where your necklace should’ve been, was a coin. Gold. Warming lightly from the weak light. Gleaming like a sun dropped from heaven.
You stared at it.
Not the same kind Remmick had pressed into the landlord’s palm, but not different either. It had weight. Presence. It knew it didn’t belong there.
You picked it up. Held it in your hand carefully as if it had a pulse of its own.
A tithe. A token. An intrusion.
You swallowed. Stood. Moved through the house barefoot and slow, like stepping through a dream you weren’t sure would hold. Remmick’s boots weren’t by the door. Not a trace left—except everything.
Your laundry, the pile you’d left forgotten, had been folded and stacked with the precision of something ritual. The front door was closed, but not locked.
You hadn’t dreamed of him. He had been here.
You should’ve felt safe. You should’ve felt honored. Instead, the stillness of the house pushed in on you like pressure behind the eyes, like a headache before it bloomed.
You looked again at the coin in your hand. You didn’t want to close your fist around it, but you did. It felt like it belonged to him, but it felt worse knowing he’d given it to you.
Your gaze drifted to the window, to the tree line in the distance, quiet and bristling in the breeze. You should go. You should move. But your legs didn’t listen.
Something had shifted in the night, and you couldn’t name it. Couldn’t touch it, but it was in the walls now. In the air. In you.
And yet... A part of you—deep and secret and wrong—wasn’t afraid. Because Remmick had been here. And whatever else that meant, it meant something.
You whispered his name into the silence, just to see if it answered back.
It didn’t.
But the coin was still in your hand. And the necklace was still gone. And the morning, pale and bloodless, kept rising all the same.
How I imagined Remmick and Miriams first kiss in the fic Book of Miriam.
Been in a writers and art block recently. But this original character sinners fan fic has revived something. My camera quality is so bad lol. Seriously go check out and read this amazing fic by @weavingduck on AO3.
SUMMARY: In the bible, "Babylon" is used as a symbol of sin and rebellion. Based on originally on this request and influenced by others in my inbox.
"How many miles to Babylon?
Three score miles and ten.
Can I get there by candlelight?
Yes, and back again...
If your heels are nimble and your toes are light,
You may get there by candlelight."
Nursery Rhyme, Unknown, 1801
PAIRING: Remmick x f!reader (human)
WORD COUNT: 6.8K
WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled 'enemies' to lovers, religious themes, blood/violence, inner turmoil, smut (18+), m!masturbation and the aftermath, angst, pervy landlord, protective!Remmick, angsty!Remmick, inspo from Robert Frost, other authors, web-weaving on Pinterest (credit goes where it is due always), etc.
A/N: I blacked out writing this fr. I incorporated some requests into the story as well, so I'm not ignoring my inbox. An overwhelming thank YOU to @fuckoffbard for helping me SO much and listening to me and everything in between, you literally inspired this with this one shot! Comments HEAVILY encouraged, it makes writers' hearts full and encourages me to continue writing. Enjoy.
part i
Remmick didn’t run—couldn’t.
He tumbled over his own feet, hands barely able to catch him before he hit the dirt. The sun left nothing untouched, even his palms blistered.
The still air created a dance of light that wavered against the heat; a deceptive shimmer, a fleeting, false delight. Remmick followed it until he collapsed.
The scene was explicit—nothing could be saved from the carnage.
The gore set the air with dust that could never settle; a blood-warm heat had set into your marrow, never to be forgotten; Remmick had crawled to your doorstep like a cat bringing in fowl.
“Was always curious ’bout what happened to the fallen angel once he hit the ground…” Your shock was instantly buried so deeply that you doubted it would ever surface. “...here you are.”
The shade of the porch helped, but Remmick’s skin didn’t heal. It festered. His breath felt hot in his lungs as if he were burning from the inside out. It had nearly burned the wit out of him.
“Pretty, ain’t I?” Remmick squinted, afraid of more light entering his body.
“Act like you have some sense—” You gestured for him to get up. Even if he couldn’t, he’d have to. “—c’mon, before I change my mind.”
You couldn’t refuse him, and in any case had no choice of doing so; your body reacted long before your mind did, and the meat of your meat and the flesh of your flesh invited him in.
The door was left open, your words a lingering invitation that Remmick was slow to process. He wasn’t sure how many steps he gained from adrenaline alone, but he entered your home.
Regardless, relief was found behind the lace curtains that hid you well from the outside world.
Like lace, Remmick recognized you and your position in the very fabric of society, a tapestry of togetherness that consisted of holes, but also threats that tied you both together for what felt like until the end of time.
“I was fixin’ to do some washin’...” You called from another room. Remmick’s daze continued, his posture adjusting to something entirely unfamiliar; an intrusion. “Reckon you could use some too.”
Your voice was deep and warm. Remmick drank it in like sweet wine, its lure willing him to worship anything he could taste. He moved slowly, like every inch of him ached, and maybe it did.
The doorframe caught his weight as he leaned there, eyes on you. You were kneeling by the tub, fingers curled under the faucet, testing the water. The pipes groaned. The water was cloudy, untrustworthy. But you didn’t flinch.
“You hearin’ me?” You prompted again. “Clean up, quick. The pipes are rusty and the water runs cold.”
“Pity don’t suit you, darlin’.” He rasped, rough but quiet, like he didn’t really mean for it to sting.
You moved past him gently, your shoulder brushing his arm. Not a tease, not a challenge. Just contact. Real.
“Mercy neither.” You confirmed. “You’re barkin’ up the wrong house if that’s what you’re hopin’ for.”
“I ain’t askin’ for mercy,” he said, voice low, brittle. “Just… somethin’ that don’t hurt too much.”
You paused, but you didn’t pull away. And the silence you eventually left him with held more than anything else could.
—
Remmick hung his head low, his condition catching up to him.
It was rare, but he was tired. Exhausted. His body begged for reprieve, for comfort, for something that he no longer required. His skin puckered, sensitive and raw. His breathing hadn’t calmed. It refused to.
The day was quiet, giving time for Remmick’s skin to recover. Each layer he removed revealed every minute it took for him to arrive in one piece.
The blood was so ingrained in his nails that it looked like birthmarks on each of his fingers, ten reminders, ten crucifixes. His fingers trailed the old wood of the bathroom, not quite ready to drown himself in your scents. He wondered its history.
Your home was smaller than quaint, fitting for someone alone. There was very little Remmick knew about you, but your home told him enough; everything was in the right place, even the towels were folded with awareness.
Remmick watched the oils separate in the tepid water of the bath, floating away in bubbled clusters. The impromptu serenity became too sacred to disturb. This was an indulgence you hadn’t realized you provided.
This place was too real. It didn’t belong in the world he knew. He kept staring at the frayed rug, the chipped tile, the bar of soap whittled to a sliver. The intimacy of your life. The places your feet had touched.
He couldn’t see you, but knew you soaked in the remaining sun as you took down your laundry. The domesticity made him ache. Normalcy mocked him, and it hurt. It made something depraved sit deep in his chest. It mimicked hunger—thirst. But Remmick didn’t want blood.
The water threatened to spill from his intrusion, making his breath tight. The porcelain was old, cracked in places, but it held him steady.
The water was cold like you promised. The sting felt righteous. The frigidness made him feel. Alive? Alert.
The grime was ready to leave his skin as he pressed his palms to his eyes. It reminded him of the fresh-water streams that mazed through the forests he once knew.
Then, he was able to find the minotaur at the center, but it had been long enough that he had taken its place; Remmick no longer trusted his own memories. There was a lingering thought in the back of his mind that his instincts were the next to go.
Remmick overlooked how that feeling in his chest weighed further, settling in his stomach.
No, further than—
Remmick stopped himself. He dampened his hair, brushing it tidily like it mattered.
Eyes closed, he tried to feel you. Hear you.
You hummed lightly. The tune didn’t belong to a hymnal or any blues he’d heard before. It was something light without a consistent beat. It kept your mind busy while your hands continued to work.
The sunset was warm and reflective. It wore you down quickly, but you didn’t give way. You hummed. It was something that had been stuck in your mind, lurking and prodding when you were both asleep and awake.
Just a few notes you chased. You’d never thought to run from them.
Remmick rested his arms on the lip of the tub. He repeated your weak notes, attempting to remedy the concoction. Only he could hear the harmonization that was created.
It took a few adjustments, but once it had clicked, the song revealed that you listened closely to Remmick.
It was a song he’d brought to you.
Heat had bloomed in Remmick’s stomach to cultivate lower and lower. That thirst grew wild, his hand now gripping the rim of the tub. His other hand was still slack in the water—adrift, shamed, unsure of what it had asked for.
The shame settled slowly, crawling up his spine like a rash. The kind that stays hidden until it's too late to treat. It laced with every flicker of memory, the way your laugh caught between your teeth, the scent of your skin after hours in the heat, the hollow in your throat where he’d once pressed his mouth and almost begged.
Something twitched deep in the water.
His skin pricked.
Remmick felt no longer bloody. Nor broken. But…breathing. The moment stretched, his breathing split between frenetic and flustered.
He refused to move; there was satisfaction in the self-torment, in the way the water suddenly turned warm, so warm…too warm.
The window was propped open, not with purpose but because the hinges were another thing rusted. A breeze came in carrying the humidity and your heartbeat. There was a little preemptive truth-telling to the way it beat; it trilled at the company you had.
Remmick had disappeared for months. The days blurred together, and at times, you felt enough time had passed for him to be nothing more than a fairytale. You had crossed a line that you both teetered from the start.
It wasn’t something fast and all-consuming. It was something always present and consistent. You didn’t realize you’d feel his absence. It was something different than missing him.
That shared feeling brought him back against his better judgment. A feeling that he’d hoped would never get old. Every time he’d admit that to himself, he felt like he’d just been handed a secret.
Needful. Cathartic. A moment of weakness—None of those sounded right. Remmick sat there, water up to his ribs, hands limp, breathing uneven, like some pathetic martyr bathing in guilt instead of blood.
The water lapped softly at the porcelain walls, whispering sins Remmick didn’t remember speaking. It sounded like your voice when you said his name—quiet, curious, uncertain if you should say it at all.
The echo of it licked his ears like flame.
A throb had finally won him over.
Remmick’s hand submerged, trailing down apprehensively.
The weight of his hand felt unfamiliar, as if it weren’t his own; a softness was in the touch, a gentleness that couldn’t belong to him. He ached to recognize it as yours.
His free hand clutched at the edge of the tub while the other continued to search for sensitivity. Remmick had to be delirious from the sun, it felt too good the way his thumb circled his tip, not quite touching its point.
Stuck in his own hold, Remmick rolled his hips. He was sure his cheeks were just as ruddy as his excitement. He moved his hand once, twice, and then stopped.
Shame bloomed red-hot across his neck. His stomach turned. He wasn’t doing this because he wanted to. He was doing it because you had touched him without touching him.
Then, once more, twice more, he moved against himself. Up and down. Up. Down. Up down.
The pain he had slowly melted into syrupy sweet pleasure, and everything quickly became overwhelming. He leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to get more; it was impossible to pull away.
The water had rippled at his repetitive motions, at the confidence in his hold. At the faint memory of his hold around the soft skin of your neck.
Remmick’s lips still burned at the memory of the salty skin he found under your jaw. He remembered restraint and how much it had cost.
He was hungry; a man so starving he imagined the heady taste of more of you.
It was the gentle offer of trust he didn’t deserve. The steady hum of your presence on the other side of the wall. It was the mercy of clean towels and cold water, of folded linens and a house that smelled like rosemary and sun-warmed wood.
It was everything he had been denied—everything he had forfeited—and now, held like a sacrament in the small, careful ways you lived.
He moved without pattern, without pride—just pressure, just friction, chasing something nameless that built in the pit of him like floodwaters against rotted levees.
A picked up force. A raw need. Strokes of desire. Slick and hot. The ache deepened. His breath hitched. Solid. Warm. Present.
Muscles drawn taut, his hips moved on their own accord, driven by a dangerous mélange of frustration and lust. The next thrust was rougher than intended, forceful in a way that bordered on needy.
