#my semi sith | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

threepandas · 18 days ago

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The worst part about knowing the end? Is the beginning and middle. The waiting to change. The hoping it can. Days, spent with the low fear, ever churning, that it will all make no difference. Your actions. Your plans. The hopes you have placed in Fate's fickle hands.

Entering the Creche at an awkward age, too soon to be Legend, too late to be Peer. I was destined to be an adult by the time Anikin arrived. Getting up there, by the time the Order fell. Not yet old enough to be an Elder... yet destined to never live long enough to see such an age.

Obviously, I refused.

Looked around, locked eyes on the closest most manageable Character Of Relevance and took a chance. After all, was it not? The Jedi WAY? To inconvenience the Sith at every turn? So... first Crecheling, then Initiate, then baby Padawan Me, tracked the poor man down. Hunted him for SPORT.

Meditate with me, Knight Dooku! Can you teach me about this or that, Knight Dooku? What is the correct use of seashell tongs in formal dining, when attending a formal feast with the aristocracy, during this specific religious holiday, Knight Dooku? (No, no, on the moon not the planet.)

Congratulations on you Mastery! Master Dooku!

Pushing and shoving my way into his life. Persistent, much to everyone's amusement, and his baffled chagrin. It was like befriending a fussy, regal looking, semi-feral cat. Force knows, for all his training, he's terrible at casual interactions. He was older them me, yes. And Mentor of sorts, certainly. For a time. But? We became... friendly? I like to think? I certainly chased him down enough.

He's a dramatic and awkward man, Yan, and he'd be lost without us; Sifo, Nu, and I. Occasionally Yoda, but that does come and go. Not to metion... well... his Padawans. (Damn it, Yan. They can't read the subtext from your pointed silences! Use your WORDS.) The sort of man who is... sturdy, but brittle. Like an old, unbending tree.

Which makes it all the worse, when the pressure becomes too much. Because it does not merely crack. No. No, such men? They shatter in terrible and unpredictable ways. Unbreakable right up until they are not. Unending right up until the crash.

It is...? Both tragic and hilarious, in a that way, that Yan should live surrounded by so many prophets. Yet he does not, can not, and never will see the end coming. Surrounded by legends, both old and new. Born with every marker for greatness. Yet he...? He will be considered little more then a footnote, in someone else's history. At best.

And the worst part of his Fall? The absolutely worst part? Is the Light I still feel, each time I look at him, the GOOD I know is there. Resolute and noble, dignified and full of grace. A diplomat. Expert swordsman. Makes magnificent tea. The driest wit imaginable. He... he is YAN. Not Count Dooku. Not some Sith Apprentice. Just... just Yan.

My friend.

I meditate on it a lot. The Force gives no clear answers. Still, I do try, sitting in the gardens. Tucked away several stories up, past the considerate veil of several sweeping branches. I never did succeed in figuring out which planet the tree hails from, I suspect it might be either a long dead one or some small moon. It's a truely lovely, sturdy, thing nonetheless.

Far below, younglings shriek and play growl. Running carefree, to work off energy before evening meditation. Each a tiny blaze of starlight dancing at the edge of my vision.

A bit bright, I note, but nothing concerning.

The Halls of Healing will have to increase my prescription again. My glasses are no longer blocking enough... I sigh. Considering that. My sight? Is at least partially genetic. While I may be predominantly human, just because someone looks human passing, doesnt mean they genetically are one. My ancestors were, to put it mildly, a bit... Mandalorian.

Where their was a will, there was apparently, a way; And now I pay the price for it. It's honestly a miracle they never "married", as it were, themselves into a genetic dead end. Some sort of metaphorical space mule scenario, as it were. Yet? Despite all that seeming success? Luck is not eternal. And should you keep gambling? Eventual you will roll poorly.

I was that poor hand. That unfortunate luck. Loved of course. Expected even. My parents both wanted and were delighted by me. But? I screamed. Could not bear to be near people. My inheritance? A truely unfortunate luck of the draw. When combine with Force Sensitivity? My eyes reacted to "Light" poorly. Very, VERY poorly.

They were blinding to me. A mere child with no shields to speak of, no Force training to push BACK with. Like being force to look direct at the sun, again and again. It HURT. Because I could See.

Where others saw merely flesh? I saw deeper. Not infalliblly, not perfectly, I was hardly some omniscient god, but... oh. Oh. The world was so Bright. So LUMINOUS. The Force swirling and burning and flowing. In everything, from humble to grand. People shine, and yes, it is beautiful. But it also? Hurts. Because it IS, ultimately, being forced to stare directly at bright, ever shifting, sometimes flickering LIGHT.

I have a lifelong disability. Can not FUNCTION without my filtering shade glasses.

Or, if you are one of the ignorant assholes, who even NOW still seek to use me? I have what you might call? A"gift~☆".

According to Healer Che, it was some highly recessive trait. (From a planet I honest didn't even know I had heritage on, much less could find on a navigation system.) A subterranean people, due to the truely ungodly surface conditions. VERY sensitive to energy signatures and light. Which...? When you slap on a whole NEW super special Force sensing ability? Filtered through the same brain? Wires unfortunately crossed.

It could have happened it anyone. Unfortunately, it happened to me. Now I'm effectively blind around large collections of sentients. Or Life in general, depending on the intensity. To say NOTHING of Force Nexus! Dear merciful FUCK, that was the sort of accident only you make ONCE and then NEVER again. I was lucky to keep my vision. At all. Full stop.

Sifo was not so lucky. His Visions being neither natural nor kind. The Force seizing him again and again, to plunge him into vivid scenes of carnage. Death and horrors in the home he so loved. I would would be forced to, should I fail, see the Fall of the Order once. But Sifo? Oh... oh, dear Sifo...

Sifo, had seen it fall ten thousand times.

Even Yan did listen to him. Not truely. But there is camaraderie, in the horrors. In whispering, "it's not their fault", through choking tears. Forgiving the victims that will one day kill us. There is... a certain, heavy, sort of friendship... born of pressing your foreheads together, fingers intertwined, knuckles white with terror, as you shudder in the dark.

I think it helped, helps, that he has someone, who believes him. Anyone. Not just humoring him, the mad man sprouting prophecies of doom. But truely believes him. Knows he is right. And that if nothing is done? Everyone will die.

But... BUT! It CAN NOT, be Kamino, Sifo. Not that, never that.

In the dark, I remind him of prophets, seeking to avoid their visions, and instead? Ensuring the worst, comes to pass. Defense, Sifo. Escape. We are JEDI. Do not let fear blind you, to who you ARE. Do not let it take down a path of darkness.

I wrap him in the Light. Tuck my Force presence close, like I'm hiding him again my side, a youngling tucked into the safety of my robe. Shhhh, my friend. It is okay to be afraid. I am too. We can do this together. We are not alone. I believe you.

We are the pillars of his mental health, Yan and I. It concerns the healers greatly. The council. Honestly? It concerns me. But what can I do? No one else CAN help Sifo, until the first take the step of recognizing he is not, in fact, insane. He is a perfectly SANE man, reacting in entirely reasonable ways, to unspeakable Nexus born horrors. Slowly cracking under the isolation and grief. A jedi pushed and pushed, far past the point lesser men would have broken.

And if? He need a woman young enough to be his one of his student's, to rely on? So be it. I am a Knight now, I can handle it. (I have been handling it, since the incident. Since I was a Crecheling. Where the fuck were all of YOU? Ah, that's right. Calling him insane. Making things WORSE.)

I breathe out slow and controlled. My meditation is getting me no where. Rising, I carefully hop down, using the Force to slow my fall, much to the awe of various Crechelings. I can not help but smile. Was I ever that small? So easily impressed? I bow to my tiny fellow jedi. Delighted, they scramble to bow back. Thrilled to show off how grown up and serious they are, how well down they can do it.

Reaching out with my senses, I look for Yan, politely avoiding doing more then the briefest brush as I reach past others. I am not the first, nor will I be the last. There are hundreds of such searches a day. Some clumsy and heavy handed, from Crechelings or Initiates. Some soft as brushing strands of silk. Knights or Masters, looking for friends, looking for students where the should not be.

The Temple feels alive, noisy even, when you know how to feel it.

Ah, there he is! Heading from the High Council's cha-Grief. Horror. A gutting pain that numbs and spreads.

Caught off gaurd, I am sent reeling. Stumbling, without grace, over my own feet into a nearby wall. Glad for it, as I desperately grab at my chest and wheeze, drawing the alarmed attention of nearby Knights and Guards. Because... because, the other direction? Had I stumbled in the other direction, I would have hit the railing. Fully doubt I... I would have been able t-too.... oh Force-!

It takes entirely too long to seperate my emotions from Yan's. To realize what's happening. My panic feeding into the pain. My pain feeding into the panic. Yan. S-Something happened to Yan! I manage to gasp it out. P-please! S.. Someone! Go! Go check on Master Dooku!

The world spins as I try to force air into my body. It refuses to come. Whatever horrible pain Yan is in, leeching down our connection. Into me. Hurting. Made so, SO much worse, by my having been actively looking for him. I close my eyes, teeth gritting, and trying to stop digging my nails into skin. I-It won't help. There's nothing physically there.

But it hurts! God, does it HURT!

It feels like my WORLD has been shredded. My heart, crushed, cruel and slow in my chest. H-he's having a panic attack. Has to be! Or-! Or being attacked! I d-don't... don't KNOW!

A passing Master has hurried over, now kneels next to me. Various Knights pushing whatever calm and safety the can at me. No one is quite certain what will help. But they try. Desperately, stubbornly, resolute to the last... they TRY.

Breathe with me, begs the Master. Pressing my hand to his chest. Just copy my breathing. Help is coming. Release what pain you can, into the Force. We will help you. Let us help you.

I try.

Desperately, I Try.

The Healers end up having to give us sedatives, Yan and I. Sifo ends up... worse. The entire event triggering another, nasty, round of visions. He is incoherent. Trapped. Staring up at the Death Star from the surface of Alderaan, through countless eyes, begging to be heard. His soul, small and desperate, replaying the end, over and over. Even as he tries to protect what souls he can from the inevitable.

He cries for this too. They won't believe him, I know. Even as he thrashs and begs. For the lives of the innocent to be spared, for monsters to hold their fire. I will though. I will. I always do.

But Sifo will be lost for days. Yan, however? As he sits, on the bed, just the other side me? Sits stiff and properly. Blankly. As the healers words wash over him. I doubt a single on has registered. Of the three of us, I am the only one even remotely functioning. Yet... yet I still, don't know what has happened.

Nodding one last time to the healer assigned to me. Promising that yes, I will most certainly rest. I slip my my bed and sweep over to stand next to Yan's. The Healer's concerned and frustrated. He knows Yan's not listening. But has to try. I shoot him a strained, closed lipped, smile. Quietly take charge of my unresponsive friend.

The Healers relief is palpable. Our notes and instructions are not terribly dissimilar. Rest, food, no missions or upsets. Got it.

Gently, I guide Yan from the Healing Halls. Alarmed, that he let's himself be led. He never let's himself be led like this. Insists he is no invalid, to be coddled. Yet... here he is. Mind a thousand parsecs away.

Bringing him to his rooms, I key in his code then gently guide him to his favorite chair. Lightly guide him down into it. Not... not once, during the entire walk back, has he responded to anything. I am beginning to grow afraid.

Fussing, I drag up that terribly pretentious Serranian musician, on his music system. The one I can't stand. I am worried. Sacrifices must be made. Boring and insipid music fills the room. Very fancy! Come on, Yan. This is his new piece! Don't you want to comment on it? Come, tell me why it's so much better then the racket youngling blast these days. I'll call you an old man...

Nothing.

Worry growing, I begin making his favorite tea. Digging out his special occasion snacks. Something, anything, to get a reaction. As things brew, a sound too wounded to truly be a laugh, chokes it's way out of him.

"Xana-...My..." he starts. Stops. Normally sharp mind refusing to obey him, as he tries to summon words. He looks lost.

"My Grand-Padawan is dead." His voice is brittle, alien sounding in his mouth. I nearly drop the plate of snacks I was carrying over, in response. Horrified. "He was supposed be returning a knight. Qui-gon was.. was so proud of him. Adored him. This has destroyed him. Will destroy all of us. I... I have lost everything."

No. No, you have NOT.

Striding forward and all but dumping the plate on the side table next to him, I reach for my friend with both hands. With my Force presence. I refuse. No, damn it! I Will NOT lose him. Not like this, not TOO this!

Listen. LISTEN to me, Yan Dooku. So help me Stars, Gods both big and small, you will not succumb to this!

The greatest lie the Dark has ever told, is that it will make things better. That it can help you with your pain. Would Xanatos want his death to destroy you? Would the child of your child, want his legacy to be the ruin of everyone he loved? It is okay to grieve. You NEED to grieve. But remember you Padawans. Remember their Padawans.

Your Lineage still lives, Yan Dooku.

It is hurting, mourning, but ALIVE. Don't you dare run from it in your grief. You are better then that. I am here. Sifo and Nu are here. Yoda, is here. We will carry this pain together, okay?

Closing his eyes, he let his head rest more heavily against my hands. Dampness darkened his eyelashes, but no true tears formed or fell. He didn't seem to have it in him. Not yet. His hands though... his hands? Shook as they slowly, haltingly, like a droid with seizing joints, reached out for me.

I moved from leaning over him to sitting on the arm rest of his fancy Serranian high backed chair. That he didn't even grumble over me "abusing his furniture" by putting weight on the arm rest like this? Gods.

Leaning into him, I wrapped my arms around his head and shoulders. Like a shield against the universe. Used the Force to pull the tea, finally done, and pour it into a nice cup. Properly of course. See, Yan? I remember your lectures. Here, drink.

He... did not.

Just leaned, sagged against me, as he shuddered with grief. Hands wrapped around a cup of fragrant tea. Music filling the air. Tucked safe inside my Force presence, as best I could.

In... Out... In... Out... There was a slight stutter to it, a hitch, that in a less controlled man? Might have broken into a sob. But... instead, Yan meditated. That first cup going to waste. The second following, as it slowly went cold. Needs must, though, and tea? Can be replaced. Yan can not.

Emptying wasted cups, I poured more. Rested my head atop his own. Matched his breathing as I slipped into a light meditation with him. The room was quite enough. The position not terribly comfortable. But honestly? We'd both meditated under worse conditions, and it had been... A DAY.

