Read on AO3 / Rating: Teen+. Featuring: Darth Jadus, Male Imperial Agent, & Kaliyo Djannis
Dominic Ryttoll is not new to anger or fear. But he is new to Imperial Intelligence. He is new to Darth Jadus.
Plans are in motion for a new epoch of fear. But first, preparation of the match to set the blaze.
If Dominic Ryttoll didn’t know better, he might accuse the walls themselves of hissing, twisting. An unfortunately now-familiar nausea rolls in his stomach - like that of a green spacer making the first bone-rattling jolt through an unfamiliar planet’s atmosphere. But this is no ship, and he has little hope for sanctuary appearing on its other side.
The servant that waits just ahead of the doorway is faceless, save for a faint red glow set into shadowy silver cybernetics where eyes should be. They raise a stiff hand. “The Rattataki must remain outside. The Master has not requested her presence.”
Kaliyo Djannis clicks her tongue behind him. “Shame, that, agent. Seems I have to miss all the fun.”
“Out.” Dominic rolls his jaw. He casts a faint frown towards her pale eyes swimming against gray skin and the swooping purple lines of markings across her face.
It is a strikingly odd comfort when opposed to the unforgiving sleek walls behind her. That are not moving.
He hopes to never think the criminal’s presence such a relief ever again.
She rolls her eyes in response to the narrowing of his own. “And try to resist causing trouble.”
“You should get your allergies checked. ‘Fun’ might be among them, agent,” the Rattataki scowls, but shrugs a shoulder as she turns.
Dominic watches her back until she rounds the corner for the main hall of the Sanctum, disappearing - not without his notice of a flickering hand over her blaster.
“Come.” Dominic’s jaw grinds in the hollow echo of the command. “The Master will not wait.”
He follows the servant down the hall. The sickly green-white lighting nearly devolves into complete shadow towards its end, save for the doorway - beyond which it illuminates the tall, shrouded figure of Darth Jadus.
“Ah. You have come.”
The servant bows low and steps aside, joining a collection of copies in a resolute frame of the room.
“Step forward, agent, and revel in the power of the Dark Council.”
Darth Jadus turns to face him. There are no eyes on the mask of the Dark Lord before him, and there are no eyes left in his servants encircling the room, but the feeling of being watched, of staring down the barrel of a smoking blaster is flooding - already hissing at his neck.
His nostrils flare.
“Your due reward,” Jadus offers as if to explain with an opening of one arm. “You proved yourself in outmaneuvering the Hutts. You shall serve me well again. But there are preparations…”
Dominic nearly reminds himself for the need to breathe. “Preparations.., my lord?”
Jadus folds both hands quietly behind his back. “I have chosen you to eliminate the dissidents that threaten us, our very way of life, agent.”
Jadus’s helmed head tilts faintly in the agent’s silence. A thoughtful hum emits from the blank visage. “I sense your uncertainty. You wonder why I choose to involve myself in such affairs, why I take interest in you and in Imperial Intelligence.”
Dominic clears his throat before bowing his head slightly. “I… would not presume to wonder, my lord. It is not my place to question you.”
The lack of eyes is no less boring than twenty pairs glaring through jungle cover.
“Many of the Dark Council hold themselves above the mundane daily business of the Empire.”
But their authority is unquestioned, their power absolute. Earned, it has always been said. The Dark Council is the seat of the powerful - as befits the seat of power of such an apparatus.
“I believe this is a mistake.”
Dominic’s eyes jump back up to the expressionless sheen of Jadus’s mask.
“Do you know where power lies, agent? Truly?”
His brow knits.
Jadus opens an arm once more. “I will show you. I promised a reward. Kneel, agent.”
He will reward success or failure appropriately, and I will not intervene. Keeper’s words. And he’d been at this business much longer.
“Very well, my lord.” Dominic dips his head, tries to tuck the urge to swallow back below his throat, and lowers to one knee.
Darth Jadus tilts his head upwards again by the chin. “Eyes closed. Allow your body to betray you. Allow your blood to boil and you heart to slow.”