Remmick pressed deeper. Edged further. Harder. Thumb stroking exactly where it was needed.
A choked breath escaped him as his release overtook him—sharp, voiceless, spent. It was grief made physical. He let it come, whatever it was: sorrow, want, remorse, hunger.
You had undone him, and you hadn’t even touched him.
The tension shattered like old bone, leaving only the aftershocks to ripple through his limbs.
Remmick’s forehead fell to the edge of the tub, and he gasped like he’d drowned and come up begging.
The water shifted, swirling in soft spirals. It took him a long moment to look down—too long. When he did, his breath caught.
The water had changed.
Not violently, not obviously. But something delicate now drifted there, pale and suspended in motion like a prayer released into the wind. He watched it coil and dissolve in slow, ribboning threads, weaving into the bathwater like it belonged there. Like he belonged.
Remmick’s chest ached. It should have felt vile. Contaminated. A defilement of the clean you’d drawn for him.
Instead, it looked… joined. Blended. Something of him, something living, swirling with what could only be imagined as the essence of you. The oil from your soaps, the faint trace of your skin, the quiet peace that had settled into the room simply because you had touched it.
It shouldn’t have been possible.
You and he, your warmth, his ruin—should never have touched. But here it was, suspended in front of him, proof that even in his solitude, something had mixed. Become inseparable.
Shared.
Remmick leaned forward, his hair dripping into the water as his chest shuddered. He watched the ripples distort his reflection, the surface stained with a milky swirl that turned the bath into something shameful. Sacred.
A flutter of wind pushed through the broken window hinge. The scent of the outside world drifted in—laundry soap and cedar, wild grass and the faint salt of your skin—and with it, the cruel reminder that you were close. Just beyond the wall. Humming.
The water stilled.
Remmick stared down into it, unable to look away from what lingered there. It felt like evidence, like he’d left a part of himself behind, like he had shattered something so delicate. It unraveled him more than violence ever could.
Suddenly, to be made of flesh was humiliation.
—
“That new?”
The cross hung short, like the chain had belonged to you since you were a child. It was never long enough to reach true redemption. It was created to be plain, to ward off vanity, and to remind you that sin was innate.
“Old.” You shook your head. “Been collectin’ dust.”
“Silver?”
“Look like I can afford gold?” You narrowed your eyes, wary of the sudden prodding. “What, plannin’ on robbing me?”
You came into your home and were met with quiet. The sun was gone, and you assumed so was your guest. Until you saw how his face was pale and without expression, like that of a man submitting to fate.
Remmick’s skin was as fresh as your environment would allow. You read the effort he took to pull his hair back evenly, like a boy meeting his maker. Vulnerable and boyish. Must have been the sun, you told yourself.
He seemed drained to the point of melancholy, like his presence was wrong. Like he had a chestful of regret. It was easy to read when his suspenders hung at his waist, soiled shirt ridden and lost forever, only an undershirt to hide his sensitivity.
You stalked towards him now, always audacious.
“Or what? You don’t like that I’m displayin’ my sin?” You pushed, necklace looking forlorn.
“Prefer a locket.” His smile seemed…innocent. Unfitting for a mongrel dog like him. Unfit for someone addicted to the unholy. “At least that holds meanin’.”
Remmick met you with a few steps.
Your eyes flicked to his neck. The knotted gold chain was wound up together, left to right, top to bottom. You couldn’t see the end or the beginning because it had been tangled by the water into a ball that let no light through the crevices.
It was useless the way it was and not fulfilling its intended purpose. It begged to know who would take the time to gently rub it between their finger and thumb to loosen the sphere so that little by little a small portion could be freed; once that piece was free, the rest was sure to follow as long as patience was applied.
Then, the snarled mess could begin to add beauty to what it was placed upon.
“I prefer this one.” You said, brushing your fingers along the edge of the gold at Remmick’s collar.
The metal caught the low lamplight, warm and ancient. But it wasn’t the gold that held your gaze, it was the skin beneath it. Worn. Weathered. Touched by time that hadn’t been kind.
“Nothin’ gold can stay,” Remmick warned like he was reciting something older than scripture. Something fleeting, even for him. “Nature’s first green was gold, but it’s her hardest hue to hold.”
Your fingers ghosted over the chain again, teasing the space between closeness and invitation. You tugged, just a little. Not enough to break, but enough to tempt.
Remmick came closer, fingers twitching to invite you to finish what he had started. Instead, he stood there and offered only silence.
“You’re no fun tonight.” You admitted. “No fussin’, no fightin’. What’s gotten into you?”
You didn’t say the rest, but it lived there, thick between you: Isn’t this what you wanted?
He had finally crossed the line, left carnage behind for something like calm. You should’ve felt relieved, but you didn’t. You waited with bated breath for something lethal. You waited for a flicker of something cruel in his eye; the thing that made you feel alive.
Instead, he tilted his head, a mockery of reverence. “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…”
A conditional request for forgiveness, tied to your willingness to forgive him for his state. Maybe forgiveness would mend his wounds more than his own touch.
“But deliver us from evil.” A smirk curled your lips before you could stop it. “Guessin’ that makes you the devil?”
Remmick’s eyes darkened. “Depends who’s prayin’.”
Your laugh was light, but it skimmed the edge of dangerous. It carried something unintentionally provocative straight to his core.
“I been nothin’ but good to you. Reckon a ‘thank you’ is in order.” Your voice was a little too close to a dare. “Or are you really no fun?”
Then—a knock.
Not gentle. Not polite.
A harsh, heavy-handed bang against the door, cutting clean through the air like a threat.
You froze like a sinner caught mid-confession.
Another knock. Not unlike a summons. Not unlike a warning. The rhythm of someone who didn’t care if they were welcome.
Another knock followed—slower, heavier. Like the hand behind it wasn’t just asking for entry. It was declaring its right to take it.
You muttered something under your breath and moved toward the door. Something sharp. Something that sounded like a plea, a prayer.
Behind you, Remmick didn’t stir. But you felt him shift. A presence too vast for his frame, like the weight of judgment itself, had stood up inside him.
You cracked the door open.
“Evenin’, sugar—” Your landlord slurred, breath ripe with bourbon and whatever cologne he thought masked it.
His eyes dragged over you like molasses spilled on hot pavement. Slow, sticky, unwanted.
“Sorry to come knockin’ so late, but the Lord don’t wait for the righteous, and neither does rent.” He continued, eyes flicking into the room behind you. “But seems rent’s still sittin’ in the red. A few months now, ain't it?”
You said nothing. You didn’t need the reminder.
“Now, I been patient…” His tone tightened. “Gave you time. Sympathy. Hell, I gave you grace, didn’t I? Let you wallow after whatever loss you was nursin’. But grief don’t pay the bills, sweetheart—”
He tsked and leaned in a touch too close.
“—that little mourning period of yours? Over and done with. Ain’t my job to carry it.”
Your jaw clenched. Pride and shame curled in your belly like twin serpents, both too stubborn to back down. Behind you, Remmick shifted just slightly, and the air grew colder.
“I don’t have it tonight.” You replied flatly.
“Well, then, maybe I come inside, see if there’s anything I can… take in trade.” His eyes dipped lower. “Collateral, y’know? Just ’til you catch up.”
Your spine stiffened, hand tightening on the doorknob.
Before you could speak, the door creaked wider, not by your doing. Remmick stepped into the light. Slow. Measured. The kind of movement that didn’t feel rushed because predators didn’t need to be.
He stood just behind your shoulder, posture relaxed. His body was a cross between temptation and wrath, framed like a prophet at the end of the world. His expression didn’t change, but the atmosphere around him did. Suddenly too still, too sharp. Like God holding His breath.
Your landlord blinked, taking a small, instinctive step back.
“Friend of yours?” He asked, voice faltering, his bravado slipping lamely.
You didn’t answer, nor did Remmick. Rather, he looked at the man as if measuring his worth and finding him painfully mortal.
Remmick’s voice, when it came, was low and smooth. “You’ll take what’s given.”
The landlord tried to puff himself up. “Now hold on—this is between me and her. You can’t just—”
Remmick reached into his pocket. What he pulled out didn’t belong in this century: three gold coins, not modern, not clean. They gleamed with old weight, marked with symbols that no nation claimed anymore. Coins you paid with when souls were the currency.
He didn’t hand them over. He dropped them into the landlord’s palm—
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Each coin fell with finality. Each one louder than the last.
“Paid,” Remmick said, voice soft and dark, like a secret meant only for the dead. “Don’t come round knockin’ like this again.”
The landlord looked down at the coins, confused, then up at Remmick. And for the first time, he saw him. Not the coins, not the charm, but something else; something ancient that had survived wars and winters and worse.
Red eyes gleaming, Remmick smiled. No teeth, all intimidation.
“If you’ve got horse sense, you’ll be forgettin’ tonight…” Remmick added, voice like smoke curling under a door. “If not, you’ll come back, and we’ll see what else I’ve got in my pockets.”
The landlord’s mouth opened, then closed again. He backed away, fast this time.
“Right. Well—appreciate’cha.” He muttered. And then he turned, nearly tripping over the bottom step of your porch in his hurry. “Didn’t mean no offense. Just business.”
You closed the door. Not fast. Not loud. Just steady. Controlled. But your fingers were trembling at the latch.
“You didn’t have to do that.” You said without turning.
“Didn’t do it for you,” Remmick said from behind you. “Did it so I wouldn’t have to bury another fool.”
When you did turn, when you saw the way he was looking at you, jaw tight, eyes still shadowed from whatever almost broke free, you knew he had done it for you. And that was somehow more terrifying than if he’d snapped the man’s neck.
Because whatever line Remmick hadn’t crossed…he would. For you.
“I don’t need protectin’. ” You turned on him, pride rising like fire on dry kindling. “I’m not helpless.”
“No—” There was something in his tone that almost hurt, like he knew you’d take it wrong. “Just broke and cornered by a man sniffin’ at your door after dark like a dog.”
“Ain’t that what you do? All those nights, showin’ up, askin’ for something…” You snapped harshly. “...just don’t like it when it’s someone else’s doin’, that’s rich comin’ from you…”
The silence between you hung thick, heavy with all the things neither of you had the guts to admit. Not yet.
Finally, Remmick glanced toward the window. The dark pressed up against the glass like a beast trying to sneak in. He should’ve left by now. The night didn’t bother him, but it whispered to him. Called him elsewhere. Still, he didn’t move.
He always lingered. You watched him, arms crossed, war still in your chest.
“You can go now.” Your fingers curled at your sides. Not from fear, not exactly. Frustration. Shame…Something too close to want.
It was arrogant, assuming he’d listen.
Remmick didn’t look at you. Just ran a slow hand through his hair, fingers catching on the drying knots near the nape of his neck. His movements were sluggish, heavier than usual, like something primordial was settling back into his bones.
“Reckon I’ll stay the night.” He said it almost offhandedly, like he was commenting on the weather.
You narrowed your eyes. “That right?”
“Feel like hell.” He shrugged. Non-committal for his benefit only. “Tired.”
Your brow rose. “You expectin’ me to believe that?”
You let the silence stretch, just long enough to prove you didn’t buy a word of it. The way he said it wasn’t casual. It was heavy. Like the weariness he claimed wasn’t about sleep at all, but something deeper.
You hated the way his voice sounded in your home. Low and warm and wrong. Like a hymn sung backward. Like temptation, you’d already failed to resist.
“Plannin’ on killin’ me in my sleep?” Your gaze cut to him like a blade.
That finally earned something from him. It was a flicker of amusement, faint but real.
You stared at him. Waiting, wanting something—you weren’t even sure what. A fight, maybe, or an apology. But all he did was exhale through his nose and glance toward your couch, like the conversation was already over.
You both knew the answer to your question. It made something hot rise in your chest. Anger again, but not clean or simple. It rubbed against all the places in you you kept carefully buried.
