#i love how alfrinn is having the time of her life and the other two DONT want to be here

[pestopascal]

I commissioned @spindlewit for several portraits of my SWTOR ocs!

L-R: SI N’ahtav Marlavi, JK Nona Kalydon and SW Alfrinn Faust

[wiltf]

a moment

ao3//

Holoterminal on low, lights down, the only noise coming from the other side of the bridge was the apparent argument developing between Pierce and Vette. Not that he was sparing time in consideration, peering around the corner to take note of where she was in comparison. Despite the apparent necessary renovations, in additional chairs and tables, Alfrinn remained in meditation nearest to the deck, kneeling on the ground.

Clearing his throat, he steps out from the door. Hands clasped, behind his back and perhaps too tight. Enough to feel the press of metal between material, just there, left hand. Eyes remaining on how his presence had alerted the other two, distracted from their game.

“My lord, might I have a word with you?”

Quinn is aware of the shift. Perhaps it was the force, or just life itself, that fluctuates in the moment that Alfrinn returned to them. Where her visage was no longer disturbed by the ever growing purples, reds and greys. Never had he thought to ask, what it all meant, and still did he not press. Not as she looks up at him, the quirk in her cheek betraying the look of vague boredom she had taken to wearing.

Only to keep people away, she had said one day, when Vette had asked. Look disinterested enough, and even the most ignorant Moff might just leave you alone.

Offering a hand which she takes, Alfrinn moves to her feet. Grimace, aimed at her feet. Oddly humanising, in that moment, even as she releases his hand. Even as he flexes his fingers at his side. Alfrinn extends her arm, asking him to lead, and the noise resumes.

Three steps into the deck, and the door slides shut behind her. Quinn didn’t consider himself a greedy man, but he turns, hand against the panel beside her. Too close, too warm, finding her left hand as easily as the weight continued to rest on his mind. Pulls the glove free, and there it was.

Untraditionally silver and plain. Her choice, something he could never quite understand. But that was neither here nor there, not when their fingers thread together, and Quinn leans in. Hair’s breadth away. Swallowing thickly, as he whispers, “my love.”

“How forward of you, Malavai.” Alfrinn’s voice rolls with the easy tease, just shy of poking and prodding completely. Finding a fondness in his name. And he would be foolish to deny that he liked how his name sounded, thick and rounded by the distinctly Ziostian accent.

A number of words that sit on the tip of his tongue. Some still too daring, or just never finding the right time to be said. Quinn wasn’t sure if it was some need, to be that person, to move on and find the new. If he closed his eyes, Pierce’s messages weigh heavily on his mind. So he murmurs, “quite so,” against her lips.

Just a moment. That was all he required. To hear the shaky breath that leaves her, eyes closed, as they part. Alfrinn licks her lips then, universe slowing down with the motion.

“Malavai—”

“Thank you for your time, my lord.”

Alfrinn’s hands cup his cheeks. Fingers spread wide, sliding over skin. Quinn does not dare close his eyes in that moment, holding firm, as nails find his scalp, a warming drag that ends with a sweep, from throat to shoulder. Thumbs that linger, as her hands slide back up once more. Against pressure points that don’t threaten, just feel the steady thrum of his heart. Right there.

“Anything for you.”

Finality in her words, hand over the panel now. Quinn replaces her glove, hiding away the silver for one more day. Lips that linger over the slightest bump, before he lets her go once more. Bow of head, and Alfrinn lets her mask slip. Like how the noble women would titter behind their fans at some of the fancier balls — all stories, recalled with a clarity that Quinn had never been able to find fault in from her. But there it was, corner of her mouth. Wicked curve of a grin, that disappears behind the closing door.