Lothric's Writing Samples

[Goodman Grey]

Good evening! First of all, thank you for stopping by! If you wind up browsing my writing and find it enjoyable, feel free to comment or shoot me a message - and of course, if you find it enjoyable enough to seek out an RP with me, that is also both welcome and flattering. It should also be noted that criticism, advice, and all that jazz are also welcome; I'm not shy about these things, and have no issue with improvement. The contents of this thread will have, of course, examples of my writing from over the years of my activity. Many of them will be stories, but some may be excerpts from previous RP's that I've done with partners in the past that I may have either been particularly proud of or simply show case a style that I may use for different types of characters or themes. Some, but not all of them, will contain varying levels of mature content or smut - but I admit, that will rarely be the focus.

As I add, edit, and update this, I'll attach a brief synopsis of contents to each piece in order to streamline your interests; the way I see it, it'll be easier this way if you're just looking for sexy bits, or if you're more interested in the character/story aspect. I'm sure I'll add more to this as I think of it, but for now, I'll go ahead and set things up. Again, for those of you who take the time to read them the full way through, I appreciate it and I hope you enjoy!

Set during the events of Star Wars: The Old Republic, this short story is based on the game and original characters of my own, and a very dear friend. This story contains adventure, some violence, and no sexual content.

Star Wars: A Practical Man

There were precious few things that could compare to a satisfying hunt. Even in the dense, smog infested air of Nar Shaddaa, the scent of a potential kill was enough to ignite the senses and bring fire to veins - a sensation that Vahlmar Jahk found to be more potent than any spice a dealer could offer. There was something about the moon that had always satisfied the devaronian bounty hunter, like Coruscant, but in a far more pure form - raw, despite the manufactured appearance that rose far above the surface and into the toxic air. In truth, he'd spent the better part of ten standard cycles in happy retirement; but when a private contract had been offered on his favorite locale, who was he to decline such a delightful proposition? Despite his lack of activity, crossing through the dark alleys and crime addled streets felt no different than speaking with an old friend after years of silence. With each step, with every crinkle and crack of discarded litter beneath his worn plasteel boots, he could feel himself falling into the same routine he'd followed thousands of times in his youth. Time had been less than kind to the hunter, but appearances were far from likely to draw attention on a planet inhabited predominately by criminals of all walks and crawls of life. If anything, his lean, scarred body allowed him to better blend with the masses as he slipped from street to street.

Like most nights, it was hot, muggy. The dull sensation of manufactured humidity and poisoned air clung to his red skin like slime on a Hutt, faint beads of perspiration lining what little of it he left revealed. A thick coat that hung down to his knees concealed body armor and weaponry alike, vibroblades and blasters carefully armed and within reach at a moment's notice. He was able to appreciate the industrial savagery of the moon without wishing to become a victim to it. The duros sector in particular had often proven to be one of the more violent locales, with the Sith Empire slowly encroaching more into the territory after having struck a deal with the local Hutt cartels. The Empire, at best, was a large collection of xenophobic humanoids - ones that rarely took kindly to the involvement of aliens with their affairs. Outside of the Chiss Ascendency, few species were willing to work with the Empire, and their arrival had created a large amount of racial friction. Friction that had been easily smoothed over with the Hutts in the form of credits; the same grease, he had to admit, which had been applied to him. He was marching into what could easily be considered a war zone, but the price tag he'd been offered far outweighed his concerns of the risks involved.

His client had assured him that Imperial Officials had been appropriately offered compensation to tolerate his arrival, one that would allow him to bypass most of the security protocols that non-humans had been forced to endure in recent cycles. His target, a human male, would've likely drawn their attention had the tech firm that employed him not taken such precautions. The so-called "aliens" that inhabited the duros sector were rarely afforded such concern, but the politics of the Empire mattered little to Vahlmar. Instead, a ran a forked tongue over brutally sharp teeth, drinking in the stale, toxic environment. To exist was to struggle, and the challenges the Empire brought would only forge more able bodied rebellions - more challenging targets.

It was a good time, he thought, to pull out of retirement.

His thoughts were interrupted, however, by the shrill drone of the holocron in his coat pocket. Quickly stepping from the crowd of alien and human life-forms bustling around him, nimble fingers removed the small device and accepted the call. As was consistent with his current employer, no image appeared, but the familiar sound of an audio link crackled to life.

"I trust you found your voyage to Nar Shaddaa agreeable?"

Despite the usage of Galactic Basic, the Balosar accent that colored the words was immediately recognizable. No doubt his employer wished to remain anonymous, hence his lack of appearance, but a prominent voice could be just as much of a target as a visual. Still, when dealing with corporations and...legally questionable acquisitions, the devaronian was all too familiar with their desire to err on the side of caution.