“I don’t need your help, Remmick.” You said, voice flatter now, quieter but not softer. “Not with that fella. Not with money. Not with anything.”
He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t say you did.”
You blinked. Thrown by how simply he said it. No sarcasm. No challenge. Just the truth. It disarmed you in a way you weren’t ready for. So, you looked away first.
The pride in you roared, still burning fiercely, but the rest of you, the tired part, the one that’d been clawing to survive the last few months like a sinner begging for a second chance, let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.
Remmick cemented his presence further in the house. Quiet as dust settling. He didn’t ask where to go, didn’t need to. Just drifted toward the couch like it was something he’d earned.
You hovered in the hallway, half-turned, pretending not to watch. It was a strange thing, watching a man come undone in your house. A stranger once, dangerous once. Now barefoot and standing in your domain, unsure where his edges ended.
He didn’t look at you, but maybe that’s because he felt you. Felt your eyes on him.
You didn’t realize how tightly you’d been holding your arms around yourself until they ached.
“There’s a—” You started, but stopped. Your throat felt dry. You tried again, trying not to show how rattled you were. “There’s a blanket over there, in that basket. Couch can be stingy with warmth.”
Remmick wasn’t looking at you, just toeing off his boots with an unceremonious practice. Not rushed. Not cautious. Comfortable, like he meant to stay.
That made it worse, or better, you couldn’t decide. He wasn’t posturing, wasn’t making a show, just coming undone in your space with the quiet confidence of a man who knew you wouldn’t send him back out into the dark.
Something inside you twisted—not fear, not want, but something sharp.
He looked smaller here. Not weak, but stripped. And you, quiet and still as the grave, just stood there and watched him ease himself down onto the edge of your couch.
The room stretched long between you.
You tilted your head, just slightly, studying him. The way his shoulders curved inward, hands resting heavy between his knees. A man shedding armor he hadn’t even realized he was still wearing.
You watched him become something less. Not weaker—no. But softer. In your house, that made him more exposed.
“…don’t haunt the place too bad.” You offered, leaning against the frame of your bedroom door. The words came out quieter than before, but they held a weight, a subtle kind of dare.
He didn’t answer at first. Just sat there, elbows on knees, hands clasped, like he was waiting for judgment or absolution.
Then, after a breath:“...I’ll try not to.”
Remmick drew on his southern twang, nodding politely with promise. Soft, almost reverent, like the house might spit him out if he lied.
And you, in turn, didn’t close the door behind you. You left it open. Wide as an invitation scrawled in blood and fire. A choice Remmick couldn’t unsee.
You disappeared into the bedroom, knowing he’d notice the absence of a latch clicking into place. That he’d sit there in your quiet little living room, in the dark hum of the house, wondering what it meant.
Wondering who, exactly, was safer with the door like that.
—
The hours slid by like oil over water, slow and thick with silence.
The house held its breath. Only the occasional groan of old wood marked the passing of time, the weary bones of the place shifting under the weight of night and memory.
Remmick sat still, shoulders hunched in the half-light, his fingers twitching like they itched for violence or prayer. His eyes were open, unfocused, fixed on a point no one else could see—seeing nothing, and seeing everything.
His thoughts were a fever dream: snarled things with teeth and thorns, looping endlessly through want and warning, desire and dread.
You haunted them. Not you exactly, but the shape of you. The myth of you. The altar you’d become.
He reached into his pocket. Not for the gold coin, not the one that bought him your landlord’s silence. This one was different. Older. It came out like a secret — dull with time, warm with the ghosts of worn edges and too many nights like this one.
A worry piece, polished by regret.
He turned it between his fingers, slow and methodical, the weight of it a tether. A small ritual to keep the dark inside from spilling out. From blooming sharp beneath his skin.
Your scent still clung to the air, low and stubborn. Not perfume, not false sweetness —no, it was you. Soap. Sheets. Skin. That stubborn, ordinary risk of the living.
It stirred something feral in him. Not hunger, not just hunger, but hollowness. Like he’d missed a thousand meals and forgotten what fullness was supposed to feel like.
Remmick stood after a long while, slow as a man trying to outrun his nature.
The movement was slow, like a man not rising, but unraveling. His shadow stretched long behind him, and his body moved with the silence of something that knew how to stalk without being heard.
Your door was still ajar, left open like an omen. You were there. Curled in sleep, soft and folded into yourself like something untouched by the rot of the world. Breathing steadily, chest rising and falling like the tide.
His hand clenched the coin until his knuckles gleamed pale in the dark. He hadn’t expected to still be here, standing in front of your door, watching you as though you were a rare treasure he’d found—and then just as easily destroyed.
Remmick had seen sleep before. He’d seen bodies stilled by time, by death, by the quick flick of a blade. But not like this. Not you.
Remmick could feel the heat of your blood, the soft hum of life just beneath your skin—God, he could feel it. That slow, molten throb beneath your skin, the rhythm of your life calling to the worst in him.
The hunger was raw, clawing at him. He could do it, he could cross the threshold and sink his teeth into that sweet warmth. It would be easy.
So easy.
The temptation burned behind his lips, pooling in his throat. His tongue brushed against his teeth, slow and deliberate, measuring the hunger that rose in him like a tide he couldn’t hold back.
But then—
He stopped. And the words scraped out of him like gravel: “But I won’t, will I? Not this time, not last time.”
Remmick’s gaze roamed over you again, slower now. Reverent. Like he was standing before a holy thing he had no right to touch.
That kiss—your skin against his lips—it could’ve been more. It should’ve been much more.
He could’ve taken your life that night, could’ve hollowed you out and made you part of him forever. Should’ve. But instead, he hadn’t. Not because of you, but because some crooked, crumbling thing inside him had whispered that to do so would damn him beyond saving.
And Remmick knew damnation. Lived close to it. A place he feared, even if he belonged there.
That had been months ago. And he hadn’t come back. Not since. You made it too hard.
“You made it too hard,” Remmick whispered, barely louder than the wind nudging the windows. “I thought if I stayed gone long enough, it’d bleed out of me. I thought it would rot and die.”
He had told himself it would be enough; the distance, the time away, the silence, but none of it had worked. The weight of you, of your breath against his, the pulse of your heart beneath his lips, it was still there.
He’d made it months. Months of wandering through the wilderness of his own thoughts, his soul a barren landscape where nothing could grow. But it didn’t matter how far he ran, how many nights he spent in the dark, trying to outpace his demons. They always caught up.
And now, now he was back, but it hadn’t.
He gripped the coin so tightly that the ridges biting into his palm, sharp enough to sting.
“Yet, here you are.” He muttered, eyes pinned to you like a confession. “Like a wish I never should’ve made.”
Remmick’s eyes fell to you again, softer now, the hunger turning in on itself, folding into something heavier. Lonelier. He lingered there, just long enough to memorize the shape of you against the dark.
There was reverence in him. A violent kind, the kind that hurts at the touch of anything else.
And so, he walked away.
—
The night stretched on, thick and suffocating. The moon hung low, thin as a grin carved into the dark. The air outside was cool, but inside Remmick’s mind, it burned.
The town was a quiet blur in his peripheral, the houses crammed together like teeth in the mouth of a corpse. Before him, the trees stood like sentinels, ancient and unmoved, their limbs clawing at the sky in supplication or threat.
He didn’t bother wiping the blood from his hands this time. Let it dry. Let it crust beneath his nails like penance. His boots sank into the mud where old rain hadn’t yet dried, and every step he took left a print that something might follow. Something hungry.
Remmick welcomed it.
His breath caught in his throat, ragged and wet, and the copper tang of violence lingered thick on his tongue. He leaned against a tree slick with moss and memory, its bark biting into his spine like it knew him. Like it had grown tall watching men like him rot from the inside out.
The cold bit at his cheeks, sharp and clean, but the heat beneath his skin throbbed with something else—something primal. Something wrong.
He’d carved his way through the night, through flesh and fear, looking for a place to set it all down. The hunger. The ache.
But nothing had sated it. Not the pleading. Not the blood. Not even the kill that had started it all.
The sound of the man’s voice still echoed in his mind as he stood over the limp body, the familiar wetness of blood staining his hands. The landlord’s death had been a spark, not a balm. A reminder that the line between control and chaos had always been thinner than he’d liked to admit.
And now it was gone.
The line was gone.
Remmick wasn’t a fool. He knew what he had done. The death of the landlord had been easy. Too easy. But it hadn’t cleared the mess in his mind. The mess of you. Of your laugh, of the way your body had shifted under his touch, of the way you had made him feel in ways he couldn’t explain.
Still, the rage gripped him just as you bloomed inside his chest like a stubborn weed in a field of bones.
His teeth ached.
He needed more.
Remmick had never truly wanted to kill you, not like the others. You were different, a reflection of everything he had lost. Everything he shouldn’t want. The hunger for your life was almost unbearable, but the act of taking it would mean something worse than death.
“I should’ve…” He rasped to the trees, to the night, to himself. “I should’ve ended it.”
You, he meant. But he couldn’t say your name. Not here. Not like this.
The wind sighed low through the pines, carrying with it the scent of honeysuckle and smoke. It reminded Remmick of you. Of your skin warmed by sleep, of your breath on his throat when he lingered too long outside your door.
You were in everything now. That was the cruelty of it.
He had broken the world trying to cut you out of it, and still, there you were—woven into the marrow of his ruin.
“I keep trying to bleed you out…” His voice cracked. Not from weakness. From truth.. “...but you just keep coming back.”
Because no matter how far he walked, how many lives he poured into the thirsty earth, your shadow stretched longer. You hadn’t tamed him. God no. But you’d marked him.
And now he was more beast than man, more hunger than heart.
Remmick looked up, through the latticework of limbs and stars, and his jaw clenched so hard it clicked. Somewhere behind him, the town would stir. The sun would rise. The bodies would be found, but none of that would matter.
Not if he went back. Not if he touched you again. Because the next time, he wouldn’t stop. And he didn’t know if that would ruin him—or set him free.
Remmick closed his eyes.
He could still feel your warmth in his bones, like the last fire he ever sat beside. And he made himself a promise—quiet, dark, and cold.
If he couldn’t burn the memory of you out, he would burn everything else down trying.
—
Morning came like a mercy.
Soft light seeped through the curtains, casting pale gold on the floorboards. The air held the hush of a chapel after mass, something sacred, something hollowed.
You blinked against it, slow to rise, limbs heavy from sleep—or whatever passed for it. The blankets clung to your skin. You felt too warm. Too watched.
You reached instinctively for the chain at your throat.
Your breath hitched. You sat up. You remembered taking it off last night, just before lying down, the clasp stiff from disuse. You’d laid it on the nightstand, right beside the lamp with the crooked shade and the half-drunk glass of water. The necklace, gone.
In its place, on the smooth wood surface, right where your necklace should’ve been, was a coin. Gold. Warming lightly from the weak light. Gleaming like a sun dropped from heaven.
You stared at it.
Not the same kind Remmick had pressed into the landlord’s palm, but not different either. It had weight. Presence. It knew it didn’t belong there.
You picked it up. Held it in your hand carefully as if it had a pulse of its own.
A tithe. A token. An intrusion.
You swallowed. Stood. Moved through the house barefoot and slow, like stepping through a dream you weren’t sure would hold. Remmick’s boots weren’t by the door. Not a trace left—except everything.
Your laundry, the pile you’d left forgotten, had been folded and stacked with the precision of something ritual. The front door was closed, but not locked.
You hadn’t dreamed of him. He had been here.
You should’ve felt safe. You should’ve felt honored. Instead, the stillness of the house pushed in on you like pressure behind the eyes, like a headache before it bloomed.
You looked again at the coin in your hand. You didn’t want to close your fist around it, but you did. It felt like it belonged to him, but it felt worse knowing he’d given it to you.
Your gaze drifted to the window, to the tree line in the distance, quiet and bristling in the breeze. You should go. You should move. But your legs didn’t listen.
Something had shifted in the night, and you couldn’t name it. Couldn’t touch it, but it was in the walls now. In the air. In you.
