#seventhsisterr

[iiimperious-a-blog]

wHEN S2 IS COMING BACK AND YA GOTTA PROTECT THE WIFE

[iiimperious-a-blog]

█ █ @seventhsisterr.   

     ❛ ----- -- we will raise you right, little one. i promise. i would give you all the s t a r s if you asked.  ❜ 

     he’s been at this for quite some time ( hours? perhaps -- though he would not believe it were you to tell him; time is at an irrelevant standstill ) doting upon her with these countless promises, impossible or not --- presuming that she is already asleep, thus giving him his own fair time to spoil their newborn daughter.

[iiimperious-a-blog]

survivors au

send me an au and i’ll give you 5+ headcanons about it. 

ONE

   there are others that they encounter; former acquaintances, former rivals, former members that had once felt a sense of belonging as well. these are not considerable reunions per say ( & they are in fact, almost never verbally acknowledged ones either ) for the NEW REPUBLIC has sought to arrest any and ALL former members of the empire to be charged for their so-called CRIMES against the GALAXY. ( against? had everything they done once not been for their imperial galaxy? ) even the lowliest of places are suspicious of any and all refugees ( everyone calls themselves a survivor these days – whether it is an earned title or not is another tale ) and, in some instances, there are those with a lingering memory in the back of their heads — that they know a face, have seen it before on imperial propaganda ( or in all their nightmares ). staying quiet is the key.

  he DISASSOCIATES himself from others — pretends to know nothing about the familiar face across from a cantina, whether a shrouded one or a broken one ( they all ended up the same, almost look the same funnily enough when they’re surrounded in their castle walls of empty shot glasses ) or does not care – does not feel even an ounce of sympathy, does not have the time or ability when she is all he cares for — about them or what will become of them; there seems to be a mutual understanding about this. no one wants to be recognized, no one wants to be called out and caught & so there is only silence.

  everyone must BURY their pasts — so deep and far beyond recognizable – bury their sins and crimes if they want to l i v e ( even if there is no remorse, no atonement for any of it ) and only GHOSTS remain, hollow and wandering; & if he wants to live in the galaxy he was not meant to survive in, everyone around him that he ever knew of in some way must become a stranger. 

TWO

    killing is – as strange it seems – almost an addiction in itself; there was a weariness in their bones, seeping through and keeping them AWAKE some nights ( or, at least being one cause of insomnia ) because of a restless, unconscious anger. blind anger. with no direct source or origin or resolution. w h y. why were they like this — it lingered in their bodies like a disease, their spirits starved and craving for the NEED to kill; being purposeless had placed them in a state of withdrawal. but it was not yearning for a return of their beloved empire ( or so they had thought for a time ) but for the T H R I  L L found in their duties once more; the need to hunt circulated in their blood, the need to satisfy the relentless beasts begging for REVENGE against all who had done this to them.  

  it starts off subtle, careful. almost fearful that some knowledge had been lost, that there would be a clumsiness or rustiness present — OH, HOW WRONG they had been. it had never left them, their mystical gifts turned barbaric abilities to slaughter, it had always remained with them all along. — & so it starts off s m a l l. lesser known targets, forgettable faces who, honestly, contributed so little to the insurgency. cornering them in the darkest alleyways with the only source of light ( for a moment ) their dual crimson ones, too quick to allow a scream to sound. only then does the BOLD confidence follows in targeting slightly more notable people; there are voices in their heads, urging them, encouraging them ( the whispers sounding so familiar and yet… ) with this righteous PATHWAY to revenge with a guarantee of success; for the EMPIRE had FALLEN, but they had NOT. KILL THEM, it fuels the adrenaline coated fires within their souls. YOU SHOULD KILL THEM ALL. and…. 

