greetings! I’m Leto, and thanks for checking out my blog! here I post and write about whatever fits my fancy, which is mostly reader insert nonsense at the moment. you can get an idea of what I write and who I write for in the masterlist and rules down below.
this blog is 18+, minors dni. I will be posting explicit content on this blog, this is not the space for you.
masterlist // tag list // rules and info
requests are: OPEN
currently obsessed with: the silmarillion, star wars
it's getting to the point where i NEED LS x reader mannnnn
you write her so hot like the clam slam could split me in half but i'd be so grateful
LS needs a seat? my face is open and available 25/8!!!!!!!! she could spit in my mouth and i'd honestly beg for more. more. more!!!!!!!
and i will stop here before it gets too freaky
you're nobody.
you know this. the company knows this. the lanyard around your neck says INTERN in red block letters like a warning label. you've been fetching coffee for six hours and your feet hurt. your blazer is borrowed, ill-fitting, and you have not spoken a single word in this meeting because nobody asked you to.
the boardroom is glass-walled, thirty-second floor, full of men in suits worth more than your rent. they're talking about a merger—stark enterprises absorbing a failing tech subsidiary—and they're all wrong.
you know they're wrong. the numbers don't support the acquisition timeline they're proposing and the integration strategy has a gap in it you could drive a truck through. you know this because you've been taking notes for three hours and you can do math. you're good at it. nobody in this room has looked at you long enough to notice.
except her.
the stark heiress is sitting at the head of the table, chin in hand, legs crossed. listening through half-lidded eyes and you made the mistake of glancing at her twenty minutes ago and haven't recovered since. because she's—
you've heard the name. everyone's heard the name. sole heir. future warden of the north, if the north were a boardroom and the iron throne were a fortune 500. but hearing about stark heiress and being in the same room as her are two completely different experiences and nobody warned you about the second one.
she hasn't spoken once. not once in three hours.
the men keep talking over each other and around her while she sits there in charcoal grey with one ring on her index finger and watches them the way a wolf watches deer be unsure about which direction to run. there's no boredom on her face, no spoilt disinterest. there's only cool patience. the predatory kind.
the meeting breaks. chairs push back. men file out talking in clusters and you're clearing water glasses, stacking papers, trying to be invisible because that's the job.
that's always been the job. be invisible. be useful. leave. go home to your shitty box shoe apartment and hate your life.
"you."
you freeze. the glass in your hand nearly slips out. you turn around slowly and she's still in her chair. everyone else has left. the boardroom is empty except for you and her and thirty-two floors of open air below the windows.
she's looking at you. not past you or through you, but at you. the full weight of those grey eyes pinned to your face like she's reading a document and hasn't decided whether to sign it.
"who are you?"
"nobody. i'm—the intern. i'm nobody."
she tilts her head. just slightly. the overhead light catches the line of her jaw and you feel your pulse in your throat.
she stands, pushes the chair back without looking at it, walks toward you around the long side of the table, unhurried, heels on marble. the sound of each step is crisp and even, drawing ever closer with a sort of inevitability.
she stops in front of you. close enough that you can smell her perfume. something cold, clean, expensive, like winter air in a bottle.
"you disagree with what they were saying."
it's not a question. your mouth opens but nothing comes out because how—you didn't speak once, you didn't move, you didn't even shift in your seat—
"your pen stopped moving when Redwyne proposed the eighteen-month integration window. you started doing math in the margins. and when Frey backed the parallel restructure, your jaw tightened and you started frowning."
she was watching you. this entire time.
"so. you disagree. why?"
your voice comes out steadier than you feel, an avalanche falling from behind clenched teeth. "the eighteen-month timeline assumes the subsidiary's existing infrastructure can absorb the transition, but their Q3 filing shows a debt-to-equity ratio that makes that impossible without a capital injection they can't afford. if you acquire at the proposed rate, you're inheriting their debt at a premium. you'd be better off letting them default, buying the assets at liquidation value, and rebuilding the division in-house. it takes six months longer but saves you forty percent."
silence. her expression doesn't change, and you're not sure you're still breathing.
she closes the distance between you. one step. her finger—single, index, the one with the Stark wolf ring—comes up under your chin and tilts your face toward hers. her fingertip is cold.
your entire body goes hot, scalp to soles, blood rushing so fast you can hear it. she tilts you left. right. examining you the way you'd examine livestock you intend to purchase.
"not a nobody after all," she concludes.
a card appears between her fingers. matte black, embossed silver. she holds it out and you take it because your hand moves before your brain gives permission.
"i expect your proposal with my people by tomorrow. full breakdown. the numbers you just gave me, on paper, with sources." she hasn't let go of your chin. her thumb shifts, slides from under your jaw to your bottom lip. traces it. slow. the pad of her thumb dragging across your mouth and you genuinely can't feel your legs anymore. they've gone numb, heavy. "and your resume. when you're ready to take your career seriously."
she drops her hand, steps back, looks you over one more time. all of you, blazer to borrowed heels, and the corner of her mouth curls a fraction.
"would be a shame to waste such a pretty face and a pretty mind."
she walks out, heels on marble, the glass door swings shut behind her. you're left standing in an empty boardroom, holding a black card clenched between your fingers so hard the edges are denting your palm. your chin is still warm where she held it. your bottom lip is still tingling. your heart slams against your ribs so hard you can feel it in your throat.
you glance down at the card.
her name. a number. nothing else.
you're nobody. you're an intern with a borrowed blazer and a red lanyard. you've been looked at by stark heiress and she told you to send her a proposal. she touched your mouth and called you pretty and you're never going to be the same person you were before you walked into this room.
you send the proposal at 2am. sixteen pages. sourced. airtight.
I’ve been itching to replay dragon age 2 today, so here’s another prompt - fenris/hawke!reader
16 ⧽. their crush/partner being the only one who can bring out their playful and sweet side
prompt list ✵ masterlist
//
“Fenriiiiiiis.”
You poke him in the side.
“No.”
You poke him again, a little harder, in the spot you know is unprotected by his long leather tunic. Right between the laces that criss-cross at the side, just underneath his ribs.
“Just one?” He doesn’t reply. You poke him again. “A little cloud spotting never hurt anyone, you know.”
“Just enjoy the sunset, Hawke.”
He doesn’t budge. You weren’t expecting him to, not really, but you huff dramatically all the same, because it is still not the response you were hoping for.
It’s a lovely day for once along the Wounded Coast. You had only encountered one group of ne’re-do-wells along the stretch of caves that led the way to the coastline. There was only a little blood splattered across you both, which made the sunset you were watching much more enjoyable than most sunsets you endured along what you could barely call a beach.
There was a little still splattered artfully across Fenris’ face, spotted across his nose and under his lips. You want more than anything to kiss it off of him. A little blood never hurt anybody in the pursuit of passion, surely.
You flop dramatically to his side instead, huffing as you land on your back and look upside-down out over the water.
The clouds in question rearrange themselves into different shapes as you look at them from this angle. You had pointed out a bunny to him earlier, trying to rope him into your little game of observation. A little lighthearted fun, an attempt to bring the mood up after you had watched him stick his hand through the chest of a man that was clearly some sort of trafficker or slaver.
It’s not that you didn’t like the serious, forlorn side of him. You loved what made him dangerous, that fierce way he fought and determined way he hunted down those who hunted others. Ruthlessness was its own sort of sexy, when it was paired with care instead of cruelty.