He closes his eyes. Like drowning if the riptide was as still as night, with claws enough to still drag you under. For better or worse, his entire body braces - heels digging into soaking, slipping mud.
“Everything that is not of the dark side will be purged.” Jadus’s hands frame his face first. “Or it will be tainted.”
The Sith’s thumbs press against his eyelids - only enough pressure to be felt. “This is inoculation, agent. This is a sacred rite.”
And Dominic Ryttoll is drowning. A soundless grimace tears across his lips.
-----------------------
Searing. Stabbing. Repeated blows to the ribs.
His father’s eyes are colder than any ice that ever crusts over Ziost’s streets, over the jagged rock faces beyond the city limits. In twisting cigar smoke, the man waits behind his desk, enshrouded by shadow.
He never had to raise a hand. There were other people for these things. Each cog to its proper place, and not a single cog out of place, lest it desire the cold blow of the hammer to remake it.
Apply heat. Reform. If encountering resistance, apply heat again. Remake. The bond will take. Or it will break.
Broken things have uses, too. For those with eyes cutting enough to weather the process.
Come when called. Leave when dismissed. Keep a schedule. Never let them see you break.
-----------------------
There’s a box that lives under the bed. Polished obsidian wearing an obscuring layer of dust like the latest silken rage of Kaas City parties.
Silver reflects the light. Black is a steady accent, the champion of contrast hanging off a socialite’s arm. Gemstones set with the finest care credits can buy in shades of emerald, blood red, or the shadowy blue of a distant mountain, even - on the proper occasion. A full pair of hands has ten whole seats for these items of power, of refinement.
He slides engraved silver loosely around the fourth finger of his left hand. To the refined, to the upper class, the subtle clink of hands at work are like those of glasses raised in toast.
To the wayward, they are as blaster fire over the muddy fields of war.
His father passed years ago. The polished black box had been presented after the reading of the will. Some documents were still signed in ink - with swooping, careful hand, as had been taught. As had always been demanded.
He leaves the polished box underneath the bed. A hole with teeth. Gnashing, slathering, sharpened teeth.
The reflection remains the same in the mirror.
-----------------------
“Darling, not now, please-” His eyes skip a line and he squints, frown setting a little deeper as he doubles back.
She sighs. “Dad, you promised-”
“That I’d look this over and get it back to them before the end of the week.” He closes his eyes, briefly pinches the bridge of his nose. “There’s a new shipping route out to some of the forward outposts and-”
“Forget it.” The hiss makes him glance up from the screen.
The hallway light shifts over her arms, a hand racing up to brush a loose twirl of bangs back behind her ear. “Graduation is still soon. I thought-”
His teeth sink into his lip. Her eyes miss his.
The calendar never holds enough days.
“Forget it.” Her heels click heavily against the polished tile. “I won’t bother your secretary. Clearly, you’ve enough on your schedule.”
Searing. Stabbing. Repeated blows to the ribs.
-----------------------
Dominic chokes, gasps for air, tilts forward heavily to narrowly catch himself on his free hand against the darkened tile.
His shoulders heave, shudder. It burns. Burns like an entire pack of cigarettes, all lit. Hazy as their ends burning down.
Darth Jadus hums over him. “Yes. I think you will serve well.”
Dominic swallows, shoving back a pitiful groan. The collar of his shirt sticks uncomfortably around his neck. He dares not look further than the feet of the dark lord before him. “M… My lord, I…”
He steadies his free hand against his chest, over the diaphragm. It does little for the sawing, and even less for the sweat gathering on his brow.
“I… I’m not sure I understand..?”
“No, agent.”
Dominic swallows again. Darth Jadus turns from him, turns the featureless void of his attention upon the back wall of the office.
It relieves at least one of the several nerfs piling upon Dominic’s chest.
“To the contrary, I believe you understand quite well.” Jadus waves a hand. “Rise, agent.”
Dominic briefly closes his eyes again and tries to take a modicum of relief from the unyielding tile floor. He presses a palm into his thigh and stands on legs that threaten to wobble. The only favor his body could give was that they did not give out from beneath him immediately.
