my name is kira. i am relatively new to SW fandom. this is where i come to act like a fool about an army of pixelated men. please note the following:
terfs, swerfs, racists begone!
NSFW content (minors, please DNI):
i will be horny on main. frequently. i tag sexual content with "spicy" and "smut" where appropriate. i tag my fic recs as such, and also with "reader insert" and the appropriate ship. always feel free to lmk if you'd like me to add tags for anything else i reblog.
whitewashing the clones:
i am a fan of the bad batch show for the lovely characters and rich world-building they have given us, but i wholeheartedly support the movement to #unwhitewashTBB. please see here for more info. the clones and temuera morrison deserve better!!!
shipping:
i don't post about or interact with master/padawan, pedophilic, or clonecest ships.
AO3:
all my work is cross-posted here. tumblr links below.
tag list:
join my tag list!
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my writing
last update: 11/21/23
*indicates 18+, NSFW
Wolffe
the two of us (against the world)*
[matchmaking au; aka Boost and Sinker set up the commander on a date with reader, where he proceeds to be grumpy/nervous, you are a lil tipsy and call him on his bullshit, and then the boys get clowned on by you and Wolffe lmao.]
have your cake*
[based on these shorts; bratty chaos ensues when you wear the red and white corrie shorts in front of Wolffe. heh.]
say it first*
[you and Wolffe are FWB. maybe just the B. but you both want more.]
follow the rules*
[request prompt: “Do you really think behaving like that is going to get you what you want?” & “God, you’re filthy, you know that? So fucking wet from my hand around your throat.”]
Fox
night shift
[based on the song "night shift" by Lucy Dacus.
It was an instant flood of dread through his veins, like someone had just shot a blaster straight into his gut. You. There. Staring at him. All his efforts to keep away, scheduling work into ungodly hours in the morning, carefully planned; all for nothing. Because he’s looking at you, looking at him, waiting for a sign of life, acknowledgement, anything.]
WIP: the moon cannot outshine the sun* (TMCOTS)
[During the Clone Wars, soldiers serving in the GAR fight hard to secure peace and protection for the Republic. But who looks after the clones? The Department of Clone Care, a late intervention by the senate, is created to provide companions to different units of troopers. Though companions receive government funding to rouse Republic loyalty and determination for victory within their troopers, they certainly also inspire… other emotions.
After your allotted term serving as companion with the 104th, you’ve been designated for a two-week trial period to evaluate compatibility with squads in the 501st and the Coruscant Guard. Faced with two men as different as night and day, you come to learn a different connection with each.]
501st
sitting pretty* (Jesse x f!reader)
[request prompt: “You are wetter than Kamino, baby… Sorry, that sounded hotter in my head.”]
WIP: bon appetit
[matchmaking au: the 501st signs up for a cooking class with their dates. chaos ensues.]
Other
restrained* (Hunter x f!reader)
[prompt: impromptu subby!Hunter event]
begin again (Sgt. Soot x GN!reader); written for the @rare-clone-fic-exchange
[Reader is a youngling-care professional who cares very deeply about their little ones and isn’t afraid to protect them. Sgt. Soot makes a mistake, but he gets a chance to make it right.]
Pairing: Commander Wolffe x Sadhbh m'Lir (original character)
W/c: 941
Warnings: Masturbation, just Wolffe having a good time to himself, recording of sex (consensual)
A/N: A big big BIG thank you to @auntie-venom for giving me the idea to have Wolffe listen to the audio Sadhbh made in Muted! It was such a great idea and fit perfectly with Kinktober (which I am still trying to do lol). There is still the chance I write something angsty in relation to the audio recording, but for now please have this :)
Also posted to Ao3
[Masterlist] [One Shot Masterlist]
Wolffe sits, lethargic, at the desk in his quarters.
He’s still in his armour, except for the codpiece tossed carelessly onto his bunk and his gloves thrown on the desk in front of him. His trainer would have his shebs if they could see his slumped posture right now.
He doesn’t care.