                                                                      and he is afraid. 

      somehow realization dawns upon him that there are efforts will be FUTILE in the end — that they will be found and destroyed. then it will be the end of everything, with no follow up. he does not fear the concept of DEATH because he’s told himself this a million times in his sleep ( then why does he RUN? ) there is nothing to be gained in all this, nothing to be recovered nor salvaged of their empire. there’s nothing. they are nothing. & they can choose to remain as nothing ( and die as such ) or, at the very least, stand a chance in living quietly at something – as someone, in spite of their permanently lost and altered memories.

   eventually, the addiction is ( somewhat ) broken – and they RUN once again ( always running ) disappearing before anyone can piece together their involvement and the string of atrocities committed by them for one last time. 

THREE

home. home is a word that does not leave either one’s mouth. a h o m e is a private, personal concept — such intimate things were forbidden to them once ( among many other conducts — some of which they failed to follow to begin with, after all ) and had never been theirs once; there was no place to call home, only a suspected birthplace on a lost file. & such a term is so cold, lifeless — it should not bother them as much as it does. there is no such thing as a home — there are only places to go to and from, to always ( temporarily ) stay at and then run. it’s a routine, a CYCLE that follows for several years. there are places that are considerably lowly, but comfortable enough to suffice; beggars ( h a, how they loathe the thought of associating themselves as such ) cannot be choosers after all. then there comes a place that they stay at for longer than the standard several months — the realization is uncomfortable to them, to realize how slowly and unconsciously they’ve familiarized themselves with it. but they cannot consider it an attachment now, can they? 

   it leaves his mouth first by accident – in the spur of a moment, dragging her away from bartender’s serving table ( again ) – half wasted and exhausted himself; ❛ i want to go home.  ❜ – & like that follows the gaping silence, the blinking disbelief from both perspectives, because he said it but she knows where he refers to.    

                                                                 ( they don’t speak of it again. )

FOUR

      she whispers frightfully ( the tone alone is when he should have known how dire it was ) of her suspicions in the dawning hours of morning, when light barely seeps through the blinds and neither is necessarily awake; it’s why he, in a moment of disbelief, reacts with an odd sense of calmness – for she must surely be dreaming still, must be delusional. but she’s never afraid — not even in her dreams, never in her sleep — never allows said fear to display so obviously in the strain of her hoarse voice; late. weeks late. two… three months. he hears her ( he’s blind; not deaf — why does he always find himself reminding himself of that ) hears those murmured bits and phrases, finds the hold he has on her tightening ever so subtly as if realizing then how s m a l l she is in his arms, notes the thin, sinewy muscles of her arms or the sharpness of her collarbone, & in spite of his inability to see colors can note the paleness and lackluster change in her skin tone; because yes, she’d been ill. for a time – unusually long, but nothing to worry over then or so they’d thought. he’d joked over her sickly appearance — it had been innocent. did not know. could not have known. should have known. 

   & he has drawn her as close as can be, the threat of slumber still prominent and threatening to have them fall back asleep again ( she will need it, as much as she possibly can ) at a loss of words but finds himself speaking anyhow; these words of assurance that everything will be alright, he was always supposed to be the voice of reassurance for her – was he not? we will be alright, won’t we? all of us. but those words have gone numb on this tongue and do not leave at first — perhaps it’s for the best, when she is already long asleep again ( as if the quiet venting drained what little energy she had to spare ) so maybe, maybe he’s done something right here.

FIVE

     scars riddle their bodies & during the instances where one or the other takes the consideration to notice their reflection they laugh; laugh quietly, bitterly, somberly over the hideous inflictions on their skin and the reminders of what little worth there was in the end. the outcome had been a WASTE — once proud to bear the marks to distinguish them as recognizable monsters, boastful over the intentionally frightening sights or so-called wounds of warriors; the pitiful truth was that they had RUINED themselves for nothing, some wounds still healing ( or never will, not really ) and others faded, but always remaining in the sense of simply knowing it was there ( no amount of bacta could truly cleanse and erase, no bandages could bind and disappear them )  he is a MAP of horrid scars, aware that he is not particularly pleasing to look at — whereas her injuries are concealed, in smaller numbers, but gruesome looking no less; one form or another should have killed them at some point. 