"Well enough, yes," he responded in kind, shifting further away from the jumble of mixed voices and dialects that passed by him. Cautious not to retreat too far into the alley, one hand instinctively slipped to the holster of his blaster, a wary eye kept on the darkness. "Vahlmar passed Imperial inspection with much ease, no stops."

"Much has been arranged in order to bring you here," The bodiless voice continued, his voice clear above the rabble. "The target involved is of the upmost importance. My superiors are pleased that you agreed to accept the contract, despite your extensive retirement - as a collective, we felt that your knowledge of Nar Shaddaa would be invaluable in this...arrangement."

The posturing, a common trait for a spineless species, was expected. That being said, the devaronian wasn't about to complain, and responded with a wide-toothed grin. "Your credits speak louder than your words," He responded, leaning back against the rough-worn side of a decrepit building. "But Vahlmar happy to accept both."

"As agreed, upon your arrival, half of the expected amount has been transferred to your account," If his jibe had struck a nerve, the balosar made no note of it in his voice. "The rest will be paid upon elimination of the target. My superiors would like to remind you of the time frame set in place, though I'm certain no such warning be needed."

"Yes, yes, yes," The devaronian waved the holocron dismissively, though his employer was unable to see the gesture. "Vahlmar already planned ahead for this. Sent out scout probes to locate scientist, will be able to find within the hour. Was smart of asset to hide from you in Imperial checkpoint, but leaves few options to remain hidden, once discovered."

"We are in agreement with this," The voice responded. "And pleased to hear that you are already on task. This line will remain open until completion of the task, and once Dr. Dar'Erebos is dead, you may use it to contact us with proof of his demise. Your services are most appreciated, Master Jahk." A soft hiss of static, and the call closed without need of further prompt from the devil-horned bounty hunter.

Again, he found himself grinning as he placed the holocron back in his coat and seamlessly blended in with the crowds of Nar Shaddaa. Nearly one million credits for the execution of a pharma-tech doctor, quite possibly one of the steepest payouts the devaronian had ever managed to secure. All of the information he'd collected on the human doctor pointed towards an easy kill, the case of an elderly man who had simply crossed the wrong people. Supposedly he'd worked with a different technological firm and the Empire in his youth on the development of something that the devaronian had neither been able to pronounce or cared enough to learn about. It had been a happy coupling between the two, until it was found out that the good doctor had been sneaking supplies to the Republic for quite some time, sharing the research and forging evidence that shifted the blame from himself to the tech company. The Empire had apparently fallen for the ruse, in part allowing for his disappearance, but the remnants of the company that had been torn apart in the aftermath had held a grudge.

An extremely long-lived grudge that was going to prove very, very lucrative.

As if on cue, a familiar droning sensation reached his ears with the heady buzz of promise. The devaronian stopped amidst the crowd, but there were few species in the duros sector willing to risk a confrontation with the larger, red-skinned alien, and they parted around him like a stream passing from stone. High in the yellow, smog-tinged skyline, floating between repulsorcabs and air speeders, the spherical form of a DRK-1 probe droid came howling between the vehicles with a barrage of omnisignal unicode that the audio node in his left ear was quick to translate. Hardly a few hours in the cityscape, and his work was already half done. The doctor had been efficient in keeping himself hidden from his pursuers up until now, but there were few quarries that the devaronian could not track. As quickly as he stopped, Vahlmar once again slipped into the bustling river of motion, one hand slinking to the blaster at his side and clipping off the mechanical safety on its side. "Time to make some credits."



* * *



Panic. Fear.

There was no amount of acrid pollution that could dilute the taste of such potent emotions, and rather than drown them out, the smoking barrel of a blaster only served to heighten the flavor - an expensive herb placed sparingly on a reek steak. "Come now," Vahlmar spread his arms wide in a gesture of embrace, the snub-nosed DC-17 hand blaster hanging loosely in his grip like a casual extension of his own arm. The need for subtlety had long since passed, and the devaronian had discarded the coat concealing his personal armory. Blades and blasters of various models and sizes lined his plasteel body armor like gleaming fangs in the dull city light, each one hungry for the thrill of a frightened kill. Despite his friendly tone, a fire burned in his sunken eyes, relishing the chase. It was always so much more fun when they tried to run. "Doctor can run if he so pleases, but Vahlmar promises he'll only die tired. Expose self, and this one promises to end life gently." A lie, of course, but one that had worked on rare occasion.