Too many days he’s spent on this mission, and it’s too many more before he gets back to Coruscant. Everything is building up around him: the death, the stress, the never ending flimsiwork.
He deserves a little break.
It’s no surprise that as soon as he finds himself alone, for the first time in days, he pulls his helmet back on, this time to search for a recording that makes surviving a little easier. Something that Sadhbh made for him the last time he was on shore leave. A reminder that not every part of his life is dedicated to war.
He selects ‘play’.
The start gets him every time, the little ‘oh’ in the beginning as she adjusts to him entering her, the breathy moan she makes from his first thrust. He lets himself take it all in, drinking in the fact that she wore this very helmet to record herself while they fucked.
He’s a lucky bastard.
Erratic breathing broken by soft curses send shivers down his spine and he feels himself harden, the fabric of his compression suit tightening around him. Her whimper in his ear has him leaning further back into his chair and he closes his eyes.
He imagines that his hand trailing down his chest plate past his stomach is actually a blue one. He spreads his legs to make a space just large enough for someone to step into, so used to her that he doesn’t need to check if there’s enough room. He presses his other hand down onto his thigh, like when she leans on him for support.
Most of all, he imagines that he’s not alone. That if he opens his eyes he would look straight up into a pair of gold ones, creasing in amusement at his neediness.
She’s back on Coruscant, but for a short while he can pretend otherwise.
She would take her time, tease him with light strokes at the top of his thighs, swiping them up and across his abdomen to make him flinch with anticipation. His breath hitches at the thought of her kneeling down to plant kisses up his length, a devious smile on her face as she pretends to think about continuing.
She would make him work for it, wouldn’t give him what he wants until he was a pining mess.
He doesn’t have the patience to do that. Not tonight.
He yanks open his suit, freeing his leaking cock as he hears her moan. Swiping his precum with his thumb, he coats himself pretending it’s her slick. His hand is too warm compared to hers, but he’ll make do as he wraps his hand around and starts pumping.
She breathlessly laughs, the sound going straight to his dick and for a moment he speeds up before having to slow down again.
Wolffe falls into the familiar rhythm, fucking his fist to the beat of her breathing. He times the peak of his thrust to each little gasp in his ear, pulling his foreskin right back as he does, just like how it feels inside her. He’s leaking all over his hand now, eyes still closed in bliss as he thinks about how wet she can be for him, the quiet schlick the only sound other than the audio.
The thought pushes him on and he chases the feeling with a squeeze to his cock. He knows he’s imagining it, but he swears he can smell the faintest trace of lavender as he gets lost listening to her.
A stuttered call of his name makes his hips jolt.
This is his favourite part. The part where she can’t help but whisper his name over and over again, as she comes closer to the edge. He picks up the pace, his need to come taking over all else. The pleasure builds within him, his balls tightening and her moans are louder in his ear now, his name cut off at times, and he wants- no, needs-to keep going.
He needs to come when she does.
He has played this recording more times than he cares to count, he knows exactly how to time this. He’s almost there, his hips jerk of their own accord and there’s no rhythm now. Only her voice in his ear drives him on, and she cries out, “Wolffe, fuck, Wo-”.
He comes, hard.
He’s grateful that his helmet obscures his groans, the sound mixing with the gasps in his ear. Wolffe thrusts into his hand again without thinking, and he grits his teeth as he rides out the pleasure with a few more passes. On the edge of overstimulation, he finally stops and opens his eyes to see his cum splattered over his suit and up onto his stomach plate.
His tired pants sync with the deep breathing in the recording, a small comfort to how hard he came. Tendrils of contentment wind their way through him, lulling him as he comes down from the high. Slowly, he reaches for the cloth he’s grateful for bringing and dabs where he can, his muscles heavy and tired.
It’s not the same. He’s too quick in moving, too quick to clean up, her breathing the only thing grounding him while he cleans.
A distant tired laugh before the recording cuts off has him smiling softly.