Still, you were dead set on lightening his load, however ridiculous it felt at times. You would spoon feed him what you called whimsy bit by bit, and either get him to crack a smile tonight or die in the attempt.
From your new upside-down perspective, the cloud now looks rather like a cat. You tell him as much, needling him with your elbow this time.
You don’t react when he pauses for a moment, and tilts his head ever so slightly. You don’t pump your fist and cheer to the heavens, however much you’re doing so internally. Inside your head. On the outside, you are perfectly still and collected, master of tranquility. Really, you are!
When he glances back at you, he raises an eyebrow at the grin you have on your face, wide and stupid.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he ends up saying, straight-faced as he ever is as he looks back across the sea. He tilts his head again, and you feel crazy for the way your heart skips a beat at the sight. “You were right the first time - it’s far more like a bunny than a cat.”
You don’t acknowledge the way your smile is far more genuine than it has any right to be. You can’t, not in a serious way that examines too closely the love you feel for the elf at your side. So you don’t, and push buttons instead, in a way that you excel at.
“I mean upside-down, Fenris,” you take mock offense. “Look at things my way, would you? If you lay down and relax, then look back-“
“I will not,” he says. He looks at you again, and your heart tries its best to beat out of your chest as his lips tilt into the smallest of grins. “You look ridiculous. And you have sand in your hair.”
Amusement shines in his eyes, not too uncommon a sight, but it never fails to make you feel accomplished. Amusement, and something else you don’t let yourself study too closely. You poke him in the side again, between the laces in that spot you know is ticklish.
“Yeah, well, you - your face is ridiculous,” you tell him as he swats at your hand.
“My face is ridiculous?” He questions slowly. As if asking that’s really what you’re going with. He pushes at your knee after fending off your fingers, before tapping at the center of your chest. “You’re the one wearing a stained shirt.”
You look down at yourself, realizing a split second too late that you’ve fallen for it. Hook, line, and sinker. His finger flies up, hitting your chin and your nose as you fail to lean back in time. If there wasn’t sand in your hair before, there certainly is now as you jerk your head back against the beach dune.
You reach for his hand as he pulls it away, only to phase through his fingertips. You look at him incredulously, to see him smiling the sort of smile you would have, wide and amused and more than self-satisfied.
“What was that you said?” You ask him, tone deceptively light as you sit up. “About not wanting sand in your hair?”
The two of you, grimey and still splattered in enough blood to be conspicuous, devolve into play-fighting along the coast. Two fully grown, fully trained warriors, trying to stick sand in one another’s hair. It’s ridiculous. The cloud-bunny and the Maker above are surely judging you harshly for your nonsense.
You memorize each time Fenris laughs, uninhibited and joyous at your antics. You are far too gone on him to do anything else.
17) seeing the love marks they left on their partner later and getting turned on all over again remember how it got there in the first place
18+ suggestive content
prompt list ✵ masterlist
//
Your eyes track his movements as he gets out of bed. The tumble of his curls as he shakes his hair out, and then sweeps it over one shoulder. The expanse of his back as he stretches, shoulder blades pinching together and muscles rolling underneath freckled skin.
You can see the marks you left in the night as he sits and braids his hair one handed, just to keep it out of his face. Red lines where your nails had scratched into the meat of his shoulders, not as raised but still irritated. A dark bruise blossoming at the juncture of his throat and shoulder, where you had dug your teeth into his skin. The odd smaller hickey you can just barely glimpse when he twists, dotted down his hips.
You know if he turned to face you, you’d see more. If he parted his legs just right, you’d see marks where you bit and sucked at his inner thighs. You’d see faint lines down his chest, where you had scratched as he had pressed you down without warning, rolling his hips in a way that made you lose control.
He’s beautiful. Breathtaking. His arm shifts as he gets further down with the braid, stretching out where you marked him along his shoulder. It’s so vivid, staining his skin like a dark wine spilled between his freckles and moles.
You remember the noise he had made last night when you put it there. The soft, nearly inaudible gasp, the way his chest had seized for a moment at the stutter in his breathing. How he had stretched out further, inviting the prick of your teeth and warmth of your mouth.
He liked it as much as you did. The small reminders, so long as they would not interfere with his day to day duties. The look of the marks in the mirror, the reminder of bruises when he tightens his armor and feels the ache.
You sit up yourself and stretch, purposeful in pulling at the muscles that ache, a sweet reminder of what he had done to you. When he finishes braiding his hair, you reach forward and hand him a hair ribbon off your own wrist, using it as an excuse to crowd into his space and press your chest against his back.
“Morning,” he greets you, as he takes the tie from your outstretched hand. You hum in response, embracing him for a moment. Your lips seek out his shoulder, and you purposefully press your lips against the darkening bruise you left the night before.
With a palm pressed against his stomach, you can feel him take a deep breath. You can imagine the way his eyes might flutter to close, the way he might drink in the feeling of your lips against the mark you already made.
He sighs out your name, a soft warning. You ignore him.
“You’re beautiful,” you tell him. “So, so beautiful.”
You move your lips to the back of his neck, pressing soft kisses there as your hands move up to hold his shoulders. Your thumb finds that bruise and presses in, rubbing slow and deep circles to remind him that it’s there.
Knowing it’s you doing this to him - marking his pretty skin, getting him to react to such simple touch - it makes you almost delirious.
You want him desperately. You think you love him even more. As he twists around to try and kiss you, shifting both of you back to his warm bed, you know he does, too
2) sex in front of a big window where anyone could glance up and spot them
3) fully clothed x stark naked
4) slow sex while one or both are injured (bonus points if it’s after a battle or after they’ve patched up each other’s wounds)
5) body worshipping
6) marathon session (they just fucking keep going, babyyyy)
7) finding a somewhat private area at a fancy party to fuck (coat closet, empty office, secluded corner on the big balcony, hedge maze if we wanna get dramatic, etc)
8) oops, we were just hiding in this closet, but then the close proximity get us too turned on not to fuck
9) revenge sex
10) finding their partner’s sex toy/toys and making them play with it in front of them
11) quickie where you don’t take any clothes off, just tug and pull and expose the essentials
12) fucking, but one is still trying to keep all of their attention on the game they are playing
13) getting a little too handsy on the dancefloor
14) library sex for those dark academia vibes
15) jealous sex in the alleyway behind the bar
16) accidental i love you’s during sex
17) seeing the love marks they left on their partner later and getting turned on all over again remember how it got there in the first place
18) a/b/o
19) getting turned on by their partner’s new uniform for work and then roleplaying a bit
I saw you tagged the prompt list with LotR but I also saw the ascendency trilogy on your list of things you’d write…..could I get 20 and samakro/reader 🥺
! you absolutely can omg. send me samakro requests forever and ever please
20 ⧽. finally confessing their love, only to realize the other has fallen asleep right next to them
send in a prompt and a character!
prompt list ✵ masterlist
//
The EDF issued heat lamp illuminates the cave around you, reflecting off the small ice-covered stalactites, and casting your shadows against the walls. As the weak little thing splutters, your shadows seem to dance against the stone, the only bit of motion besides the snow swirling outside the mouth of the cave.
You and Samakro sit as close as you dare to the little machine, soaking in as much warmth as you can in the below freezing temperatures.