To put it mildly.

I didn't like the look of Yan's Force Presence. It was like a fault line had been struck. Spreading terrible spiderwebbing cracks in otherwise sturdy stone. I was no mind healer... really, not a healer at all, I was a Seeker, but? I had learned a few tricks. After all, not every child I had found? Was found in a safe and loving home. Most weren't, honestly.

You learned to soothe, as a Seeker. Learn how to help. Children, after all, don't know Light from Dark. They just know that if they reach for the magic in their head? Bad things go away and good things tend to happen. Sometimes they hurt themselves by accident. Sometimes they hurt themselves... because the alternative was worse.

"You know, my dear? Some days I think you are the only Jedi with any compassion left. The boy never should have been sent there. Not for his trials. The lives of others are not a child's test. And to be asked to face one's own family? It... it was cruel."

Yan sent his cup around me, to rest on the side table, before gently tugging me down into his lap. He hugged me close, like a child squeezing a stuffed animal for comfort, face buried in the crook between my shoulder and neck. Like he was hiding from the world. I rest my head against his shoulder, eyes closed.

We were both... so tired, weren't we. This was nice.

"When did it all become about proving ones purity? One's superiority of morals? We are supposed to help people. Not lord over them. If I wished to do THAT, I would merely need to return to Serrano. Become a Count. You and Sifo are the only one who seem to understand me."

"I think I would go mad, without you."

Yes. I worry that you would, Yan. I worry that you would.

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multi-fan-dom-madness · 1 year ago

Note

the way i need enemies to lovers smut with cal where reader is a sith lord and gets hurt but cal being the good man that he is, takes her back to his place and things happen yk 😰

i love this so much and I hope it's alright that I changed the prompt a teensy bit. instead of being sith, reader is just a darkside-user more generally. also gender neutral. thank you so much for the request!

Balance (Cal Kestis x reader)

Summary: You encounter Cal Kestis a few too many times, and you can't explain the way that the Force seems to be conspiring to put you two together in a room.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ minors DNI; gn!reader; inappropriate use of the Force; reader is a darkside user and honestly doesn't know how fucked they are; semi-graphic injuries; porn with plot; toxic relationship lowkey; blowjob; mutual masturbation (sort of); penetrative sex; unprotected sex (pls be safe irl y'all); if I missed anything please let me know!

Word Count: 12,765 my hand slipped

The first time you encounter Cal Kestis, you nearly kill him.

You’d heard the rumors, of course, whispered with bright eyes and furtive expressions in shithole Outer Rim cantinas of a flame-headed being cutting down Inquisitors and Imperials. When you first overheard a snippet of the tall tale, you’d nearly choked on your cheap spotchka. Right, you remember thinking, a fiery figure opposing the Empire. Did they run out of good gossip today?

Most rumors have at least a kernel of truth at their centers, and you figured it was the same with this one. And besides, you are indifferent to the Empire, at best; you’ve been avoiding their attention as much as you can, but you suspect that the thick cloak of the darkside you wear like a mantle has kept most of the Inquisitorius oblivious. They’re looking for Jedi, who cannot resist continuing to do good in a galaxy rotted to its core, and you stopped being a Jedi long before the Empire rose to power. They probably pay no mind to one lone figure who straddles the line of light and dark, temptation and virtue.

But that doesn’t mean Jedi pay no mind to you. Most of them, you can avoid; you fight when necessary. Currently, you’re thinking a fight might just be necessary. You’re on some planet you’ve already forgotten the name of, densely populated and urban. You stand with one foot propped on the edge of a rooftop, neon lights glimmering on wet permacrete. Rain drizzles in a fine mist. You gaze placidly across the gap to the next building—to the flame-headed being. Without even needing to try, you feel his Force signature: he burns in the Force, even as he tries to hide it. His coppery hair ruffles in the slight breeze, stubble darkening his face.

With a steadying breath, you tilt your head to one side. “Got a name, friend?”

“Not one you need to know,” he calls back. His posture is loose, casual, but you sense the whipcord tension in his Force aura; he’s on the alert.

As he probably should be.

“If I tell you mine, will you tell me yours?” You offer him a disarming smile. “Seems only fair, right? Equitable partnership.”

He snorts. “There’s no partnership.”

“Fine,” you huff. You tell him your name anyways, and he mouths it silently, but none of that tension dissipates. You take the moment to appraise him a little more closely: lean body, self-assured slant of his shoulders, faded burn scar cut across his face. Heat licks up your spine.

“Cal,” he eventually says. “Cal Kestis.”

You smile wide at his honeyed voice. “Nice to meet you, Cal Kestis. Mind moving out of the way so I can continue on my merry way?”

“Afraid I can’t do that,” he says, but there’s no trace of regret in that gorgeous voice, only immense exhaustion.

Your saber hilt twitches against your back as your hand flexes nearly out of habit. Taking another deep, cleansing breath, you shrug as if his answer means nothing. The dark tide of the Force surges through your body, tingling in your fingertips, sharpening the smoggy night air into fine detail. “Well, can’t say I didn’t ask nicely.”

And then you leap, going from a dead standstill to a flurry of action in the space of a heartbeat. As your unstable crimson blade screeches to life, bathing the rooftops in flickering light, an answering snap-hiss echoes around you. Blue beam clashes with red, showering sparks over both of you.

Oh, he’s strong, and for some reason that makes your skin flush. You bare your teeth in a mockery of a smile and shove. He staggers back, feet slipping for a moment in the gravel surface of the rooftop, before he recovers.

“I’ll give you this one chance to stand down,” he says, voice thick and low and oh how it makes you shiver. His eyes glint in the blue light of his saber.

“Funny,” you snap, “I was just going to say the same to you.”

A frown tugs at his mouth. Lowering into a defensive stance, his eyes never leave yours as you languidly swing your saber in a half circle around you, content to draw this out. You’ve killed your number of Jedi in the name of self-preservation—necessary sacrifices to ensure the continued balance of Light and Dark—but there’s something about the way his green eyes harden into sharp gems the longer you twirl your blade, the casual power in his veined forearms, the absolutely pure gold energy he radiates in the Force.

With an aggravated shake of your head, you press the attack. Overhead, backhand, thrust, thrust, parry—you and Cal settle into a dangerous dance. Bright light bursts where your sabers connect, sparks skittering across the gravel. For anyone watching nearby, the pair of you probably look like blurs of red and blue light—another light fixture among this technicolor urban landscape.

But for anyone skilled in the Force, the radiance of your sabers dims in comparison to the pillars of energy you both become. One golden and bright as a thousand suns, shot through with faint tendrils of inky blackness; one glowing in shadow, a black hole ringed by its event horizon, smears of golden light.

Both the light and the dark are present in this fight, and you smile grimly. In all things, balance, as your master used to say.

The memory is a distraction, and Cal manages to break through your guard and punch your nose. Searing pressure spikes through your head, warmth dribbling down your face.

You merely grin at him with blood-covered lips. “You’ll have to do better than that, Kestis.”

And again the two of you become a flurry of attacks, parries, counterattacks, feints. In the distance, the low drone of a police siren reverberates off the tall glass buildings of the downtown area. You’ve been spotted. Time to end this now.

You make a show of appearing to be tiring, breathing coming in heavy gasps, your saber still meeting Cal’s in time to stop him from separating your limbs from your body, but just a fraction slower than what you’d begun with. And you give ground. Just a half step at first, and then several steps. Cal seizes the opportunity to push you back, force you into submission, gain the upperhand—

Not knowing he’d lost this fight the moment he’d placed himself in your path.

The Force is with you. In the Force, your arms seem to glow with terrible, purple-black ultraviolet power as you surrender yourself to its currents. There is no longer you and your saber; your saber is you. There is no longer you and Cal Kestis; there is you and the last piece of yourself that you’re willing to atrophy. Veins of golden Light criss-cross under your darkly shining skin—and as you stand firm once again with your back to the low roof edge, you will those golden veins to flush, to swell. You’re going to triumph here, and it’ll be with the approval of the full Force.

Cal’s face gleams with sweat, his brow furrowed, delicious mouth curved down in a frown. You lick your lips.

“Yield, Kestis,” you say. One last chance.

He just grunts, and in a blur of motion, separates the hilt of his saber. Another beam of blue snaps to life. Fear flares in you for a moment—but the Force remains with you, and you let the emotion siphon into your cracked, bleeding kyber. Plasma spits off the sides of your blade as you block attack after attack after attack; you’re an infinite well of patience—but that siren is getting closer, and you know that time, unlike your patience, is of the essence.

In a flash of inspiration, you reverse your grip on your hilt mid-parry, then swipe the angry blade out and up. A cry of pain, and one of the blue sabers retracts as the hilt clatters to the gravel. Cal stumbles back, cradling his left arm to his chest, his remaining saber held in front of him.

You can’t help the surge of pleasure at besting your opponent, even temporarily. As you twirl your saber again, a spotlight suddenly beams down on the two of you. With a grimace, you swing the saber down towards the soft juncture of Cal’s neck where it meets his shoulder—

And freeze when you catch a glimpse of the calm, resigned look in his eyes. Your blade hovers mere centimeters off his skin.

Amid the roar of hovercraft, the police siren, and the rushing of blood in your ears, he murmurs your name.

“Kark it all,” you spit. Gathering the Force within you, you shove him back. A shout of surprise, a flash of blue, and then he’s tumbling over the edge of the building. You retract your blade and dash in the opposite direction without a second thought.

Your master had always been honest with you about how little he, or anyone, truly knew about the mysteries of the Force. During your years as a padawan, you spent countless hours in meditation chambers deep below the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, feeling the constant ebb and flow of the Force around you. The first time he brought you there, your master explained in hushed tones how the temple had been built millennia ago over an old Sith temple. The Force resided in a nexus point there; streams of energy flowed from all over the galaxy and converged—and then diverged—from the temple.

Sitting in meditation now, you breathe deeply and steadily as the memory crests over you.

“But, Master,” you asked, “if the temple used to be a Sith stronghold, doesn’t that mean the dark side of the Force is strong here, too?”

His kind, patient eyes crinkled as he smiled. “That is right, my Padawan. In all things, there must be balance. Light and dark only exist because of each other.”

A frown tugged at your lips at that, and you cocked your head to the side. “But aren’t we supposed to resist the darkness?”

“Yes,” he said. “The darkness is an overbalance—an overabundance—of emotions, passions, fears. The Sith, and all who use the dark side, manipulate the Force to their will, instead of letting their emotions, like the Force, flow through them.”

Something about that didn’t feel right. “But—”

Your master held up one hand, forestalling the line of questioning you were about to launch into. He stepped through a large, arched doorway into a dim, echoing room. “Come, Padawan. Perhaps meditating will provide the answers you seek.”

You inhale slowly and open your eyes, squinting against the bright blue glare of the hyperspace lane. No matter how long or how hard you meditated under the temple, you grew no closer to an answer than by asking your master. Despite your frustration, you kept returning to the chambers below the Great Hall. The Force there was...comforting. Balanced. And yet, so infuriating in its mystery. You could feel both the light and the dark, and neither were good or bad. The Force just...was. Perhaps it was the long hours you spent in the tunnels and vast echoic chambers there that you developed your keen sense for the composition of the Force.

Standing, you groan softly at the ache in your knees. As you settle back into the thinly padded pilot’s seat, you massage at the joints, wondering just when you’d gotten old.

Probably when that droid shot through your master’s heart on Geonosis, and you’d physically felt the Force tip off-balance half a galaxy away, deep in meditation on Coruscant. The memory is painful, and digs its festering claws into your heart yet again.

The Council hadn’t even needed to tell you your master had perished in the opening salvo of the Clone Wars. The morning after his funeral, with both his and your sabers in your pack, you’d fled the temple.

The old fool, you think, slashing the memory of him from your awareness.

By now, you’re used to the pit of emotions yawning in your very essence. You hold onto your fears, your angers, your anxieties—but also your loves, your passions, your desires. Without even really thinking about it, you reach for the loose compartment that holds your master’s saber. Its duranium-plated hilt is slowly corroding, matching the slow degradation of yourself. The blade jumps to life with a snap-hiss. The green glow it casts is almost sickly, the blade bright, but thin and tremulous. It’s been weak since he died.

As you stare, eyes burning, into the flickering core of your master’s blade, you reach into the Force for the kyber at its heart. No matter how many times you brush against the crystal with your mind, you’re never prepared. A screech, unending and agonized and fearful, rends through your consciousness. For a moment, the green sputters, crimson taking its place.

You drop the saber, gasping. The hilt clatters to the floor and blade retracts, and you’re left again in the pressing silence of hyperspace.

In all things, balance, drift the words through you once again. Green against crimson. Crimson for blue. You think about Cal Kestis, his blinding presence; you think of your vacuous silhouette; and you take all the rage you can muster and twist it into your own heart like a dagger. The joists of your ship groan in response.

The second time you meet Cal Kestis, you almost wish you’d killed him all those years ago.

Just a few months after that first encounter on rain-slicked rooftops, you caught wind of a rumor that the flame-headed being attacked the Fortress Inquisitorius itself. This time, you didn’t discount the story, having witnessed first hand—for however short a time—the Force-empowered determination of that single human being. None of the rumors about Cal Kestis surprise you anymore.

But you routinely have to curse his name as the Inquisitors have now turned their attention beyond just Jedi. The cloak of the darkness is no longer enough on its own to hide you from the long gaze of the Empire. You’ve taken to hiding out on barely populated Outer Rim worlds, hanging around long enough to establish some kind of routine, before the gentle ripples of the Force lapping against your subconscious grow into towering, dangerous waves. And then you hop back in your ship, barely more than scrap welded to a hyperdrive, and scuttle off to the next system.

Which is where you find yourself now. Koboh could be promising. As you crouch at the edge of an exposed cliff, you study the cosmic anomaly that orbits the planet. The Abyss. You’re not sure what it is, but whatever it is, it creates a strong enough disturbance in the Force that you’re hopeful it will mask your own signature. And, you admit to yourself as your gaze lowers to the breathtaking landscape spread out below you, you’ve hidden in worse places the last few years. Koboh seems promising, indeed.