《 [series masterlist] 》 《 I 》 《 III 》 《 IV 》 《 V 》
It’s easy to be distracted in the middle of a fight. Rather than focusing on the pain radiating from her sternum, Osha must focus on the saber hurtling toward her face and determine how best to block it. Instead of dwelling on the present, she must fixate on fractals of her past in order to find her equilibrium - her years on Coruscant, the saber forms the Jedi once taught her, the magic of her mothers and their coven. There isn’t time to linger on the loss, on the sorrow, on the anger and betrayal of her former Master when she is too busy molding herself into the perfect acolyte.
But the mask still slips when she least expects it. In the space between sleeping and waking, she sometimes thinks she’s back on Savareen, still wrapped up in you, still breathing in the moments before disaster. Qimir knocks her saber from her hands and she scrambles to grab it, and she sees a flash of Sol’s face, his eyes wide and kind, his mouth twisted into a promise as empty as her heart. She sees him fall dead, hears his final declaration, and it’s like she’s being ripped apart in the amount of time it takes for a star to be born. A thunderstorm slams into the coast and she thinks of her sister, of all the times they huddled together in Mama’s arms when the lightning scared them.
“In order to fight, you must be present. You can’t defend yourself when your back is turned.” Qimir taps his training staff against her shoulder to further enunciate his point.
Osha snaps her head to the left, then the right, cracking her vertebrae. She thinks of all those Jedi who died on Khofar. She thinks of your Master, cut through with Qimir’s blade because she hadn’t been fast enough to stop him. Osha suppresses the thought with enough force to make her hands shake, and that’s when she surges forward to land a double blow, her teeth bared in a snarl.
“I’m present,” she says as she lowers herself into a defensive pose. It’s a unique spin on something Sol once taught her, another piece of him that she’s taken and twisted to make her own.
It gives her strength, she’s come to realize, taking things that he once found sacred and forcing them to serve her. Qimir has rules, but they’re different from those of the Jedi. Here her passion is encouraged, driven to thrive rather than to be snuffed out. Her rage isn’t a matter of concern, but a point of pride.
The Force will set you free, Osha.
And indeed it has.
Mae is a problem that pushes at the very edges of your capabilities. She keeps you guessing even after you think you’ve finally figured her out. She’s powerful, more powerful than you think Osha ever was, and it’s a strange thought to have. Mae pushes when you pull, you lead and she surpasses, a never-ending game of back and forth that feels constantly out of your reach. She is more certain of herself than you are of your own abilities. She’s eager to learn and quick to understand, she’s the apprentice any Master would be fortunate to have, so why is she forcibly saddled with your muddled attempts at mentorship?
Master Vernestra would be a more suitable choice, but she’s adamant that you do this. “You may find closure over Osha Aniseya’s departure and Sol’s death in helping this girl to recover her memories,” she had told you, but you fail to see how. How can you possibly find closure when you’re haunted every waking moment by your greatest failure and deepest desire?
“I don’t remember his name,” Mae says when you ask her about the Jedi in her memories, such as they are.
“It was Sol,” you tell her.
She ruminates on the word for a few moments, narrowing her eyes as if she could somehow see him if she picked at the name for long enough. “He… killed my mother.” And though Mae says it with some level of resignation, you still have yet to accept that such a thing could have happened, that Sol would be capable of it. It punches the air from your lungs.
Your eyes flicker to the incense pot on your table. A few of the broken shards have been carefully plastered together while the rest lay in order of their most likely matches. There’s still a stain on the floor from where the ash had smudged the stone and you weren’t able to get it out of all the little cracks. Neither has the smell of sandalwood diminished in the days since it broke.
Selfishness drives you to ask the question you know you shouldn’t. “Do you know why?” Because there has to be a reason. There has to be an explanation for why the kindest man you’ve ever known would choose to strike down a frightened child’s mother, why he would then kill his fellow Jedi, your friends, his own Padawan, and then turn his blade upon himself. There has to be a line of logic in his choices or else you are lost.
“No.” She tries so hard to remember, but her memories are so fractured that there’s nothing left for her to find in the recesses of her mind.