And yet... A part of you—deep and secret and wrong—wasn’t afraid. Because Remmick had been here. And whatever else that meant, it meant something.
You whispered his name into the silence, just to see if it answered back.
It didn’t.
But the coin was still in your hand. And the necklace was still gone. And the morning, pale and bloodless, kept rising all the same.
Summary: As Qimir’s newly sworn acolyte, you were supposed to be learning the ways of your master, far from prying eyes. But in a desperate attempt to escape the Jedi and Republic Space, you find yourself entangled in the dangerous mission of a mercenary crew.
A hyperdrive malfunction forces the crew to land on a remote planet for repairs, leaving you stuck in the middle of a perilous scramble. With time running out and the mission to Canto Bight hanging in the balance, your loyalties—and your survival—are about to be tested like never before.
Warnings: Angst, cursing, violence, trigger warning!sexual harassment, very protective Qimir
Notes: This is a slow burn story between you and Qimir. I've been researching high republic history and I'm really excited for the next chapters!
*Im trying my best to use canon history but high republic era is a little difficult so there will be discrepancies and times where I have to improvise... bear with me!
To your surprise, the ship actually made it to the small green planet in one piece. The journey had taken far longer than usual without the hyperdrive, but you were just grateful that the systems needed to fly the damn thing were still online. Otherwise, you'd have been left drifting in space, dead stick and helpless.
All of this meant more time in republic space with an item that people would kill for.
Great.
Looking to distract yourself from the unsettling dream that had left an insatiable itch in the back of your brain, you'd jumped into the engine compartment. The walls were lined with a maze of conduits and cables, all neatly bundled but seemingly endless, carrying power and data to every part of the ship. Scanning the machinery around you, all the correct lights were on and flashing. You flipped a few switches, listening to the ship’s steady hum in response. Your eyes fell to the compensator gauge... right there. You loosened a few bolts and opened the compartment, removing a singed piece. Shit. It was fried.
"Its the inertial dampener." You yelled up. "We're lucky we weren't blown half way to hell."
It was true. You all were very lucky.
Ians eyebrows plucked up.
You continued. "If we don't replace this servo." You waved the piece in the air. "Then it'll be our last hyperspace jump ever."
"Whatsssss a ssservo?" Kiro inquired.
"A servomotor?...its a part of the stabilizer... the stabilizer controls temporal displacement."
Kiro only stared at you. Nothing occurring in those reptilian eyes.
"The stabilizer is built into the dampener and turns the time it would normally take us to travel from point A to point B into what seems like an instant to us."
Still more silence. Shaun and Kiro just looked at eachother.
"So, what exactly do you two do again?" You questioned.
Ian practically burst out laughing. Kiro and Shaun exchanged amused glances.
"Kiro here," Ian began, "is my muscle. He goes where I go. And well, Shaun keeps an eye from above."
You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to process the words. "Right... So you two were what—knitting while I was getting my ass beat by a Twi'lek?"
Ian’s face turned a violent shade of purple, laughing even harder. He wiped tears from his eyes, finally catching his breath and returning to grabbing his small satchel. "Thanks to them, the other thugs were intercepted."
"Other thugs?" you mumbled, confused.
Ian nodded, still chuckling. "Rod noted the guy that walked up to you, and there were others. We took care of it. Well, minus the Twi'lek... she actually knew what she was doing."
"And you forgot to mention all this?" you asked, sarcasm thick in your voice.
"Hey, it didn’t seem pertinent at the time..., we’d all had one hell of a day."
"Right," you said dryly, giving him a hard look.
Ian just blinked and continued gathering his things. "So you know your way around a starship... luckily I know a guy who might have what we need just a few clicks from here. Kiro lets go."
"An inertial dampener isn't an easy fix."
"I know sweetheart... thats why were here."
"Where are you gonna find another servomotor."
You were met with silence and the opening of blast doors. Not paying you anymore mind, Ian treaded down, Kiro and Shaun trailing behind him.
You only sighed leaning against the circuits. Contemplating your next move. You had left your master errily sleeping on his cot. He was most likely still down and you would do anything to avoid any conversation... especially after that dream.
You hoisted yourself up and out of the engine compartment.
You looked in the general direction of the ship. You almost expected Qimir to be there standing on the ramp. You could swear you sensed his presence or at least his shadow.
"I need some fresh air. And I don't trust you enough to not screw this up."
He shrugged. "The more the merrier I guess."
As you walked through the grassy horticultural fields of maker knows where, you swatted at the gnats buzzing near your face. The sky was darkening, and you couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling of being too far from the ship. You eventually reached the edge of town, being far more urbanized than you expected.
"This way."
Ian led you to a small hut along the bustling main street, its exterior cluttered with old droids and rusted ship parts haphazardly strewn about. You could only hope that somewhere inside was the part you needed to fix the dampener.
A Quarren male stood behind the desk cluttered with tools and machine parts.
"Ian." He drawled through his beak like mouth.
"Heelim... my good friend."
"What trouble have you brought to my doorstep this time."
Ian only smiled in response.
----------
"An inertial dampener? Thats not an easy fix."
You gave Ian a look. He was obviously ignoring whatever I told you so face you were serving him.
"But if theres anyone who would have the part I know it'd be you."
"So. You just thought I'd have a servo lying around here?
"To be honest you were the closest option."
He chuckled in response.
"I am sorry my friend but I have no servos matching the one to your specific freighter."
Ian only bit his tongue and slapped Heelims arm in response.
"Thats quite alright. We'll figure it out my friend."
"Well if you need anything else feel free to look around."
Shaun had wandered outside already. Kiro tapped the machinery next to him with his claw, creating a sharp clang that rang through the store.
You toggled with some of merhandise around you, none of which could replace a servo.
"You work for Ian?" The Quarren questioned you.
"I owe him."
"Ahhhhhh... unfortunate."
You chuckled in response, looking around you realized you were the only one left in the store as Ian turned his heal.
"Thank you for your help."
The Quarren nodded his head.
-------
You found the three of them standing in a circle, deep in debate over your dwindling options.
Stepping up, you interjected, “So, he doesn’t have one. Maybe someone else does.” You tried to keep your tone hopeful, though you knew the answer.
“There aren’t any other sssellers who’ll have what he doesssn't," Kiro replied, his voice a cold hiss. "Heelim is the bessst.”
Ian shrugged, eyes on the ground but clearly working something out in his head. “Who said anything about buying one?”
You cut in quickly, already guessing where Ian was headed. “I saw a blue A-23 freighter in the yard. If I remember right, it should have similar parts to your ship.”
Without waiting for a response, you rushed back inside the shop.
“Do you know the owner of that light blue A-23 freighter outside?” you asked the shopkeeper.
He gave you a suspicious look, eyes narrowing, knowing exactly why you seeked the information.
You sighed, frustration creeping in. “Please.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you. Ten long seconds. You seized on whatever flicker of empathy might have passed across his face.
Finally, he relented. “That ship belongs to Laro Kiggs. He frequents the bar down the street. You never heard this from me”
“Thank you,” you said quickly, turning to leave.
Before you could make it out the door, his voice stopped you. “Traveling with Ian makes unsuspecting people accustomed to looking over their shoulders... but I see that’s already second nature to you.”
His words caught you off guard, hitting closer to home than you expected.
“I’ve had to be," you admitted quietly.
He hummed thoughtfully. "Finding real safety, real solace, in this system or the next... it's a rare gift. But it exists. I was lucky enough to find it. Understand—it’s out there."
You smiled faintly, understanding what he was implying and stepped out into the street.
-------
You rushed back outside, catching them mid-conversation.
Kiro hissed, “Getting onto a freighter here is easssssy enough.”
“I found the owner,” you interrupted, catching their attention. “He should be at the bar tonight.”
Ian finally looked up. “Alright. Shaun, you and y/n will keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t leave the bar. Kiro and I will handle the ship. I’ll signal Rod to expect another half-hour delay.”
Shaun frowned. “Are you sure about this?”
“What other choice do we have?” Ian shot back. “The nearest planet’s days away without a working dampener, and our buyer’s going to be on Corinth wondering where his precious book is.”
------------
Ian and Kiro took a speeder to the parked ships on the outskirts of the town. Ian would board the ship while Kiro stood guard and hopefully return with the servomotor you needed. You and Shaun stationed yourself at the local tavern.
The bar had a certain allure to it, bathed in warm, low lighting and filled with the sound of glasses clinking and conversations blending into a constant buzz. Then again it wasn't any different than any other bar in the galaxy.
You leaned over the bar, trying to catch the bartender's attention.
“Heyyy, I scratched a really nice blue freighter yesterday—parked by the market. Any chance you know the owner? I feel awful about it.”
The bartender didn’t even glance up. “Laro Kiggs. He’s right over there with his buddies. Black jacket.”
You followed his gaze and spotted him.
The bartender leaned in, giving you a knowing look. “If he hasn’t noticed yet, I wouldn’t say anything.”
“Thanks a ton,” you replied, voice sugary sweet, but entirely fake.
Walking back to Shaun, you whispered discreetly, “Black jacket, at your 12 o’clock.”
Shaun nodded.
It had only been three minutes since Ian entered the ship when his voice crackled through your coms.
It’s locked.
“What?” You struggled to keep a straight face.
It’s fucking locked. The compartment’s locked.
“Shit.”
Yeah. Shit, Ian echoed, static in the background. Who the hell locks their hyperdrive compartment?
“Maybe someone who doesn’t want their shit stolen by criminals?” you shot back, trying to think fast.
The window was closing, and you had to act quickly.
“Okay… Plan B. Ian, stand by.”
You noticed Shaun standing up, heading directly toward Laro. Instinct kicked in, and you blocked his path with a hand.
“What are you doing?” you asked, eyes narrowing.
“We need that key,” he said.
“And what? You’re just going to knock him out in the middle of the bar? Start a fight and get a mob chasing Ian and Kiro?”
He stared at you, unamused. “Got a better idea?”
“Actually, yes. Grab a speeder and stand by for the key.”
He shot you an incredulous look but headed for the door without another word.
What? Ian’s voice stammered in confusion through the coms.
You closed the channel.
You chugged your drink, steeling yourself as you walked up to the man. Adjusting your blouse, you reminded yourself that you could do this.
With a confident tap on his shoulder, you leaned in. "I—oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were someone I was looking for."
He turned, eyes sweeping over you with a lingering gaze. "I can be."
You laughed, taking a few steps closer, playing into his interest. "Well, are you gonna buy me a drink?"
A sinister smile tugged at his lips. "Why, of course."
It didn’t take long to get him another drink deep, his inhibitions loosening with each gulp. You used the opportunity to subtly feel for any sign of the key you were after, disguising your search with drunken leans and falls against him. Your hand brushed something square in his left jacket pocket.
"You know," he whispered, leaning closer, "we could always move this to my ship for more privacy." His hand slid across your thigh, the gesture bold and invasive.
You forced a playful smile, letting your right hand toy with his hair while your left hand moved towards his torso. He was too focused on your touch to notice your fingers slipping into his jacket pocket. You felt the cold metal of the key and smoothly withdrew it.
Too easy.
But before you could pull away, his hand moved higher up your thigh, edging dangerously close to your belt.
He went on. "Its only a few clicks away... if we are indeed two ships just passing in the night."
Before you could react, someone snatched your glass from the table.
It was Qimir.
Without a word, he downed the rest of your drink in one gulp, his eyes fixed on you.
"Looks like your drink's run out," he said coolly. "Let's get you another."
The guy beside you grumbled, glaring at Qimir. "Hey buddy, we were talking."
Qimir's eyes flicked to him, full of indifference. "And now you're done talking." He slammed the glass on the table. His voice was low, but it was enough to silence the man.
Qimir pulled you away, leading you toward another section of the bar.
You yanked your arm free and made a beeline for the exit.
Shaun waited on a speeder outside. You shoved the key into his hand beckoning him to get to Ian as quickly as possible.
"Here. Get this to Ian. We'll meet you back at the ship."