You spend a few days studying the locals, trying to get a feel for how life works here. For the most part, everyone here seems like they’re from off-world—which is good, because it means you won’t stand out for very long as a newcomer. Everyone here is a newcomer. And everyone here is more concerned, it seems, with the things that lie in the dirt than in the world aboveground. All the better for you.

Concealing your saber hilt against your back like always, you make sure your ship, bucket of bolts that it is, is well-hidden enough to dissuade any potential scrappers. Tucked high on an outcropping, you hope most folks won’t care too much to check out the shiny metal bits not covered by plant matter. Not when it’s several dozen feet above solid ground.

And you make sure you look as uninteresting as possible. With your saber out of view, you could pass for a refugee without issue. Force knows you’ve been weeks without a proper shower; you can feel the dirt and grime on every inch of your skin. Your clothing, usually neat and tucked in, is dusty, torn, and stained with dried blood.

Yes, you’ll fit in nicely here.

As you pass beneath a metallic archway decorated with a massive horned skull, you reach out in the Force, making sure that none of the town’s inhabitants can get the drop on you. You bypass squat, square buildings that are probably homes of some of the folks here. None seem of interest. Instead, your gaze is trained on the larger, multi-story building near the center of town. As you draw nearer, you realize the sign above the door reads, “Saloon.” Perfect.

The door opens to admit you into a hallway; at the end, you wait in front of another door for a moment while a mechanical eye studies you. Chattering in a deep, unintelligible voice, the eye withdraws, and the second door whooshes open to reveal the barroom.

No one turns as you descend the few steps to the floor. Crates and clutter stock most of the booths along the side wall, a few folks talking quietly at smaller tables or sitting alone and nursing a drink. Quiet, staticky radio music plays over the speakers.

Behind the bar is a tall, four-armed droid who skids to a halt where you lean against the counter.

“You’re a new face,” the droid says. “Name’s Monk. What can I get you?”

You quirk an eyebrow and give the droid, Monk, an alias, your sixth one in as many months. Then you say, “Got any spotchka?”

“Indeed I do,” Monk says. “Shall I start a tab?”

“I’ll pay up front,” you say with a shake of your head.

Monk gives you the cost as he pours the glowing blue liquid into a clean glass, and you slide the credits across the counter. The alcohol’s familiar burn slides down your throat as you lean your back against the bar. Over the rim of your glass, you study the other patrons here at the saloon. Dusty, tired figures, the lot of them. In the Force, they are marginal, giving off only nominal signatures, no different than most other living beings. Most of them aren’t important enough to even warrant a clear affiliation with light or dark; they just are. Your upper lip quirks in a grimace.

Extending your awareness out farther, you’re not sure what you’re searching for, but you suppose you’ll know it when you find it. The hilt of your saber digs uncomfortably into your skin, but you ignore it, using the pain to sharpen your focus. You sense more townsfolk going to and fro outside the saloon, but none of them of any more note than those inside.

Something in you itches. Frowning, you lower the glass of spotchka and try to focus in on that feeling. It’s under your skin, out of reach, just behind your spine, but if you just push a little farther—

You gasp, cringing away from the sudden supernova that blinds your awareness in the Force. Cal Kestis. It has to be Cal. No one else burns quite like him.

You yank your Force signature back into your body, hoping he didn’t feel you like you felt him. Figuring you only have moments to get out, you make a split-second decision between the several other doors leading away from this main room. Spotchka glass still in hand, you dart for the nearest door, and it slides open to reveal a staircase that winds upward. You take the steps two at a time. At the landing, you hiss at the sight of a second-floor loft. Stairs seem to continue along the other side, continuing to wind upward, but before you can run for them, a familiar voice drifts up from below.

“Hey, Monk, good to see you,” says Cal Kestis.

Your body flushes with warmth. Kriff.

Monk says something you can’t quite make out.

“Another newcomer?” Cal says. “I’ll make sure to say hi when I see them.”

Grimacing, you creep across the floor toward the second staircase. Your foot just touches the bottom step when a voice behind you calls your name—your real name, not the alias you gave the droid.

You sigh, chin falling toward your chest. “Cal Kestis.”

“How did you find me?”

His green gaze burns into you almost as hot as his Force signature. You roll your eyes; typical Jedi, thinking the world revolves around him.

“I didn’t know you were here,” you say. “I’m...laying low.”

He crosses his arms across his chest, and you’re distracted for a moment by the way his muscles bulge against the fabric of his shirt. “I’m supposed to believe that.”

“Believe whatever you want to, Jedi,” you bite out. “I’ll go find my own desolate planet.”

“Can’t let you do that,” he says, following behind you as you climb the stairs.

“I’d love to see you stop me.”

You feel the disturbance in the Force and brace for it. His attempt to yank you back down the stairs fails as you push against it—but you can’t push past it. Equally matched. Balanced.

With a growl, you spin on your heel and point an accusing finger at Cal. “Are you really sure you want to do this right now?”

His eyes narrow at you as you stand there, chest heaving with emotion, both of you crackling with energy in the Force. You down the rest of your spotchka and shatter the glass on the ground. Cal doesn’t flinch. The longer you stand there, the hotter your face flushes. Ignoring the impulse to shudder, you don’t miss the way his green eyes study your face, your posture, your signature.

“I know you,” he finally says. “From the temple.”

You snort in derision. “Good for you, kid.”

“I was still a youngling when the Clone Wars started,” he says. “I...understand what it’s like to lose your master.”

Your vision pulses black for a moment, and on instinct you reach out with a clawed hand. Cal’s eyes widen in fear as his hands fly to his throat, grabbing at the invisible hand you squeeze there.

“Don’t. Ever. Presume to know anything about me,” you hiss. “You know nothing, Cal Kestis.”

“You’re—right—” he chokes out. “I’m—sorry—”

You shove, the Force exploding through your palm as he slams into the opposite wall. Sputtering, he coughs, rubbing at his throat.

“I don’t need your pity, Jedi.” You spit the title like a curse—like the curse that it is—and turn to take the staircase up and out. The door at the top admits you to the open-air roof, the cosmic explosion of the Abyss looming overhead.

You step over the edge of the roof, calling on the Force to cushion your descent. At the bottom, you ignore the flabbergasted expressions on a few of the locals as you stalk off. Past the saloon, past the stables, through the shallow river—you’re not sure how far you walk, but it’s dark by the time that you realize you’re lost.

“Kriff,” you sigh.

Thankfully, whether by luck or by the sheer force of presence of your Force signature, you’ve not been bothered by any of the (frankly terrifying) wildlife on this planet. Tentatively, you reach out, but you find nothing but a few docile Nekkos and, farther off, a dozing bilemaw.

In the dim light provided by the Abyss and the Shattered Moon hanging heavy in the sky, you determine that a shallow cliff alcove nearby will be as good a place as any to rest until morning. Settling under the rocky overhang, you exhale a shaky breath.

It’s been a long time since you let your emotions take control like that. You allow yourself to feel them, even to use them to your advantage—but you rarely lose control. Not recently, anyways.

You bare your teeth at the thought of Cal Kestis. He’s by far only the latest in a string of former Jedi you’ve encountered, but none of them, even the ones who you remember from your years as a padawan, created this amount of turmoil in you. So why him?

Should probably just ask him myself, huh, you muse, hearing a twig snap nearby. You don’t need to look into the Force to know who it is.

“Who’s following who now?” you call.

With a familiar hum, a blue blade sings as it springs to life, illuminating the alcove you’re hunkered in, as well as Cal’s lean figure. You’re too exhausted to be angry at this point, but a different kind of heat licks up your spine as you push up onto your feet. The warmth settles between your thighs, throbbing uncomfortably as he raises the saber overhead, his arm muscles flexing.

“Had to make sure you didn’t hurt anyone,” he says, halting just a few feet away.

“No one out here to hurt,” you say. “What are you really doing here, Kestis?”

He hesitates, shifting his weight between his feet, eyes not meeting yours. Squinting, you extend a tendril of awareness toward him—past the burnished gold aura, past the shell of Jedi honor he projects like a shield, until you brush against one of those tiny black cracks in his signature. He stiffens, shifts his stance into a defensive half-crouch. There is darkness in him.

And there is lightness in you, sighs a voice that sounds very much like your master’s.

You ignore it.

“Well?” you prompt.

“I- I don’t know,” he says.

You snort. “Well, when you figure it out, let me know.” Sinking back into a meditative pose, you let your eyes slide shut and effectively shut out all things Cal Kestis.

At least, that’s what you try to do. The karking idiot seems to have decided that you’re not a threat—a poor miscalculation on his part—as his saber retracts and you hear the sounds of someone settling into a meditative trance next to you. Peeking one eye open, you glance over to find him sat back on his heels, palms resting on his thighs, his face blank and serene. He’s beautiful like this, you think.

“I could kill you right now, you know,” you say, letting your eye fall shut again.

“You won’t,” he says, sounding so matter-of-fact that you’re almost convinced that you really wouldn’t.

Then you shake your head. “Don’t be so certain.”

“You didn’t kill me five years ago. You won’t kill me now.”

Gnawing at your cheek, you find you have no response for that.

The third time you face Cal Kestis, you want to hate him.

Koboh proves to be big enough for two powerful Force users. You keep to the wilderness, and he sticks to the town. For the most part, anyway. You occasionally catch a glimpse of copper hair as he explores the planet, following all the inane rumors of the locals. Why he even lowers himself to their level, you’ll never understand.

And besides, Koboh has turned out to be a perfect place to continue your search for answers about the Force. You’ve never wanted to stop knowing, never stopped asking “But why?” The Abyss above is a physical presence most days, nearly oppressive in its crushing weight. It absolutely deafens you in the Force whenever you try to reach for it, painful screeching assaulting your senses. There’s something behind the noise, though, but it’s too far, too deep, for you to reach it.

You haven’t seen Cal in a while now. And you’re fine with that. You’d watched his ship take off in the early hours of the morning a few weeks ago, and it still hasn’t returned.

Shrugging, you decide that today is as good a day as any to do some exploring of your own. You’ve watched Cal enough to know that there are hidden vaults on this planet, and from what you’ve been able to tell, they’re old. Maybe they’ll have some answers.

The sunrise peeks over the craggy cliffside, casting a gentle pink hue over the world, still hushed in its predawn slumber. Dew collects on your pant legs as you pass through a small clearing of scrubby bushes. A couple dozen feet up the hill glints a hint of gold. None of the Koboh prospectors would have left this alone unless it were for a reason, you figure. Maybe this is one of the vaults.

Resting a palm gently on its surface, the gold is cool to the touch. Glyphs in Basic and other languages spiral around the circular door-like structure. When you examine it through the Force, you feel the mechanism that keeps it locked, but no matter how much you push, pull, yank, shove, the door remains sealed.

“Dank farrik,” you curse. “How does Cal do it?”

“Very carefully,” a familiar warm voice says from behind you.

You barely glance over your shoulder, flushing from the embarrassment of being caught unawares, but somehow unsurprised he’s managed to find you. You should have known that even thinking of his absence would cause it to revert.

“Very funny,” you say. “What secrets are you hiding, Jedi?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Sith,” he says.

As he sidles up alongside you, you glare at him. “I’m not a Sith.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he says with a shrug. “Red saber, strong in the dark side, angry all the time.”

Huffing, you roll your eyes. His hair is longer than it has been since you first met him, and there’s another scar, pink and shiny, on his upper bicep, like he’d been cut with a vibroblade. As you study him, you also realize he looks...older. More tired. More weary.

“You look like bantha fodder,” you say helpfully.

He hums noncommittally. “Do you want into the vault or not?”

“You’re gonna let me in?” you say, eyebrows raising in surprise.

With a half-shrug, he says, “I’ve already explored this one. Nothing left in it for you to gain, except maybe some manners.”

He reveals a small, handheld device that, when he raises it toward the golden door, blips. The door expands open, revealing a turbolift in the center of the floor.

“Why are you helping me?” you ask, not moving from your spot. Suspicion bubbles in the back of your mind.

Cal pockets the device and gestures for you to go ahead, giving you a sardonic two-finger salute. “It’s in my nature.”

With that, he takes a step back, then another, and then pivots and trudges back downhill, tucking his fiery hair behind his ears.

The vault teaches you something, alright, but it isn’t manners like Cal hoped. Even two century-old tech and warbled messages from a Jedi named Santari Khri cannot lift the veil of jade that rests over your eyes. The Order has always been faulty. The Order has always been weak. Your master was always fated to die, and you to wander, adrift. You grind your teeth in anger. Is that all that exists for you? For anyone? To live and die at the whim of some cosmic, unknowable power?

The vault also reminds you of your mortality. As you work yourself into a silent rage about the unfairness of the galaxy, at the cruel and nonsensical nature of the Force, you miscalculate the distance between two crumbling stone platforms. With a Force-assisted leap, your arms windmill as you keep yourself balanced, but your feet only just manage to catch the edge of the platform. You wobble, anger bursting into fear, as the stone grates against itself before your stomach is in your throat as you plummet straight down.

The rush of frigid air steals the scream from your lungs. Try as you might, the Force refuses to help you grasp onto the quickly receding lip of this chasm.

And then pain rockets up your legs in jagged, arcing lines from your heels to your hips, and you collapse.

It’s only by sheer willpower that you don’t black out. Grit your teeth. Take a deep breath. Curse until the pain abates.

You take stock of your body. Your legs are on fire, and any attempt to move them sends a fresh wave of lava licking up your nerve endings. Otherwise, you wipe away blood from scrapes on your palms and tenderly poke at the bruises already forming on your ribs. Around you, myriad rocks and small boulders litter the cracked, moist ground. Mist clings to the spaces in between. When you look up, the ledge you fell from is completely obscured.

“No Jedi wisdom for me, Santari Khri?” you croak as you gently shift into an upright position. Your teeth squeak from clenching your jaw against the pain, but you manage to prop yourself up with your back against a sizable rock.

The mist deadens your words. Instead of an echo, it’s like the words get clipped short before they can fully materialize in the air. The back of your neck pricks. But, studying your surroundings once more, there is nothing for you to do but meditate. Perhaps, for once, the Force will provide.

You have no way of knowing how much time has passed as you sit in meditation, methodically stretching your awareness to its limits, trying to snag onto any signature in the Force that might help you out of this predicament. Your butt goes completely numb, as do your legs—a fact you feel should incite panic in your already-tight chest, but you can’t find it in you to care. By the time that you’re ready to give up searching, your throat tickles with dryness and your stomach begins to feel empty.

