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
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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.