It’s the first kindling of anger in the deepest chamber of your heart. You pretend that the ugly sting of it is just another stitch ripped open in your too-fresh grief, that Mae’s inability to explain away your love for a murderer doesn’t make you want to raze all of Coruscant to its foundations. No, you are a Jedi who has been gifted with a second chance. There is no such thing as rage or desire or the corrupting whisper of attachment, not for you. There is only the serenity of the Force and vows of the Jedi. Just like your Master taught you.
“What is this place?” Mae’s voice echoes for a moment before quickly dissipating into the mountain.
Your head tilts back to take in the arching walls of stone and steel, occasionally studded with saber scars and great cracks that travel throughout the shrine like the crackling tendrils of a lightning strike. It’s been close to nine years since you were here last, the night of your Trials, yet it still looks exactly the same. “This is the heart of the Temple. The very first Jedi shrine.”
Mae huffs a quiet laugh. “It looks like it.”
She’s not wrong. This place clearly hasn’t been touched in centuries, if not millenia. Dust has gathered atop the shrine’s centerpiece, a pale stone bench with the most ancient Jedi symbol known to the galaxy carved into its surface, and the steel beams forced into the stone that hold the weight of the spire and the hundreds of levels above you look like they’ve shifted several times over the years. Perhaps you’ll keep this visit brief.
“So, why are we here?”
Even for you, a Jedi Knight who has lived in this Temple all her life, the concept of this place is a strange one; it takes you a minute to find the right words to describe it. “The Temple was built upon a vergence. It’s a concentration of the Force, more powerful than anywhere else in the galaxy. To the Jedi, a vergence is like a window into the Force itself. We strengthen ourselves through it, we can see visions of the future or impressions from the past, and we use it to guide us.”
You can feel it even now, the heart of the vergence. It lies far beneath you in the heart of the mountain that once stood here, yet its energy is strong enough to vibrate through miles of rock and ore until it penetrates through your sinew.
The ghost of a non-existent wind whispers through Mae’s hair as she turns. “Mama…” Her body twists in a circle as her eyes are cast wildly about the shrine room, following something you cannot see or even guess at. “I remember…”
Your breath catches in your throat. “You do?”
But Mae only shakes her head, this time pressing her fingers to the star-white spiral on her forehead. “It’s not the Force,” she murmurs, “it’s the Thread. Mama taught us about it, me and… Osha.”
Could it really be so simple as this? You hardly dare to breathe, let alone to hope. “Do you remember her?”
She answers you, not with words, but with the quiet grip of her hand around yours. The Force thrums softly between your palms, like a breeze caught in a cage, but its sound and touch are different from how you know it or even from how you’ve been teaching Mae to wield it. The Force feels less like the steady, beating heart of the universe and more like a song. It feels tangible, not in the way of a cloud or the mist of the morning, but like a canvas stretching thin where you press against it.
Mae finally speaks, yet the words don’t sound like her. “Pull the Thread,” she says as she paws frantically at the air, “change everything.”
“Mae?” You can’t pull your hand free.
“It ties you to your destiny. It binds you to others.”
An actual breeze has started whipping around the perimeter of the shrine room, so dark and thick with dust that it chokes out the light of the lanterns and plunges you into darkness.
“Mae?”
“The power of two.”
The Force all but screams inside your head. “Mae! Stop it! Let go!”
Now it’s not the Force in your head, but Mae, her face a vision before your unseeing eyes, her irises black and endless like the night sky. The power of two - as if you have any idea what that means.
And then you’re falling.
Osha sniffles quietly into her knees. She hears the rustle of Master Sol’s cloak across the floor, then the creak of his boots as he kneels beside her.
“Death is a natural part of life, but that does not make it easy for those of us who survive.”
She waits for a moment, considering this, before peeking out the side of the fortress she’s made with her arms. Her Master’s face is sad and unfamiliar to her. She isn’t sure what to do with an adult who’s sad like she is.
“I miss Mama,” she says.