But just as you heave a sigh, rising out of the meditative trance, the Force tugs on your awareness. Furrowing your brow, you concentrate: up, up up up, and to the left. Something steadily growing closer. Something bright, and familiar, and warm.

Cal.

For once, you’re grateful for his annoyingly Jedi-like qualities. You track his presence through the Force, unable to do more than monitor as he seems to approach your location with frustrating slowness.

“Come on,” you mutter, mouth thick. “I’m here. Come find me like you always do.”

After what feels like another small eternity, you finally open your eyes and peer up through the opaque mist. Above, you swear you hear boots crunching on loose rock, and the distant bwee-boop of a droid.

“Down here,” you half call, half croak. The words don’t seem to make it past your throat.

For a terrible moment, you think Cal is going to search the seemingly empty vault and, not finding you within, leave. You can’t tell, through either his footsteps or his Force signature, what he’s doing up there. At the last moment, a burst of panic seizing your limbs, you lean forward with a groan and retrieve your saber, still miraculously tucked into your waistband.

The spitting crimson blade is a comfort as it screeches to life in the oppressive space.

A voice calls your name, cautious.

“Here!” you shout, voice cracking painfully in an effort to be heard.

Blue flame bursts to life somewhere above—much farther above than you initially thought—and you nearly sob in relief.

“Watch your eyes,” Cal shouts down, and you have only a moment to register what he means before you duck, retracting your blade. The unmistakable sound of saber scoring through rock reaches you, heated pebbles showering down on your covered head, and then the sound of two soft leather-clad feet touching down beside you.

Wary, you raise your head. Cal crouches next to you, his face painted with a cautious kind of concern.

“You came back?” You don’t mean to make it a question, but the softness in his eyes, the gentleness with which he ghosts his hands over your many injuries, makes you reconsider your previous anger toward him. At least, for a moment.

“Like I said,” he murmurs, “it’s in my nature.”

“Legs are the worst of it,” you say, gesturing weakly to your two limbs stretched in front of you. Both are angry shades of blotchy red and purple, but no bone peeks out from within your skin at the very least.

Cal casts a questioning look up at you, his palms hovering over your legs. You give a small nod, and he lowers his hands until they make feather-light contact with your skin. Even as careful as he’s being, pain erupts all over again when he brushes over your shin, and you squirm, cursing.

“Probably fractured the bones,” he says. “Need to get you back to town.”

You groan. “Unless you plan on carrying me out of here, Kestis, I’m not in any shape to make it all the way back.”

He studies your face for a moment, really studies it, and you can’t help the way your lips part at the intensity in his gaze. Despite the aching pain in your legs, you can’t suppress the heat blooming up your neck into your cheeks the longer his eyes roam your face. Surely he can sense the way your Force aura grows more agitated.

Whatever he’s searching for on your face, he seems to find it. Shrugging his shoulders, the curious little BD unit you’ve noticed with Cal peeks its white-and-red head up. With a boop?, Cal jerks his chin at you.

The droid slides down Cal’s back and trots up to you. Tilting its head, the mismatched eyes whir and toggle as the droid seems to study you with the same scrutiny as Cal just had.

“What—”

In the blink of an eye—faster, even—a flash of green light dazzles you, followed by the sharp pain of an injection. But that doesn’t even matter, as a blissful, cool relief spreads immediately from the injection site through the rest of your body. The ache in your legs subsides to a dull throb, and you find that you can finally move the limbs without wanting to vomit.

“Stim,” Cal explains. He rises to his feet, and holds a hand out. “Come on. It’ll wear off soon.”

His hand is warm, achingly so, when he grasps yours and tugs you to your feet. Grimacing at the wave of nausea that sweeps over you, you cling to his hand until it passes.

He’s studying the sheer rockface to either side. “I may be carrying you out of here either way. Come on. Hop up.”

He turns to retrieve your saber where you dropped the hilt—he stiffens for just a moment, so quick you think you imagine it, before he hands the hilt back to you. And then he remains facing away from you. You realize, with a deep-seated groan, that he’s removed the jacket he was wearing earlier, when he let you into the vault. His shoulders are bare and so strong and pretty and freckled and—

His soft question of your name breaks you out of your reverie.

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat. Tentatively, you hook your arms over top of his broad shoulders, trying to ignore the way his skin feels against yours, and he crouches so you can more easily clamber onto his back like a pack.

“BD, up,” Cal orders, and you squirm as the droid clambers up your back to rest with one foot on your shoulder and the other on Cal’s.

Even with the stim working through your system much like coolant in your ship’s engine, and even with Cal doing all he can to keep you steady on his back as he Force-propels himself up the vertical rockfaces of this cavern, you bite into your cheek hard enough for it to bleed to keep yourself from yelping in pain. It’s bad enough that he had to save you from a slow death in this Force-forsaken vault; he doesn’t need to know the fire that licks up your nerve endings with every jostle.

You shuffle off his back as soon as you’re able. A grimace contorts your features as you stumble a few steps, but you wave away Cal’s steadying hands.

“I’m fine,” you grit out.

“Yeah, you look fine,” he says.

You shoot him a glare, but you’re more exhausted than you are angry. “You didn’t have to come back for me.”

“If it makes you feel better,” he says, gesturing for you to step onto the turbolift first, “I don’t expect anything in return. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Ha,” you bark out. Your stomach lurches as the turbolift shudders into its ascent. “Of course I owe you, Kestis. It’s all about balance.”

“Balance,” he says, his voice strangely hollow and contemplative. “You murdered Rexan Binette and Sarela Webb and the others for balance?”

The names of the Jedi you killed reverberate off the curved walls of the lift chamber. Breathing through your nose, you avoid his gaze—and then shake your head at yourself, angry. Why should you be ashamed? It was them or you.

The lift comes to a smooth halt at the top, and you’re somehow unsurprised to find that it appears to be dawn again. Your eyes find Cal’s green ones. They look nearly black in the early morning haze. His expression bares all of his emotions: hurt, suspicion, concern, worry. But he doesn’t seem...afraid. Not of you, anyways, and instead of filling you with rage, that realization makes you deflate.

“The galaxy changed,” you say, voice flat. “You change with it, or you die.”

He fixes you with his stare for a moment more, and then shakes his head and begins the long walk back downhill without a word. Heaving a sigh, you follow him. You can’t repay the debt you now owe him if you die from an infected wound. You tell yourself that the heat bubbling in your chest is hate, hate that you’re now bound to this life debt, hate that of all people you’re in debt to Cal Kestis. But hate has never felt so soft.

The final time that you and Cal Kestis cross paths, you remember why hatred is easier.

It’s only a few weeks after when you’ve fully healed thanks to Cal’s quick intervention, the extra stores of bacta that you had the good foresight to stash in your ship years ago, and perhaps a nudge from the Force. You’ve retreated to your ramshackle abode in the wilderness; thankfully, the worst you have to deal with upon returning is a stray Bogling. No matter how hard you try to shoo the pesky creature away from your hut, it comes back again.

“You’re lucky you’re so cute,” you grumble, watching the Bogling scratch at the dirt out front of your hut. It chitters as it works to burrow its den.

Cal has disappeared again, which works just fine for you. It’s easier to attune to the Force when he’s gone. When you’re not distracted by his burnished radiance, his soothing calmness, his serene meditation posture, his hair that looks as soft as the Bogling’s fur, his...him.

Genuinely, who the kriff does Cal Kestis think he is? Where does he get the right to continue to do good in the galaxy when all the galaxy wants is to kill him? To kill everyone like him? How does he continue fighting?

For that matter, how do you continue fighting? The sudden self-introspection is jarring. You squint a glare up at the Abyss, the technicolor explosion hanging heavy in the sky, as if it personally arranged your fated entanglement with the Jedi. As if it asked the question of your purpose, not your own conscience.

You have to squint in part because, in the Force, the Abyss is blinding. Stare too long and you’ll be blinking away spots from your vision for hours afterward. As your eyes start to water, you shake your head and bring your gaze back to terra firma. Kark it all, you think, bitter. You continue fighting because you have to. Because you have to know the answer. You have to understand the balance.

In the Force, you’ve watched for years as the streaks of light in your otherwise void-like existence pulse and contract. Here, underneath the staggering presence of the Abyss, the galactic, even cosmic, struggle between Light and Dark, splashes across your own skin, a microcosm. It makes you angry all over again, as you study the vapors of golden lightness drift around you. The anger is good. The anger makes the darkness pulse and surge and rise; the anger makes you more focused.

Gritting your teeth, you try to hang onto the anger.

And then you don’t have to try at all. In your peripheral awareness, the Bogling has scurried in fright into your small hut as the sound of footsteps—many, many footsteps—echoes off the surrounding cliff walls. Your lips curl back in a snarl at being interrupted. Saber hilt smacking into your palm with a familiar weight, the unsteady red blade fills your small clearing with a threatening hum.

Around the corner comes a full squad of Imperials. For a moment, you have to blink, to make sure that what you’re seeing is correct. But no. The hard white duraplast armor gleams in the midday sun, the mixed group of scout- and Stormtroopers advancing as one giant, grotesque organism. And at its midst, in the nucleus, are two black-clad figures wielding crackling electrostaffs.

Purge Troopers.

How dare they. How dare they come to your planet—and you hesitate only a moment over the possessiveness in your anger—and only another moment more when you find that you include Cal’s place on Koboh in that possession. This is your planet, together. The Light, and the Dark.

In all things, balance.

“Enemy located,” crackles the voice of one of the troopers. You don’t know, and don’t frankly care, which.

As the white-clad troopers fan out in a loose semicircle, blasters and batons raised at half-ready, the two Purge troopers continue a few paces forward. They’re nearly identical, all the way down to the way that they settle their weight on their right feet, perfectly unbalanced.

“You won’t get away,” the one to your left calls, his voice imperious and cold. “Not this time. You’ll be coming with us.”

“Don’t be so sure,” you call back, feigning disinterest. Through the Force, you mentally draw the battle map, the path of carnage and rage and blood you’ll wreak through the ten troopers in front of you.

“There are ten of us,” the other Purge Trooper says, voice cocky and self-assured. The battle map in your mind halts, then reasserts itself with a new pattern. One that places Mr. Cocky and Arrogant at the top of your assault.

You snort. “Glad to know the Empire is teaching its troopers basic math. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

You twirl your saber in a half circle around your body, a familiar ritual, a reset button to remind you to keep your head clear. As blasters raise to full height, you take a deep, centering breath, and close your eyes.

A silence takes over your ears, your mind, your very being. You are one with the Force; the Force is with you. Despite all your issues with the cosmic Force, you know it will not fail you now. You don’t hear the order to fire, you don’t hear the clicks of triggers, you don’t hear the scream of blaster bolts. You don’t need to. Guided by the Force, void-like and in command, your arms—your saber—jumps into place.

Four blaster bolts pelt your way. Four blaster bolts ricochet and catch their originators in the chest. Four troopers fall.

You open your eyes, lips tugging back over your teeth in a mockery of a smile. Sound returns to you just as one of the scout troopers, shaken, stumbles back with a cry: “St-Stormtrooper KIA!”

You enact your battle map.

Gathering the Force to yourself, you push off the ground and shoot forward with a Force assist, your saber swinging up and cleaving back down at the critical juncture between the cocky Purge Trooper’s neck and shoulder. The glowing plasma sinks easily through duraplast, fabric, and flesh alike; the trooper’s groan of pain gurgles as your blade cuts through his lungs. Now there are five.

You whirl, saber moving nearly of its own accord to intercept each blow that the remaining troopers rain upon you. It’s nearly child’s play to parry their attacks, send them staggering off-balance. In a crucial moment where all your opponents hesitate to move forward again, you bare your teeth. Reaching out with a clawed hand, you grip the throat of one of the troopers, lift him bodily with the Force, then yank down as hard as you can. There’s a satisfying crack when he hits the ground.

You’re doing fine. You’re going to triumph here; the Force has willed it so. The fear of the remaining troopers is palpable and you draw on it, siphoning it into yourself, into your cracked and screaming kyber crystal. With a leaping slash, two trooper heads bounce away.

The remaining two troopers look at each other. You don’t need the Force to smell the fear rolling off of the scout trooper in waves, and you fix him with a feral grin.

“No more quips?” you ask, voice harsh.

He drops his baton and runs.

“Just you and me,” the Purge Trooper observes.

“How very astute of you,” you say. “Your friend was the smart one. You can still run; I’ll let you go. For now.”

“Not a chance.” The buzzing electrostaff twirls through the air as the Trooper lowers into a defensive crouch. “Surrender.”

“Not a chance,” you echo, matching his stance. “Now, why don’t—”

A voice, familiar and warm and distracting, shouts your name from above. Like a fool, you hesitate, turning. There’s a glimpse of coppery hair, a blue flame, and golden radiance. You growl at the interruption—

And cry out as the electrostaff comes down across your upper back, singeing into your clothing, biting into your skin.

You drop to your knees, vision blurry. Stupid. That was stupid.

The Purge Trooper immediately raises the staff for another strike, but before it can make contact with the back of your neck, a rush of energy steamrolls over you and shoves the trooper fifteen feet back. His heels dig into the soft dirt.

“Jedi!” If the trooper is surprised to see Cal Kestis coming to the rescue of the likes of you, you can’t hear it in his voice. “Guess this is my lucky day.”

“Don’t count on it,” you wheeze. Grunting in pain, you shove to your feet and reset, saber singing in the air, the smell of ozone stinging your nose.

Your name again, gentler this time, and closer. This time, you don’t turn, instead waiting for him to come to you. And he does, just like you knew he would. In the corner of your eye, Cal Kestis and his supernova signature provide something like...comfort. Heat bubbles and sputters in your chest at his closeness. This feeling is hate, you reassure yourself.

“You’re hurt,” he says, voice pitched low.

“I’ve had worse,” you say. “You here to help, or to mock?”

He fully faces you, and you sense more than see his eyes rake over your profile. With a shake of his head, his copper hair flowing nearly to his shoulders, he raises his saber, point-first, toward the Purge Trooper. With a satisfied smile, you swing your saber in lazy circles. Finally.

