... but a whimper.
this is a sideblog of theeverragingfire, to contain writing of all sorts, spanning fandoms to open worlds.
expect to see a lot of star wars, though.
Her foot taps on the ground, a rhythm barely remembered from youth. Itās a beat she can map out in her head, and it matches her drills almost perfectly. Dance was in her blood, almost as much as the Force ran in her people. The tapping quickly slips into a pattern of steps, precise and minimal, lithe frame following effortlessly. Her feet led, her body followed. It was a simple enough equation.
Sparring lightsabers fall in hand, and she doesnāt so much as hesitate as she moves through the now-empty room. She was not yet a Knight, but with her Master dealing with the Council over a mission Shamara had not taken part in, she had this time to herself. Time she could use to return to her roots.
The mirialan pauses, waves her hand in the vague direction of the datapad she left atop her outer robe, triggering the audio files to play again. She recognized the music, recognized itās beat and flow, but it was still new and unfamiliar. It was hers and yet not. It belonged to her peopleāwas something her Master had secured for her in order to keep their heritage alive.
Her heels come down hard, securing a solid footing against the floor before rocking forward to her toes. Thick braid whips around, tangling around her neck but she pays it no mind. It would not harm her.
One lightsaber reversed, she spins again, familiarizing herself with the music even as it changes. The drums lead her, and she follows its beat; the simple pattern that spoke of home and safety and the fires of battle all the same.
Life was a battle, and life was a celebration of winning.
She slams down on the rooftop, leg wrapping around the otherās waist as she fought to control the scuffle. It would be so, so, easy to just push with her innate abilities and take control, but where would the fun be in that?
Lips twist in a crooked smile, daring with the barest glimmer of sharp canines. Her whole body ran hot under the layers of kevlar and leather, radiating the dayās energy into the dark of the Gotham night. āYou donāt think itās that easy, do you, pretty kitty?ā
Gravel scrapes underfoot, two black-clad fighters hidden in the cover of darkness, shadowed both by clouds overhead and the buildings surrounding. āRaniās back thumps into brick, strong legs wrapping themselves around her waist as the thief clambered up to level with the taller redhead.
āNow youāre getting it---ā āRani started, moving a hand to support Fey, the other brushing white strands of hair out of said thiefās face.
Any power the Black Cat had was an illusion. āRani had the ability to completely change the dynamic at will, but felt no need to.
Thereās a hunger in blue eyes, a deep-seated need to act on the instincts burning away at her.
So she acts.
Thereās none of her usual grace and finesse in it, lips crashing into Feyās and free hand tangling in the long white hair. They played rough in their chases, it stood to reason they would play rough like this.
Boots clatter around the corner, pursued by quite a few echoing sets of footsteps.
The first figure is short, clad in dark robes and features hidden in shadow, at least until the sharp whip around the corner flung it off. The streetlightsā flickering fixtures revealed dark skin, dark hair---geometric tattoos; a mirialan.
The alley terminated in a dead end, the only ways out belonging to rundown apartments. Apartments that contained innocents, people the ex-Jedi wouldnāt endanger in this situation. No one deserved to have an Inquisitor poking about your home, questioning your family---threatening your children.
The dark eyes of a child peered out of a window, the opening covered only by curtains; even the transparisteel was long gone, here.
Back to the wall, the petite woman reached beneath her robes, withdrawing a cylindrical shape just shorter than her forearm, wait, no, two shapes. The second slipped free of a loose binding, falling comfortably into the other hand.
With a snap-hissāa sound that was feared here in the slums (whether from propaganda or the Inquisitorious coming through was another question entirely) the back-alley was bathed in a blue wash, blades humming, barely even audible beneath the streetlamps buzzing and cracking.
The stormtroopers open fire as they confirm the target, and blasterfire simply seems to weave away from the woman as the two blue blades spin a defense.
Duracrete chips fall to the ground, scorchmarks are left on walls, on the pavement, on the gleaming white of stormtrooper armor. Bodies fall, clattering loudly enough that even the streetlights couldnāt mask it. And yetā¦. the numbers dwindled. This woman, this tiny, short woman, was defying the Empire.
A snarl sets her features, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. Teeth bared as she advances a step, then two. A third, and stormtroopers begin to fall with armor red and orange, browning, then completely going dark in the cool night air. Only when the last has fallen, and no more appear to be arriving, does she release the tension, release the ferocity in her movements.