“Soon, I intend to leave Dromund Kaas, agent. Aboard the starship Dominator, I will take with me a thousand dignitaries, diplomats, and slaves, to show them the galaxy as I envision it. I expect the dissidents to be handled before my return.”
“Of course, my lord.” He tries not to wince at the waver in his own voice, nor the swimming of his head.
“Trust no one, agent. An enemy who wants as a child - for freedom without responsibility, is no less dangerous for their shortsighted grasping.” Jadus turns just his head over his shoulder.
The faceless stare bores deeper into his heart. “They have sympathizers at the highest levels of our government. But you are new to them, agent. New enough to take my vision of the democratization of fear for the Empire entire.”
Dominic’s brow furrows. “My lord..?”
“You have my will, and my blessing, agent. You are dismissed.”
Dominic bows his head. “My lord.”
A pair of servants step back from their sentry’s post. All watch as the agent turns and starts down the hall.
Dominic Ryttoll manages to make it outside to the humid Kaasi air before he finally gives to the sway of the scenery around him. A blundering hand catches shakily against the railing of the Citadel walkway and his stomach roils with a fruitless retch.
His arms shake as he braces against them and then squints into the overcast sky overhead. The lights from the city plaza below blur, stretch, run together as if through a rainy window.
There’s always a storm waiting on Dromund Kaas. Always.
I insist that there was a missed opportunity for Nik to drain that Cassandra Sunrise right in front of Hunter and be almost bored about it, so my brain insisted that we may as well write something to fix it. So, here we are: we'll let Nik steal the spotlight of being Nine for just a moment so that I can have this as a little amusement.
Also posted to ao3(x). And, ofc, Imperial Agent spoilers for the chapter 2 prelude, The Master Strategem.
rating: teen (some swearing); characters: hunter, the imperial agent, shoutout to our best support vector hyllus
Neon lights so vibrant and eclectic they’d be burned into the back of your eyelids for another three days, even in your sleep. At least Nar Shadaa never changed - a reliable bastion of backstabbing, gambling, backstabbing, cartels and street gangs.
And backstabbing, of course.
Still enough to make Nikihlus’s lip curl back slightly over his teeth. And still, he’d rather his chances here than the cloying egos of Dromund Kaas. Or that killer humidity, for another.
“Many auras here oscillate… wildly, agent.” Vector Hyllus cocks their head with the faintest trace of a frown at the corner of their lips. A blue twi’lek woman in a fit of laughter stumbles into their shoulder on her way out with her companion without so much as a glance back. “It is… interesting to sort through.”
“Been to many a cantina, Vector?”
“The nest is not without its celebrations, if that is what you are inquiring, agent.”
The zabrak nearly rolled his eyes, though settled for inclining his head towards the bar. “You’ll have to forgive me if I pass on participating, given the opportunity.”
“Each to their own taste,” they replied lightly. Their eyes drifted across the room as the pair picked their way around a few tables, while the agent was clearly concerned with making for the bar. “We believe it best we do not imbibe at this time. We shall watch your back.”
Nikihlus cast a glance at them over his shoulder. “Suit yourself.” He gestured towards the wall at the end of the bar. “Try to keep yourself out of trouble.”
“Noted.” Certainly they both knew that was why Kaliyo had not accompanied them to this particular rendezvous.
It was curious enough Imperial Intelligence would have one alien Cipher, he could’ve argued. Not that they’d make half so odd a pair here on the Hutt moon, and Hyllus was not exactly much less of a curiosity. Nik could’ve likely enjoyed the higher threat of something starting a brawl with the Rattataki at his side, but rules were rules with their Imperial masters.
For now, at least. And he wasn’t half as much as interested in trying to explain Djannis’s plan to Keeper’s stiff lips. He was, perhaps, on enough of the woman’s bad side as it was.