Sol nods stoically. “It is natural to miss those we have lost. But a Jedi does not mourn death. A Jedi does not fear death. We are all a part of the Force, Osha, and we return to it when our bodies die.”
It reminds her of something Mama once taught her about the Thread. “Is that… Is that where Mama is? And Mae?”
Hesitation dims the hopeful light in Osha’s heart, but Sol is quick to ease her worries. “Yes,” he finally decides. “Your family is with the Force now, Osha.”
Osha thinks it might not be such a bad thing to be part of the Force if it means she gets to be part of her family again. She tilts her head until it rests upon Sol’s shoulder. His hand closes around her a moment later, and it almost feels like a hug, the kind like Mama used to give.
Yet when she wakes, all Osha feels is the emptiness in her bones and the grief of becoming an orphan all over again.
This isn’t the first time Sol’s memory has come back to haunt her in her dreams, but this is the first time it’s left her feeling sick to her stomach. Growing up in the Temple, she’d looked to him for guidance and hope, and she’d trusted the council he gave her like it was the word of a god. All that time, he’d been lying to her and piling the blame on Mae.
I did it because I love you.
The inside of the cave flashes red, then the walls rumble and shake, and then Qimir has his hands on her shoulders. He’s calling her name, she thinks, but his voice feels far away. She can hardly hear him, but she can feel the weight of a saber in her hand and the crackle of energy as the exposed kyber crystal screams inside her mind.
She only has the time to blink before tumbling head first into another memory.
The first time she ever saw a lightsaber that wasn’t Master Sol’s was in the training rooms. A dozen Padawans at least five or six years her senior have been divided into pairs and instructed to practice their forms. There’s a young Wookiee who reminds her of Master Kelnacca in the far corner; she has pretty, plaited brown hair and a purple saber shaped like a tree branch. Next to her is… a Togruta, she thinks, all tall and elegant with white and brown markings on her head-tails. She looks fierce and strong like Mother Koril, and her lightsaber is blue like Sol’s. And there’s a Twi’lek, too, and another Wookiee, and a lot of humans who know how to do really impressive things, and then…
Well, and then there’s you. All things considered, you’re not really any different from the other humans, but Osha likes that you smile when you do something fancy. Maybe you’re not so stuffy like some of the other children here.
“When do I get to do that?” she asks.
Sol chuckles warmly before placing his hand on her shoulder. “First you must train. These Padawans have spent many years learning how to use the Force and find balance in it. You will learn that, too.”
It’s disappointing, but not surprising. The Jedi have a lot of rules and the biggest one is patience. She’s still working on that one.
“There’s so many colors.”
“Yes. Each one represents a different way of connecting with the Force.”
“What about yours?”
When Sol extends his lightsaber to her, he keeps his hand over hers. The blade suddenly flares to life and Osha almost drops it. It feels heavier when it’s lit, but also… powerful, mysterious. She likes that.
“When I was about your age, my master took me to Ilum so I could discover my kyber crystal. It is the heart of every Jedi’s weapon. I walked through snow and ice, and wandered into the deepest caves until I found mine.” The saber hums and collapses in on itself with a flick of Sol’s wrist, but he leaves the hilt in Osha’s hand. She turns it over once, twice, and pretends for a moment that it’s hers. “I didn’t know what kind of Jedi I wanted to be until I found my kyber and built my lightsaber. Blue is the color of justice and protection. It’s a symbol of the light and the fight against the Dark Side.”
Osha thinks it sounds kind of complicated, but she likes the idea of having her own lightsaber in the future. She wonders if it’ll be blue like Sol’s.
“One day you will find your own kyber, Osha, and it will help you decide what kind of Jedi you will become.”
She comes out of the memory with her arms slashing and her throat raw from screaming. She can’t see anything beyond the red, warped scars that her saber leaves behind in the Force, but she can feel everything. She feels the Force soaking into her skin and peeling it back until she’s little more than an exposed nerve. She feels the memory of her mother and the thrumming song of the Thread between her hands. She feels the night of your embrace and the echo Sol’s betrayal, and she feels it so keenly that she thinks she might die.