And only then do the blue-black blades disappear, the hilts following suit not too long afterwards.
The child watches all this, and more from the window.
Soft footsteps approach the broken transparisteel, bits of it crunching underfoot, then she crouched. Thereās something friendly about the face, even though so much death had just been wrought at her hand.
Left hand sets on the windowsill, and soft words are spoken. āDo me a favor, kid. Forget you saw me, okay?ā
The child nods mutely, only noticing the simple electrum band around the Jediās finger. Just like their motherās.
Itās been a long few weeks (months, something reminded her at the very back of her mind). Blood has dried and flaked off various abrasions--bruises healed partway. Day to day, itās become the same; avoid the patrols as one stole to make it to the next planet. To the next city.
A six foot togruta is a bit hard to hide among the denizens of the galaxy---one stands out among those sharing her height, and one stands out among her own people. Not impossible, though.
Nirah hasnāt seen another Jedi since the Order fell. Not even Shadow Drayenā¦ Shamara.
Hood draped over her montrals, muffled her perception of the area, but it did the job it was meant to; hid her face. Her markings werenāt the most distinctive, but there were few of her close clanmates loose in the galaxy, and none shared her other distinctive traits. Not even the Force-sensitivity.
Lucky her.
You know, usually families were pleased to hear that their kid was destined for the Jedi, destined for a greater life. And Nirah was certain hers had been just as pleased. But today? Today, knowing your kid had become a Jedi, and not knowing if they were dead or notā¦ that had to tear at them. It had to hurt.
She knew sheād be mourning a child if she was in her parentsā position.
Shaking her head, Nirah strode on, blue eyes keeping a sharp lookout on the nearby area. No use running into another stormtrooper patrol; sheād been hard pressed to keep the last one from looking like theyād located a Jedi (ex-Jedi). Instead, armor dented in with enough force to puncture in places, the patrol had been left with swift, merciful deaths.
Shamara would be proud of her.
Nirah wasnāt so sure she was proud of the deaths of men, but in this time, this was kill or be killed. She was not yet ready to die.
Yet she knew this war had been lost a long time ago.
Staff in hand, she let her posture slump a little, leaning on the weapon she had once been proud to carry. Now it marked her as a criminal, a traitor to the state. As a fugitive to be executed on sight. She was no Padawan, had not been such for several years. She would not go quietly.
The people passed her by on the streets with nary a second glance, going about their business. For the majority, a regime change such as this was simply more rules, more regulations to follow, a different uniform in the streets. A few feared, a few rose in rebellion, and the latter were quickly quashed.
She could imagine this city as it was in the final days of the Republic. It wasnāt on the front lines, wasnāt war torn and scarred, but it had seen combat.
-----Nirah recognised these streets. These alleys. Sheād had to intercept what was practically a tiny army of battle droids as the Separatists marched them into the city. If she closed her eyes, she could recall what happened. Nirah had no desire to do such.
Lost in her recollections, her wanderings came to a stop, back leaning against a wall as her gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
āFunny, isnāt it. We hadnāt given up then, and now look where we are.ā
The voice jolted her back to the here and now, and there was something heartachingly familiar about the sound of it. The cadence was wrong---no, no, that wasnātā¦..
A tiny, lithe frame slides off a pile of crates, landing soundlessly. āIām surprised you came back.ā
āIām just passing through. Shae, whatā¦ what happened?ā
There was nothing left of the air Shamara used to use, of the confident, almost cocky sway to her hips. It wasnāt that deadly grace Nirah had become accustomed to seeing. This? This looked defeated.
āThe Empire happened.ā She shrugged, stepping out where Nirah could actually see her.
The familiar patterns of her loverās tattoos were still here, she could count them without thinking. But there were changes, too---a ragged, still-healing scar ran the height of her face, narrowly missing an eye. Familiar dark hair had been hacked off, ragged strands floated around stone-cold features.
āYouāre never supposed to admit it when you give up.ā started the mirialan, a bitter twist to her lips, ā but here we are, weāre all just walking around pretending we still have a chance to fight the Empire. The Jedi are dead. The Republic died long before we did. Weāre justā¦ weāre waiting for our own to come calling.ā
āYouāve changed. And yet youāre still kicking. Something tells me you havenāt given up quite as fully as you claim to.ā
She smelled like sweat and smoke, the lingering stink of ozone and tibanna gas. Her dark hair was dishevelled and stringy, hanging down over her eyes and face, though the look in her blue eyes was hard and challenging, a stark contrast to her state of being. Blood trickled from a cut in her forehead, but the mirialan Jedi didnāt so much as acknowledge it.