     & SO WHEN their daughter curiously jabs at a questionable marking, when her small, pudgy fingers brush at the roughened surface of either one’s skin as a means of wordlessly asking, they take her hands and kiss the digits lightly — laughingly, assuring her it doesn’t hurt ( the wince is always concealed with a smile ) — and somewhat lie in telling her these adventurous tales as to how they obtained such wounds, almost as if they had once been heroes…

[iiimperious-a-blog]

*stabs fifth right through the gut* (yOU'RE WELCOME BELLA)

      TWO AGAINST ONE it was anticipated to be an unfair, albeit challenging fight with pleasing results; this once great GENERAL and warrior turned VINDICATOR d e a d  as ordered. they would return with a corpse ( or remains — spare parts, he could recall his sister snickering ) to satisfy their MASTER and thus, redeem themselves of prior failures regarding the insurgents. the pair had been forewarned, not by their master but by the emperor himself, to be aware of his abilities — lest the pair of them end up either joining the extensive list with their other siblings, or were they any wiser, not to bother returning at all. the warning prospect failed to strike f e a r  into ether one — if anything, it fueled their enthusiasm. the HUNT with a cat & mouse like mentality ( all too familiar for the pair ) came all too easy, it would seem the vindicator was not the wisest in retaining subtlety after all. crimson sabers ignited — TWO IN ONE, ALL AT ONCE — seemingly prepared, confidence intermixing with adrenaline.  it had not taken them long to find him; therefore, it would not take them long to end him either. in spite a history of bickering in privacy, the apparent siblings ( h a, one or the other would often think ) were in sync, in spite of stylistic differences, smooth and fluid with every rage filled strike or move of defense — but something was wrong, that much was clear. there was not one trace of fear, not one ounce of doubt lingering within the vindicator on the offhand chance of failure … but wasn’t that to be the outcome?

                 NO.

       OF COURSE IT HAD BEEN TOO EASY.

        he’d been leaving breadcrumbs throughout the entire time —- the intent was to be found, knowing he was being followed all along, wasn’t it? this had never been a HUNT; but a foolish following, only to be pinned and cornered then and there. HE KNEW THEY WERE COMING ALL ALONG. & with that revelation unveiled, from the near simultaneous realization from both of them that which he seemed to have noticed, then came the fury. this battle ( if it could be called as such ) was merely the calm before the STORM. fear was now present in them both ( albeit, hidden and shunned ) from unseen potential and unpredictability, their maintaining was thrown off; their opponent savoring it, seizing the moment to quite literally throw them — with a violent crash, one. two. both hit the durasteel wall painfully — vision blotched, heads spinning, blood racing — and had been permitted only a moment to come around, to raise their heads and find two of the four sabers drawn to their throats, mere inches away. BEATEN. a humiliating prospect met with hate but begrudging, inevitable acceptance — what could be done? summon back-up that would fail to arrive on time ( or, on that note, fail to be of any use aside from being extra bodies ). no, his eyes sought for hers in a subtle, breathless moment, the grim truth that her face would be the last to lay upon crept upon him – it was only a second. his head had barely turned, there was no apparent indication before, not a sign nor a word spoken. and yet…. 

  LOVE. A DREADFUL BOND. 

    the lightsaber directed towards his dearest seemed to move closer. slowly. menacingly. there had been no time to react, not even a time to speak — to gape in confusion and horror as to how he could have seen this — no one knew, no one — or to choose not to react at all, to say nothing as a means to dismiss the apparent claim. the words spoke truth to them though, did they not? the bond was a fatal noose, constricting and bounding. 