There was a scuffle of limbs and the sound of footsteps rapidly retreating, and the devaronian flashed a wickedly satisfied smile. It was faster to acquire payment if they were willing to buy his dishonesty, but it was hardly as enjoyable.

A quick repulsorcab ride had taken the devaronian to his target in one of the many, many rundown industrial complexes in the duros sector. Undoubtedly once a manufacturing powerhouse, greed and corruption had likely run the factory to its knees in the wake of one of the Hutt's territorial struggles, or some other gang lord looking to carve a mark in the scars of this moon's corpse. Now it was little more than a husk of its former self, the machinery and equipment stripped away like the valuable bones of a slain beast; the remains converted into housing for spice addicts and likely some of the dealers that supplied them. Transients, criminals, the impoverished - all would find some form of sanctuary here, save from each other, and it was a fairly ingenious place for someone extremely wealthy to hide themselves. No doubt others had been looking in sky lofts and the finer estates, not in a slum like this. Criminals or not, however, they retreated like shadow from flame as the devaronian stalked the halls, skirting used needles and rapidly drying pools of bodily fluid with unknown origin.

From the open shop floor where he had first encountered and landed a wounding shot on Dar'Erebos, to the cluttered hallways, Vahlmar would pursue until his quarry had worn himself ragged and collapsed from pain and exhaustion. The devaronian had made sure to equip fragbolts just for this occasion, and no doubt the plasma-heated shrapnel was burning with white hot intensity in the muscle and tissue of the leg of the hunted. How long would he be able to limp forward? How long before he fell into a pool of sweat, blood, and piss? Either way, the hunter would come for him and collect his prize.

The devaronian was forced to pause in the shadow of the hallway, standing amongst strewn litter and flakes of cracked, peeling wallpaper. He was considered lean for his species, but his bulk nearly filled the narrow passage, and the curved horns atop his skull forced him to stoop slightly. The path before him split in two, with one set of worn, uneven stairs leading upwards while another set descended towards the lower levels of the complex. It would've been easier, safer for his prey to take the passage down - moving upwards would place more weight on his injured extremity and force him to move at a slower pace. That being said, Dar'Erebos hadn't survived this long by taking the obvious path. Luckily for Vahlmar, he needn't risk such a decision. With a sharp-toothed grin, he lifted his wrist, punching a transmission into the tech-pad strapped to the guard. With a dull beep of confirmation, a low signal passed from the pad to the receiver that would've buried itself in tender flesh - flaring up the shrapnel with an additional wave of fire-born agony. The signal was answered by a pain howl in the stair case above Vahlmar, and the bounty hunter proceeded with a casual roll of his shoulders. It was unfair, perhaps, but he was on a time constraint, after all. If he could enjoy the chase and meet the deadline, what could be so wrong about that? "Doctor," He called up in a guttural, sing-song voice, taking the first step up before glancing towards the path above. Three flights up, he was greeted by the panicked sight of a hunted human of middling age, dark hair showing just the faintest traces of silver and gray. Even at a distance he could see the sweat beading on sharp, hawk-like features and the fear that widened blue eyes into wild, frantic orbs. Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments before the human spat a curse in a language the devaronian didn't bother to label, quickly grabbing onto the railing for support and dragging himself further up the steps. "Oh doctor, we both know you can feel it. This is end for you, my friend, game rapidly coming to a close. Would it not be better to meet end with some dignity, yes? Running only prolong suffering." The holocron strapped to his belt beeped with a polite warning - he would need to end this, and soon. There was still plenty of time to move at a somewhat casual pace, but it meant that he wouldn't get to enjoy breaking the frightened man. Once he did catch up to him, and he would, he would need to put a bolt through his heart and transmit the holo-image to his employer.

Anticlimactic, perhaps, but satisfying enough.

With this in mind, the devaronian began taking the steps two at a time, striding easily up towards the struggling man. With each passing flight, ragged gasps of breath became more and more audible and the stains of fresh blood on the steps became more apparent amongst the mire of filth that lined the duracrete steps. A whimper of pain, the sound of a man collapsing in a tangle of limbs - the quick scuffle of recovery, and the slamming of a heavy door. The hunt was nearing its end. There was only one way out, and the devaronian was following quickly behind as the exit to the roof came into sight. A steady trail of crimson now streaked the rough floor with the tell tale signs of a man crawling, dragging himself forward with wounded leg trailing behind. Vahlmar opened the door, the blaster pistol gripped idly in his hand, and grinned to see his prey just a scarce few yards ahead. He was indeed dragging himself along the rooftop, using one elbow to facilitate progress, while his other trembling hand gripped a small, spherical holocron.