Nikihlus sighed as he finally rested his arms against the bar. Something strong ought to take the edge off of the work. At the very least, it was far preferable to wasting time wondering if Keeper thought this was some amusing jest for what had transpired on the Dominator. And far more preferable than trying to puzzle out that particular master’s ideas of fate. It was more than enough to make a man miss working for the Hutts.
“Well, hello there.”
Nik closed his eyes and buried a groan somewhere beneath his stomach before he let his eyes slide to his right and settle on the blonde perched against the bar two seats down already wearing a smile.
At least make it good.
The man opened an arm to gesture to a glass beside him. “I suppose she didn’t want to finish her drink. Perhaps I can interest you in what’s left of a Cassandra Sunrise?”
Nik weighed flashing a scowl against the proffered nearly-full glass. And Hyllus’s absence from his side to comment on accepting drinks on the job - from strangers in cantinas, no less.
“Perhaps,” Nik allowed a drawl over the word and shifted to lean against one arm on the bartop - a better mirror of his would-be company. “What’ll it cost me?”
The blonde’s smile grew, and rather pleased, too, with a chuckle to match. “Ah, are all Imperial Ciphers so mistrusting?”
Nik stiffened, breath stilling in place as golden eyes narrowed slightly.
Enough to make the blonde laugh again. He pushed off the bar to close the distance between them and slid the glass closer. “Oh, I’m sorry. Pretty presumptuous of me. Though… I suppose I could just have to keep looking for that Cipher somewhere else… Imperials wouldn’t have such a good sense of direction down here with little old us, would they?”
Nik blew a sharp exhale out of his nostrils. Cocky. He pressed a smile to his lips as his company turned like he was about to leave and took up the glass. “It’d certainly be interesting, wouldn’t it?”
“Very,” the blonde agreed. He perched back against the bar. “Couldn’t imagine it’d have anything to do with that Cipher wanting to change sides.”
Nik hummed as he raised the glass to his lips. Not for the faint of heart. “Careful,” he mused, “I might start believing you got this for me instead of your lady friend.”
That grin glittered like a Hutt statue. “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. You certainly gave me enough time. Made the check at the spaceport.”
The kind of burn that might fry the horns off a krayt dragon, that Sunrise. Nik swallowed and held out the glass to inspect the remaining contents. “Reckon your Imperial ‘friend’ would like that, would you..?” He glanced at the blonde over the rim of the glass.
“Codename Hunter, Strategic Information Service.”
Nik flashed a wry smile. “Trying to kill me already, hm?”
Hunter shrugged. “That’s what we’re going to find out, if you still plan on playing along.” For a mercy, that obnoxious little dangle on his lips seemed to be quieted as he eyed Nik, glass to lips again. “Nothing’s free-”
“Except the drink?”
Hunter’s smile dropped, leaving behind only dark eyes that Nik met silently over the glass. “Job first, then we’ll see if you’re worth anything. No sob stories, no complaints, no questions. Then I’ll consider introducing you.”
With all pleasantries discarded, Nik merely inclined his head slightly. “Better keep talking, then.” The Sunrise would only last so long, after all. Without breaking eye contact, he tipped the glass just enough to offer a steady burn.
“There’s a new factory in town, Cipher - a courtesy of a little deal between Nem’ro the Hutt and your dear Empire. It’s supposed to manufacture hunters, crawlers, Jedi-killers… All the best - and nasty - stuff. You’re going to do something about it.”
Nik’s brow raised briefly as he swallowed. Of course I will. Almost empty. “I’ve been known to deal with a few Hutts,” he said. “Here I was thinking it’d almost been too long.”
“Tempting as that may be, save your thoughts of reunions.” Nik rolled his eyes and took up the glass again. “You’ll need your Cipher clearance. Security’s tight, but automated. Get inside. Get me reconnaissance. We talk again when I know what you’re dealing with, and we make this little problem disappear. Deal?”
Nik set down the glass heavily on the bartop and rolled his neck. “Thought you already knew that much, no? Hunters, killers…?”
Nothing shifted in those dark eyes. “Like you said. Try to make it worth my credits.”
“What? Your bosses not like cantina tabs on your write-offs?”