The two of you attack at the same time, nudged along by the Force. Together, you flank the trooper, whose training seems to have prepared him for a moment such as this. But for all the training this trooper has, you and Cal have more. You and Cal have more to fight for. More to lose. More to gain.

Cal’s blur of a blue saber slashes through the air, at every turn blocking the trooper’s pressing attack, forcing the Imp to recalibrate. And when he attempts to do so, tries to even catch his breath, you’re there, the Force driving your swings harder. You know the blows that land on the staffs jar the Imp’s wrists all the way to his shoulders. You know he’s going to falter. You know he’s going to die.

When the fear once again rises from this trooper, you smile.

Overconfident, you twirl, blade seeming to bend as it whirls through the air. It will connect with the trooper at his waist.

It does—but his staff connects with you once again at your own waist, and this time it bites into your flesh and holds.

“No!” Cal’s shout is harsh and angry. With a final flash of blue, the Purge Trooper slumps sideways, body collapsing into the dirt. The momentum yanks the electrostaff out of your side.

You drop your saber hilt to press against the bleeding wound, hands shaking. Kark, this hurts. Why does it hurt so bad? Cal’s face, with wide, scared green eyes, appears in your field of vision.

A spark of anger temporarily distracts you from the pain in your side and along your back. “Kestis,” you grind out. “I had it under control.”

“It’s in my nature,” he says, like that explains everything. You suppose it does. Your anger abandons you, and you stagger forward, into his embrace.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against you as he ducks under your arm, taking your weight. “C’mon, we’ll get inside and I’ll patch you up.”

“Got any more of those stims?” you ask, words slurring a little. You glance down at your side and blink dumbly at the amount of red staining your clothes.

“A few more,” Cal says. “They’re yours. Just need to get you inside.”

The several dozen feet to your hut pass in a blur and in a blink—you’re not sure which. Maybe it’s both. But you sigh as you settle down into the familiar comfort of your small cot. In the corner, you’re dimly aware of the Bogling cowering below the small kitchen table. Critter is cute, you suppose. Maybe it can stay.

You’re delirious. That has to be it. You’d never willingly take in a stray.

BD hops up on the cot next to you and, at Cal’s nod, ejects a glowing green stim canister. Cal catches it and then plunges the small needle into your side, just above the gash there. Cool relief tingles through you, and you smile at him.

“That feels good,” you mumble.

“I’m glad,” he says, an odd note in his voice. “You got medical supplies?”

You gesture vaguely to the screened-off back corner, your ’fresher. “If I do, s’in there.”

BD stays with you while Cal rummages through your meager supplies, the little droid’s head tilted to the side as though studying you. You blink at him.

Bwoop-beep? the droid chimes.

“I don’t speak Binary, sorry,” you say.

Cal chuckles, returning with a handful of supplies. “He’s wondering if you’re feeling okay.”

You feel okay enough to feel annoyed at the question, and you shoo the little droid off your bed. When you return your attention to Cal, he’s hesitating, a roll of gauze, bottle of alcohol, and a needle in his hands.

“What,” you ask, flatly.

“Need to take your shirt off to clean the wound properly,” he says, and if you knew him better, you might think he sounds nervous. Embarrassed, even.

But you don’t know him that well, and so you ignore his tone of voice. “Fine.”

You struggle for a moment to lift your shirt over your head, hissing as the movement pulls at the wound in your side. Once it’s off, you throw it toward the ’fresher.

Cal still hesitates, his eyes everywhere but on you. Another surge of annoyance flares in you, and you snatch the medical supplies out of his hands.

“I’d really like to not bleed out here, Kestis,” you admonish. He at least has the sense to look abashed at that, and assists you in cleaning out the wound, stitching it shut, and wrapping you in gauze to keep pressure on it. You don’t let out a single curse, hiss, or groan the entire time, making the inside of your mouth bleed with how hard you bite down.

“You okay?” he asks once you’re bandaged up.

“What do you think?” you retort. “M’gonna sleep. You can go.”

“I’ll stay,” he says. He withdraws, but remains in your small hut, slinging himself into the hand-hewn wooden chair at your dining table. “Rest. I’ll keep watch.”

“Why?” You can’t help the way the question sounds equal parts frustrated and incredulous.

“Just sleep, Sith,” he says. His voice brooks no argument, and for once, you have none.

When you wake, it’s still light outside. Your mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with gauze and left to dry out, your head not much better. With a soft groan, you roll onto your side and peer into the half-lit room.

Cal’s already watching you. His gaze meets yours and pierces you, pinning you to the small cot tucked against the wall. Swallowing against the dryness in your throat, you study his features. The dark scar across his face. The lean lines of his torso and muscles. The strand of fiery hair that curls over his forehead and teases his chin. Despite the lingering shards of pain in your side, heat flickers in your core.

“Why did you really come here, Cal?” you ask, voice low, the stillness around you demanding to remain unbroken. “Why did you come back for me at all? You know the things I’ve done. The people I’ve killed. I can’t be worth saving.”

He is quiet as he contemplates your question, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. Silence stretches between you, slow and languid, and you nearly hold your breath waiting for his response.

Eventually he gives a half shrug. “There was a time when I believed everyone is worth saving. Since the Empire, things have...been different. I’m not so sure everyone deserves to be saved.”

“So why come back?”

His eyes are soft when they find yours again. You want to be angry, want to latch onto the residual pain in your body and sharpen it into a vibroblade, hurl it outward from yourself and hope it hurts him as much as you’ve been hurt. In your gut, the darkness stirs, but in your heart, the light whispers patience.

“I see too much of myself in you to not come back for you,” he says, so quiet you nearly don’t process the words.

But when his confession does register, you blink in surprise. You can’t help the chuckle that escapes you.

“We couldn’t be more opposite, Kestis,” you say. “Do you know what you look like, in the Force?”

When he remains silent, shifting in the wooden chair uncomfortably, you push yourself up into a sitting position. A sigh sloughs out of your throat.

“You’re the most...beautiful thing I’ve seen,” you say, hesitating only briefly over the words. “You shine. You’re a beacon of light. Stars, Cal, you’re practically a star yourself.”

His lips part in surprise, and you can’t ignore the way your core twists at the expression. “But—”

You raise a hand. “There’s darkness there, sure, but you are the light, Kestis. And sure, there may be light in me, but believe me, I’m a void. The void. You’ll never carry the sins that blacken my soul.”

His toned chest rises and falls with his rapid, shallow breaths. When he swallows, you watch the way his throat bobs, the muscles that strain at his neck, the tightening of his hands into fists. Without even needing to look, you can feel the way his Force signature roils with confusion and surprise. You’ve caught him off-guard, yet again. The knowledge sends a pulse of heat to the apex of your thighs.

“Show me,” he whispers.

You frown, brows furrowing. “What?”

“In the Force,” he says. “Show me.”

“I’ve never—”

“I have a gift.” He grimaces. “Psychometry. It might not work. But I want to see.”

Ah. You understand how he knew the names of the Jedi you murdered, and glance at your saber hilt resting on the table near him. How much has he seen?

Apparently, not enough.

Worrying your lip between your teeth, you shrug. “Fine. C’mere.”

The cot groans under the added weight, not meant for two people, but it holds. You adjust yourself to sit with your legs crossed, your knees touching Cal’s as he mirrors your posture. A slight twinge tugs at your ribs as you move. Cal’s eyes soften again as you grimace.

“Don’t,” you grit out. “Save your pity.”

“It’s not—” He huffs. “Whatever.”

Glaring up at him through your eyelashes, you nevertheless rest your hands palm-up, fingers outstretched toward him. Cal gently rests his hands over yours. His skin is heated, electric where it touches yours. The thought crosses your mind, fleetingly, what your odds would be if you decided to finally end it here and now; the thought disappears as soon as his calloused fingers wrap around your forearms.

“Like this?” he murmurs.

“Feels right,” you reply in the same tone. “Here goes nothing, yeah?”

You inhale a deep, centering breath, and allow yourself to sink into the currents of the Force. For a moment you have to squint as Cal’s truest form explodes across your perception. This close, you’re surprised he doesn’t radiate any extra heat. You’re also surprised at the imperfections you find in his signature, the small nicks in the otherwise flawless, gleaming golden skin. You have to restrain yourself from leaning forward to examine him even closer. The desire to know him, to pick him apart and put him back together, rushes through you, pulsing in your fingertips.

When you feel adjusted to his presence, this close, this intoxicating, you squeeze his hands. Focusing on the places where the two of you connect—your palms, your knees, your signatures—you will your unique sight to bleed into his awareness.

Judging from the way he stiffens and gasps, you figure it worked. Your combined abilities and strength in the Force, overlapping just this once, let him see the world like you do.

“You’re so...” He trails off, voice strained. “Empty.”

“Thanks for noticing.” You squeeze his hands again. “Do you underst— oh.”

You nearly choke as the Force nudges against your mind. For a moment, you’re no longer in your hut, but instead on an unfamiliar ship, palms pressed against a stranger’s—no, not a stranger—her name drifts to you. Merrin. You’re comparing palm sizes with her, and her hands are nearly as big as yours—as Cal’s.

You rip away from Cal Kestis and the illusion breaks.

Heat burns up your neck to your face. “What the kriffing hell was that?”

“What did you see?” he asks, concern flashing in his eyes. He reaches for you, and you lean away, glaring.

You don’t even know why you’re angry. Any emotions you’ve felt for Cal have been ones you can explain: anger, frustration, begrudging respect, competitiveness, hatred. You recognize his attractiveness, and you don’t deny the effect his presence has on your baser desires—but the nearly painful flare of possessiveness pulsing in you right now is foreign. Inexplicable.

“It doesn’t matter,” you eventually mutter. “Did you see?”

“I saw you,” he says. Tentatively, he skims his fingertips over your leg, up to your knee. When you don’t retreat, he gently snags your hand and threads your fingers together. “I’m sorry.”

You bare your teeth and tug your hand away—or try to. His fingers tighten around yours, holding you in place. “I told you before, Kestis. I don’t need your pity.”

“Then don’t see it as pity,” he says. “See it as an understanding. A mutual experience.”

Sucking on your teeth, your jaw clenches for a moment before you sigh. “Fine. Who’s Merrin?”

“An old friend,” Cal says, a little too quickly. “She’s... She went her own way a while ago.”

Something like triumph glows in you. “Good.”

He fixes you with a confused look, a crease forming between his brows. “Wha—”

You cut him off, surging forward to press your lips greedily against his. The impulse to be closer to him, impossibly close, is overwhelming in this moment. His palm is warm and steady and grounding against yours. He grunts against you, going absolutely still.

When you pull away, not moving more than a few inches away, you meet the shock in his gaze with a sense of pride. His eyes flit between yours, searching. You drag your eyes down to his lips, parted and damp and so fucking pink.

His other hand cradles the back of your head and pulls you forward into another kiss.

You groan into his mouth. His lips are warm and soft and sweet against yours, moving slowly, uncertain. You tilt your head, nudging his nose with your own. With your free hand, you grip at his shirt and claw your way into his lap. You need more. More of him, more of his warmth, more of his touch, more more moremoremore.

He breathes your name against your lips, and you shush him gently. His body is hard and lean beneath yours, his touch hesitant. Fingers still intertwined, you guide his hand to your waist. Without the barrier of your shirt, his touch burns, scorching you from the outside in. His fingers splay across your skin, trailing molten desire in their wake. Heat pulses in your core.

“Kriff,” you sigh, “please.”

“Didn’t think you had manners,” he quips, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your jaw, down your neck.

You reach up and tug on his fiery hair, earning a low groan. “Rude.”

He chuckles against your skin, his lips brushing against a sensitive spot. A shiver dances up your spine, a quiet sigh passing your lips. When he bites down there, you moan.

“Kestis,” you pant.

“Shh,” he soothes. The hand on your waist trails down to your hip and squeezes in time with another bite to your skin. With another groan, you rock your hips down into him. A grin curls your mouth up in pleasure at the feeling of his half-hard cock beneath you.

“Off,” you order, tugging on his shirt.

He breaks away from you long enough to yank the offending article up and over his head. Your palms smooth over the rippling muscles beneath his pale, freckled skin of his stomach, and he shudders. Brushing your thumb over a blaster scar under his ribs, you press a kiss to his shoulder.

“Did it hurt?” you ask.

“I’ve had worse,” he says.

“Show me.”

His green eyes are dark, nearly black, when he meets your gaze with a questioning look. In response, you skim a featherlight trail over his torso, lingering at the scars that mar his otherwise perfect skin—mirrors, you realize, of the imperfections of his golden aura.

When you trace the pink scar that bisects his face, he shivers. His hand catches your wrist, halting your movement.

“That one,” he whispers, voice pained. “That was the worst.”

You recognize, this close, the telltale signs of a saber wound. He’s lucky to have survived that, you realize.

Kriff. You press your mouth to his once again, wrapping your legs around his torso. His body fits against yours, hard planes to soft edges, and you groan in unison. His kiss is still tentative, but he moves against you without hesitation when you deepen the kiss, your tongue licking across his bottom lip. His tongue is hot against yours. Spit slicking your lips, you groan into his open mouth.

Fuck, you need more. Pulling at his hair, you urge his head to tip back, exposing the pale column of his throat. You lick a stripe down his skin, tasting his natural saltiness, delighting in the way his cock hardens against your clothed core.

“Want you,” you mumble against his collarbone.

He hums. “I’m yours.”

That possessive flare from before practically obliterates any coherent thoughts your brain was still capable of producing. Growling, you push him onto his back, shuffling down, kissing and licking and biting at his skin as you fumble with his pants. The buttons come undone; his hips raise to help you shuck the clothing off. His cock bobs as it comes free of the confines.

“Oh fuck,” you moan. “Been holding out on me, Kestis.”

“If I’d known—” His voice cracks. “If I’d known all you needed was to be fucked, we coulda done this sooner.”

Tingles spark through your core hearing him curse—hearing him talk about something as base and dirty as fucking you. Stars, the heat in your core is nearly unbearable.

You need to taste him.

Wrapping your fingers around his heavy cock, you smear a droplet of precum over his flushed head. His body jerks in response, his eyes half-lidded as he gazes down at you, a smirk playing at his lips. Without warning, you envelope him in your mouth. Cal cries out, hips jerking up. You moan in satisfaction around him. Hollowing your cheeks, you sink your mouth further down onto his length, before sucking, tongue teasing the underside of his head. One hand cupping his balls, you relax your throat and take him deep. The curls at the base tickle your nose.