The hunter in Nirah warned to stay aware, spoke of a lethal predator whose appearance belied abilities. The rest of Nirah, the person she was.. recognized her lover, furious and exhausted, but alive and (for the most part) unharmed. Lightsabers leave orange hands, lazily arcing over to where Shamara stood---and the ragged figure springs into motion, strong legs propelling her into the air as her compact figure spins, hands scooping the weapons out of the air with practiced ease.
Boots hit the ground with a finality that spoke of Shamara, that spoke of the necessity of letting her do this alone. Two blue-black blades snap-hiss into life, one held reversely. A moment of shocked silence, and she spins into movement, taking that silence to her advantage.
Shamara moves like water, pliable and fluid, but striking hard. Where she struck, no one stood back up. People broke where she struck, and those strikes were precise, disabling.
Bodies fall faster than anyone couldāve guessed, pieces of blasters falling to the ground with their severed edges still glowing red-orange.
She stands still for a long moment, waiting, watching, daring---daring them to stand back up and challenge her again. Daring them to try to take her captive again. When none move, when they remain down out of fear, only then do her lightsabersā blades disappear, vanishing within cylindrical hilts.
Blood dripped from knuckles, from a gash on Shamaraās forehead, from a split lip. Sweat stained the ragged garb in which the lightsaber hilts disappear into the clothing, the tiny mirialan crossing the space between them.
Before Nirah can think to react, Shamara is wrapping arms around the togrutaās form, embracing the Jedi Knight. Itās good to be home.
Chiss were not known for starting fights. In fact, their very code forbade striking first. Yetā¦ thatās what this Chiss appeared to be doing, petite form flashing across the battlefield in leaps and bounds, lightsaber flicking about her.
Drayan justified the carnage she was sowing by knowing the enemy had struck first (and in this case, they certainly had).
Dark grey and black tunic swished about her form, boots thumping on the ground with a cold certainty. Whomever she approached today was falling, whether by her blade or by the blasterfire of her travelling companions. Zakuul had taken five years of her life, had taken the galaxy sheād known and destroyed it. Zakuul had taken her crew, her family, and scattered them to the winds.
The tip of the lightsaber slips through the back of a leg, a boot thudding into the same personās head. Itās not a second later that the very same weapon is embedding its blade in someoneās chest. Just because Zakuul employs droids as its major source of military might doesnāt mean there arenāt people of flesh and blood still serving. Itās these people that the Sith finds herself running through with practiced ease.
The Star Fortresses had to fall. They would bring her one step closer to Arcann, a step closer to restoring the galaxy to something worth a damn.
A step closer to finding her crew again.
As her weapon cuts through someoneās neck, she finds herself missing Vetteās quips, the twiālekās sense of humor (and she wouldnāt admit the feeling of kinship she held).
A blaster bolt skims her face; she could feel the heat from the proximity, and her heart reaches out to Malavai, wherever he may be now. The concern he always had when something close like that happened.
Feet square on the floor once more, she bolts forward, never standing still more than a second. Drayan finds herself missing Broonmark, the talzās burbling exclamations of joy in combat. He had always been a fitting partner.
Hand lashes out, squeezing, the Force bending to her will as it crushes the windpipe of a hapless engineer. Jaesa wouldāveā¦ she wouldāve been at home at Drayanās side. Her cunning apprentice. The Sithās anger leads to a swift death for the poor man.
Somehow, she mused, even as her lightsaber halves a skytrooper, she misses the lieutenant. Pierce was a massive pain in her ass, but he had been an effective soldier.
And as Drayan comes to a halt, her path strewn with chaos, skytroopers sparking and bodies littering the ground, still as can beā¦ she finds her vision fogged.
Emotion had its placeā¦ but in a place such as this?
A hand wipes fiercely across freckled features. She needs all her faculties here, her attention focused. It would not do to come so far only to be felled because she let her concentration stray.
Theron had mentioned Havoc Squad. Danāielle hadnāt known what to expect; her only knowledge of Havoc had been through Imperial reports. The former Dark Council Member had not had dealings with the Republicās elite personally. Not in this case. The voice over the comms was male, sure of himself and she sensed no deceit in the threat. But the reveal was a little bit different. Battered green armor (she could tell parts of it used to be white) rose from the swamps, flora sliding off with the extra water and the mud. Dark hair tied in a tight bun, a few awry strands framing a tattooed face.