“You deal, or you don’t.” Hunter turned to leave. “We’ll know either way, Cipher. But the next round’s on you. I know how to reach you, so you’ll know where to go. Within an hour, or I might have to come looking for my credits, and your work could get very complicated.”
Nik’s narrowed eyes followed his back as he left. Vector rejoined him as the blonde turned a corner out of the cantina and beyond view. “Agent?” He could hear the mild frown on the Joiner’s face without looking for it.
“So goes our man,” Nik gestured towards the doorway lightly.
“And? We… hope you minded yourself."
Nik hummed thoughtfully. “We’ll see, I suppose. Won’t we?” He blinked and glanced back towards the bar before he dug in his pocket and tossed a few credits out by the empty glass. To cover the tab or, perhaps, to make a bet. “We shall see, my friend. Come then. I’ve a feeling Kaliyo will be jealous for not bringing her along, so we may as well make it a damn good story.”
something something, back to the beginning with 7.5, something something spend nearly half your life doing something, something memories, something totally probably not at all actually related to the plot of the patch, but something something excuse for me to write cheesy flirt lines--
self-indulgent as hell little brainworm of an exchange that may or may not actually happen but i sure as hell had fun putting tyr through it xD loosely inspired by the premise of returning to hutta for 7.5 and name-dropping one of the new characters, so technically some kind of spoilers but. obvs we don't know much and this is just. deeply, deeply self-indulgent fun on my part for now, lol. [but that kind of stuff is under the cut, if that is important to your reading choices <3]
“We have been to Hutta before,” Vector recalls. They step up to the agent’s shoulder as Tyr leans into the doorway, cocking one foot over the other.
Tyr grunts, “Somehow.., I’m inclined to doubt much has changed in…” A grimace starts to pull the agent’s features tighter around his eyes, as if counting the years might make the aches settle deeper. “Oh, twenty years, almost.., isn’t it?”
Vector hums thoughtfully. “Much has changed, agent,” they remind gently, “But… not so much, all the same, we concur.” They watch the agent’s eyes scan the distant swamp for a moment, noting the restless toy of his hands along the fit sleeves of the overcoat he wears.
They recall a saying on the ways of old habits…
“We suppose not all things can improve with age.”
A sharp, loud huff leaves their companion. Vector begins to smile. It’s enough to still Tyr’s hands - they instead fold together across his waist, supporting the agent’s lean. Out of the corner of their eyes, Tyr’s own narrow as they turn on him, mockingly accusatory.
“Vector Hyllus… I’m going to assume good faith.”
“Of course, agent,” they reply. Their smile widens under the mounting suspicion. “We have known plenty to admire a fine vintage.”
Tyr doesn’t quite manage to choke back a bark of laughter beneath a hand flying up to his mouth, nor does it entirely conceal his smile and the brush of color that enters his cheeks. Vector mercifully turns their eyes back out to the smog-hugged buildings awaiting them. Shortly, Tyr clears his throat. “You know I prefer Kaasi brandy myself.”
“Of course. You’ve always had a most enlightening taste, agent.”
Tyr coughs lightly and shakes his head. “Ah… right. So.”
“So,” Vector allows. “We… are not familiar with this… ‘Yusinduu,’ agent. It will be our first time in the district.”
“Right.” And just like that, a familiar lighting bolt clarity clears Tyr’s eyes. He pushes off from the doorway and waves Vector down the ramp with him, sweeping his jacket over the holsters at his hips. “Stay close, for now. If Hutts are reliable for anything, it’s an eye for profitable motives-”
Even that brief smile was well worth the diversion. They follow after the Commander, tucking their hands into their pockets.
“Do you think there is any relation, agent?”
Tyr begins to frown - a familiar brush of durasteel and the first gasp of rain-heavy air from the horizon. “I wouldn’t be surprised in the least,” he says.
His eyes skim the edges of the streets over Vector’s shoulders. “You know, I think you owe me a drink-” A cover for the agent’s sentiment to find a place to observe the local hum.