“Oh stars,” he breathes. “You’re so good at that. F-Fuck.”

You hum, settling into a rhythm. His hand, broad and strong and warm, rests on top of your head—not pushing, just there, feeling you. His chest heaving, you can’t help but admire the flush rising to his cheeks, painting him in sin. Spit dribbles out of your mouth, coating the parts of him you can’t reach. Your eyes never leave his.

Snaking your free hand down your body, you moan at the pleasure that zings through you at the momentary relief of touching yourself.

“No.” Cal’s voice is strangled, strained. He flicks two shaky fingers, and your hand is yanked out from beneath your body by the Force.

An obscene pop echoes in your hut as you pull your mouth away from his weeping cock. “Either touch me, or I’ll do it myself,” you growl.

“Then c-come here,” he stutters.

Shimmying out of your pants, you discard the garments to the floor without a second thought and climb your way up his body. His hands skim your sides, his touch barely there, as your mouth reconnects with his. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of his mouth, his touch, his cock. He feels too good.

You hiss when his hand brushes against your aching sex. He breaks the kiss long enough for his eyes to find yours, a silent question there as his fingers find purchase at your core.

You can only nod, not trusting your voice. When he moves his hand against you, your vision blurs and you press your forehead to his.

“Stars, Kestis, just like that,” you hiss.

He rubs his nose against yours. “Let me take care of you.”

His touch is electric. Your body jerks against him when his fingers move just right, applying just the right amount of pressure. Heat and tension build in your belly, growing more and more taut by the second. Your legs shake on either side of his hips.

“Cal,” you whine. “Gonna cum.”

His touch retreats, and you whimper at the loss of contact.

“You’re g-gonna cum on my cock,” he promises, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. The sweetness of the action contrasts with the filth of his words, and your stomach lurches.

“Fuck, yes, okay.” You spit in your hand and reach down to make sure you’re ready for him.

He slicks his own palm with spit and jerks his cock once, twice, getting himself prepped. With his hand at his base, steadying his length, you slowly sink onto him. He splits you open inch by inch, the delicious burn of him in your core drawing a pitiful moan from your chest. When he bottoms out, you twitch in his lap, chest heaving.

“T-Take me so well,” he murmurs, ghosting his fingertips over your face. “Stars, you feel so- so good.”

You whine. “Cal.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

The pet name seems to surprise him as much as it does you. The heat that’s been simmering in your chest for months now, since the first time you encountered him, dulls into something...softer. More muted. More pliant.

Eyes locked together, you test the waters and raise your hips a fraction. Moans tumble from both of you at the friction, and that’s all you need. Rolling your hips, you work his cock, drawing the most delicious noises from him. He caresses your face, smooths a hand over your back, kisses you sweetly. You find just the right angle where his cock brushes against that bundle of nerves deep inside, and you shudder.

“Cal, I—”

“Yes,” he groans. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t. You drag your hips frantically against his, chasing the sparks bursting in your core with each thrust. His touch turns harsh as you ride him; your hips will surely bear bruises tomorrow in the shape of his fingertips. You moan at the thought. Mine. Mine mine mine mine.

Rutting against that raw piece of heaven in your core, you’re blind to everything else. Your injury forgotten, the empty void that yawns in your soul, your frustration with Cal Kestis: all of it is irrelevant right now. All that matters is that you keep fucking Cal. All that matters is the way his cock feels sliding in and out of you, dragging against your walls. All that matters is the way he moans your name like a prayer.

“Need you t-to cum,” he orders, words faltering as you clench around his cock.

“I’m close,” you say, voice hoarse. The tension in your belly draws hot and tight, ready to snap.

Cal finally thrusts up to meet you when you bounce down, and you scream. That taut cord in your belly releases, snapping in two, and you see white. Pleasure explodes through you; every nerve lit on fire, tears dew in your eyes from the intensity. You claw at Cal’s chest, searching for purchase as he absolutely rails into you, chasing his own release.

Through it all, he babbles. “J-Just like that, baby. Cum all over this cock. Fuck, you’re g-gonna make me— I— fuck, ngh, I’m—”

He stills as he cums, his cock pulsing against your walls, and you jerk at the sensation, oversensitive.

Your eyes flutter as you look down at him in the gathering darkness. His skin shines with a thin sheen of sweat. As his cock softens inside of you, letting some of his cum drip out, you groan softly.

“This was a mistake,” you whisper.

He swallows visibly, and nods. “I know.”

You capture his lips in another kiss, one he returns with a fervor. Stars, you almost wish you really did hate him. This would be so much easier.

“What now?” he asks, thumb brushing over your tender hips.

You shrug. “Same time next week?”

He huffs a laugh. “Very funny.”

“Thanks.”

He hums. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

All of the heat of the last few minutes dissipates immediately, and ice knifes your insides. You push away from him finally, his cum dripping down your inner thigh as you stand, bend to retrieve your clothes, tug them on.

“Okay.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say, Kestis?”

He sighs as he reaches for his own clothes. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“You should have left when I told you to,” you say, arms crossed over your chest as you stare out the single window of your home at the rapidly falling dark.

“Yeah, maybe.” His hand is warm and familiar where he rests it on your shoulder. “You could...come with me.”

You narrow your eyes. “And have to live by your Jedi code? No thanks.”

“No code,” he says, quiet, contemplative. “Just the fight.”

“Just the fight,” you echo. When he nods, something you sense more than see, you sigh. “I could...tag along. Just this once.”

“Of course,” he says. His lips press against your temple. “Just this once.”

Swallowing against the strange metallic taste rising to your mouth, you blink and summon the Force. You’re grateful for Cal’s grounding presence behind you. Your signature is...muddied. Marbled black and gold. When you glance down at his hand on your skin, you find that his aura is the same as yours. Mixed. Confused.

Balanced.

Yes, you think. Hating him would have been easier.

#cal kestis x reader #cal x reader #cal kestis x gn!reader #jedi survivor spoilers #jedi survivor fanfiction #rhiplies #rhiwrites

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des8pudels8kern · 2 years ago

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If I were to write a Star Wars fic (which I won’t, as working full-time does not leave me with enough mental energy to be properly actively fannish), it’d be an epic AU where Obi-Wan also falls down the shaft at the climax of his fight with Maul, is presumed dead, and then pops up during the Clone Wars as a mysterious agent of chaos whose initial goal is just to rattle and provoke the Jedi into shedding at least a bit of their apathy disguised as serenity and their superiority complex (so, Obi-Wan choosing to help an entire planet of children caught in a horrific war was bad and aggressive, deserving of first repudiation and then probation, but when Knights and Masters order enslaved sentients into battle it’s duty and necessary to uphold the values of the Republic and thus Order?). He’s bitter, he’s angry, and he wants to destroy the Order. Well, the Order as it is. All talk, so little regard for actual decency, and no infrastructure in place to protect the children under their care.

There’d be a semi-humorous scene where Cody (who is... compromised, okay, he knows it, but this evil fallen force user is just different from the other evil fallen force users, okay) comes across Obi-Wan, bleeding from a fresh gash on his head (”What happened to you? - Oh, nothing, dear one; I just tripped.”) one eye clenched shut where the blood is dribbling down, yada yada, they do their usual song and dance about no, you question your allegiance and join my side, and then.

What’s that?

Cody bends down and picks up the thing that’s caught his attention. It’s round, and not quite flat, and ye--- yellow. He narrows his eyes at the infuriating pain in the ass in front of him.

“Tripped, huh? Deliberately, I assume?”

The man’s gaze flits down to the coloured lens balancing on Cody’s finger now, the exact same shade as his one open eye.

“When you arrived, the light of your presence overwhelmed me and caused me to falter. It can be quite challenging when one has delved as far into the dark as I have,” the fucker tries to lie to Cody’s face, voice as serene as the calmest of Jedi Generals fresh out of meditation, and maybe Cody needs to reconsider how trustworthy anything spoken in that tone really is.

Cody throws the lens at him, and the offending item manages to land on his chest, where blood has soaked into the shirt, and sticks to the fabric, staring at him accusingly.

“What kind of nerf-brained idiot fakes being a Sith? The entire Order is after you!”

The nerf-brain winces, then sighs and droops. He rubs a hand through his suddenly tired-looking face. The blood from his apparently actually self-inflicted head-wound that was meant to disguise the missing lens is smeared all over his cheek now, which looks ridiculous and is somewhat worrisome because Cody is used to bloodshed and knows that it’s usually not a good sign when people forget that they are bleeding. It does match the bone-deep exhaustion etched in the other man’s features, though, now that his mask of flirtatious nonchalance has dropped.

“In my defence, I honestly did not expect it to go this far.” He spreads his hands and pulls a somewhat forced-looking version of his usual boyish grin. “I assumed I would get in two, maybe three strikes before the Order went on alert and I got caught. When they didn’t, I decided to... provide further motivation.”

His right eye is grey-blue, as fathomlessly deep as the waters of Kamino, and Cody wonders what can drive a man to pretend to be evil incarnate to catch the attention of an organisation of essentially super-powered sentients in the middle of a war.

Another trickle of blood from the absolutely needless head wound snakes its way down the side of the man’s face, making it clear that, whatever his motivation might be it’s not a healthy sense of self-preservation.

Maybe Cody can get him to take out the other lens, too, so he can check his eyes for signs of a concussion.

And get a closer look at the colour.

...At least now he’s not compromised by a Sith anymore?

#not!fic #star wars #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #codywan #no i'm not one of those people who think the jedi were bad and deserved to be eradicated but they clearly needed some checks and balances #(the jedi were good but existed as flawed individuals in a very flawed society)#qui-gon was not ready to be responsible for another child and their early partnership was troubled #and the way it ended... with the master who didn't want obi-wan in the first place trying to discard him in favour of a do-over padawan?#there are more than enough highly worrying events in obi-wan's backstory #ah i miss writing #can't i just win the lottery?#fake sith obi wan

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jessequinnfirstofhername · 6 months ago

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The Rules:

Every twenty-four hours there will be another round. After every round, the film in last place will be eliminated.

If there are multiple films tying for last place, there will be a special elimination round. In these rounds, every film in last place will be eliminated, even if all the films have tied equally.

When there are only two films remaining, they will face off against one another in a week-long poll to determine the victor.

If you feel that no mere Star Wars film deserves to win, then please hit the "No Star Wars *Film* Is As Good As ___!" option and reply to this post with the non-film piece of Star Wars media you wish to include in the poll. The non-film piece of Star Wars media with the highest 'write-in' votes will then be added to the poll in the next round. Welcome to the poll, Andor and Star Wars: The Clone Wars!

This is all for fun. Don’t take it too seriously ;)

...and with the elimination of Andor, we're back to a line-up of only movies.

For anyone who's confused about why there were non-film options in the first place, please feel free to re-read Rule 4, and cross-reference it with Rule 69: My Poll, My Rules ;)

We're in the semi-finals! It's time for Round Eleven!

#star wars #revenge of the sith #star wars prequels #rogue one #the empire strikes back #star wars original trilogy #best star wars film #round eleven

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 1 year ago

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Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

I’m participating in Kinktober 2023 this year using this list by @flightlessangelwings . If you’d like to be tagged, please leave a comment on this post or send in an ask.

Day One - Frank Castle x Reader

Warnings: Overstimulation ; impact play; fingering; nipple play; dirty talk—praise and degradation

Day Two - Frankie Morales x Reader

Warnings: Public sex (car sex); role playing; blowjob; cum play; fingering

Day Three - Diego Jimenez x Reader

Warnings: Reader is the monster; vampirism; mention of drug use; mention of alcohol consumption; blood drinking (because vampires); vaginal sex

Day Four - Santiago Garcia x Reader

Warnings: Public sex; sex pollen; rough sex; unprotected sex; creampie; hair pulling

Day Five - Jax Teller x Reader

Warnings: Table sex/desk sex; enemies to enemies who fuck; vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Day Six - Josh Lyman x Reader

Warnings: Lots of dialogue!!; phone sex; power imbalance; dirty talk; praise kink; masturbation

Day Seven - Matt Murdock x Reader

Warnings: Morning sex; fingering; oral sex; safe sex; vaginal sex

Day Eight - Rafael Barba x Reader

Warnings: Cockwarming; restraints; spanking; impact play; Dom/Brat dynamics; choking; rough sex; oral sex; vaginal sex; cum shot; cum play

Day Nine - Nathan Bateman x Reader

Warnings: Rimming; fingering; masturbation; pegging; blowjobs; cunnilingus; praise kink

Day Ten - Poe Dameron x Reader

Warnings: Stripping; car sex; clothed man/partially clothed woman; grinding

Day Eleven - Bruce Wayne x Reader

Warnings: Blindfolding; hide-and-seek/prey-play adjacent; blowjob; cunnilingus; vaginal sex; unsafe sex; creampie

Day Twelve - Will Miller x Reader

Warnings: Established relationship; fluff; formal wear; oral sex; safe sex

Day Thirteen - Jim Kirk x Reader

Warnings: Anonymous sex; public sex; oral sex; spit as lube; safe sex

Day Fourteen - Oberyn Martell x Reader

Warnings: Prostitution/sex work; canon-typical sex work; dirty talk; sub Oberyn Martell; hair pulling; restraints; orgasm control/denial; masturbation; breeding kink; oral sex; gag use; unsafe sex; creampie

Day Fifteen - Duke Leto Atreides x Reader

Warnings: Free use; semi-public sex; oral sex; fingering; unsafe sex; creampie

Day Sixteen - Indiana Jones x Reader

Warnings: Role reversal; period-typical attitudes toward sex; vaginal sex; riding unsafe sex; creampie

Day Seventeen - Ben Miller x Reader

Warnings: Praise kink; dirty talk; blowjob; fingering; grinding; semi-public sex

Day Eighteen - Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warnings: Masturbation; mutual masturbation; fingering; handjob; vaginal sex; unsafe sex

Day Nineteen - Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader

Warnings: Somnophilia; Bradley 'I Eat Pussy for My Own Pleasure' Bradshaw; anal sex; anal plug; safe sex; vaginal fingering

Day Twenty - Benny Borracho Magalon x Reader

Warnings: Sex toys; fingering; blowjobs

Day Twenty-One - Harvey Specter x Reader

Warnings: Hate sex; oral sex; semi-public sex; table sex; spit as lube; safe sex; negotiating tactics that would get you disbarred

Day Twenty-Two - Marcus Pike x Reader

Warnings: Reader is an older virgin; fingering; oral sex; loss of virginity; vaginal sex; safe sex

Day Twenty-Three - Jonathan Levy x Reader

Warnings: Dirty talk; vaginal sex; cunnilingus; fingering; unsafe sex; creampie; breeding kink

Day Twenty-Four - James Bond x Reader

Warnings: Exes; domineering James Bond; fingering; choking; hate sex; mostly naked woman, clothed man

Day Twenty-Five - Shiv Roy x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: Infidelity; mentions of previous adolescent antics; mirror sex; oral sex; fingering; grinding; semi-public sex

Day Twenty-Six - SithMaster!Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Sith Master!Obi-Wan; Sith Apprentice!Reader; Power imbalance; Force-choking; deep throating; grinding; masturbation; choking (without the Force); degradation

Day Twenty-Seven - Christopher Pike x Reader

Warnings: Fluff; yearning; kitchen sex; vaginal sex; improper use of buttercream

Day Twenty-Eight - Andromache of Scythia (The Old Guard) x Reader

Warnings: Intercrural Sex/grinding; nipple play; fighting; light degradation

Day Twenty-Nine - Don Draper x Reader

Warnings: Semi-public sex; fingering; vaginal sex; unsafe sex; creampie; gagging with clothing

Day Thirty - Jake 'Hangman' Sersin x Reader

Warnings: Oral sex/cunnilingus; face sitting; Jake 'I Get Hard When I Eat Pussy’ Seresin

Day Thirty- One - A Thank You :)

#Kinktober 2023 #Kinktober Masterlist #Kinktober #Youvebeenlivingfictional's Kinktober 2023

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dystopicjumpsuit · 4 days ago

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Dark Things are to be Loved - Part 2

A/N: Did I write this entire fic just so I could finally use my favorite AO3 tag? I’ll never tell.