Shaun only nodded and revved the speeder, disappearing into the night.
Qimir had caught up to you outside.
Turning to face him your mouth ran away from you.
"What the hell was that?" you snapped.
"You were obviously uncomfortable," Qimir replied, not bothering to look at you.
You crossed your arms, huffing. "I can handle myself."
"He's a creep."
"So are most of the men in there," you shot back, shrugging off the situation.
“This is exactly what I said would happen,” Qimir stated, his tone clipped.
“And how’s that exactly?” you shot back.
“You getting yourself into something I have to pull you out of.”
Fury surged through you, and you slammed your fists down, your face flushing with rage. “Don’t make excuses. I never asked to be pulled out of anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Well, next time a guy grabs my ass and I need your help, I’ll be sure to let you know first, Master.”
Qimir’s jaw tightened, clearly taken aback by your words.
You yelled, “If you had pulled me away just seconds earlier, you would have messed everything up!” Your body surged forward, hands outstretched.
In a burst of anger, you shoved him.
You actually shoved him.
He took it, standing firm, still caught up in whatever wave of misplaced duty he felt. His patronizing gaze made you want to slap him.
Screw this, you thought.
Maybe it was the liquor, or maybe you just needed more of it.
You stomped back inside waving your hand at the bartender. "One flameout please."
Your eyes scanned the bar for Laro making sure he was staying put. There he was already looking you up and down from a distance. You rolled your eyes and turned back to the bar.
The bartender caught your signal for another drink sliding a small shot of red liquid down the bar towards you. You gulped it down, throwing a few credits on the table. You could only hope that Ian had grabbed the servo by now and had gotten the hell out of there. But before you could enjoy the moment of solitude, Kiggs approached again, his drunken friends laughing and egging him on from a distance.
"Let’s pick up where we left off," he slurred.
"Let’s not," you replied flatly.
"C’mon, not interested anymore, I’m a great dancing partner," he said, stepping closer, his breath a noxious mix of alcohol and something far worse.
He grabbed your waist, pulling you into him. His hands wandered, groping you in a way that made your skin crawl.
You shoved him hard... far harder than you had shoved Qimir earlier. The force of it sent him stumbling backward a few feet. But it only seemed to make him angrier. He straightened up, his eyes narrowing as he started to march toward you again.
Good.
You could use a fight to blow off some steam. You readied your hands to connect with his jaw, eager to pop a crack at this entitled prick.
Before you could react, Qimir appeared in front of you, faster than you’d ever seen him move. His arm shot out, his hand wrapping around the man’s throat with terrifying ease. The man gasped, his hands clawing at Qimir’s grip, but he was choking on more than just the pressure of Qimir’s hand—there was something more. The air seemed to be ripped from his lungs, as though Qimir was suffocating him without effort. Laro’s friends were all drunk, but not quite enough to miss the warning signs. They kept a safe distance, clearly sensing that Qimir wasn’t the type to be messed with.
Qimir leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper, but you were close enough to hear. "You touch her again and I'll kill you."
He released the man, who dropped to the floor in a heap, gasping for breath. Qimir didn’t spare him another glance, turning to face you, his eyes unreadable.
You stared at him, still catching your breath from the sudden surge of adrenaline.
"Unbelievable." You stormed past him exiting the bar speaking into your coms. "Ian you might wanna put a rush on that servo."
The bar around you seemed distant now, the noise fading into the background as you focused on the path ahead. The liquor warmed your skin making the cold air unnoticeable.
For a moment, you wanted to argue—wanted to tell him you didn’t need his protection. But the way he had reacted, the intensity in his eyes, told you something different. Something deeper.
You had made it back to the ship.
You walked into your room. He followed.
You paced around until you stopped to look at him.
He was... withholding himself.
"I need you to give me a reason" He said softly.
"What?"
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t go back there and put a hole through his skull."
You closed the distance between you, your face inches from his. "Because if anyone has the right to, it’s me... yet here I am." you almost spat the words at him.
His eyebrows, once furrowed in anger, relaxed slightly, seemingly satisfied with your reason. But tension still radiated from him, his eyes blinking rapidly, betraying whatever calm facade he wished to portray.
The intensity of his gaze almost made you falter, but you gathered your resolve, summoning the courage to ask the question that had been lingering in your mind.
“Why did you do that?” you demanded, frustration bubbling to the surface.
“What?” he replied, feigning ignorance.
“Back at the bar. Why did you do that?”
“What are you talking about, y/n?”
You scoffed, disbelief washing over you. You were damned if you’d ever get a straight answer from him.
“Forget it... you should have just stayed at the ship.”
“That guy was harassing you,” he insisted.
“That doesn’t give you the right to threaten people.”
“I have a responsibility to you. You are my acolyte.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make me yours,” you emphasized, each syllable sharp.
He went still, as if the weight of your words hit him. But the understanding in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had come.
“You’re drunk,” he said, turning away to focus on the clutter around his cot.
“You would know,” you shot back, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “I guess we both do stupid shit when we’re drunk.”
He spun around, eyes narrowed.
“What is that supposed to mean?” His tone turned venomous, defensive.
“You know exactly what it means,” you bit back, refusing to back down.
Suddenly you heard the blast doors open and close.
"Time to go." Ian barely managed the words as he ran through the hallway passing your room.
You broke away from Qimirs space. Rushing after Ian.
"So I'm guessing Laro made it back to his ship."
"Yep." Was all that Ian revealed.
You caught up to him snatching the servo out of his hand.
"Get to the cockpit. Get us in the air. Rod and I will handle the drive."
Ian didn't have time to argue.
You got to the engine compartment to find Rod already prepping.
Jumping down, you almost landed on your arse.
Damn those drinks.
The ship started humming and rattling as you guessed you were now in the upper atmosphere.
You took the piece and fitted it to the stabilizer grabbing the wrench to bolt everything back in place.
"That damned thing better work." Ian yelled.
You secured the servo and closed the dampener.
"Punch it." You spoke through the coms.
You felt your hair rise as the hyperdrive kicked then lit up. A small energy surge knocked you back. A loud vroom sounded in your ears as you slouched against the wall.
You took another deep breath, steadying yourself and closing your eyes.
You were in hyperspace... safe. At least for now.
-----------------------------
Thats all folks! Let me know in the comments what you guys think! The next few chapters are going to get intense :)
Summary: A short chapter and flashback. Enjoy this crumb.
Warnings: Angst and tension! Tension and Angst!
Notes: Slow burn story between you and Qimir.
The door slid open with its familiar hiss, followed by the heavy slam of it sealing shut. You heard Qimir’s footsteps—no, he wasn’t walking; he was stumbling.
You jumped out of bed, racing toward the next room, only to freeze in place at the sight before you.
You found him with one hand braced against the table. The other with a half empty bottle of something dark and strong.
"y/n" He whispered.
"Are you drunk?”
"No."
“Well, if you’re going to pretend to be sober, at least don’t walk in holding a bottle.”
His grip faltered, and the bottle slipped from his hand. Instinctively, you reached out, and before it could shatter on the floor, it hung suspended in mid-air.
"You've been practicing." He smiled.
"Well what kind of pupil would I be if I didn't."
The bottle traveled upwards and landed in your hand.
You took a large swig.
Qimir took a few steps forward clearly about to object.
“Hey, I’m not some five-foot padawan,” you said, cutting him off. “I’m an adult.”
He sighed, dropping down to sit on the edge of the kitchen table. His hand reached out, silently asking for the bottle back. You walked over and placed it in his grasp.
"I didn't take you for the drinking type."
"Well it's been an excruciatingly long day" He drawled.
You knew better than to press any further.
You reached for his shoulder noticing a tear in the jacket. He grabbed your wrist, his lightning quick reflexes still intact even inebriated. Once he realized you weren't an immediate threat he softened his grip and let go.
"You tore the thread." You continued to inspect the jacket. “Im gonna have to stitch this so it doesn't fall apart.”
As you leaned in to get a closer look, you suddenly became aware of how close you were—standing between his legs, his warm breath on your cheek. This proximity felt strangely intimate, a domestic invasion of his personal space that should have felt wrong, but didn’t. He somehow smelled like sandal wood and water lilies and sea salt. You could suffocate happily in it.
You lifted your gaze to meet his, finding his eyes dark and intense, pupils fully dilated, and staring directly at you. His head was tilted back slightly. You stopped breathing for a second. His gaze traced a slow, deliberate line from your mouth, down your neck, and lower still... biting his bottom lip ever so slightly. The way he was looking at you... your core melted.
That swig gave you a small bout of confidence. You brushed the hair out of his eyes letting your thumb follow the sharp line of his jaw.
Glancing down, you saw his hand inches from your face, fingers extending to brush against the pink of your lips. His touch was deliberate, his finger tracing your bottom lip before sliding beneath your jaw, lifting your chin ever so slightly to expose the curve of your neck.
Whatever this was... it was dangerously intimate... torturous... and probably very wrong.
He must've had the same thought at the exact same moment. It all ended when he grabbed both your hands, his grip unforgiving and pushed you backwards. Jumping off the table he rushed back to his room flicking his wrist to swing the door shut behind him.
You just stood there alone in the kitchen... feeling like an absolute fool. You cursed to yourself, embarrassment settling deep in your bones making you want to claw at your skin and crawl out of it. Ghosts of his touch now covered your face and neck. They were lingering for far longer than you thought appropriate.
You ran to your room slamming the door behind you. Your back against the door, you sunk to the floor... you'd stay there until you could stop your heart from slamming against the cage of your ribs.
-----------
You woke the next morning contemplating the moment you had shared with Qimir last night. You heard the door open and footsteps creep in.
There was an awkward silence that hung in the air.
You suddenly felt very preoccupied with cutting the meiloorun in front of you.
Did he have any recollection of the night before. Why was he drinking in the first place. You had never seen him like that. You had the sense to not ask him last night, and your wits were still about you this morning. You knew better.
Your body still facing the wall you strained your neck to look at him.
His shirt was slightly undone. Sleep plagued his eyes, though he looked like he hadn’t gotten any. He looked disgruntled but still urethral in the morning sun light.
You straightened your spine.
You were both adults. You could handle this like adults.
"Morning." You said gently.
A silent olive branch outreached. You had to tread carefully.
"Morning."
Just say it.
What happened last night.
Just say it.
What was that.
Just say it.
Just ask him.
You swallowed and nodded your head in the direction of the table. "Leave your jacket there and I'll stitch it for you."
Coward.
There was a ten second delay.
"Thank you." Was all he said.
Some glimmer of relief shown in his face there but his pupillary movements seemed frantic. His eyes returning to the floor, breathing in deeply he turned to the table taking a seat.
Though everything seemed calm, the force was reverberating.
There was still something hanging in the air.
Something... volatile.
Was it anger that rippled off him? You couldn't tell.
It was well hidden... but not well enough.
Something seemingly rageful born of whatever was left unsaid between the two of you lingered. It was deep like the ocean. Hidden miles beneath the surface. You were swimming and you knew it was beneath you. You held your breath, treading water.
It was waiting, ready to grab and drag you down.
And it did.
Water filled your lungs.
You jolted awake. You must've already landed on whatever planet Ian had to stop at to fix the hyperdrive.
You remained still in your cot, replaying the memory that had just infiltrated your sleep.
"Bad dream?"
Qimir was on the other side of the small room shuffling through his bag, his back towards you.
Bastard.
You hadn’t talked about that night since and wouldn’t dare bring it up. What would you even say?
But yesterday... on the ship... in the med bay... his brown eyes looked at you the same way as that night on Jakart. What were you supposed to make of it?
Stop it.
You just had to continue to convince yourself that Qimir just didn't see you that way. Whatever transpired that night had been a result of the liquor. To say it had been anything else… you had no idea the consequences and didn’t want to find out.
He's your master. You're his pupil.
They're just feelings. You told yourself. One sided.
Emotions.
The Jedi keep them in cages... you let them run free.
What you're feeling right now, this anger, this pain, this is who you are.