There’s a Padawan in the class above hers, a girl she’s only spoken to in passing, but her eyes are pretty and she laughs kind of like you do, so Osha likes her right away. Funny how she can be so mad at you but still want you around. It’s incredibly annoying. So annoying, in fact, that Osha finds herself following the Padawan with the long hair and almost-but-not-quite-you-smile into an old supply closet that smells like engine grease and cleaning supplies. The Padawan - who probably has a name, but they’re way beyond names at this point - says something about how pretty Osha’s lips are before deciding to kiss them, just to be sure.
Osha wishes she wasn’t pretending it’s you. But she is. Because she’s an idiot. And a bad friend. And a terrible Jedi. And an overall failure, really. But you’re too busy trying to find happiness in the mouths and hands (and other places) of other Padawans who aren’t Osha. You’re too distracted to even notice her.
Kissing the pretty girl who sounds like you is a weird way of getting revenge that only makes her feel worse in the end, and that’s when Osha starts to think that maybe she was never cut out to be a Jedi. She’s too lost in the idea of you to remember that attachment isn’t the Jedi way. And you’re too lost in everyone else to care.
All the Jedi have ever done is destroy things. They destroyed Brendok. They destroyed her coven. They took everything from her and told her to let it go, and now it’s like they’re taunting her. Sol, Jecki, Yord, you… All of it was a lie and she was too stupid to see it.
A massive chunk of the cave comes crumbling down behind her.
“Osha?”
Her pulse hammers wildly behind her eyes. It hurts. Everything hurts. She slams the meat of her palm into her eye socket and tries to rub the pain away, but it only strengthens.
“Osha!”
It’s too much, it’s all too much. She screams and the lightsaber goes flying - Sol’s lightsaber, the one she wishes she could have killed him with - and the cave dissolves into rubble around her.
You throw yourself to the ground with your arms over your head to avoid the chaotic arc of the red lightsaber as it whips around the cave, but a second goes by, then another, and another after that, and you can no longer hear the the whistle of plasma through air or the ragged and uneven breaths of the very woman who has haunted you since Savareen. You blink, confused, and peer cautiously through the gap between your arms.
Osha is nowhere to be found, nor is her saber… You could’ve sworn it was Sol’s. You’d know the hilt of his blade anywhere, but that’s not possible. It should’ve burned on his funeral pyre or at least been taken back to the Temple to give to… someone. Not you, of course, but someone who knew him, who cared about him in life and loved him in death.
None of this is right. The vergence should have allowed you to recall Mae’s memories, yet your mind is bursting at the seams with Osha’s past and a hint of her present. Your chest is heavy with her grief and your mouth tender to the touch as if it were you that the Padawan from her memory had kissed…
“Oh, Osha.” Your head falls into your hands in despair. All those years she spent pining after you and you never noticed. You were too enamored with the other Padawans and Knights, too enamored with Sol to even consider the fact that Osha might feel that way about you. Only now you know what it’s like to kiss and be loved by her, and you feel like a fool for never paying her more attention.
Mae, however, is thrilled. She’s sprawled across the floor with the most dazzling smile you’ve ever seen. “Oshie,” she murmurs, her eyes glazed over and far away.
You’re happy for Mae. While this isn’t the discovery you had in mind, it’s good that Mae has a new connection to her sister. It should make the recollection of her memories easier now that she has something more tangible to focus her goals on. Master Vernestra will be pleased with the progress and maybe even impressed with Mae’s abilities. These are all good things. So why can’t you escape the steadily growing seed of despair that’s taking root behind your sternum?
The reason, of course, is Sol. Even from beyond the grave, he manages to torment you. You’d be amazed at his tenacity if you weren’t also heartbroken.
A sliver of Osha’s current mindset had slipped through to you in the chaos, fractional pieces of concepts and feelings that have burrowed into your flesh and refuse to release you. You see him on Brendok, a place you’ve never been nor seen a single holopic of yet you recognize it as easily as you might recognize Coruscant. He’s kneeling before you with tears in his eyes. You think he’s dying, but he’s not fighting it. It’s awful.