Despite the chill, you cannot believe how lucky you are. The ship you had booked passage on could have easily crashed into somewhere more desolate. The storm outside could have started while you were still searching for shelter. The cave could have not existed at all, yet here it is, perfect for your needs.
The wind gusts outside, as if to protest the fact that it cannot drag you along with its force. Snowflakes blow in, forceful until out of the reach of the wind, and then slow in a spiral to the floor of the cave. There’s enough space between you and the entrance to save you from the sharp cold of the wind, but it doesn’t stop the shiver that shakes you as the temperature drops a few degrees.
Samakro looks at you from across the lamp, red eyes narrowing. He has that furrow between his brows, one you recognize well from your years serving with him.
“It might be best,” he says slowly, “if we huddle together. For warmth.”
The wind picks up outside, almost drowning out his quiet suggestion. You look at him, almost shocked, before rationalizing the idea properly. You remind yourself to have the mindset of a warrior, and not the mindset of someone hopelessly pining over their CO.
“That would be wise,” you concur. You force yourself to uncurl and stand, resolutely not flinching as the cold presses its attack. You don’t take time to stretch out your tense limbs, rushing as quick as is respectful to Samakro’s side and sitting yourself down.
It isn’t as awkward as you might have feared. It’s instinct once you’re next to the heat of his body, survival ingrained into the animal part of your brain that drives you towards warmth and away from the killing cold. His hip presses against yours, then his side, then his arm wraps around your shoulder as yours wraps around his waist.
As the sun starts to set, soon the only source of light is the little heat lamp you’ve both shuffled closer to. As the temperature drops further, and night falls, polite propriety flies out the window. Your hands end up tangling together in an attempt to keep your fingers from freezing, facing the lamp and pulled close to either his chest or yours. You’re pressed so tightly together now if you were any closer you would be in his lap.
You wouldn’t call it warm. Even with the heat lamp, the cold is sharp, and you only get true warmth when you feel his skin against yours. But it is far more comforting than sitting on your own had been.
Samakro had always been steady in your eyes. Safety without question, surety without doubt. Even here, half frozen as you were, he was a comfort you could not deny. It felt as if the storm could not touch you, despite the chill you both were under.
You lean your head against his shoulder, watching the heat lamp flicker as it fights against the cold. The chill doesn’t seem so bad now. The bite is less harsh, and what doesn’t feel numb feels warm, pressed up against Samakro.
The Chiss in question sighs, staring straight ahead as your eyelids start to close.
He can barely feel the heat lamp. It feels like the only point of warmth is you, miraculously alive, pressed up against him so tightly he wonders if you’ll be frozen together like this. If weeks from now, they’ll find you both bound together, frozen as one instead of two separate wholes.
It’s a strange thought to have when he should be considering survival, one that’s far more poetic than he’s prone to imagine. As romantic as it is dark.
There are worse ways to go. In the vacuum of space, to the cruelties of the Grysk, in some sort of firefight or explosion. Slipping gently into death, frozen at your side, is at least peaceful. But he doesn’t want to die. Not here, not now, when there is so much more you both could live through.
Not without telling you how he feels.
He’ll blame Thrawn and his artistic tendencies for his sudden bout of madness. Just as he’ll blame him for what he’s about to do, half delirious with cold and half concussed from the crash several hours before. He takes a deep breath, and sighs out again, his breath fogging up the air.
“I love you,” he murmurs. And then, steeling himself, he repeats it louder. Straight forward, to the point, with little room for misunderstanding his intentions. “If our fate is to freeze to death on this forsaken rock, I will not die regretting that you never knew.”
There. Honest as well as logical. When you don’t respond, he sets his jaw and then turns to look at you, bracing as if for impact. Never let them say he was a coward who could not face vulnerability, who could not face you and all you are to him.
You’re fast asleep. Cheek pressed against his shoulder, your weight leaned against him. His heart stops in his chest.
Nothing else matters as he realizes this. Not his confession, not your proximity, not his complicated feelings.
He pulls his stiff fingers out from your frozen grasp, and reaches around you to shake your shoulder. Once, and then twice, a little harder, and he thanks every god he’s never believed in as you blink awake, bleary and confused.
“Stay awake,” he tells you sharply. Even half asleep as you are, you can hear the edge to his tone. The concern that bleeds out of him for your sake.
“I’m awake,” you promise. You reach your hand up to your shoulder and cover his hand with yours, fingers slow as they bend over his. “I’m okay.”
You look up at him, not knowing there are imprents of the lines of his uniform on your cheek. You’re as cold as he is, but the point of contact between your hands suddenly burns.
“Stay that way,” he orders gruffly. You have the audacity to smile at him, a half grin that you would never dare to share with him during active duty.
You’re going to live, he decides. You’re going to live, and so there is no reason to repeat himself. Once you’re both out of this mess, when you are warm and safe once more, then he will try again.
17 ⧽. carefully bandaging the other’s wounds, even if it’s just a tiny cut
prompt list ✵ masterlist
//
Elrond has always been a capable healer and a capable warrior. He had even proven himself to be a capable leader, when the land needed his wisdom. You knew this well about your love, in all the years you have spent at his side.
It does not stop you from fretting when he comes home from patrol, banged and bruised with a nasty cut across his forehead.
“Do not fret,” is the first thing he says when he dismounts his horse and sees you are there to greet him. He knows you too well, and knows how he must look, covered in blood. “It is far better than it looks.”
He speaks in that gentle way of his, reassuring and certain in a way that is always soothing. A leader before he was a warrior, and a healer before he was a leader, he had long mastered the skill of speaking in a way that cemented authority and soothed all who would listen.
You know the elf beyond all the roles he’s ever played, and so you do not listen, and drag him as politely as you can to the nearest available medical room when he insists on staying to debrief and send out the next patrol.
Despite his protests, he follows without much fuss, and is patient as you sit him down and gather a bowl of water and a cloth, salve for his wound, and a roll of bandages.
You kneel down next to him, wet the cloth and wring it out, and frown as you start to dab at the worst of the grime around his forehead. “You’re still bleeding.”
“Head wounds bleed a lot,” he reminds you. “Truly, it is not as bad as it looks.”
“But it is worse than it could be,” you counter. You dip the cloth back into the water and squeeze it out again, internally wincing as the water turns red. “Why was this not bandaged before now?”
At that, he looks sheepish - an uncommon look on the Lord of Rivendell. “There were others injured,” he begins to explain. You finish his sentence for him with a sigh.
“And you would not use them on yourself if others had the need.”
You wish you could chide him for such selflessness. You wish he could see you how you see him now, his face half covered in blood with bruises blossoming across the cheek that isn’t stained red. You almost wish he wasn’t such a devout healer to put all others above himself - but you don’t, because if he wasn’t who he was you wouldn’t love him nearly half as much.
Once the wound is cleaned, you inspect it, deciding on if it needs sutures. He does not interrupt nor provide his own input, trusting you with his well being despite his own mastery and knowledge. It truly is much better than it had seemed - with the old blood rinsed out and the grime wiped away, it is far more clean a cut than you had first assumed.
You end up slathering the cut in the salve and wrapping it with bandages. You’re careful to keep his hair out of the sticky salve, and wrap his head without tangling hair into the bandages.
Your hands remain steady. Certain and calm, as you have learned from him, proving yourself to be capable when holding his health in your hands. Shaky hands are not the reason he reaches up to hold your wrist when you grab the wet cloth again to clean the rest of his face.