You had feelings. Strong ones. And you were allowed to have them. You were allowed that much after giving yourself completely to the dark. But for him? You imagined that something like that would destroy the both of you... or anyone in its path.
"But to Qimir it also unearthed how little he truly knew you. And something he couldn't predict or control... that probably terrified him."
Their relationship is so realistically tense and terrible i LoVe it. Because YEAH Qimir having 'killed my last teacher <3 ' in their resume doesn't really mean anything good for YOU does it.
I agree! Thats something that Qimir might want to consider haha! Glad you like it!
She's Mine [Part 2]
Qimir x (she/her)!reader
Summary: You and Qimir travel with the crew to Corinth where you pose as a high class bidder at a black market auction. However, a few unexpected events complicates your mission leaving you wounded and with more questions than answers about the nature of the job.
Warnings: Angst, cursing, violence
Notes: This is a slow burn story between you and Qimir. I've been researching high republic history and I'm really excited for the next chapters!
*Im trying my best to use canon history but high republic era is a little difficult so there will be discrepancies and times where I have to improvise... bear with me!
Under the thick canopy of trees, the clearing was small, just enough space for the two of you to move without constraint.
You and Qimir had stopped on this planet for a brief respite, also provding one of the few places you could train without drawing unwanted attention.
"Again," Qimir instructed, his voice steady and commanding.
You tightened your grip on the wooden stick in your hand. The makeshift training weapon was a far cry from a lightsaber, but it would have to do. You squared your stance, bringing the stick up in a defensive position.
Qimir moved fluidly as he swung his own stick toward you. You managed to block the first strike, the wood clashing with a sharp crack. But Qimir was relentless. His next move was faster, a low sweep aimed at your legs. You jumped back just in time, narrowly avoiding the strike. You were able to catch your breath if only for a moment as he spoke.
“Keep your elbow up,” he reminded you. “Or else I'll catch you before you can block.”
You nodded, trying to focus on his advice even as your muscles burned from the exertion. It had been a long time since you trained like this. Your heart beat inside your chest so rapidly and with such force that you thought it would burst. You had to remember to control you breathing, only letting air pass through your nose, and conserve what little stamina you had left.
Qimir lunged again. You lifted your arm to block, but your elbow dropped just a fraction of an inch too low. His stick slipped past your defense, tapping your ribs with just enough force to sting. Your torso buckled over in response.
Stepping back to give you a moment to recover, he didn't need to tell you what you had done wrong.
"I get it." You said sternly.
"You need to anticipate the next move. Don't just react—predict."
You clenched your jaw in frustration, wiping the sweat from your face with the back of your hand.
You took a deep breath and adjusted your stance, raising your arm higher this time. Qimir watched you carefully, nodding in approval before launching into another series of attacks. You parried each one, your movements more precise now, more controlled.
The two of you moved in a deadly dance, sticks clashing and feet shifting on the soft earth. You began to lose yourself in the rhythm of it, your mind clearing as your body took over.
It was just you and Qimir, the world narrowed down to the space between your bodies.
Until his stick found your ribs again.
Qimir stepped back, lowering his weapon. "Better," he said, his voice softer now, less harsh. "Still a lot to learn."
You made a face about to mock him for saying a high and mighty master line.
He caught you before you could. "Don't start."
You just laughed, then nodded, panting from the effort. Your arms felt like lead, but there was a sense of satisfaction in knowing you had improved, even if just a little.
"Thats enough for today," he said, tucking his stick under his arm.
You jolted awake shaking off the memory that overcame your senses.
You had been traveling for a few hours and had fallen asleep regret-tingly straining your neck in the process. Qimir sat on the other side of the cargo hold.
After the heated discussion you both had… yeah it was probably for the best.
You had both taken precautions to hide any personal items that wouldn’t classify as civilian.
I.E. one cortosis helmet, vambrace, and lightsaber.
You remembered tracing your fingers over the embedded scars of the metal. It was terrifyingly beautiful.
Try it on.
Those words sent shivers through your entire body.
You wondered if when you returned to Qimirs little backwater planet, you too would craft something made of the precious metal.
Would we ever be able to return?
"Put these on"
Ian had thrown a duffle at your feet. You unzipped the bag to find far nicer clothes than the ones you were wearing.
"What happened to drawing less attention?"
“You’ll be bidding with some serious credits, you need to look as though you didn’t just crawl out of a bantha pit.”
You didn’t bother to scowl at Ian for his cruel joke.
“And who will I be today?”
“Bidder 79.”
“Lovely.”
The outfit was formal, modest, a suit-like ensemble made from breathable fabric in dark hues of blue and gray. You took one of the scarves from the bag and wrapped it around your head and hair. The less recognizable you were, the better.
“Don’t look at anyone, don’t talk to anyone, don’t answer any questions you don’t have to—”
“I think she gets it” Qimir interrupted, his voice curt.
“Don’t do anything stupid.” Ian finished.
You gave Ian all the confirmation he deserved. "Don't do anything you would do... got it."
You were dropped at the nearest corner with Rod following closely behind.
The coordinates Ian had provided led you to a rough, gritty part of the city, where the streets were narrow and the air thick with the scent of smoke and decay. The towering buildings around you were a patchwork of cracked concrete, rusted metal, and flickering neon signs, casting eerie glows onto the damp pavement. You approached the entrance of a large, nondescript building, its facade faded and crumbling, blending seamlessly into its surroundings.
Pushing through the heavy, rusted door, you stepped into a dimly lit lobby. The few figures loitering in the shadows eyed you with suspicion. You made your way to an elevator at the far end of the room, its grated door screeching as you pulled it open.
The elevator groaned to life, descending into the depths below the city. As you felt the air grow cooler and the hum of the city above fade into silence, your pulse quickened. When the doors finally slid open, you were greeted by a stark contrast.
Before you lay the Corinth black market, a sprawling underground bazaar hidden beneath the city. The space was vast, its ceiling arched and lined with cables and dim, industrial lights casting a dull glow over the scene. The market was alive with activity—merchants hawking their illicit wares from makeshift stalls, the air buzzing with whispered deals and low, guttural conversations in a dozen different languages. The scent of exotic spices, machinery, and lawlessness filled your nose.
The Corinth black market was a place where laws were only mere suggestions.
Rules, Rules, Rules... If you don't follow them, you never have to break them.
Minutes later, you found yourself seated in an uncomfortable chair, dark lenses shielding your eyes as you scanned the stage ahead. You were in a small room dimly lit but far richer than the bazaar outside. The items up for auction you guessed based on size and weight was a mix of trinkets and far more dangerous contraband, all locked away in secure containers.
Your client had provided you with only a number, leaving you in the dark about what you were actually bidding on. Your job was to outbid everyone else. Rod, as Ian assured you, would make sure you had the funds to back up whatever figure you landed on. How they’d managed that was another mystery, but one you didn’t need to solve.
“Item number XN2187”
Your eyes tracked the stage.
This was it.
What the staff placed on the table next made absolutely no sense to you.
It was a book... or... a journal?
"Let’s start the bid at 100,000 credits."
Maker.
You had to withhold your gasp.
Two people had already called out raising the bid to 250,000 within 3 seconds.
You threw your card up.
“300,000.”
You saw another card go up near the front.
“350,000”
Maker how could a journal be worth this much.
You raised your card again with no hesitation.
“400,000.”
They matched it again. "4500,000."
“500,000”
It was all fake credits and Ian had given you your instructions... attain that item at whatever price... better to end it right here.
You waited for their response, but there was none.
Got it.
“Sold...to number 79.”
Small claps ensued.
You headed to the back of the stage where the transactions were being held.
Suddenly your path was blocked, now inches away from a hooded figure.
"Whatever your being paid, we can double it." They hissed in your ear.
Rod glanced at the human stranger with his fixed glowing pinpoint eyes that seemed to show concern even for a droid.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about." You continued to walk past them.
They grabbed your forearm. Their grip was strong.
“You take it and you’re a dead woman walking.”
You could now see their face. A male human with rusty brown hair and dark eyes.
You shook off the strangers hand and stated with cold indifference, "I already am."
Your response seemed to catch him off guard.
You shrugged him off turning away, finally reaching the desk behind the curtains.
"Bidder 79?" the attendant confirmed.
"That's right. Item XN2187."
"Please have your droid exchange the credits for your purchase."
Rod stepped forward, inserting his chip into the computer. A moment later, a man presented the box.
The attendee looked at the screen, seeming pleased. "Thank you madam. Have a wonderful evening."
Your breath resumed as you smoothly took the box and gave the courtier a smile. What ever Rod had done it had worked. You cracked it open checking that the item was inside.
Rodney turned in the other direction taking a different route to meet back up at the rendezvous.
That had been surprisingly easy.
"See you back at the ship." You whistled as you turned into the crowd behind.
Something struck your mind. The force had shifted near you and you could feel it. You started scanning your surroundings more carefully.
Watch out.
You unholstered your gun but it was too late.
It was all of 2 seconds before you felt the box knocked out from under your forearm. The force of a back kick to your chest sent you crashing to the ground. Dirt filled your mouth as you hit the earth, the impact reverberating through your body. Your blaster had been sent flying across the ground.
Damn it had been a while since you were hit that hard.
Gritting your teeth, you turned to face your assailant— female Twi'lek with green skin, her imposing figure casting a shadow over you. Her face sheathed in fabric and some manner of breathing apparatuses. Time seemed to slow, the sounds of the chaotic crowd fading into the background.
The journal had fallen out of the box now laying between you and your attacker.
It was too valuable to lose. You couldn't just run.
You pushed yourself off the ground, moving faster than you had fallen. As the warrior lunged for the book, you reacted instinctively, snapping your leg out to kick their hand away. The clash of metal and bone echoed in your ears as you simultaneously snatched journal, pulling it close to your chest. The adrenaline surged through your veins as you regained your footing, your breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
She charged at you closing the distance swiftly. You dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding her grasp. She swung her arm in a wide arc that forced you to duck, the wind from her strike grazing the top of your head.
With the book still clutched tightly to your chest, you spun around, using your momentum to drive your elbow into the Twi'leks side. The impact caused her to stagger.
She recovered swiftly, raising her arm to strike again this time brandishing a small blade. You heaved your body from left to right to dodge, the knife dancing centimeters away from your chest.
You dodged another stab. But she was smart. The Twi'lek flipped the blade through the air catching it with her left hand. You felt a sharp pain spread in your chest. Too distracted with the wound in your right side, you failed to notice her right hand swinging towards you head.
Your brain rattled inside your skull as you hit the earth. Applying pressure to the bleed you turned your pounding head upwards. She picked up the journal from the floor, her other hand now brandishing a blaster pointed directly at your forehead.
"Should've taken the deal"
You only stared down the barrel of her gun. This couldn't be the end.
You wouldn't let it be the end. You blinked. She pulled the trigger. A shot rang out.
You weren't dead.
You stared at the gun.
The blaster shot hung suspended in mid-air, glowing red just inches from your nose.
It floated there, trembling as if struggling against an invisible force, caught between you and the barrel.
Qimir.
You almost couldn't breathe and realized it could only last for so long. You ducked your head before the shot could continue its intended path, piercing the dirt behind you, leaving a small scorched black hole in its wake.
Your breathing was rapid and deep as stared at the hole in the ground that was intended for your head.
The Twi'leks eyes widened. Baffled by what she had just witnessed.
"You... you're a jedi." She sounded as disgusted as she was surprised.
“Not quite.”
In a fluid motion, you kicked a cloud of dust up towards her face. She loosen her grip on the journal stumbling back. Sprinting past her you grabbed the book, the pain of the stab wound luckily numbed by the adrenaline coursing through you. She roared in frustration, but you were already several paces ahead.
You could hear her quick footsteps behind you, but you didn't look back. Your only thought was to put as much distance between you and her as possible.
You ducked into an alleyway once you thought it was safe to stop, determined to sacrifice just a moment to see what you were truly risking your life for.
You opened the book.
Scribbles you couldn't understand filled page after page. Flipping through it all you couldn't make any sense of it.