A mirialan, and an experienced one at that, if Dan interpreted the markings on the otherās face correctly.
āYouāre the Imperial, sorry, ex-Imperial that we were hinted at, huh?ā Gloved hands adjust the strap that held an assault cannon to the soldierās side. āFunny, I didnāt expect someone like you to trudge through Zakuulās swamps.ā
āI could say the same about you, Havoc. Youāre hardly the Republic militaryās idea of an ideal soldier.ā Blue eyes rake the surroundings, picking out several other figures hidden in the swamps. āMay as well tell your men to come out of hiding.ā A pause, then, nodding in the vague direction of a decent sniper perch, āHim too.ā
Havoc no longer looked like the tightly knit group that Dan had heard so much about. It looked like a mishmash of soldiers, with only the cathar sharpshooter and the mirialan commando looking like they could handle themselves in a nasty situation.
āMind telling me why the Republicās best would suddenly up and leave?ā
āLong story.ā And not one Nystaha felt like telling.
The Republic practically expected her to fight these Sith. Sith. Lekku twitch in frustration, slender fingers touching the stealth belt wrapped around her tiny hips.
Lishāan had never quite been considered the attractive type, at least, as far as slavers cared, and it hadnāt taken much for her to buy her way to freedom. Sheād made a habit of being more trouble than she was worth, and to most people, the little blue twiālek hadnāt Ā been worth much. Common color, scrawny framed, and troublesome to the point that it cost more in time and labor to discipline her to any kind of presentability.
But hey, it worked, didnāt it?
A crooked grin spreads on purple-painted lips, similarly hued eyes narrowing. The Sith seemed preoccupied with the approaching forces, the threat of the fleet incoming---and she took advantage of that, feet barely seeming to touch the ground as she darted forward, scattergun coming off her back and the belt shutting down with a soft, distinct whine. The instant her arm extended, Lishāan pulled the trigger, emptying two blasts into the Sithās back. Pellets pepper the dark robes, and a wet discoloration seeps out as the other being goes down. āSorry pal. You or me, and I like living.ā
Her words punctuated a laugh as the smuggler engages the stealth belt again, footsteps rapidly disappearing to another part of the ship.
It takes a few stunned seconds to register the lightsaberās activationāmind preoccupied by the softly whispered apology. But as she looks back up at his face, she sees no trace of that remorse in those silver eyes, no trace of anything that might indicate the remembrance she thought heād had for a split second.
How long has it been since she had a decent shower?
The rain comes down in torrents, carrying as much grime as it would wash off.
Aaliyah shook her head, water droplets rolling off her dark hair to splash on the saturated ground. She finds herself grateful for her grandparentsā farm---that place, so many summers, so long ago.
Because it means she can help these people get back on their feet. It means she can build a safe haven as she searches for her son.
But she swears to herself, as she sloshes through the mud and the dying grass, through puddles and God knows what elseā¦ one of these days, when she isn't----no, best not to think of Shaun (Father, the synths call him)----then she'll make a home of this place. Of the wasteland left in the stead of her home.
And one day, she'll have a proper shower.
Castle retaken, the Minutemen on their feet and able to help people again. Supply lines and armed settlers; they have nothing to fear from raiders anymore.
Sometime as she gets entangled with the Railroad, Aaliyah finally comes to terms with the fact that sheāll never get to live as she grew up.
She finally relents, knife slicing through thick dark hair one day, saturating it in river water to make it easier to grasp. Itās a ragged cut, messy, short, but she gives it a week and her hair falls into a slightly messy mop that stays out of her face, stays underneath her hat.
She misses the hair that used to fall around her shoulders (misses Nateās fond smiles and idle hands running through her hair).
She watches as clumps of jet black hair fall, strands scattering to the wind as the majority lands in the water. It was the last piece of her past (no, Shaun, still) that she had held to. No more.
No more.
The scar across her eye, running in a vertical line across her right brow, on top and below her right eye, itches sometimes, a reminder of her shattered expectations. She had---had stumbled out of the vault, armed with a 10 millimeter weapon, sobs threatening to wrack her body because her husband, her Nate, was dead and sheād seen him shot before her it hadnāt been that long ago but his body was freezing, preserved perfectly and she had to find her son.