Pairing: Bodyguard!Savage Opress x Reader (Fem)

Rating: M (mature content intended for readers 18+; minors DNI)

Wordcount: 2.5k

Fic Warnings and Tags: angst; language; toxic, controlling, and possessive behavior; discussions of violence and violent ideation; Reader is in a deeply unhealthy relationship with Maul; allusions to abuse; infidelity but it’s complicated; Savage is down bad, but he’s still a Sith and acts like one.

Chapter Warnings and Tags: jealousy; pining; infidelity but it’s complicated; SMUT; consensual wrist pinning/restraining; semi-public sex; oral sex; inappropriate VERY appropriate use of the Force; biting; hints of primal play (that’s what we call foreshadowing, folks); size difference; arguably monsterfucking (except he’s not a monster and I will die on this hill).

Summary: After months of Savage serving as your bodyguard, you are at your breaking point.

Suggested Listening:

This fic smells like: Jasmin Rouge by Tom Ford (heady, rich floral jasmine)

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

I love you because I know no other way.

-Pablo Neruda, “Love Sonnet XVII”

Your heart thundered in your ears, the rush of it drowning out the pulsing music and the nearby clatter of the party. You could feel your teeth chattering, and you clenched your jaw to control it, but you couldn’t quite slow your breathing as adrenaline coursed through your veins. You stared unblinkingly into Savage’s golden eyes—his eyes, normally so unreadable, now gazing back at you with such aching vulnerability that it made you want to scream, “Stop looking at me like that!”

As if you’d spoken the thought aloud, his mask of indifference settled back into place. His eyes traced a cautious path down to the lightsaber hilt in your fist.

“I’ll have my saber back.” His deep voice was calm, despite the rage and betrayal you knew he must have felt.

He could kill you in an instant. You knew he could. He didn’t need a lightsaber. He could do it without ever touching you. You’d seen his raw power—seen him use the Force to push back a dozen strong men without breaking a sweat. He wouldn’t even need to snap his fingers to snap your neck.

And yet he didn’t.

Gods, you wanted to give it back. Every fiber of your being, every instinct you possessed, screamed at you to trust him, but you couldn’t take that risk. This was your chance. You had to seize it.

“No.”

His eyes flicked back up to yours, hardening as he heard your refusal. He moved toward you, and you stepped backward, holding the lightsaber behind you. Undeterred, he reached for you, his long arm snaking behind you without difficulty, his cold durasteel fingers closing around your wrist in a gentle but inescapable grip. You knew it was futile to try to pull away, but you refused to cede a single inch, either—no matter how close his face suddenly was to your own.

“Give me my goddamned lightsaber,” he growled, his breath warm against your cheek, his menacing tone a stark contrast to the careful way he held you in his grasp.

Your mouth went dry. You were playing with fire, and you knew it. All he had to do was tighten his cybernetic fist, and he would shatter your bones. He loomed over you, his eyes locked on yours. Your faces were separated by mere inches as you glared defiantly back at him.

The air seemed to thicken around you, heavy with the weight of months of tension, of words unspoken, of truths buried, of secrets kept and lies told. From the moment you had met him, you had been locked in orbit, circling each other, desperate to move closer, yet inescapably aware that to do so would lead to a collision of ruinous proportions. You were bound to him as if by an invisible tether that was stretched well beyond its breaking point.

And all at once, it snapped.

You moved, and then your lips were on his. He froze. As your hand slid up his shoulder and around the back of his neck, though, he let out an agonized groan and wrapped his free arm around your body, pulling you tightly against himself. His tongue swept into your mouth, driving every thought from your mind except Him. His taste, his touch, his scent, his warmth, his strength.

Gods, he was strong! When he held you to him, you felt like the galaxy could explode around you, and yet you would be utterly safe and protected, shielded in his embrace. The Republic could unleash the full wrath of its clone army, and nothing could touch you, so long as you were in his arms.

You didn’t even notice that he’d walked you backward across the terrace until you felt the cold stone wall of the villa press against your back. You still held his lightsaber, and he still held your wrist, and as you leaned against the wall, he lifted your hand above your head and pinned it there as his lips broke away from your mouth to bury his face against your neck. He inhaled deeply as he nuzzled along your throat, taking in your scent.

He breathed your name as he exhaled, and then began to kiss down your jaw. His kisses were soft and heated, and he dropped to his knees as he reached the base of your throat.

Holy Force, our eyes are almost level even when he’s kneeling.

He trailed his lips and tongue with the lightest, gentlest imaginable pressure slowly around your neck, and you inhaled sharply as you realized he was kissing every centimeter of skin that had been touched by Maul’s necklace, as if he could burn away the memory of it with the heat of his lips. When he finally finished his circuit of your throat, he pulled away slightly, gazing into your eyes.

He brushed his fingertips over your temple and down your cheek, his eyes roaming hungrily over your features, unwilling to tear his gaze from you even long enough to blink. His fingertips continued their gentle exploration as he traced downward over your neck and across your collarbone until they dipped beneath the strap of your dress. He stroked your skin lightly, his eyes fixed on the outline of his fingers as they moved beneath the sheer fabric.

He looked back into your eyes, and then he leaned in, kissing the delicate skin of your shoulder as he slid the strap down. He took his time, his lips following the path his fingers blazed down your arm, until you felt the cool ocean breeze against the bare skin of your breast. His breath was shaky as his lips closed around your nipple and his tongue flicked softly over your skin. His massive hand came to rest on your side and gradually inched up your rib cage until he caressed the underside of your breast.

Your hand shook, and you nearly dropped the lightsaber. He didn’t release your wrist, but his thumb drew tiny circles at the base of your hand, the cold metal alloy gradually warming from your body heat.

“Savage,” you whispered.

He didn’t cease his attentions to your breast, but he turned to gaze up into your eyes with an expression that could only be described as reverent. Slowly, his hand traveled down your body, to your hip, and lower.

“Will you let me?” he murmured.

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly.

His hand dropped to your knee and skimmed up the inside of your thigh as he continued to lavish kisses on your breast. When he reached the top of your thigh, and his fingers encountered your heated, silken arousal, he let out a short, desperate sound. He sank down, guiding your wrist lower but still not attempting to take the lightsaber.

He kissed his way up the inside of your thigh, his lips following the trail that his fingers had blazed. Pushing your skirt out of the way, at last he reached his goal. The first brush of his tongue against your skin wrenched a quiet cry from your throat.

“Shh,” he soothed you, kissing you gently.

You glanced toward the doorway. You could see that the ray shield was still active, but it did nothing to block the view—or the sounds. Savage had managed to maneuver the two of you behind a pillar that would shield you from the view of anyone inside the ballroom but still allow enough of a vantage point that you could spot trouble before it arrived.

Clever. You’d had no such practical matters on your mind when he’d backed you against the wall. For the thousandth time, you were stunned by how often he was underestimated. And then his tongue slid into you and the only coherent thought in your mind was, Oh, fuck! Oh, god—don’t scream—they’ll hear—

His tongue was thick, hot, and skilled. It swirled over you, into you, invading your body and your senses and ravishing you with devastating efficiency. He feasted on you, not like a man starved, but rather like a connoisseur, savoring every taste, every sigh, every drop of arousal that flowed into his mouth.

You nearly lost your balance when he gripped your thigh and lifted it over his shoulder for better access. Instinctively, you steadied yourself by resting your hand on his head, and as you stroked your thumb across the base of one of his horns, he let out a tormented gasp. Fascinating. You’d never noticed Maul seeming particularly sensitive around his horns, so it surprised you that Savage would find it so stimulating. You began to trace tiny, delicate patterns over his head, brushing your fingertips lightly across his skin and horns.

Gently, you tilted his head backward until you could see his eyes, glazed with lust and bliss. He didn’t stop the incredible things he was doing with his tongue and lips as you shifted his position, and he was driving you nearly out of your mind with pleasure. He moved over you slowly, kissing, licking, sucking, teasing, and as he did, he whispered against you, so quietly that you only caught a few words. Words like “perfect,” and “soft,” and “delicious,” and “taste you forever.”

His hand stroked gently up and down your thighs, teasing your sensitive skin. At last, it slid back between your legs, coming to rest mere inches below your pussy as he continued to devour you as though he'd been waiting his entire life just to taste you.

You felt a tiny, soft stroke of pressure deep inside—so feather-light that at first you barely noticed it. It came again, more insistently this time, and you let out a faint, choked whimper. With a quiet, pleased rumble deep in his chest, Savage closed his eyes, working his lips and tongue over your clit as the pressure inside your body settled into a steady, intense rhythm.

All at once, you realized exactly what he was doing—and why. Unwilling to risk tearing your delicate skin with his thick, clawed fingers, he was using the Force with delicate precision to find and exploit every sensitive, erogenous spot inside you. The sensation was like nothing you’d ever felt before, and soon it sent you hurtling into unstoppable, overwhelming pleasure.

You bit your lip hard, choking back a cry. Your body convulsed and you arched away from the wall as your orgasm slammed into you, unconsciously gripping him closer with the leg that he had hooked over his shoulder. He stroked his tongue deeper into you, lapping you up with an urgent moan, consuming you as you came on his face until your legs were quivering and nearly ready to give out.

Feeling your body shake, he eased your thigh off his shoulder and held you steady as you slid down the pillar and onto his lap. You slumped forward to bury your face against his neck, thighs spread wide as you straddled his kneeling legs. His arms closed around you, holding you securely.

“You’re so beautiful when you come,” he murmured as he pressed his lips against your hair. “So kriffing beautiful. So good for me.”

His hand drifted down your back and settled on your ass, pulling you tighter to his body so you could feel the rigid length of his cock rocking against your oversensitive cunt. Your breath stuttered, and you let out a quiet whimper that you muffled in his chest.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve imagined you like this, falling apart in my arms, making those gorgeous little sounds for me, not for him.” He groaned roughly. “You taste so fucking sweet. It’s no wonder he can’t keep his tongue out of you.”

A tide of heat swept up your chest and washed over your cheeks, and you tilted your face up to meet his eyes. “I pretended it was you. I knew you could hear us, and I—”

His mouth cut you off as his lips and tongue crashed into you. His kiss was ravenous, breath-stealing, head-spinning, all-encompassing. He tightened his arms around your body, crushing you against him and grinding his cock between your thighs. His hand tangled in your hair and pulled your head back, pulling you out of the kiss and exposing your neck.

“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted me?” he growled.

His golden eyes glinted intensely in the moonlight, his teeth hovered over your throat, and you were struck by a sudden feeling that you were teetering on a precipice. Which direction you fell hinged entirely on your answer, but fall you would. It was as inevitable as gravity, as inescapable as death. You felt the heat of his breath on your skin, and your pulse began to rush with a mixture of arousal and adrenaline. You froze, like a small animal caught in the grip of a much larger and more dangerous predator.

“I c—couldn’t,” you whispered hoarsely, embarrassingly aware that the hair on your arms had risen and your nipples had hardened against his chest in response to his stance.

He lowered his mouth slowly to your throat, scraping his teeth over your neck and sinking them in slightly before dragging his tongue across your soft skin. He licked up your neck, then closed his teeth on your earlobe. You shuddered, unable to speak while your instincts screamed at you to run, even as your body urged you to melt into him and let him do anything he wanted to you.

“Why not?” he whispered, his breath hot as his tongue traced along the shell of your ear.

“Because—oh, gods—” You bit back a moan.

“Tell me.”

You gasped at the sharp note of command in his words. “Because not telling you was the only thing holding me back from doing something incredibly stupid, like pulling you into my bed and begging you to take me.”

“I would have said yes,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble as his mouth moved against your skin.

“I know. That’s why I didn’t say anything. Maul would have killed us both without a single thought.”

“And now?”

Dark hunger filled Savage’s eyes as he gazed at you. His pupils were dilated so wide that his irises were only a narrow golden ring around their inky depths. He made no attempt to mask his desire, watching you with an intensity that made your stomach flutter.

You knew it was a terrible idea, and you didn’t care. The desire that had been building for months mingled with your fear of discovery to create an intoxicating sense of urgency that was only enhanced by the bittersweet knowledge that this was your one and only opportunity to be with him. After tonight, one way or another, you would be free, but the cost of that freedom was almost more than you could bear. You would never see him again, never know his touch. It was unthinkable.