You stopped at the back of the last page.
Written then carved delicately into the leather near the binding was a name.
The plan had gone off without a hitch... if you hadn't included the unknown assailant that almost put a blaster hole through your skull.
Closing the blast doors, you buckled over, heart still racing. You ran your fingers over your cheek which was tender to the touch. It had to be badly bruised and you could better feel the one developing across your chest now that the adrenaline was wearing off. Not to mention the blood dribbling down your side.
"That went well."
Qimir had caught you off guard. You didn't think he'd be back to the ship by now with how much of a crowd that stood between you and the ship.
You inhaled deeply resting against the cold metal wall your right hand still pressing the right side of your ribs.
“You had me worried.”
You paused for a moment. You had him… worried?
"I thought I'd have to find a new acolyte after today."
You relaxed your shoulders dropping your hands into fists.
"You son of a bitch."
He smiled with his teeth, his eyes taunting, but his smile faltered when he saw your now exposed lower chest wound.
"That looks serious." You couldn't tell if he was still joking or being earnest. "And what a foul name to call with your mas--"
The ship doors hissed open.
In walked Ian and Rod.
Qimir went quiet not daring to finish his sentence. They didn't need to know what you and Qimir were. If they did, they'd all be dead.
The Jedi say I can't exist. They see my face... They all die.
If that's what it took for Qimir to shut his mouth then fine.
You snapped back to reality reapplying pressure to your side and took the opportunity to interrogate Ian.
"What the hell was that." You yelled.
Ian look disgruntled. "Seems like this cargo is more high priority than I thought."
"Ya think?" You only gave him a pleading look in response.
"Look nothing has changed. You knew what you signed up for."
"I didn't sign up for this... remember?"
"Rod, signal Shaun and Kiro. Prep the hyperdrive, set a course for Canto Bight... You might wanna take care of that." He motioned to the wound that was still leaking blood at your side. "Theres a med bay. Two rights and left."
"Thanks." You started walking towards the doors slightly lightheaded from the blood loss.
He extended a hand. "Here let me help. That looks bad."
You waved him off. "I've got it." Before disappearing down the hall to the med bay.
Luckily, Ian had the sense to keep a decent med droid on board. With how sketchy most of his jobs were, it would be foolish not to. The droid had effectively stopped the bleeding, stitched it close, applied bacta fluid, and recommended a pressure dressing before shutting down.
Okay, so not a fully functional droid.
You pulled out the rolls of gauze and compression wraps. The droid had cut through your bloody shirt to access the wound, leaving the tattered fabric hanging from your shoulders. In the mirror, you could see the damage--your chest was mildly bruised, the skin slowly turning a deep purple, especially closer to the wound. You applied a generous amount of gauze and began wrapping the bandage around your chest.
You managed 6 tight loops before a sharp pain made you wince, the movement of extending your torso and raising your arms too much to bear. Breathing deeply, you tried to steady both your head and your heart.
Then, a sudden movement caught your eye, and you nearly reopened the wound as you jumped—Qimir was standing in the now open doorway, silently watching you.
"Maker, you scared me... How long have you been standing there?"
"Not long enough."
"Ha. Ha." You mocked, still guarding your chest, covered but only by a sheer wrap.
"Need help?"
"I got it."
He gave you a look that said, Yeah, sure you do.
You sighed deeply. Every breath was painful. "Fine."
He walked up to where you sat on the med table, glancing at the now deactivated med droid.
"The droid couldn’t do it?"
You tilted your head in response.
"I can call Ian to wrap the rest. He seemed pretty eager," you teased.
Qimir clenched his jaw, clearly not amused, and quickly seized the large roll of gauze from your hand.
"Put your arms around me."
You shot him an incredulous look.
"Maker, you're difficult," he muttered, rolling his eyes dramatically. With a gentle touch, he grabbed your hands and placed them on his shoulders. Then, he took the roll and began wrapping it around the rest of your chest.
You let your hands move closer to his neck, lacing your fingers together and allowing your arms to sag, finding a small amount of relief.
"It's a faulty piece of equipment," you continued. "Leave it to Ian to have a semi-working med droid on a risky job."
Qimir's eyes were only focused on his hands, meticulously layering the bandaging over your wound, making sure it was secure.
"Hey, my eyes are up here," you quipped.
His focus remained unwavering, but you noticed a small smile tug at the corners of his lips.
You allowed yourself to dissolve into this moment. It was innocent, and it was yours.
He finished the last length of the bandage, gently tucking it into the top wrap. His fingers brushed against your skin, and your breath hitched slightly. If he noticed, he pretended not to. Both his hands now rested softly against your ribs, checking the stability of his work. Your hands remained on his shoulders.
He looked up at you.
You met his gaze.
"If you let someone get that close, you must make every decision with confidence and conviction. Remember—"
"Don't react, predict," you repeated the mantra.
"There's no room for error in a fight that close."
"Yes, master," you added with a touch of sarcasm.
He only nodded, still getting accustomed to your use of the title.
"Thank you," you said, recalling what had happened only hours ago.
"For the wrap?"
"No. For saving me."
"Saving you?"
"The blaster shot."
"... You're welcome."
He released you, making you remove your arms from his shoulders.
The moment was gone... and something in you would've done anything to get it back.
The sound of the ship rattling against the void of space ripped you from sleep. The walls trembled, and a deep, ominous roar echoed from the rear of the ship, filling you with an immediate sense of dread. You ducked out of your cot.
Qimir was already on his feet.
Before you could fully grasp what was happening, he was out the door, and you were right behind him. The cold, metallic floor vibrated beneath your bare feet as you both sprinted down the dimly lit corridor.
Suddenly, the ship lurched violently, a brutal force that sent both of you stumbling. You felt yourself losing balance, your body careening toward the metal wall. But before you could brace for impact, Qimir’s hand shot out, grabbing you by the waist. He swiftly twisted his body, pulling you against him, sending himself backwards.
His back slammed into the wall with a sickening thud. You felt the force of it reverberate through him as he grunted, but his grip on you remained firm.
For a second your chin rested on his collar bone. His mouth grazing your forehead and hair. The heat of his body was a stark contrast to the cold metal wall you were expecting moments ago. You were pressed against his chest, your breath catching as you looked up at him. His expression unreadable.
"Your stitches." He questioned.
"Fine." You assured him.
He only scanned you for a moment then let go of you continuing to walk down the corridor. You hesitated for one second, your heart still racing, before following him.
When you had finally reached the cockpit you found Ian walking toward you and through the doorway before grunting. "Might be a problem with the hyperdrive. We have to make a pit stop."
Any thoughts of Qimirs skin against yours was gone.
You followed him back down the hall.
"Qimir."
He stopped.
You gave him a look.
-----------------------
"Mari San Tekka” he repeated the name you had given.
“Do you know that name?”
“Not the person, but the San Tekkas were a great dynasty, closely affiliated with the Republic as hypersurveyors”
"Hypersurveyors?"
"Mappers who worked for the clan, charting new hyperspace routes."
"The writing, I didn't see it at first but they could've been notes or calculations."
"Could you read any of it."
"I've seen hyperspace calculations before, but I didn't recognize the figures in this book. Why would someone risk so much to retrieve it?"
Qimir took a long pause. "I don't know."
The uncertainty laced in Qimirs voice irked you more than you'd like to admit.
Summary: Events take place after episode 8 of the acolyte. You are Qimirs new acolyte after agreeing to train under him. But, first you both must escape to the outer rim and outrun the Jedi who now hunts you. A precarious situation arises when you suddenly owe a debt to the local gunrunner... but it could be just the opportunity you've been hoping for.
Now you have to break the news to Qimir... Shit.
Warnings: Angst, Angry Qimir, cursing
Notes: I plan for this to be a slow burn story between you and Qimir. Haven't officially decided on a permanent title yet.
And yes there will be plenty of future smut but I wanna do this right!
*Im trying my best to use canon history but high republic era is a little difficult so there will be discrepancies and times where I have to improvise... bear with me!
The Republic's influence and reach were stronger than ever, and with that came the ever-present shadow of the Jedi. Since narrowly escaping Vernestra on Brandok, the last few months had been a blur. You were never truly safe. Settling down had been more a matter of necessity than comfort, and even then, "settling" was a stretch.
You were still trapped within the confines of Republic space. Your ship's transponder was a liability, a beacon that couldn’t slip past any checkpoints unnoticed. The only real refuge was the Outer Rim, far from the vigilant eyes of the Jedi and the ever-watchful Republic. But the closest jump to Hutt space was out of reach, forcing you to land on the barren sands of Jakart.
The Jedi were already scouring the galaxy for any sign of force discrepancies, even in the most remote backwater planets. And you both couldn't very well lead them back to Qimirs home. So, you made the choice to hide in plain sight, settling in a place where the noise of a thousand other lives could drown out your presence. Jakart, with its swarms of thugs, scavengers, and criminals, was the perfect cover. Here, you could disappear into the crowd, becoming just another face. But you knew that this was a temporary solution; the longer you stayed, the more you pushed your luck, and the longer you went without proper training.
You didn’t know when—or if—another opportunity like Ian’s would come along. Passage to the Outer Rim on a ship that could evade Republic scouts was a rare gift, one that you couldn’t afford to lose But now, you had to face the hard part: breaking the news to Qimir.
As you scanned into the small, cramped building you and Qimir now called home, a wave of exhaustion washed over you. The door slid open with a hiss, and you stepped inside, the faint hum of the city’s underbelly muffled by the walls. You pulled off your cloak, shaking off the fine layer of dust that clung to it, a grim reminder of the harsh environment outside. Your eyes stung from the grit of the sand, and you rubbed them wearily. It had been a long, grueling day.
The dimly lit room felt stifling, the walls pressing in with the weight of the choices you had to make. You tossed the cloak aside and took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself before the inevitable conversation. Qimir wasn’t going to like what you had to say, but there was no other option.
The sound of Qimir moving around in the next room broke your train of thought. You squared your shoulders, pushing down the fatigue, and stepped forward.
There he stood. Looking at you through wisps of black hair, slick with sweat. His eyes, which you once thought were brown, seemed almost black now, with a sharpness that felt more predatory than human.
"You're back." He exclaimed.
"I picked up some Jogans." You tilted your head in the direction of the small table in the corner.
"Feeling hungry after that mug today?"
You only sighed in response.
"That thug tried to take my shit... Would you have rather I just let him walk away?"
He tilted his head back in frustration, his adams apple bobbing as he swallowed whatever distaste was rising in his throat.
"How many times do I have to remind you that our survival here banks on our ability to lay low."
"About that..."
His eyes locked on you, demanding an explanation.
"I found a ship that can take us to the outer rim, under the radar."
His eyebrows shot up in surprise "the pilot you found wasn't a bust after all."
You bristled at his tone, almost offended by his doubt. These past few months had shown how strained the relationship could become. It felt more like a game of cat and mouse, and you hated losing.
"Not exactly."
He continued to stare at you through his eyebrows. Why did he always have to stare at you like that.
"A smuggler can get us there."
"who's the smuggler."
He didn't waste any time. You tensed. Ian was the last name you wanted to give. But thats where this was headed anyways. You just had to bite the bullet.
"Ian Skynyr."
Even the name tasted bad on your tongue.
His jaw twitched.
Jeez this was gonna a difficult one to swallow.
"Skynyr." He repeated.
He took a long pause before continuing. "No."
"This is our only shot. You know as well as I do that a freighter like his could secure us both passage safely off of Jakart. I just have to help him out then we can---"
"Help him with what exactly." He cut you off.
You froze.
"Its just a job." You stated casually.
"What kind of job."
"Obtaining and transporting cargo to some client." You brushed it off as if it were a mere fly buzzing past your ear.
"What else."
"Thats all he told me."
"Details matter y/n."
"No they don't matter... because this might be our only chance to get to the outer rim."
"Whatever debt he thinks you owe him... forget it. Skynyr is an idiot. Wherever he goes a blaster target follows him."