      AND YET, SO EASILY SEVERED….

  there had been no time to react. he was already screaming when the white-hot flash pierced through his abdomen, the wound cauterized but innards eviscerated — and then for the blade to be twisted. slowly. deepening the wound and worsening it — dead, dead, dead you were already fated the moment it struck you — the AIM of missing some of his most vital organs there done on PURPOSE. why why why. everything was blinding between the agony and how his own eyes squeezed shut ( the pain intolerable, unlike anything imagined or ever endured — anything else was as comparable to a flesh wound now ) and could not see, could not realize the SWORD had gone THROUGH him and melted the surface of the wall his back had landed upon; the horrifying realization he was pinned against the wall, burnt to it, with the sword still lodged in his middle — left. he was leaving him. leaving them. had she suffered the same? he thought he could hear it — a gasp, an enraged shriek from her mouth — was he to leave them like this, dead but not quite yet? a LAUGH sounded from the VINDICATOR, that much he caught — then the heated shrill of her voice; WELL? KILL ME. KILL ME TOO. AREN’T YOU GOING TO KILL ME TOO? and the demand ( the stubborn challenge — he always wondered if he was ever worth seeking revenge for ) gone unanswered, ignored. 

    KILL ONE. SPARE THE OTHER. 

           ONE DIES ( & THE OTHER WISHES THEY WERE DEAD )

  he is able to open his eyes once more ( a useless vision anyhow ) at the sensation and sound of the lodged saber being deactivated and tossed away; an eerie coolness, a frightening sense of hollowness as though there is a hole were present. there is. a gaping, FATAL wound beyond repair — there was minutes, barely minutes to spare if he were fortunate. it feels as though one half of his body was permanently cut off from an air supply; he cannot BREATHE, cannot summon a voice ( he chokes in the attempt; tastes that familiar metallic taste ) to even speak when her hands ( so cold — was it her touch or was it him? ) cup at the sides of his face, surprisingly gentle even with the claw-like nails of her digging into the skin unintentionally. f e a r. she is afraid — of what? the sight of his wounds? of what was coming? — and shakes, shakes her head angrily and mouthing no’s to every slow, lulling beat he can feel beneath his chest ( or perhaps she is speaking, and he can no longer hear her ) until her voice returns, sounding unusually high-pitched (child-like) and frantic with pitiful denial; ❛  look at me. look at me! you’re alright —- you’re alright —-  ❜

  but his eyes are fluttering, and he has already exhaled his last breath before he can hear her finish. 

[starwarsrppositivity]

@asajjvventress/@seventhsisterr

Sarah is one of the most amazing people I have ever had the luck of meeting; not only is she amazing in just about everything she does, but she is such a compassionate and down-to-earth person. I don't just love writing with you girl, I love you!!

                                                                                   - @conspiirator

[iiimperious-a-blog]

█ █ @seventhsisterr.   

                              ❛ you’ve had enough.  ❜ 

   he tells her firmly, without questioning or without the room to protest, as though he is her father as opposed to her lover; but perhaps, if she wasn’t acting like such a CHILD right now then there wouldn’t be a need for this nonsense at all. it isn’t to say he’s without pity --- seeing her so ruined and devoid, surrounding in the little walls built of turned-over shot glasses on the counter top. from the way he’s found her slumped and relaxed, one would assume she were safe to approach; he knows her better than that, knows how quickly she would TURN on someone ( anyone; whether be him or a stranger ) with her saber drawn and the end pointed towards one’s neck. he knows she doesn’t exactly appreciate being dragged away from this toxic source of comfort, the liquor flavored pools to waddle in ( how many times could she have DROWNED already if he hadn’t pulled her out? ) he’s learned there’s no REASON with her in this state.

  we are alone, he thinks --- and wants to say, at times --- so what? it’s been three years. three years and approximately however many months and days later, and the once addressed REBELS have turned the tables; OH the irony, to be relentlessly pursued and tried for so called war crimes ( that, in spite of everything, neither feels remorse for ) -- he supposes he should laugh. but she didn’t, not really. he supposes if she did, her laughter would be WICKED and LOUD like she, but painfully forced and poorly concealing her despair; we are alone, yes, and purposeless. it’s why she turns to the frequent ( so-called secretive ) late night trips to these shady bars, to drown those sorrows or surround herself in them depending on what the flavor of the night is. 

   he pulls her away, anticipating a fight and anticipating nails to claw at his still-healing face from the last incident he had to do this. 