“I will be alright,” he promises. His thumb rubs against the pulse in your wrist, and something wound tight inside of you loosens, like a peg turning to lower the tuning of a string.
“I know,” you sigh out. “I know. Just - let me have this. Please.”
You need to wipe the rest of the blood from his face with warm water and a cloth. You need to bandage his wounds and ensure the binding is tight. You need the process of stitching him back together to reassure yourself that he is truly alright, alive and healing well under the palms of your hands.
He lets you go, and sits patiently as you wipe away the rest of the blood that had dripped down his face. He holds still for you, even as you brush the cloth over the bruises that sit high on his cheek, wiping the grime away from the tender skin as carefully as you can.
The more you clean him up, the longer he sits under the gentle care of your hands, the more you both relax. His eyes flutter closed at some point during your routine, his shoulders dropping even as you rub cream into what must be painful bruises.
You would keep him this way forever if you could. Safe from all harm, in the quiet halls of healing. You would give him time to sit still, peace and quiet until his skin stitched back together and his bruises faded from a splotchy blue to a faded yellow.
A distant bell chimes somewhere in the valley, and Elrond opens his eyes, breaking the spell. A capable elf your love was, and that meant duty was a weight he would never drop off of his shoulders.
So you relinquish your control, trusting him once more with the life you cherish more than your own. “You’re clear,” you tell him, feeling much more certain about it.
He carefully inspects your work as you tidy, long fingers running along the lines of the bandages. You busy yourself with re-capping the salves you used as he stands, as not to reach for him once more.
It does not stop him from reaching for you. The front of his armor is still tacky with blood when he pulls you close, but you find you don’t care as he kisses you. He tastes like healing herbs and summertime, and the rush of him and his love is enough to have you forgiving the distant chiming of bells that demand his attention elsewhere.
You didn’t mind the demands of duty, so long as he came to you at the end of the day to put him back together again.
writing one of the prompts for Maedhros, yes it’s technically hm!reader, please pretend to be shocked and surprised <3 please send in a prompt!
19 ⧽. finding the other crying at the beach after searching for them for hours, cheering them up, then playing in the sand and shallow water
prompt list ✵ series masterlist
//
The sun is just starting to set when Maedhros finds you along the eastern shore.
It’s a novel sight, to see you sat on the beaches of Aman without the light of the trees illuminating his view. Dusk turns the sky a darker navy and paints in shades of pinks and purple on the horizon while the sun sets behind the mountains to the west. He had seen these beaches in the light, when he had somehow been graced permission to land again on the white sand of his home. He had seen them in the dark, where the water had seemed to be the same color as the blood on his sword.
This was something new, even if the lands were once familiar to him. The sight of you on these beaches, a lone windswept figure against the beauty of the evening, was novel without the glow of treelight illuminating your features.
He might appreciate the sight more if he hadn’t been searching for you since the sun had been high in the sky.
He treks through the sand to get to you, his worry giving way as he approaches. A sorrow replaces it with each footstep, as you clearly hear him approach and draw further into yourself.
He’s quiet but for a huff of air as he sits down to the right of you, his body protesting as he hits the ground and curls up his knees to match your posture. For a long moment, neither of you say anything. The waves crash against the shore, the gulls cry out overhead, and you weep, silently, staring off across the sea.
“Do you ever miss it?” You finally ask him. You don’t turn to look at him, even as he turns to look at you. Your eyes are fixed on the horizon.
He looks back out across the sea. Far across the waves, all he can see are the distant dots of outlying islands. Yet he knows you are looking further beyond, into the navy horizon, to another land you can no longer see.
“I do,” he admits. The waves roll in and out, the water crashing in your ears in a constant rhythm, almost drowning out his quiet response.
You know he understands what you mean, even beyond the land you have not named. You know he sees the emotions you have not spoken, feels the nostalgia for a place that no longer exists, not really.
There were forests in Valinor, mountain ranges and pastures of grass, great cities and vast gardens - but it all felt so manufactured. A land meant to be perfect, that maintains the image of being untouchable despite the darkness that had seeped in through the cracks. The slow and stagnant life of a people who never aged and were slow to change.
Middle Earth had been wild in its beauty. Sharp edged and dangerous, yet wonderous beyond measure. Kingdoms would rise and fall, swords and shields would rust, the short lived folk would burn bright like little fires until their lives burned out. The land seemed to live and breathe, changing to adapt, living despite the darkness and death that had marred it so.
Even Beleriand, before it had sunk into the sea, had charmed you. While you had once gone with a vague idea of justice and fighting for the sake of your people, the land itself had won you over.
You missed it terribly. It was an ache in your chest that felt like a knife stabbing into your ribs and twisting. You had a home again, but some part of your soul would always remain across the sea, in the wilderness of Beleriand and the beauty of Middle Earth. In the life and light of the friends you had left far behind.
Maedhros reaches over and wraps his arm around your shoulder. He does not give you platitudes, nor does he try to dry your tears, but he remains steady at your side as you shake with silent sobs.
“The sun sets here,” he says, as the worst of your shaking stops. “They never shared the light of our trees, and we never knew the lamps of old; now we all share what light we have.”
You wipe your eyes, and consider the sight in front of you instead of the horizon you cannot see. The deep purple and blue of a sun nearly set, a view you would not have gotten when you were young and the trees still shined bright. Bright white stars glow bright above the last band of daylight, sparkling as they always do.
“We all share the same stars,” you add, comforted by the sentiment he’s shared with you.
Change still occurred in this timeless land, no matter how slow it seemed. And though the fleeting nature of the land you loved and the people you cherished had alway meant you would say goodbye, you would always have the comfort of knowing you existed with them under the same sky.
Maedhros holds you close as you look out to the stars instead of the horizon. You find peace in the steady rhythm of his breathing, in and out to the time of the waves crashing to the shore.
Could you write something about a jealous maul, or what you think it would be like? (Jedi Reader)
jealous!maul x reader: Sabacc & Saddle
explict. bisexual!reader, fingering, ex!jedi reader, one bed trope. takes place after the events of s1 maul: shadow lord
summary: You pay an old visit to an ex to get info on a stolen shipment. Maul isn't happy about it.
word count: 4,263
a/n: threw in the "there was only one bed" trope in there for the hell of it. devon makes an appearance and is over it. hope yall enjoy!
Sabacc & Saddle is the hub for Tratah's industrial and fetish scene, thus the perfect place where Maul could glower behind his cowl and get away with it.
You feel him at your shoulder— a column of stillness amidst the sea of hot, leather clad bodies. It reeks of liquor and dubious bodily fluids from various species. There are dancers suspended in cages, half naked bodies flashing as tantalizing silhouettes by the neon lights.
"You might be invited as a voyeur if you stare too long," you tease Maul. If looks could kill.
Devon sulked and protested on the way here, until you asked her if she wanted to see Toydarians floating around in nothing but codpieces. Now she was happily guarding the speeder, though Maul made a wry comment that he did not want to see that either.
You lean over the bar and the tender clocks you— a Twi-lek female with neon green paint covering the marks of her lekku.
"What're feeling, babe?"
You smile at her. "The Gungan's Wet Dream. Easy on the lime."
She looks between you and Maul, the gestures you to follow her. "Follow me."
She leads you down a familiar dim hallway, walls littered with raunchy graffiti and revolutionary slogans that would make any stormtrooper sweat. You feel the cold ease off of Maul slightly.