He claps a hand to Vector’s shoulder with a grin, eyes clear of the aged rhythms thrumming in battle-tested veins, no doubt. His fingers squeeze carefully around their shoulder and his voice drops for only a moment, “If I know anything about Hutta, it’s that we’re all good for someone… for the right price.” Stay close. Stay vigilant.
Tyr’s eyes face forward again, easily slipping through unfamiliar streets - enough heaviness in forward steps to keep their path clear and draw only the barest of curious glances. New faces on Hutt-controlled streets aren't uncommon. Nine wants them just under the radar. For now.
woe! for it be wednesday and the desire to make words domed me in the head last night, so you may all have more 'dot what au are you on now?' wonderings!
the premise context on this one is a bit long-winded, so the short of it is aus with friends! au where friends blorbo was the inquisitor! [it... does not go well. for most involved, lol press f, etc.] so! this piece is several(?) years post-nathema conspiracy, a little drabble on... tyr and theron and trying to heal through the aftermath of an eternal alliance era that... wasn't so kind to them.
“Theron…” Tyr sighs heavily with a hint of frustration that Theron wants to flinch from. He struggles to swallow down the urge wriggling at the back of his throat if only because Tyr’s hand draws steadily up and down his arm.
“Look at me.” Two fingers reach out and gently tap under Theron’s chin with the softly rasped words.
Theron nearly frowns a moment, nearly shrugs his chin out of his partner’s embrace, but reluctantly gives to the request. Tyr rewards the tilt of his head by caressing his jaw. A soft, easy smile starts to paint across the ex-Cipher’s lips.
He’s tired - a very different kind of ‘tired’ than Theron remembers when they stood together in the Alliance. The Kaasi edge has started to bleed from his voice after the many years separated from the capital planet for something a bit more roaming, for something warmed by a sun more commonly seen than that which may or may not have broken through the storm clouds.
Theron leans faintly into his calloused palm. A few more silver threads mix with sun-muddied blonde at Tyr’s temples. He used to say Darth Nox - Emperor? It… Well. It doesn’t much matter what the dead prefer.., does it? - would drive him to it earlier. He’d smiled less and less about it as the Alliance matured.
But now..? Now, the ‘tired’ looking back at him has a gentler kind of warmth - the kind he hasn’t felt… maybe since Rishi.
The thought’s almost enough to make Theron tremble.
Tyr shuffles a bit against the pillows, squirming to lay a bit more on his back, to steady Theron against him. The brief grunt of effort dispels the smile for something more…
Theron’s eyes drop, blindly skimming along, eager to find some indeterminate distraction to settle on. His hand moves towards Tyr’s wrist. He shouldn’t need to-
“Theron.” He can hear the frown without having to look back. That was more like it.
Except the caress moulds firmer and directs his fleeing eyes back to Tyr’s knitting brow.
“Stay. Please?”
Theron blinks, breath stilling in his stiff shoulders.
Tyr’s next smile is fragile, framed with barely a breath of a tight chuckle. “I… I’ve lost quite enough, by now… Or so I thought, at least.”
Theron’s jaw shifts. Tyr’s touch softens to fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, his thumb brushing along his cheek.
And his eyes follow. “I’ve thought I’d lost everything so many times.” He swallows. His touch drops lower once more, cupping under his jaw to steady his thumb against Theron’s chin. “I’d thought… Finally… Finally, I’d lost everything, and I had no more to lose… Only to find there was always just… one more thing… Always something more to lose…”
The tightness around Tyr’s eyes threatens to shorten Theron’s already arrested breathing. He faintly realizes his other hand has tightened, twisted into Tyr’s shirt against his side. His grip nearly flexes to release, but-
“Always some… part of me to lose, I guess,” Tyr breathes shakily.
The same hands that hadn’t followed when Tyr left Odessen… however many cursed years ago it’d been now. The same hands that had strangled any hope of better out on Nathema - had strung it up in odd tresses and shot it bloody before it could even realize it’d waltzed into a trap.