[iiimperious-a-blog]

5 Times the Love - seventhsisterr (FUCK ME UP BELLA)

Send “5 Times the Love” and I will write a drabble about the five times my muse fell in love with your muse 

ONE

   he is skeptical, but not foolish – – – not immature like his doubtful siblings and their subtle exchanges of humor at the sight of her – – – to question the recruitment. she is small, deceivingly fragile looking and wonders how this girl that’s nothing more than lean muscle and bone is going to SURVIVE amongst preying rivalry, let alone against those they are tasked with seeking and eliminating. ( he almost PITIES her, anticipating her to die within the first few hours ) and it had not been a matter of luck or of weakness from the others, but her frighteningly ambitious strength; for she too, she is a predator, unsated and craving to corrupt whatever she touches. there is an elegant stride in her movements, her PRIDE and her TEMPER well-kept beneath her chest, and her smile so sickeningly, hauntingly sweet, so much so that, again, he finds himself with pity —- except towards those who die without seeing such lovely malice grace those features of her. her eyes seek his amongst the crowd unintentionally by chance, a nonchalant glance ( her eyes are dark, her irises are golden, she later whispers ) and in spite of his lacking vision, he can see the fires looming within.

                                                      ( he ADORED her from the moment then )

TWO

  it’s not their first but it is, perhaps, the KINDEST they have been to one another since; their bodies slick with heat and sweat, her nails have lacerated her grey-toned skin ( again ) but does not cut as deep as she normally does, the blood comes in the form of insignificant droplets staining the sheets. & when they finish, when she collapses atop of him breathless and a little less riled up than before – she starts with these same antics once more, he watches the shape of her sweet mouth move and press against the roughened surface of his skin, leaving a downward trail of kisses from his jawline onto his neck. even in his arms, she is cold — as cold as the dead, as the demons in all the stories others describe them as ( the black donned demons slaughtering for the empire ) – and she is ( physically ) frail within his grasp, a single WRONG move and should he tighten the hold his hands have on her hips and he could break her; he shouldn’t be so afraid, so cautious like that. they are never truly caring nor tender.

    ❛ we belong together.  ❜  she tells him, murmurs so lovingly in his ear and force help him, for her voice sounds so melodious; it is a siren’s call, and he is a the weak mortal listening to every word of it. believing it. because she would never, ever say such things — not from how everyone knows her… or is it because, in truth, only he knows her at best, then? she says it again, matter-of-factly, her voice so hoarse and insisting that he finds his heartbeats increasing — ❛ you and i. we belong together. only us.  ❜ 

 she moves away for a moment, perhaps to turn away thinking her words have gone ignored or dismissed — he promptly pulls her ( with a carefulness only he can manage ) to bring her mouth to his, the silent mutual vow of agreement as the words still echo in his head, and fails to feel the makings of a wicked, victorious smile on her mouth that she has lured him in her grasp entirely without even having to proclaim those other three words.

THREE

    she is lying to him ( again ) when she claims the intent hadn’t been there to kill him; he knows it. he knows her best after all, does he not? he will pretend and acknowledge, regardless, because he prioritizes her happiness above his – – – he will not critique her and tell her that she is slipping, her lies loosening with their effort towards him; because there are those that fear her and that will believe as told, and he loves her and will comply to her word even if it were a death sentence. there are moments ( as rare as they come ) where he almost despises her for RUINING him this way. truly, he is WEAK. but it was not her intent, never her intent —- they were stronger together, after all. no, he is not weak. he’s overthinking unnecessary things, and dares to place blame onto her for it?

    hypothetically speaking, they could have killed each other. there are more than merely one instance where one could have rid themselves of the other, vanquishing the threat of exposure of a so-called attachment from the prying eyes of their master. she has hurt him in times past, yes, but that is merely her nature; they are violent, awful beings who were not meant for selfish happiness, their cause forbade them from them it ( they could be outed as conspiring, brandished as traitors to their beloved empire – a horrifying thought ). they could have, and should have, more than once killed the other. 

   they haven’t. they can’t do it — he will lay his sword down before being made to raise it against hers in a duel to the death; he won’t be made to kill a force of nature — chaotic, beautiful, essential. & he knows she won’t do it, not really. not as much as she claims she believes she can go through with it. 