The backroom is quiet, the bass a distant thrum rather than something that reverberates through your teeth. The Trogruta at the desk is already on her feet when you walk in, towering over you even without the six inch platform boots.
"Janare," your voice is as warm as you feel.
She crosses the room and takes your face between orange hands— kisses one cheek, then the other, unhurried and you return the gesture.
"Good to see you again, troublemaker," she says.
"Me? You're all the trouble."
"Oh, I know I'm bad, sweetheart," Janare engulfs you into a hug and swings you around. "But so are you."
You laugh with an ease you haven't felt for quite some time. For a few moments, you forget that you're here for information, and that the galaxy is under a Sith tyrant. That is just who Janare is, someone to get lost in.
Behind you, the Force chills around Maul again. You turn your head to see the slight curl of his lip and tension in his shoulders. He doesn't want to be here and is growing inpatient. Which is fair, he isn't here to witness a reunion between old lovers.
Janare sees it, because a life time of reading people grants one a sharp perception even without strength in the Force. She eyes Maul in the doorway for a second too long, and her brow raises in a way that you know means mischief.
"This one's yours?" she asks.
"This one is no one's," Maul says, harsh and flat.
Her grin widens, and you feel satisfaction ripple from her through the Force. "No," she says, never taking her eyes off of Maul. "No. Of course not."
Janare steps back and gestures for you two to sit on the velvet couch. She strides behind her mini bar in the corner and pulls three glasses out.
"What's your poison, big guy?"
Maul crosses his arms and continues to stand next to you, rather than sit.
"Cassius tea," he says, dryly.
"Oh, I'm afraid that's a bit too exotic for us," she pulls out a bottle of Corellian Whiskey. "We're pretty basic around here, if you couldn't tell.”
“Really,” Maul drawls sarcastically.
Janare's amusement grows. She pours two fingers of whiskey into two glasses, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch facing yours. The third glass is left back on the bar.
"Now to what do I owe the pleasure?"
You give her the name and cargo. A gang who stole a shipment of weapons meant for Crimson Dawn and were somehow elusive enough that they evaded capture from the others sent to retrieve it. A tedious mission, but good exercise for Devon. Had it been anyone else, Janare would make them work for the information. But not for you. Never for you.
"That's all you needed?" She waves her hand like she's shooing off the question. "Bay nine, dock fifteen, three nights from now. There's a Trandoshan guard with one eye— tell him I sent you and he'll clear out faster than you can say my name."
"You're a lifesaver."
"Only 'cause I like you," She takes a sip of her whiskey and her gaze drifts, lazy and deliberate, to Maul. "Can't say the same for all present company."
Maul says nothing, but the red waves of aggravation that emit from him through the Force almost make you cringe.
"He doesn't drink, he doesn't sit, he doesn't talk," Janare counts it off on her fingers. "You don't need a guard dog, babe."
"You are lucky that you two are acquainted," Maul seethes. "I do not take kindly to such poor hosts."
Janare laughs. "Oh, her and I are more than acquainted, I promise you."
You flush. "Janare-"
"I don't take kindly to poor guests," she continues, "but I don't go out of my way to threaten them either."
Maul shifts and you can tell that his hand is on his lightsaber. You have no doubt that Janare knew he was dangerous, but she was pushing it. You open your mouth to defuse the situation, but she interrupts you by placing her warm hand on your knee.
"You always have a room here," Janare says, soft and just for you. "If you ever get tired of rude men."
And there it was, another cold burst of rage coming from the man standing beside you. And—
It hits you like a freighter full of duracrete. Is Maul jealous?
No. There's no way.
There's tension between you — attraction, on your end, but you'd long since settled it as one-sided. He's consumed with Devon, with revenge. There's no conceivable way he thinks of you like that.
…Unless he does. Unless that's why Janare's been giving him so much shit.
"We have what we came for," Maul says, already heading towards the door.
You give Janare a bewildered look because you have a million questions on your tongue and no time for her to answer them. But she's watching Maul and smirking, like a tooka cat that caught the canary.
Oh no, you think.
"Stop by again sometime," she says, finally shifting her gaze back to you.
"I will…"
You rise from the couch and Janare guides you out of the room with a hand on your lower back.
"Enjoy the rest of your night, babe," she kisses you on the cheek. "Good to see you again."
You have to trot down the hall to catch up to Maul, who is nudging people out of his way with subtle use of the Force.
Devon's draped across the back seat when you arrive at the air speeder, one foot resting across the console and blaring music that Maul immediately quiets with a wave of his hand.
"Finally," she says, sniffs and makes a face. "Ugh, you two smell like booze—"
She stops and sits up. Those big eyes track from Maul, who flips the switches on the speeder like they personally offend him, to you, sliding into the front passenger seat.
"What happened?" Devon asks.
"Nothing happened." you say.
"No," she says, narrowing her eyes. "Something clearly happened in there."
"What happened," Maul hisses, then pauses, and reels in his tone. "was that we got the intelligence we needed,"
Devon glares at the back of his head for a long moment, then decides it isn't worth it and rolls her eyes.
"Whatever," she mumbles to herself.
You stare at the viewport as the neon smears past, trying not to think that the rage leaking off of Maul might just be jealousy. Three nights until the shipment, and a long ride back to the safe house before that. Wonderful, less than five minutes and Janare stirs your life up into a crisis. Typical.
You exhale slowly through your nose and try to meditate.
Emphasis on try. You've shared many comfortable silences with Maul, but not this one. This one is tense, and even if you were blind to the Force, you could cut it with a knife. He hasn't looked at you once since you left Janare's office, but you are hyper aware of the heat of his arm a hands width away from yours.
You watch the city peel past the viewport in silence, except for the soft snores of Devon who is dozed off in the back. You don't look at how Maul's large hands engulf the controls. You don't look at the cut of his side profile, or how his skin reflects the city lights in shades of blue and purple. You focus on the city, on bay nine, and dock fifteen. Anything that's not the anxiety swirling around in your chest.
Maul's arm shifts next to yours. He inhales, so softly you almost don't catch it, but whatever he plans to say dies on the exhale.
For a Sith, he has a lot of restraint.
The safe house is dark when you arrive. A dusty, utilitarian warehouse meant for short stays like this one— bare walls, moth bitten sheets, and a kitchenette stocked with instant noodles and protein bars. Devon wanders down the only hall in the corner. You hear a door slide open, then another shortly after, and a beat of silence.
"So," she calls out, too much delight in her voice for your liking. "We have a problem."
Both you and Maul head wordlessly down to the hallway to find Devon, leaning against one of the doorways with a smirk you definitely don't like.
"Well it's actually more a 'you two have a problem.' There's only two beds, and this one," she points her thumb behind her. "Is child size. The other one," she points to the bedroom on the far end of the hall. "Is huge."
A quick glance into the room Devon's standing in confirms that yes, it is child's size twin bed. Your heart jolts in your chest. Maul is silent behind you.
"Good luck figuring that one out," Devon says with a tone so smarmy that you know it will land her with ten more laps during tomorrows training session. She probably knows that and doesn't care.
Her door slides shut, leaving you and Maul alone with the heated weight between you two. You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, mumbling something about padawans and apprentices while walking to the other room.
The bed is huge— big enough to comfortably fit the three of you if it came down to it.
"I will sleep on the floor," Maul says from the doorway.
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. "The floor is disgusting," you say, turning to face him.