Tyr closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath with some unsteadiness. His thumb works uneasily across Theron’s chin, drawing their eyes back together. “And then I…” Another sharp exhale that cracks the painful veil threatening to constrict around him once more. “And then I didn’t… I haven’t lost you, Theron. Not yet.”
oouughghghggh, I got a neat tag from @kemendin to dig through my ancient and dormant crypt, I mean word documents looking for the few wips that still exist despite ages of not really actively writing things. twas a neat challenge to dig up some old thoughts though!
Rules: You will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word.
my word was 'ocean' and... this is an odd mix of digging through... well, i'll tell you at the end once i've found all the letters, lmao. once again, i am a greedy creature, so some inclusion of some other lines to tease a little more context bc idk when i'll finish anything :, D
O - Oliver nodded and extended his left arm to the sorcerer. Opening his hand revealed a scar so faded it was nearly lost to the lines of his palm. “At the start of training, every master, every apprentice… An oath of blood, to protect the company’s secrets. A master promises guidance, the apprentice swears loyalty, to teacher and to shadow.”
C - Candlelight flickers lazily up and down the edge of a dagger, retreating from the shadow of Rook’s fingers balancing the spine carefully in his grasp.
E - “Effort well-met. Lest you lose even more sleep, old man.”
A - At a guess from the warmth of her breath against his skin, he’s not alone in willing out the encroaching morning. But she’s silent yet as he draws a hand slowly against her arm - repetitive and soft, fingers just brushing over her skin.
N - “No, I suppose he wouldn’t have.” He shook his head yet again. “Probably would’ve tried to kill me then, too, just as like…”
believe it or not, the bulk of these are from some squirreled away musings on bg3 blorbo lore, and then we have one from a piece i started for veilguard, and another that's a hidden little drabble from a yavin iv scene for swtor. <.< the forbidden hidden lore, if you will. /j /lh. atp i have no idea how likely it is that i'll finish any of these, but! hopefully at least there's some more oc babbling for veilguard in my future. spring semesters will apparently be the end of me, you know how it be.
i... similarly have no idea who of my muts is writing atm, but, if ye who is reading this would like to take a stab at this (mind you don't overexcite my durge i guess /lh), i assign you 'HILT' as your word! go forth and blorbo!!!
16 and/or 19 from the kiss prompts for whichever character inspires you when you get around to it :D
I very, very badly needed to write a little something and I have had the idea for this one for ages, but now!!! It's finally here!!!!! I thought this one would be really, really cute to do something a lil more established-like for @captainderyn's Mor and our silly lil agent, Squishy! I need to do so much more with them!!! So, here's a lil start on doing just that, hopefully <3
[From Fictional Kiss Prompts] //
Ahdrasteia’s brow furrowed as her teeth worried against her bottom lip. She’d been nearly tomb statue stiff for approximately three minutes and counting, and that frown on her thinned lips (for once clear of the smoky black polish that usually coated them) was only sinking deeper.
And Mor was struggling valiantly against the urge to stick a hand out and… do something about it. Knock a few of those errant puzzle pieces on the floor, make shadow skar’klas on the walls - anything to break that laser-focused edge hardwired into the operative sat across from her. The first, however, was likely to draw her ire, which was unintended, and the second was… Well, likely to go unnoticed, at this point. Though… it’d be fun.
Ahdrasteia exhaled sharply through her nose as she cautiously prodded yet another mismatched piece. “Mor-”
Ridiculous how hearing just that little syllable made her heart nearly leap out of her chest and across the table right then and there. Mor cocked her head - grateful the dimmed red glow of her agent’s cybernetics was still focused distinctly downward at the table. It saved her from trying to fight the heat threatening to rise to her cheeks even still.
“I think we’re missing a few pieces.” Ahdrasteia frowned as she leaned back on legs she’d tucked up underneath her in her seat. Her red glow briefly intensified another moment as she scanned the tabletop. The lighting on Mor's ship wasn't always so great for locating escaping little puzzle pieces, but it was far kinder on cybernetics and headaches than the blue-toned glow on Intelligence vessels.