It was the first raiders she encountered that taught her the ferocity of a motherās need to find their lost child. Aaliyah had raised that weapon, had pulled the trigger, had watched as another human being fell to the earth, bleeding and crying in agony.
She had expected to walk out of the vault andā¦ find something else. Not this.
Weathered features canāt help but to smile as she sees the children, the families, flocking to the settlements she helped build, help prepare. People would come in, drawn by the beacon, even as sheās in the wreckage of the prewar house, laying new floor, building up and above, supported by the foundations and framework of the original building.
Aaliyah was no electrician, no plumber, no carpenter. She was a farmerās granddaughter, a military lawyer. Her home was in books, rules and regulations, or on her knees in the dirt, coaxing life out of what had previously appeared lifeless.
She didnāt expect the life she left the vault to find, but sheās found she----she has hope for it. Hope enough that has her working with as many people as she can, manipulating, masterminding. The only loyalty she holds are to those families. To the gleams of hope she can see in the eyes of the children, in the eyes of the outcasts as they find their new homes.
The Institute created lives of their own, and insists on holding them captive, holding them as slaves, as labor. Sheās seen these synths do horrible things, but these synths were meant to emulate humans. Humans do horrible things to one another all the time.
The Brotherhood, oh, where to start. Aaliyah had been a strong proponent of technology, of letting it grow and expand, to find new places in the world where it can be used. The Brotherhood only wants to take it away, to hold it to themselves (and become a police state of sorts, being the law and the law being the only ones allowed to know technology, to possess it).
And while the Railroadās goals were admirable, where Aaliyah had no qualms in what they were doing, saving synths and giving them new homes, new identitiesā¦
Her loyalty ultimately lay with hope. With families starting anew, families struggling to survive.
She fears sheāll lose Shaun. Andā¦ she canāt even bring herself to mourn him. Some part of her seems to have done that when he was taken away from her, sixty years before.
If only Nate could see her. Sun-weathered skin, leather armor and metal plating, knife and sheath in the back of her belt and pistol holstered at her side. A sniper rifle cradles in her arms as she walks and Aaliyah knows experience has tempered her nerves, given her a steady hand and a steady breath. A tricorner hat sits on short hair, slightly lopsided to shade her eyes from the blazing sunlight.
Thereās a thunderstorm brewing behind your eyes and I wouldnāt be surprised if you electrocuted everything you touch. The same way too much sun makes a desert, too much rain brings the flood. [x]
Blue eyes, no thatās not right, the color of the sky as the clouds gather and the wind rushes through open plains, the murky darkness that comes just ahead of the storm. Scars mar porcelain skin, displayed proudly (symbols that she was not dead despite all that have tried to kill her), wind tore at dark hair and lashed red-hued robes against her body. Thunder rumbles overhead, echoed by the snaps of thunder from beneath fingertips, lightning arcing and flaring as if she herself were the thunderstorm.
Copper fills her mouth, blood staining lips as she spits it out angrily. Bruised hands lash out, bringing retribution for the split lip, the bitten tongue, for the aches in her arms and the cuts on her fingers. Someone grabs her braid and howls as it's regretted, spikes digging into the being's hand. She wastes no time in turning, momentum driving her fist into their face with enough force to break their nose. Enough force to knock them flat.
They make love as if approaching a war. All passion, running rampant, rough and aggressive, competitive and needing all the same. Hair long enough to grab, to pull, necks exposed to the other one at a time. Wrists pinned to wall turn to the others finding themselves locked down, breath brushing across their ear and an infuriatingly smug tone of voice whispering. Blood runs hot in their veins and the same power they display on the battlefield is turned on one another, sans the death inherent in such. Bruises scatter on bodies, across collars and on necks. And yet... soft caresses are not amiss, sleepy touches and exhausted cuddling. Passion forged a bond and the bond in turn cemented their love.
There's something frightening about a woman in full armor, swinging a sword with the vengeance of long lost ancestors, though even that pales in comparison to a mother standing between an enemy and her child. She is fury and fire, ancient lineage rushing through her veins, the blood of Kallig and the descendant of the Lady Nox. Her blood carries the anger of a destroyed empire, the fury of fallen alliances, and her child will inherit this. Her child may be another step in the lineage, but the child is also her progeny, her flesh and blood, her baby, and she will defend that until the bitter end.