FOUR

   he finds her alive. not unscathed nor her collective self, but alive nonetheless — as shaken as he, disoriented and purposeless because their empire has fallen and yet they remain; these foolish, violent, murderous remnants all for nothing. their so-called siblings and their master and faces. names. people who escape their memories aside from the fact they are dead — but not them. for thirty days and thirty nights he has spent them, sleepless and in misery, under the belief that the agony he endured for a sudden moment — the sharp spike of pain he has inflicted onto others, but never experienced for himself — believing she was dead. he cannot say that he necessarily takes relief in it that it was only the downfall of everything that they had devoted themselves towards.

    she is alive and looks to him, despairingly and confused, perhaps wondering what mad hallucination this is ( it has only been a month, does one truly spire that quickly into insanity after all this? ) when he takes her into his arms — affection is a stranger to them, avoided like a disease once, but it is all theirs now. it is all they have left, all they have is one another with the stars against them. the galaxy hates them. they were not meant to survive.

     he kisses the top of her dark haired head, unwilling to let go of her, the two of them defiant against what they were told or destined to do. I LOVE YOU. it’s too early to say it, always dangerous. I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU.

           ( & he doesn’t only hear the voice of his thoughts uttering it )

FIVE

          fear is something they know of, yes. fear is what they became to trembling, shuddering enemies; fear was an art, a masterpiece made on canvases stained with nothing but red and made ( ironically ) by their crimson blades for paint brushes. fear is something they do not become; fear is not meant to be found in the form of a four hour old infant wrapped in makeshift blankets from articles of clothing, born in secrecy in a spur of unexpected panic. he — a monster, who bragged once about how parents will someday tell their children the horrors done by and for the empire ( as if that was justified ) — trembles, arms locked and stiff; he shouldn’t be holding this child. his physical strength can effortlessly break bones, crush a trachea. what if he does something WRONG? what if he drops her, holds her too tight, too close? she’s so fragile ( truly, and unlike that of her mother – though, she too, looks it while recovering ) and they are KILLERS, not PARENTS. they shouldn’t have done this, the doubt settles uneasily. the paranoia and guilt eats at him. they shouldn’t have done this.

      ❛ she needs a name.  ❜  she croaks, seemingly from out of nowhere, when he has suspected she was sleeping this entire time. he opens his mouth, as if to suggest or coax her, and finds himself promptly snapping it shut because damn you, she won’t be treated like glass for another moment longer since this little predicament ( if, that is even a suitable term for it ) is over. she looks awful; drained, exhausted, thin — how they even did this alone, how she even survived all this is beyond him ( he won’t dare question, tempt the will of the force or anger it because he gives off the impression of being dissatisfied by the logistics and all the statistics that ran through his panicked mind before ) regardless, she shouldn’t be pushing herself even now. 

      this can wait, he almost says. but he looks to her and sees something so feverish, so insistent, so passionate in the depths of her eyes about this and only then does he understand, does he remember that they are nameless. they had ( pointlessly ) sacrificed their individuality for a lost cause and they can never get it back. but this little one, their child, she can start anew. then he looks towards the little one, who seems to ruffle down into the bundle she is surrounded in and closes her eyes ( whose eyes? he asked, his voice raw and anxious. and she gave a bittersweet smile. ‘mine. she has mine.’ healthy eyes, with full colored vision. ) he looks to this perfect, helplessly little baby, this mix of the two of them then to her living, breathing, semi-annoyed and exhausted mother — he loves her, all over again, loves the both of them so so much. ( they were not meant for this. they are not supposed to be alive. they are not supposed to be happy ) but they are. 

                 ❛ aziza.  ❜  he decrees, and the little one stirs once more as if to respond, as if this were meant to be. 

[iiimperious-a-blog]

ladies, ladies there's no need to fight over me. there's plenty of me to go around <3