An amused grin sprawled across Mor’s lips, though she threw a glance at the chrono on the nightstand. “I think they’ll turn up, Squishy.”
A tiny little snort issued from the agent. “I don’t suppose you lost any of them.”
Before Mor could even pretend to narrow her eyes in mock offense, a smile was creeping at the edges of Ahdrasteia’s lips as she straightened her back. Mor’s eyes narrowed even as a laugh tumbled out of her. It was like her little agent was proud of herself - and wringing the jest out of her usually tight jaw might just have been worth it.
Might’ve even beat winning the Great Hunt. “My job’s finding, if you’ve forgotten.”
Ahdrasteia giggled, though a hand still came up to try to cover her lips now. “Are you supposed to be my hero then? If you can find those little pieces-”
Mor pushed herself out of her seat and leaned down to press a kiss right between those sharp brows. True to form, a squeak of surprise still slipped out of Ahdrasteia, and even in the dim ship light, Mor could still tell her cheeks flushed as pink as the blush she wore.
And that little furrow was back in her brow as she turned an indignant pout upon the hunter over her. “You did that on purpose-!”
“Make it up to you with shadow skar’klas?” Mor opened her arms and waggled her fingers promisingly. Ahdrasteia frowned at her a moment longer. “I don’t think any of the puzzle pieces are gonna grow legs overnight.”
Squishy’s nose wrinkled just a touch more. “They might if you give them any,” she mumbled before she finally scooted in her seat and reached up to wrap her arms around Mor’s neck, letting the hunter scoop her up and toe her seat back in out of the way behind them.
“I’ll find them before we dock again,” Mor assured.
“Promise?”
Maybe. Hopefully. Perhaps if she was quiet enough, she could scour the lower deck before she woke up… Her agent was still such a light sleeper.
happy (finally) (basically) end of the semester and end of a successful, if exhausting road trip, maybe i can finally work on some of the prompts in my inbox day! xD (true to form, i have a hard time keeping to the count) (my defense is that the last line hit me like a truck)
dedicating this one to @captainderyn for the encouragement of my agent bs xD <3
Alucren smooths his hand along Nine’s spine, fingertips following the curve of skin downward towards subtle implants. Nine sighs into the gentle pressure, content enough, it seems, to remain placated by his lips over his pulse for a moment longer.
Ellery frowns as his fingers splay carefully over the implants, tracing the faint hints of scars he knows remains, no matter how masterful the work of droids to remove them. The texture’s rougher than the tanned skin around it, than the brush of Nine’s hand against his over his hip where he’s anchored his fellow Cipher back against his chest.
Dark emerald eyes fall away from the steady rise and fall of Nine’s chest to the murky, soft shadows cast in the cloak of Odessen’s night across the room. In this, the skeletal fingers of Imperial Intelligence still whispered around their throats and was - by the same token, Eleven wonders - the tattered lace Deckard continually tugged on between them.
Idealistic bastard so concerned with not letting another choke on the decaying dust and rot that he’d let it clog his own lungs and throat with a smile, their Nine…
I started making edits to seasoning on my agonizing little thing from a few past weeks'. i should really put a proper name on this doc or else i'm gonna have another 'disturbia' situation like the rhyst and savosta version of ziost.
... which suggest a running theme about me being unable to properly name ziost-related fics lest i get too emotional. oops >.>
He’d been on Ziost when the alerts had come in - one of her first set of eyes on the scene.
He was one of the few that had been able to walk away after Vitiate’s control, owing no small thanks to the timely arrival of Darth Nox. And… with no thanks from her own suggestions about protections for the rest of their forces in the hunt moving forward, she was sure.
His files from Imperial Intelligence were still largely classified, but as Minister of Sith Intelligence, and with Darth Marr’s acquiescence to his reassignment to her team after the Coalition, she… knew enough. And no wish to shield one of her best assets from further violation would change the odds they had both seen at hand against Vitiate.
That she would not suggest of Nine what she had voiced of the fallen Sixth Line Jedi was but another icy footnote between her and the ex-Cipher.