"I know, I know. I trust him about as far as I can throw him. But he's all we've got. So, I'm doing it."
"And the deal we made?"
"What about it? I'm not going back on anything. So being your acolyte is following whatever you say regardless? Can you not trust me on this?"
He grimaced.
"No. It means don't fall into a mess I have to pull you out of."
"I can handle myself just fine. I thought Brandok proved that."
"Brandok only revealed how reckless you are right now."
Did the death of your old master, at your own hands, prove nothing to him?
No.
You were bartering with a man that had no interest with the rest of what you had to say. But no matter how much he disliked this plan or how much of a headache your existence seemed to him at this moment... he couldn't resist the appeal of Ians secure passage through Republic space.
"Do you have any better ideas then?"
He sighed, finally breaking eye contact and looking down at the floor. His posture slumped as he leaned against the wall, just as exhausted as you were.
"If you can come up with one, I wont take Ians offer. Otherwise we should take this deal."
You didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, you walked into the next room, slumping onto the small cot that had been your bed for the past few weeks.
You imagined that the only reason he didn't follow was because he knew the truth, which was that you both had no idea when another chance like this would arise. He was just angry it involved working for Ian.
You replayed what Qimir had said to you.
Brandok only revealed how reckless you are right now.
You realized that killing your old master did prove your commitment. But to Qimir it also unearthed how little he truly knew you. And something he couldn't predict or control... that probably terrified him.
You basically had to drag Qimir to the landing platform where Ians team was meeting. The air was filled with hyper fluid and gases that singed your nostrils. It reminded you of your old post fixing up freighters like the one that now towered before you. Although, that life now felt like it belonged to someone else.
Ian practically beamed when he saw you both approach, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the buzzing platform. "Glad to see you made it."
You only gave him a small nod in return face remaining neutral.
The rest of the crew were people you recognized from around the bazaar.
The Transdoshan known as Kiro. His presence was intimidating, standing at an imposing 6'7", with a build that suggested he could break bones as easily as he could snap his scaly talons.
Next to him was Shaun, a grizzled sharpshooter. He gave you a curt nod, acknowledging your presence with the little care.
A droid, its model old but well-maintained, stood quietly beside them. You couldn’t quite place its make, but it looked functional and that’s all that mattered.
And Ian. Your point of contact - begrudgingly so.
"Our buyer is interested in a rarity being sold at auction tomorrow on Carinth. Job is to secure the cargo and transport it. We'll rendezvous with him on Canto Bight."
"how do you intend to secure the bid. I'm guessing you don't have nearly enough credits to bid on something that an anonymous buyer wants"
Your skeptic tone was thinly veiled.
"Who said anything about bidding with actual credits."
"So what, you yell fire and then grab it in the chaos?"
"Our operation is a little more refined than that."
Qimir scoffed earning a frown from Ian.
Kiro growled, lacing his arms together in a tight cross obviously put off by Qimirs severe lack of respect for any of them.
"The buyer is willing to pay whatever sum for the item plus our services. But he doesn't want to be tied to the acquisition of the aforementioned cargo. So we're going to act as his ambassador of sorts"
"And how do you intend to make the highest bid."
"Rod here is going to take care of that." He gestured to the droid. "So no matter what you have the highest bid."
"Wait, that I have the highest bid?"
"Well Yord was supposed to be the stand in for the auction and canto bight but he's kinda occupied right now."
It took everything in you to bite your tongue.
"You said this was a simple job." You bristled.
"It is."
"You never said anything about impersonating a bidder."
"You didn't ask sweetheart."
Qimir clenched his jaw.
"Yord normally keeps a low profile which made him the best suited for the stand in. Unlucky that he broke his streak on trying to rob you"
"I'll be recognized."
"Where we'll be, no one is going to give two bactas about who you are. These aren't the type of joints where saints congregate. Jedi will be the least of your worries."
"Why are the Jedi looking for you two anyways." Shaun questioned suddenly very interested in the conversation.
"Thats none of your concern."
Shaun put his hands up realizing that you weren't one to answer pointed questions.
"Whats the item I'll be bidding on."
"that also happens to be none of your concern either."
"If we're doing this job I need more information to make sure were not walking into anything we can't walk out of."
"Even if I wanted to I couldn't tell you. The item only goes by its bidding number and the client wont share beyond that. Also I don't really care what it is... as long as I get paid. You're now the stand in on Carinth and Canto Bight, and thats all I'll hear of it."
"Why was it Yord? why me?"
"There's a strong likelihood that the rest of us aren't exactly on the best terms with some of the attendees frequenting the auction, especially not in Canto Bight. We need someone who’s not a big player—or better yet, someone who’s completely unknown. The client insists on absolute secrecy. The fewer issues we encounter and questions we face, the better."
You couldn't deny that everything he stated made sense for a job such as this.
"So what happens when they find out the credits being transferred are fake?"
"Thats when we blast out of there like a bat out of hell."
You almost smirked. You hated to admit it but the chase excited you.
"So you're what is considered a big player?" You replied mockingly.
"Ouch." He pretended to take a knife to the heart.
"Fine."
"And just because I like you so very much y/n I'll let the two of you split Yords share."
"How generous of you, Ian." You swallowed your words with disdain.
"I like to think so." he smiled with great satisfaction. "Be here at 05:00."
Before you could nod your head, Qimir had already turned on his heal heading towards the exit.
Qimir said nothing as you followed him down the ally. Though you could almost read the back of his head.
"Well if you're going to brood about it at least -"
Before you could get your next words out, you were slammed against the wall. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, and you barely had time to react before his hands pinned your arms to your sides, his grip like iron.
"This isn’t my fault," you gasped.
"Of course it isn’t," his voice was dripping with sarcasm.
You could feel the anger radiating off him. He continued.
"Skynyr is trouble, and nothing but. That makes him dangerous."
"And what are we exactly?" you shot back, your voice tinged with defiance. "What are we?"
"You know what we are," he replied. His tone was cold, as if stating an undeniable truth.
"So when did smugglers become the biggest, baddest thing in the galaxy? In the dark, there’s nothing to fear but us."
"Maker, you’re naive," he spat. "He’s more trouble than he’s worth."
"You’re right," you conceded, though your voice was steady with what you said next. "The sooner we leave the sooner we can continue training. And he’s our best shot out of here."
His jaw clenched, and his teeth bared in a snarl. The rage in his eyes was palpable, and for a moment, you felt a shiver run down your spine. He tightened his grip, pressing you harder against the cold, unforgiving wall. The proximity, the force, everything about the moment screamed danger, yet you held your ground.
"The only reason I’m willing to go along with this little drama," he whispered, a lethal calm overtaking him, his face inches from yours, "is because of that damn republic transponder. Maker knows who else has one... Maybe this trip will teach you a valuable lesson, my young apprentice."
Those last three words hung in the air like dead bodies.
Ghosts.
Ones that constantly haunted you.
My young apprentice.
It wasn’t just a title; it was a reminder of everything you had left behind when you walked away from the Order. He was asserting his authority, reminding you of what you were to him—and more importantly, what he was to you. The unspoken command was clear: Don’t forget it.
You could see the words of warning in his eyes.
"Yes, Master," you whispered.
He stared at you for a moment longer, as if to ensure you truly grasped the gravity of your position. He loosened his grip and pushed himself away from you, storming off toward the compound.
You remained against the wall for a few seconds longer, the echoes of the encounter still reverberating through your mind. The word “Master” clung to you like a weight.
The next morning you both had packed everything you owned... which was very little. But it wasn't the material things that weighed you down. Qimir lashed out at you for a good reason. It was the uncertainty, the sense that you were stepping into something that could very well get you both killed.
Summary: Events take place after episode 8 of the acolyte. You are Qimirs new acolyte after agreeing to train under him. But, first you both must escape to the outer rim and outrun the Jedi who now hunts you. A precarious situation arises when you suddenly owe a debt to the local gunrunner... but it could be just the opportunity you've been hoping for.
Warnings: None so far
Notes: I plan for this to be a slow burn story between you and Qimir. Future heist plot on canto bight. Haven't officially decided on a permanent title yet. Probably needs more edits lol.
You and Qimir had been on the road for months now. Vernestra couldn’t put out an official warrant on you both—not without raising questions she didn’t want to answer. Instead, she relied on something more insidious: whispers, rumors, just enough to keep you glancing over your shoulder but never enough to reveal her true intentions.
So now you found yourself sitting in a mossy dive bar waiting on a pilot that could be your last chance to escape republic space. He was 20 minutes late and it had been one hell of a day. Your patience was wearing thin.
You felt someone sit down at the stool next to you. Not giving them any notice ----until they spoke.
"Oi. Ale for me and whatever the lady wants."
You stifled a grunt, eyes remaining fixed on your drink.
"Not interested."
The bartender, unfazed, slid a glass down the bar landing directly into the strangers hand with ease. He took a full three chugs before wiping his chin with the back of his hand.
Exhaling he exclaimed. "Not interested?... Handsome fella like me? Sure you are."
"Its been a rough day." You grimaced, still not sparing him a glance.
"Well its about to get a little more difficult."
You could feel him shift beside you. Instinctively, you unholstered your blaster and aimed it directly at his crotch. You were now face to face with Ian Skynyr. Notorious playboy and smuggler.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." You whispered.
He only froze, eyes widening on where your blaster now rested. His shoulders slightly relaxed almost as impressed as he was shocked.
"Easy"
"Like I said its been a long day and I'm not especially forgiving on those. So get lost."
"One of my men is in a bacta tank thanks to you."
You recalled what had transpired a mere few hours ago.
Some thug saw you walking through the bazar. Cloaked, your figure appeared small and unthreatening. He assumed you'd be an easy target. He assumed wrong.
Qimir had found you standing over the aqualish male, his breathing labored, knocked unconscious with far more hidden injuries.
All Qimir had said to you was, lets go. No emotion shown on his striking face.
"If he wanted an easy pocket to pick he shouldn't have cornered me."
"Listen sunshine, you put me in a bit of a bind here."
"Not my problem. I know your line of work and I'm not looking for that kind of heat."
Neither you or Qimir could take that right now.
The stranger didn’t back off. He leaned in, just enough for you to catch the scent of engine grease and blaster residue.
"Oh I think it is, don't think I don't know exactly why you're sitting here."
You suppressed a laugh. Of course.
"So I can assume you intercepted my pilot."
"Theres now a debt to pay. Im here to collect."
"I wouldn't bet on it."
"Right... Only a certain type of woman wears with an LL-30 blaster pistol strapped to her thigh."
"And it only takes a special kind of idiot to steal from her." You retracted the gun back to under your cloak.
He cracked a smile.
"The job I have lined up that you so gracefully mucked might actually be of some interest to you."
"I highly doubt that."
"You and your friend need to get to the outer rim no? Something about avoiding the order? I can provide that for you both so long as you pay whats now owed."
You couldn’t hide the shock on your face.
So the pilot had a loose mouth. But you knew Qimir would later curse you for your own.
"I don't owe you anything."
"Deny that little fact all you want. What you can't deny is that the republic has been slowly tightening its grip on hyperspace routes. Good luck finding another freighter that can slip past their patrols unnoticed."
You frowned.
He wasn’t wrong. Vernestra wouldn't risk the upper hand she now had on the two of you. It was easy enough to establish stricter checkpoints in the name of peace and safety. Finding another ship capable of making it past their checkpoints undetected and unquestioned would be next to impossible.
You sat there. Silent. Weighing the options in front of you. Even though you had your finger on the trigger and every reason to pull it, you squirmed underneath the predicament he now faced you with.
He watched the gears turning behind your eyes, carefully calculating your next move.
"Well." he sighed "If you're that confident, I guess its easy enough for me to find another replacement."
He slowly stood, nudging the now empty glass towards the edge of the bar.
"Good luck out running the damned Jedi."
What were your chances of another opportunity like this? As damned as the circumstances were.
Before he could step out of the cantina you turned.
"Wait."
Ian inclined his head to you, smile spreading across his stupid face.