I love you, you think you hear him say to her, and you feel the most incredible agony when he does.
Then you see his saber. A crack runs along the seam between sheets of steel where the kyber’s been exposed. You can still feel the raw cut of the gem as it digs into your skin and screams for mercy. It’s been bled of all its light until the only thing that remains is the red-tinted shadow of Osha’s rage. The shadow of a Sith.
Suddenly the shrine feels too crowded and too dark for you. The weight of it is suffocating, like a hand wrapped around your throat. You scramble to your feet and in your desperation to flee, you forget about Mae. You forget why you’re here. There’s only the vision of Sol’s face and the jagged, smoldering scars of Osha’s anger carved into the walls around you. And a voice, beckoning to you from beneath the shrine, enticing you further into the darkness.
You run.
Osha’s wedged between your thighs, her mouth hot and insistent on your skin as she draws your pleasure from you, a woman half starved and feasting at the banquet you’ve provided for her. She touches you as if you were the only person in existence, as if you were the only person she has ever known.
Then why do you think of Sol when she fucks you hard enough to make your eyes roll back into your head? It isn’t intentional. You aren’t seeking out the shape of him in your mind, but it comes to you all the same. Osha’s tongue laves over your clit, and you keen, and suddenly you’re picturing Sol in her place, flat on his belly with his hands on your thighs and his mouth on your cunt, and you very nearly come undone in that very moment. The neatly rolled spirals of hair in your hands almost, for a second, feel thinner and smooth, a passing shadow with the texture of Sol’s locks.
“C’mon, baby,” she pants when she finally pulls back. Her mouth is wet and dark, her lips kiss-bruised, and she is so painfully beautiful that you can hardly bear it. “C’mon. Make a mess for me.”
The desperate, guttural sound in your chest prompts her to smile, and when she dives back down, you find yourself careening into wild, open space, crying out the vague syllables of her name even as the ghost of Sol’s could-have-been touch lingers in your bones.
“-sha, Osh-!”
You jerk awake on Coruscant, lying in a pool of your own sweat. At first, the only thing you’re aware of is the pounding of your heart and the agonizing weight of loss between your ribs, but then you’re aware of the gentle snoring in the far corner, of the scent of long-stale sandalwood. And the intoxicating lick of arousal at the base of your spine.
You bury the meat of your palms in your eye sockets with a quiet groan. Of all the times to have such a dream, it has to be the night Osha’s sister is sharing your room?
You haven’t had a single dream of that night on Savareen, not even the first night you were back on Coruscant, although the memories have been repeating in an endless loop in the back of your mind, stuffed in between fractals of grief over Sol’s betrayal and his passing. But you can’t think about that right now. All you can think about is how much you wish he would have at least touched you, even once. Not the way Osha touched you - it feels wrong to pine after the dead in such a way - but a hand on your arm, a finger tucked below your chin, a whisper of his lips against yours…
The muffled grunt of desire that rumbles out of you as a result is shameful. There has to be something wrong with you if, after everything Sol has done, you still wish you could have shared a night with him, learning the way he shows his love, memorizing the scent of his hair and the freckles on his skin. Your eyes dart to the far corner where Mae is sleeping. He killed her mother, you remind yourself. He killed your Master. Where is your decency? Where is your honor?
Perhaps it was struck down on Khofar. Perhaps Sol killed it on Brendok when he chose to kill himself. Or perhaps you never had it to begin with.
When you finally worm your hand under your clothes and down between your legs, you’re overwhelmed with guilt and lust, and they both win out in the end. Your orgasm is unsatisfying and your heart aches, and you find yourself flickering between a mental picture of Osha in the throes of her passion and Sol with his infinite smile. Neither one feels real anymore.
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author's note:
both the ancient jedi shrine & sith shrine beneath the temple is a real thing in canon! the jedi shrine isn't named, but the sith shrine is called the shrine in the depths.