The storm whirls around her, as nature throws its worst at the island, but it does not touch her. She forces a pocket of utter stillness around herself, forging forward. She could not be weak, refused to be weak, refused to crumble like the trees in the wind. She refused to die like this, taken out by an act of nature. She refused to die, because she did, it would be on her own terms, when she can no longer fight for her own life, when she is too weak to hold on to it.
Children laugh and she watches her own proudly--young twins learning to manipulate the Force without the pressure of having to survive. They will eventually be raised Sith, but for the first few years, for the innocence of being toddlers, she will protect them.
Hoth was no place for a Sith. Yet, here she was, chasing after some ghost that may or may not be bound to her; willingly or not.
Itās to defeat Thanaton and begin a powerbase.
Thatās what she reminded herself.
And like any Sith who valued strength and an ability to fall back on those less likely to stab one in the back, she began building a powerbase outside of the Sith Empire, of the non-Force-sensitive type. A pirate-turned-pilot, a fallen Jedi Padawan, now her apprentice. A single droid with a knack for being the most useless thing in anything but repairs. Her Dashade ally, who, to her chagrin, had Zash stuck inside of him instead of karking dead. A former Imperial Requisitionist, who, she had to admit, was a refreshing change; Talos was so cheerful about uncovering relics and history, and of the Sith kind, but he didnāt have the ulterior motive behind it that any other might.
Somewhere along the way, on Tatooine, around the time her pirate friend had arrived, sheād found a mercenary. That mercenary has proved to be not only a good help, but the sorcerer considered KeĆll somewhat of a friend. Sith werenāt immune to forming friendships, and the sardonic way in which the mercenary handled business felt good. Straightforward; no dancing around, no backstabbing.
It was with this mercenary woman that so many of her foes have fallen so quickly, and she has not been lax in offering help to this same mercenary. An eye for an eye, the saying went; but did it always have to be meant in a negative way?
Rumors spread. People talked of a Sith who walked as an equal with a Mandalorian warrior. Of a Sith who walked with a fiery apprentice and of the Mandalorian who walked side-by-side with a Jawa. Together, they have brought down powerful enemies. After all, what better team than a Force user and a descendant of one?
After Hothā Belsavis. Belsavis they havenāt touched yet. It was time to take a bit of time off; talk with crewmembers and catch up on the rest of their respective crews.
Force, it felt good to have warm water after Hoth. Even as warm as her robes and armor were, on Hoth, the wind and ice cut right through it.
Some would say she made an excellent Sith. Shamara wanted to only say she was excellent at hiding her true nature. Unfortunately, that eventually boiled down the same. She was deception and trickery. The mirialanās kind were not known for this, yet Shamara herself was adept at such.
Her figure, cloaked in shadows and enveloped in darkness, spoke of a deadly grace within the lithe movements. There was nothing merciful about someoneās throat being slitāsave for the swiftness of their death. There was nothing merciful about coercing answers from a hapless guard when she needed access to a location.
Hands bloodied, lip bleeding, and sheās certain her nose has been broken. The victim is on the ground, clutching a broken hand and badly bruised arm.
āTalk.ā
Only panted pleas reached her ears, begging compassion where none was deserved, simply because she was a Jedi, because Jedi were supposed to be compassionate.
So she knelt, placing pressure on the bones of the hand, repeating her request. When nothing was forthcoming but more pleas, more panicked words, she could do nothing more than sigh and put an end to his pain with a swift knock to the head.
She killed if she had to. That didnāt push her into the darkness. Or so she hoped.
Because falling to the darkness she fought would be tantamount to treason.
Blood rushes through veins, driven by a suddenly beating heart. Heat suffuses her face, a knot tying in her stomach as soft hands run down her sides, stop at her hips, as fingertips trace tiny lines in the skin there, as hands touch every inch of her body.
Itās not a Jedi thing, to love another singularly.
Warm breath touched her ear, whispered words slipping along. Promises of what was to comeāpromises of loving the other entirely in more than one sense of the word. Breath catches as a hand slowly dances its way up her body, across her sides, running over her shape.
Itās not a Jedi thing, to get attached.
Body flushes dark with heat, with anticipation. Arms wrapped snugly around her waist, back to her lover. Feet can barely touch the floor and she finds herself whining deep in her throat, almost begging because the height difference makes every moment an agony.
But itās a human thing, to crave love, attachment, stability.
When they lie in bed, nothing but the sheets and bare skin, they pretend. Pretend they are not Jedi, they are not warriors. That they are no more than any other couple in the universe.