"I have slept in worse places," he says mildly.
"Maul," you huff. "We're adults. The bed is big enough for two hutts, let's just share it…"
He holds your gaze longer than is comfortable. Then, without a word, he crosses to the far side of the bed to pull off his boots. And that, apparently, was that.
Each bedroom has it's own attached refresher. You wordlessly take turns, and stay a bit longer underneath the boiling stream of the shower than necessary. You are both battle hardened adults. Sleeping next to a team mate is the far least precarious situation you found yourself in— crush notwithstanding. It is fine.
It is not fine. You spent your entire nightly routine debating on whether or not you should wear a bra to bed. Eventually settling on accepting a few nights of discomfort and clipping the garment back into the place. That led you two the second problem: you had no full length pajama pants, only panties and a single pair of sleep shorts that left little to the imagination.
Oh, sleeping next to a Sith Lord with your ass hanging out. You wonder what your Master would think, then remember that they were a hard ass and would tell you to get over it.
Right. You were an adult.
You walk out of the refresher. Maul is shirtless, and you swear you could hear the cackle of your Master's laugh through the Force. You beeline it to your side of the bed, not once making eye contact, while he takes his turn in the refresher.
You lie on your back and stare at the ceiling. Maul walks around with half his chest out anyway, why was it a big deal? There's approximately two Devon's of space between you and his side of the bed. You are an adult.
Yeah, who are you kidding? We're adults is a lovely theory when it does not involve a shirtless Zabrak you have a crush on sleeping next to you. Especially when said Zabrak is easily provoked into jealousy while visiting your ex.
It is going to be a long night.
You've already turned to face the wall when Maul exits the bathroom. You smell the faint traces of herbal soap and think, faintly, that it smells lovely. You feel him climb into bed next to you, careful of the way he keeps himself to the edge, as deliberate about the gap between you as you are. Neither of you say anything to each other. His breath never once drops into the slow rhythm of sleep, which means he was lying there doing the precisely what you were doing. Being aware of you. Being aware of you being aware from him.
Adults. Sure.
The silence is as loud as the ringing in your ears.
And eventually, the day catches up to you— the long hours of hyperspace to this Force forsaken planet, the club, holding yourself together, and it drags you under the veil of sleep.
You don't dream so much as you materialize into one.
You're in the the club— people dancing around you and through you in blurs of color. The music is an impression of something high energy and loud; something you can feel rather than hear. You realize that you're staring at yourself as you were earlier that night— glowing underneath the lights that danced off your skin. You watch yourself smile, and a warmth of want blooms in a chest that's not your own— the word beautiful is said in a voice you recognize as Maul's.
Underneath the want, you feel fear and the certainty that every thing he wants is taken from him. You are one more thing he is going to lose, because he always loses everything within his grasp. Hands, orange hands with white markings, Janare's hands, surface from a smudge of color and travel up your body. The manifestation of you arches into the touch where it lingers on your breasts.
A cold wave of despair overwhelms you into focus. The dream, that began to fade around the edges, sharpens into vivid color, and you surface into your own body. Maul is in front of you now, looking so hurt that you almost don't recognize him.
The hands leave your body as you reach for him. That hurt look morphs into one of surprise as you grasp the back of his neck, and pull him forward. The space between your lips closes to nothing— you feel his lips, the heat of his hands on your waist—
And that's what wakes you.
It's still dark. Your heart pounds in your ears, and the first thing you understand is that the space between you is gone.
At some point in the night, your bodies betrayed the both of you. Maul's bare chest consumes your vision, his arm heavy across your waist. You stare, frozen, face flush from both his heat and embarrassment until you hear his breath catch, because he's awake. Maybe as long as you have been.
You wait for him to retreat like you've burned him. It doesn't come and you don't move either.
"That was real," you say, when your heart finally settles down and you accept your fate. "You were there. I felt you."
You brace for his retreat— for the door to shut and his refusal to speak of this again. But it doesn't come.
"Yes," is all he says, voice impossibly deep and ragged from sleep.
You lean back, just a little, to look at him. His golden eyes glow in the dark, soft, despite the darkness you know it took for them to turn that color. For a moment, you think about how you, a former Jedi, are in bed with the Sith that served Sidious— the one that killed Qui-Gon Jinn. Your predecessors, both his and yours, are probably looking at the two of you in disgust.
And you realize that you don't care.
"You think I'm beautiful," you whisper.
"I do," No deflection, no mind games. What you two share is undeniable. To fight it would be a waste of breath.
"And you were jealous,"
Maul's arm flexes where it lays across your waist. "I did not intend for you to become something that I wanted," he inhales, shakily. "I have only known my wants to be…taken from me."
You have nothing to say, so you close the distance to kiss him. It's dark, so you miss slightly, and kiss his chin. You giggle, mumble a soft "sorry", and kiss him proper.
Maul is still for a second, then his hand is in your hair and he's kissing you back. The slide of your lips is a soft movement, until the restraint breaks and you throw a leg over his hips, rolling on top of him. Maul, you realize, is very noisy, which shouldn't come as too much of a surprise given his verbosity.
He groans as you slide your tongue into his mouth, graze against his, which you realize is a bit rough like sandpaper. The inhales between your kisses fill the room. Maul's muscles are taut between your thighs, and you become vividly aware of how thin your shorts are.
He grumbles when you pull away. You shush him with a series of kisses down his jaw to his neck.
"I think you're handsome," you nip at his skin. "In case you didn't know that."
Maul flips you and captures your lips in another kiss. He swallows your noise of surprise with an enthusiasm that goes straight to your clit. A warm hand slides under your shirt and pauses just below the wire of your bra. You curse yourself for your earlier trepidations.
"May I…?" his voice is wrecked and soft against your lips.
"Such a gentleman," you giggle and sit up enough to release the clasp, sliding the straps over your arms and pulling it out from underneath your shirt.
Maul's hands slide up your torso to your breasts, much like the ghosts of Janare's hands in your dream. You sigh as he rubs his thumb over your nipples, and watch as he drinks you in, like he's etching the sight of you into his memory.
"Like what you see?" you tease. The glow of Maul's eyes darkens. He maintains eye contact as he leans down and takes one of your nipples into his mouth. The gasp that leaves your mouth is whiny, even to your own ears.
"I will make you forget every time her hands were on you," Maul growls. "You will know nothing but my touch."
Your clit throbs, hips canting up to his. What you feel is warm and hard— but his hand is suddenly at your pelvis, pinning you down. It pulls you out of the haze of your arousal while Maul continues to mouth at your breasts.
"Maul…" you moan as he circles your nipple with his tongue. "We shouldn't go further…Not with Devon down the hall."
He kisses back up to your throat, his breath fanning against your skin. "Three days is a long time, my dear," his hand slides down to cup your pussy through your shorts. "I don't have to fuck you. Not yet."
"Maul—"
"Hush," He slides his hand underneath your shorts, humming in amusement when he feels how soaked you are. "Tell me, is this from your friend, or from me?"
Maul's lips drag down your breast again, sucking some of the supple flesh into his mouth.
"You," you whine, and he rewards you with a finger pressing against your swollen clit.
You've spent an embarrassing amount of time fantasizing about his hands. Even felt like some starved maiden during the rare glimpses you caught him without his gloves. You wonder if he ever fantasizes about parts of you in a similar way.