And now that you were in his arms, it was better even than you had dreamed. All logic, commonsense, and any shred of self-preservation abandoned you, leaving you with only one thought: you needed him.

Your hand slid down his body to unbuckle his belt. “I’m about to do something incredibly stupid.”

Next Chapter

Spicy Savage art (or see the uncensored version here)

#savage opress #savage opress x reader #savage saturday #star wars #the clone wars #tcw fanfiction #dystopicjumpsuit writes

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youkidding-me · 5 months ago

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After staring at Darth Slut's back long enough, I have a semi-logical theory!

to be very honest, it was @figurante-no1, since their lesbian ass is not affected by Manny Jacinto's rizz than me

my original theory was that Qimir was Sol's pupil and that's a back stab, but it's kind of too curvy and irregular to be a saber scar. it would make a lot more sense if it was a whip scar

saw someone that said it actually looks more like lightning scarring and i get it, specially since it forms a Y up there and i can't really explain why. my biggest reservation with this theory is that a) i don't think they'll introduce more characters now, b) sith rule says either the pupil kills their master or their master kills them, so it would be a lot worse than a scar. also, from the way he worded "you would call me a sith" feels like he's only been in contact with sith ideology by reading, but has his own conduct and experimentation.

so! we're probably not the first people to come up with this theory, i'd just like to put it out there so, when we find out, i can look back on this to know how right or wrong i was lmao

#the acolyte #qimir #the acolyte theories #master vernestra #manny jacinto #darth teeth

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verysmolnerd · 4 months ago

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Tailor of the dark side

Kylo ren x reader

I’m not well-versed in Star Wars lore, since I’m a newer fan, but I tried my best. This was loosely based on some segments in my life, but I just wanted to add a Star Wars spin with a new favorite character of mine. I have intentions with learning the lore just so my fics can have that semi-realistsic feeling to the source material… well, as much as an X Reader fic can be.

tw: none! Enjoy!

Your family has been doing this since your elders can remember. The reason why? You’re not so sure; your distant relatives assume it was by force, others say it was willing. Regardless, you spend your days measuring the sizes of the high-ranking officers and sewing them their apparel.

Your family had been through it all, the sith, the empire, and now the first order. Each one with the same goal, and yet, fails to complete it. Not that you care anyway, you’re not paid to be on the battlefield; you’re paid to sew.

That being, you’re often overlooked by most of the staff. Only a few cleaning droids stayed longer, but no two were ever the same. That didn’t stop you from being respectful to them, and their silent beeps of approval are heartwarming on this cold ship.

You have a few rare visitors, well, they’re almost celebrities with their position throughout the bases and the galaxy. Some of them even addressed you by name, filling the soundless void when you measured them.

Even General Hux has graced you with a visit for his new overcoat measurements. Saying that, “Your skills are above average. It’s admirable to those unworthy.” His cryptic and intellectual comments were not even remotely flattering, you just nodded and watched him leave.

But nobody truly talks to you; or holds a meaningful conversation. You’d kill for one at this point; with the rate of insanity you’ve been driven down.

Maybe you might leave, and do something meaningful with your life. You have generations of pay from relatives working the very same position you are in… maybe that was their intention. To leave, and live a life they couldn’t.

…So you packed up the few things you needed and set off for another planet. You were discreet, disguising yourself as a mechanic, so getting on a ship to deploy troopers was easier than you anticipated.

The ship landed on a planet that goes by the name of Yavin-4. There are suspects that this planet housing a very powerful rebel base here. Which explains why you’re essentially swimming in stormtroopers.

The ship had one last jerk before opening the doors, pinching you between the armor of two stormtroopers. You seethe in pain, but their gloved hands were quick to catch you before you stumbled or fell.

Then, like the sea, all of the troopers piled out and waited for attention. You slinked away and swapped clothes. You started to walk towards the forest, enjoying the natural elements in stark constraint to the cold, dead, and monotone environment on the ships.

You decided to live amongst the trees, making a shelter with the help of the locals. You’ve learned quite a few languages on the ship you were on, it seems to help you out a lot then.

And just like that, weeks had passed by in your new life. You’ve learned how to survive alone, like you used to always have but without the first order. It’s nice, calm. It almost doesn’t feel real at times.

However, one evening brought another change in your life.

You were atop one of the infinite trees on the planet to watch the sunset. The locals said it would be beautiful this time of the year, so you had to see it for yourself.

Your eyes gazed upon the pink sky, only for you to find that multiple first-order ships had come to land. Not really a big idea, they do this all the time and haven’t looked for you… however, there are more; the faint overshadow of a star destroyer within the atmosphere of the planet.

You narrow your eyes. It’s not just any Star destroyer.

It’s the finalizer.

It seemed that your past has come to find you. You didn’t seem to sneak away like you thought you did after all. Tragic, but now isn’t the time to dwell on such things.

It’s not just the main base of the First Order, but a whole fleet of Star destroyers could be seen behind it. Your eyes widened; only something like this would end up in a genocide.

That being, it doesn’t take long for the entire planet to get alerted. Ships were already rising above the tree lines and that’s when the faintest specks in the sky turned into tie fighters.

You need to find a way off the planet. Not out of fear that the First Order will find you, but that you will be dead amongst the crossfire. With the new supreme leader of that white operation, there’s no doubt that they will spare no expense in wiping any living organism off a planet.

You rejoin the semblance of a society when you stumble upon an area littered with X-Wings, Resistance attack ships…. You’ve found yourself on the hidden rebel base and you barely even recognized it.

Pilots and droids rushed left and right attempting to load others on ships hastily taking off. That being, you were ushered with a group of technicians on a cruiser.

The ship was silent, everyone held their breath as it took to the skies. X-Wings defended the ship mercilessly as the ship flew amongst the stars. Explosions could be seen or heard all around the ship.

You shuddered, feeling some sort of pulse being applied to your entire being. Was it the weight of the situation getting to you? Or was it something else? You are well aware that the force is rare, but it’s possible that one force user could be near.

You couldn’t entirely dwell on it, because the ship shook and the lights went out. The ship has been boarded, and that pulsing feeling has only strengthened. The force user was there and you really don’t want to figure out who it is.

A red, cross-like glow illuminated the other end of the hallway. It almost parallels with the story you’ve been told of what Lord Vader did many years ago. Fitting for a descendant of him. The soldiers shot at the Sith Lord.

It’s like history was rewriting itself. The lightsaber was effortlessly -yet with extreme precision- swung around and deflected the shots fired at him. Shouting increases when their comrades are being carelessly murdered without any afterthought.

However, it was only a matter of time before he got across the hallway and got to you as well as with the other resistance members. So, you ran inside one of the escape pods and took it while others were hopping on smaller escape ships on the bay.

You were pressing the buttons to initiate the escape sequence when you saw the door to the room was blown off. A loud clang could be heard on the opposite wall. The glow of the red lightsaber poured through the destroyed doorway. Your stomach formed a deep pit when the panic from others became prevalent.

In comes Kylo Ren, and you launch the escape pod; dropping into the abyss of space.

You weren’t much of a pilot, but that doesn’t mean you’re completely helpless. You can certainly get away if the attention is focused on the other smaller cruisers sent to pick up the remaining resistance.

You aimed the ship back to Yavin-4, knowing that you’d have to find some sort of transportation ship to leave the planet when the fight was over or at least died down. You glance at the battle surrounding the battle.

As much as you prided your sudden ability to evade others perusing you; keeping such a thing up couldn’t happen forever. The chase would have to end.

So, while the eyes are on the resistance, you plunge for Yavin-4. Holding your breath as if that could hide you from the roar of the TIE fighters and the explosions of destroyed ships.

And your time had just run out. Two TIE fighters have launched cables that latched onto your escape pod. Then your fight or flight responses shined above all fear. You flipped the ship rapidly, tying the two fighter ships together.

The two ships tried desperately to get away, but you weren’t allowing that. You spun the ship in a bunch of circles, swinging the two ships around the battlefield. One last yank, the tow cables snapped and they both smashed into a nearby star destroyer.

You made a silent cheer, but that was quick to die when you felt your ship caught into a tractor beam. You sigh in defeat, knowing you can’t fight it. So, you slinked your way to a seat and just waited to be docked and boarded.

At least you’re sitting down, you’re not sure how long it’s been since it was just you atop a tree, losing track of time within warfare has been a common thing with anyone in the First Order. The only person that would know the exact time, down to the second, would be the general and those at the command center.

The ship jerked as it was brought to the docking bay. The doors to your escape pod drop. The general, of all people, is greeting you here. That’s so unlike him, and you’re not important enough to even be graced in his presence. Save for that one time he went on another stead to pick up his clothes. (his subordinate was probably murdered, this is the First Order we’re talking about here)

“It seems we’ve underestimated you, tailor. Your alliance to the First Order is far stronger than most.” Hux preened, but his face was unreadable, “You have my respect for leading us to the resistance base camp.”

Your eyes widen. It was you. You were the reason why they found the base on Yavin-4. But how? It’s not like you have anything on you that can be tracked.

“That was your intention, was it not?” Ah, there’s that familiar glare you’re used to. You nodded, “Yes it was, general.” No sense in taking some random punishment, you know that any issued by the general are quite brutal.

He didn’t give a response to your answer, he gesutered fro you to stand and follow him. So, you did, not wanting your head to be on display amongst the rest of the First Order Traitors. You may not be in deep trouble, but you’re still walking on eggshells… just like when you did sew for everyone here.

You don’t entierly recognize the hallways that you walk down, but the echos of the past still linger within the souless walls. However, you know an important room when you see one.

For starters, the furniture is far better than any section of the base, not to mention the security for the room requires a few more troopers to watch over. Not to mention, being escorted by the general. Nothing good comes from those rooms. Normally, whomever enters it, doesn’t come out.

You were put in the cetner of this room at a standstill, the general left without a word and the stormtroopers migth as well no be there with their soundless movements.

You can’t remember how long it was that you stood there, once again, it had been a long time since since you were in a stationary position like this. It makes you wonder how you put up with this before.

You flinch when the door opens. Then it’s like your very soul was trying to leave you body when you saw who entered the room.

Supreme Leader, Kylo Ren.

You got on one knee, “Supreme Leader.” You avert your eyes, but you catch the sight of his boots. He’s circling you, as if you were mere prey. “Stand,” his modulated voice shook you to your very core.

You rise to your feet, your eyes trained on the wall. You kept your mind empty, but your stomach was reeling when his cape grazed your legs.

“At ease,” he said, the traces of mirth escaping him. Yes, you still have your manners. You loosened your posture and met his masked gaze.

“You led us right to them.” He said, soft yet blunt. “I’m not sure how you did it.” You clarify, not sure if he can force read your mind or not. “General Hux tracked your location through your identification card.” Now you felt stupid. You still had it on you for the sake of having any identity or a form to purchase items.

“However,” He drawled out, “Your presence was far simpler to track.” You didn’t have the words to respond to that, not sure what makes the supreme leader tick. His destructive fits are known throughout the galaxy.

“Are you hiding your sensibility to the force?” You shake your head, “If I am force sensitive, then only you would know, supreme leader.” You knew you had to choose your words carefully; high-ranking officers have been killed for less than punishable offenses.

“You have been overlooked by my officers,” it was a statement more than a question. There’s no sense in telling him what you know, it’s not like it’s anything useful, “That I am used to, supreme leader. My job, among many, is overlooked.”

He says nothing, allowing you to continue,“Who do you think sews the banners, designs our logo, writes propaganda, and makes recruitment stations? The people who cook your dinners? There are more like me than you know, supreme leader.”

If you’re going to die, well, might as well get your point across…

“We all made the same loyalty pledge that you did.” You remember when he was brought in by Snoke, you were roughly the same age. He was so timid then, moreso overhwelmed. He couldn’t stand at attention properly nor anybody see him as compitent or a real member of the first order. That’s what the rumors were, at least. The more chattier officers would tell you everything, true or not.

Then he started getting angry, really angry. His rage won many battles against the reistance, and that got him the role of commander. Snoke made this quite the event to the point where he got the equivalent of a coronation. You were amongst all the unsung memebers of the regime, painting for the back of the room.

Until now, you’ve only seen him twice….But why are you thinking about this?

“I.” His crackled voice brought you out of your own head, “I’ve seen you.” At the promotion ceremony. But neither of you said that. He searched through your mind, must’ve thought you were familar. “So have I.” You said, filling the silence.

“You’ve been here all along,” he changed gears in the conversation, “But you’ve never called for me.” That’s an easy answer, one you didn’t have to think about.

“Snoke sent me your measurements, he didn’t want you to associate yourself with lowly personnel like myself.” You didn’t even think of it as an insult. With such a long line serving the dark side, it wouldn’t do the first order good if such tradition was served at the hands of an unstable man. (From what you heard at least, he’s been eerily calm when you’ve seen him)

That name didn’t sit well with him, the clenched fist an echo to what he could do to your lungs. So it’s your turn to change the subject…to save your own skin.

“My family has been supporting the darkside for a long, long time.” You say, “My mother was the one who made vader’s cape. And my grandfather with the emperor’s robes.” That piqued his interest, you’ve been here all this time. Present, but out of sight.

He didn’t answer again, and you knew that this was going to be awkward. It doesn’t appear that the supreme leader has spoken with anyone who was not involved directly with warfare.

Then he felt a tugging sensation. It was light, but not with the force. Rather, you had reached up and thumbed his clothes. You had every right to, it was your job..

And for once…. An action like that. didn’t bother him.

“You could use a new wardrobe.” You say, eyeing his garments. They look like they’ll form holes soon, something needed to be done. He felt exposed like this, unsure of what to do. “May I?” You pulled out an old measuring tape, you’ve had it on you and almost forgot about it… until now. You could probably use your skills to ensure your safety.

He made no movement to deny you, so you serve behind him and get the basic measurements, nothing too detailed, but enough for a general idea.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” you say, moving back in front of him.

“I’ll show you to your room.” He declares, moving out of the small room and back into the hallway.

“Yes, supreme leader.”

….”Call me Kylo Ren.”

“What?”

“Please…”

“Ok then, Kylo Ren. I’ll follow you.”

#kylo ren x reader #fanfic writing #fanfic #fanfiction

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