"That's right…" Maul drags his tongue over your nipple, then slides your panties to the side and glides his fingers up the length of your cunt.
He presses your clit and rubs in slow, small circles. You spread your legs, body trembling beneath him.
"Going on about three days," you laugh breathlessly. "Like I'm the one that's being impatient."
That earns you a slap to your clit. You yelp and grind into his hand.
"You started this," Maul kisses you again and sucks your tongue into his mouth. "I will finish it. Now be quiet."
He works at your clit, swallowing all of your cries with sloppy, wet kisses. It's messy the way your teeth occasionally clash, noses bumping against each other, spit gathering in each others mouths.
You grin when one of Maul's fingers slides into your cunt, another quickly following when he feels how greedily you suck him in. They curl and you clench hard enough to feel the ridges of his knuckles.
"L-lower," you mumble against his lips. "Little lower, curl them more…Oh—"
Maul hits that spongy spot inside you in an even, but hard pace. You feel the pleasure pulse from your clit and radiate deep inside you— the squelch of your pussy absolutely filthy. It's melting your brain and you try so hard to keep quiet, but Maul shoves two fingers of his other hand in your mouth anyway.
"Is silence truly so difficult for you?" he taunts, voice just as wrecked as yours. "Bite."
You bite down on his fingers, staring right into his blown pupils as you lap your tongue around his digits.
He thrusts into you violently now, curling his palm so it rubs right against your clit. Your brain melts as the warmth builds and builds, your legs shaking, desperately grabbing onto his forearm as it overwhelms you.
Maul looks wild as he smirks down at you. The hazy look in his eyes somewhere between smug and reverent. That arrogance goes straight to your pussy, and you can't wait to wipe that look off of his face later.
But for now, drool gathers at the corners of your mouth. Your muffled cries pitch higher and higher, the pleasure so consuming that you feel dizzy.
"Go on," Maul whispers. "Cum for me, my dear."
You gush around his fingers as your orgasm tears through you, soaking his hand and ruining your shorts and panties. Your pussy squeezes so hard around his fingers that you push them out of you. But Maul, the bastard, doesn't let up, and rubs your puffy clit in circles as you ride the waves of your high.
You smack at his forearm when it becomes too much, twisting your hips to get away from the over stimulation. He stops and cups your pussy instead, pressing down with light pressure as you start to come down.
Your body jerks with the aftershocks. Slowly, you register a metallic taste in your mouth and realize that you bit down on his fingers hard enough to break skin. You let go and he pulls his hand away.
"Shit— I'm sorry," you pant, but Maul silences you with a kiss.
"I can handle a little bite," he mumbles into your mouth.
Your hips jolt when his hand leaves your pussy, and he maintains eye contact while he licks his fingers.
"You are lovely," Maul hums.
That praise brings heat to your cheeks and you kiss him again, licking the essence of you off his tongue.
It's almost disgustingly sweet the way he takes care of you after. Peeling off your panties and shorts, grabbing a fresh pair for you from your bag and gently patting you dry with a towel. Your brain is too foggy to comprehend what just happened between you two.
Maul climbs back into bed behind you and draws you in, hooking his chin over your shoulder.
"What about you?" you mumble, reaching behind you for his waist. He gently grabs your wrist and splays his fingers over yours.
"Another time," he says into your hair. "Sleep. We have few hours before dawn."
You wake to an empty bed. A look at the chrono on your datapad tells you it was mid morning, which means you slept in. You stretch out with your senses and find Maul and Devon outside, which you expected. For one horrible, anxiety ridden second, you brush up against Maul's presence and wait to be shut out. That he realized in the waking hours that last night was a mistake, and whatever between you two would never be the same again.
But what you feel in return is gentle, chastising, almost as if to say "don't be a fool."
You smile to yourself and make a note to message Janare later.
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man speaking of old republic and star wars I’ve been spinning around a world with sith acolyte mairon/sauron and sith acolyte reader. I have yet to write anything postable about it but rest assured they’ve been in the brain
summary: war rages on between the jedi and the sith. as a jedi on the front lines, you wonder just when this conflict will end. a sith attacks, a battle is staged, and a storm brews on the horizon
content: star wars au (old republic), gn!reader, jedi reader, background relationship, canon-typical violence, themes of grief and mourning, force nonsense
do i clench my fists? - ridgeclub ✵ masterlist
The oncoming storm is a background buzz in the force as you fight. It hums somewhere in the air and in the part of your mind that is always alert and aware, the tingle of anticipation that promises something, and something soon.
It is not there yet. It does not demand your attention no matter how the clouds darken, so you ignore the distant thunder and stay tuned in to the fight in front of you.
This is the present threat, the immediate action that rings little bells in what triggers your reactions and reflexes. The hiss-snap of a lightsaber, the burning ozone from heavy blaster fire, the immediate killer intent from the darkness that sloughs off the enemy you face in staggering waves.
The Sith in front of you snarls through their mask, their red saber crackling, threatening to set the tall grass around you ablaze. You flourish your own saber, twisting an ache out of your wrist, and launch into an attack.
Your awareness of the force is immediate at this moment, enhancing your speed and giving you warnings mere moments before the enemy’s saber would make contact with you. You follow its flow, your expertise in combat and familiarity in this dance providing a good fight against the darkness that threatens to swallow you whole.
Dodge, parry, strike, strike, block, dodge - your saber sparks where it clashes with the Sith’s, your shoulder muscles straining as you press against their strength.
Push, parry, parry - and then you see your chance and make an opening, tugging with the force at his foot which wasn’t quite balanced. You yank, duck, twist and swing, and their head falls to the ground, followed shortly by a body.
There is a difference between the imbalance of the Sith, the roiling of anger and darkness, and the absence of life. It cannot quite be dark where the soul once existed, for nothing now exists, all energy swallowed up into the force. The force does not care about all the trivialities most sentient beings like to involve with death.
You shut your saber off, and wipe the sweat from your brow.
The saber of the Sith lays at your feet, spitting and hissing without having a master there to dismiss the blade. The loss is something you refuse to feel remorse for. This is the nature of war, the nature of conflict. One less Sith in the galaxy is something you would not regret.
You pick it up, flinching as your palm touches the cool metal of the hilt, and shut it off quickly. The pain still bleeds from the kyber trapped within, but it is nothing you have not felt before, so you clip it to your belt next to your own. You were not a healer in the force, you were a fighter on the front lines, and so you would do your job and return the saber to the Jedi who could do something about it.
The wind picks up, tugging at your singed outer-robes and shattering your single minded focus on the Sith in front of you.
You take a deep breath, tasting that distant smog of blaster fire, and the fresh green scent of the grass and trees surrounding you. Following something wordless and profound, you part the tall grass and climb the small incline of a hill in front of you, looking out across the field below.
Sometime during your own battle, the firefight between your own troops and the Sith's had found its end. Past the sea of grass, along the edge of the tree line, you can see Republic troops finding one another, assisting the wounded, and mourning the dead.
Thunder rumbles somewhere along the horizon, and the grey clouds roil and churn above you. The field moves like water in an ocean, grass wavering violently in the gusts of wind like waves cresting in the sea.
That hum that hasn’t quite left the back of your mind consumes you, rolling and ebbing with the sound of the storm. It's music you can feel, a symphony that seems to crescendo. A much larger feeling than the clash of light and dark you had just experienced, a feeling in the force that feels cavernous and endless. You can almost feel the wind pushing the clouds above you, the weight of the precipitation waiting to rain down in a deluge, the energy building between atoms that rub against one another, sparking violently.
You can taste it, the electricity of the storm, headier than the blaster fire and stench of death that seemed to permeate the nature around you. It is cleansing - it is dangerous.
A hand lands on your shoulder, and suddenly you are not breathing with the wind, but with two lungs. The swell of the force ebbs, and you are contained once more into a body of flesh and blood and bone. Another heart beats steadily in your ears, keeping time and establishing a baseline for your own to follow. A presence you know better than your own, a force signature so grounding and familiar.
“Maedhros,” you acknowledge, not having to turn to know it is him who stands at your side.
“What is it?” He asks, without preamble. There is little need for a greeting, when you have already acknowledged one another in the force. Little need when the force is tugging at you, the will of which will always take precedence over formalities.
“A storm is coming,” is all you manage to say, your eyes still distant.
It pulls at you again, the fathomless whisper, the energy in the wind and the clouds, the cosmic force that dances with the anticipation of an oncoming storm. But with Maedhros’ hand solidly on your shoulder, his grounding presence keeping you in your own body and mind, it’s much harder to follow its tune.
Firmly in the present once more, you turn to face him, and feel the force in its unifying sense. The trees and their roots dig in against the buffeting winds, the troops below find their quiet camaraderie after battle, and Maedhros stands tall in his singed and carbon-scored armor.
You turn back to the Sith you just fought. You can sense that emptiness again, a soul that once was that is no longer, remnants of fear clinging desperately to a body that no longer breathes.
Sorrow, deep and fathomless as the sky above you, nearly chokes you.
Maedhros says nothing, though you know he can feel your sudden turmoil. Your difficulty in releasing such emotion to the force, entirely unbecoming of a Jedi knight such as yourself.
“We should bury them,” you find yourself saying.
You haven’t buried your enemies in a very long time, and you’ve certainly never buried a Sith - those whose job it was to clean the battlefield were those who lit the pyre. Force users were far more often burned.
But something feels right in the force at the idea, something that makes it make sense in this moment.
Maedhros does not remind you of the oncoming storm. He does not call you foolish, though you almost wish he would. He walks with you to the body and head of the Sith you had killed, and takes off his own cloak to wrap the corpse with gentle hands. He moves rocks with his own use of the force while you dig a plot, enough to cover the shallow grave.
The first few drops of rain splatter against your shoulders as you place the last rock atop the dirt. Thunder crashes above you now, no longer distant on the horizon. Your troops have regrouped, and have returned company by company in transports to your ship hovering just in atmo, somewhere far above the spitting clouds.
“Come,” Maedhros finally says, having to yell over the storm as the rain picks up. His red-orange hair dances and snaps in the wind. “The storm is here; it’s over.”
The anticipation is gone, the distant threat now an immediate one - but that feeling in your chest, in the force, remains. There is a warning there somewhere. Something important in the depth of that hollow feeling beneath your ribs, in the power of the storm that buzzes in the air, in the way his hair blows in the wind, like fire, like ribbons of molten rock.
Maedhros takes your hand, and drags you through the wind and the rain, back to reality and to your transport. His hand is warm, despite the chill of the rain, and you cling to him tightly.
The cracked kyber crystal at your side weeps, and weeps, and weeps.
working on some older writing, I don’t know how much I’ll be able to edit or post this week, so take a WIP <3 the girls are fightinggggg
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“Because I am doomed!”
He slams his hand down on the table, making the silverware rattle with the force.
“All that we start with love in our heart is cursed to our terrible fate. All that is connected to us is doomed the same, to end in darkness, to rot in despair. I am doomed to be doomed, for the silmarils will always demand those that hold them to keep, and I must always demand their return.”
He fits you with a look, a cold, withering look, and it takes all you have not to freeze in it. “You insist on fighting for something doomed from the beginning. You insist on putting yourself on a path you have no need to go down, one that will only ever promise ruin. And I will not let you.”
It was all terribly unfair.
You had been there when he had sworn the oath, had spilled blood on those western shores, had travelled far and wide with him. The Valar didn’t understand, and maybe there had been pride and vanity when Fëanor had refused to give up the silmarils, and had sworn so viciously for their return; but you know Maedhros had always sworn out of duty and love, for his father and his brothers.
You had done the same for him, and you were beyond saving now. You had not taken the oath, had never spoken any binding words, but your love ran deeper than anything you could ever swear upon to the stars above, to the Valar on their thrones, to Eru itself.
There was never any other path for you.
“I don’t remember taking your council into consideration,” you bite back rather heatedly. “I don’t recall asking for your permission, Maedhros.”
You bite his name out like it’s a curse. Curse him, and curse the evil that has driven you both here. Curse the love that has made you stay.
“You would be needlessly damning yourself for something beyond saving,” he says, cold in his rage. In his need for control. Cold as the pass he used to guard, before the forces of Morgoth had overran the northern front, and forced you further south.
He speaks with a terrible certainty that tells you he has made peace with his own fate. It is not something you would make peace with. Not now, not in a thousand years, not so long as he stood before you and still drew breath.
“You are not a thing, Maedhros,” you snap. “You are an elf! My elf! An elf that is still here, still fighting. And it is not needless, and I am not blind to these risks.”
You step around the table, ignoring the terrible anger. The way he imposes his height, the way he snaps and rages, the way his red hair and shining eyes make him seem to be of fire, of a devil. He is trying to be intimidating, and it is no small feat for he has this ability to harden his gaze and cow even the strongest elves.
“Do not ask me to sit idly while you put yourself in harms way. Do not ask me to run off with my tail between my legs because the road has grown dark, and danger lies ahead. Above all, do not ask me to abandon you to carry the world alone.”
He tenses his jaw, before he has to look away, breaking your gaze. “I am asking you to save yourself. Is that so difficult to understand?”
“And leave you to save your brothers on your own? To save yourself? I think not.”
You reach for his hand, and grasp it, following him even as he tries to pull it away. You won’t let him scare you away like this. You won’t be pushed away.
“I did not swear your oath, dear heart. I will not swear it, for you are right, it is madness. But I will not sit by while you damn yourself. I will not leave you alone, for I cannot bear to leave you alone, nor be alone, in all this. I do not care if this curses me, or stains me, because I would do it a thousand times over, because it is you. Maedhros, look at me.”
He doesn’t, not right away. He sits there, shoulders heaving with his breaths, for a long, tense moment. You’re breaking him down, you know you are, and you know he’s hating himself for it.
You squeeze his hand tightly.
“I cannot let you damn yourself for my sake,” he says, finally raising his head. He’s crying, you realize, silent tears that roll down his cheeks like drops of silver.
There is something broken in his expression, something vulnerable and bloody in the way he looks at you now. The misery of an elf who does not want what goodness he has left to fall to darkness, yet cannot bear the thought of you leaving.
“I am already damned.” You move your other hand to reach up and cup his jaw, keeping his gaze fixed upon you. “I spilled blood as you have, I left knowing it meant exile, I have made myself an enemy of those who are against you. It is not something you can stop, as much as you can the wind or the sea.”
You rub your thumb along his cheekbone, gently wiping away his tears.
“I am not leaving you alone in this,” you promise. He leans into your touch, as reassured as he is heartbroken. “Not now, not ever. I have lived without you long enough, and will not hear anything of leaving you again.”