"Y-you said come to the roof," He hissed, sputtering through pain and fear and spattering the holocron with flecks of blood. "You promised a shuttle, where-" He caught sight of the devaronian and a low wail escaped his lips, the holocron clattering to the ground as he abandoned it - just as whoever had been working with him had apparently abandoned him. The devaronian hadn't been aware that Dar'Erebos had allies in this matter, but that hardly changed the end result. Whatever shuttle he'd been promised hadn't arrived, leaving the good doctor exhausted, afraid, and about to meet his death. Again, his own holocron beeped with a warning, and the Vahlmar grinned - not a moment too soon, either. He was supposed to have killed the man by now, technically, but a slight gap was to be expected. After all, he would need to capture a worthy image before uploading it. The doctor continued to crawl to the open end of the roof, to what Vahlmar assumed was to be the drop point intended for his extraction, as though he desperately hoped it would still arrive before the bounty hunter caught up with him.

He could afford to be a little bit later. They would dock some of his credits, perhaps, but it was worth seeing the hope extinguished from the human's eyes.

Dar'Erebos arrived in the dead center of the clearing, and a pitiful wail escaped his lips once more. His face pressed to the ground, lips covering the duracrete in a fine layer of spittle and blood. He only allowed himself a desperate moment of respite before attempting to crawl forward again - towards the edge of the building. Perhaps he sought the end things on his own terms, then, but that wasn't a luxury that Vahlmar was going to afford him. One quick stride and the heavy thud of his plasteel boot against the back of Dar'Erebos's knee, and he was rewarded with the sudden crunch of bone splintering and the pained screams that accompanied it. Leaning down, he pulled the man backwards from his intended destination as Dar'Erebos clawed and scrabbled to gain some purchase. Split fingertips and cracked nails did little good, and slowly but surely, the heavy devaronian dragged him towards the center of the platform once more, tossing the broken man to the side with relative ease.

"P-p-please," He gasped between spit and tears, rolling onto his back and raising his hands in a defensive gesture. "I have..I h-have c-c-credits. I can p-pay you, I swear," He struggled backwards, attempting to slide away as though somehow he could outreach the blaster that was now aiming towards him. "M-match whatever they're paying - no, d-d-double it!"

"Vahlmar highly doubt you have two million credits on hand," The devaronian hissed. His dealings with the Republic had likely paid well...but not that well, and certainly not after cycles spent in hiding. He lived in a run-down industrial complex, true, but his appearance was not that of a wanting man. He'd likely renovated a small chunk of the uninhabited levels and equipped it with enough security to hold out until his twilight years. No cheap feat, and likely what he was retreating to when Jahk had found him. The fear that flashed over the man's ragged features was enough to tell him what he needed to know. "Besides," The devaronian lied. "It is matter of principal, not credits. Vahlmar going to take your life, going to get paid handsomely. Tech firm and empire be grateful, perhaps send more jobs to Jahk. Maybe he not so retired after all."

Dar'Erebos had backed himself against a power transformer, propping his trembling body against and pressing to it as if he was able to somehow will himself through it, anything to place a few precious more feet between himself and his killer. Vahlmar stopped a body length away, raising the blaster to take aim at the man's heart. "Is nothing personal," He added with a slow roll of his shoulder, looking down the sights. "Is merely business." The familiar hiss of a blaster bolt sang through the air, the white hot slug piercing both man and machine alike, firing out the back of the transformer with a shower of metal and sparks.

A blaster bolt that had not belonged to Vahlmar.

First, the bounty hunter felt rage, spinning about face to search for the shooter who'd taken his bounty, robbed him of the kill. Secondly, he felt pain. Agony lanced through his body, and the horned hunter fell to his knees, face a portrait of shock and disbelief. The blaster pistol slipped from his hand, reaching towards the smoldering hole in his torso with trembling digits. The bolt had punched through his armor and flesh alike, the smog-riddled air suddenly becoming more and more difficult to breathe.

"W...who...?" The devaronian managed to gasp before slipping backwards to the duracrete floor, his world fading into darkness.




* * *



"Time to wake up," The voice pierced the darkness, painful to dull, throbbing agony in the back of his skull.

Vahlmar's eyes opened slowly, a dull groan passing through dry lips as the Nar Shaddaa skyline rushed back to him in a flash of pollution and repulsorcab lights. The rooftop. Dar'Erebos. He'd been shot. The devaronian struggled to rise, but found himself unable to, pain shooting through his body with a fierce agony that caused him to scream into the smog-lit sky. His head rolled to the side, the sight of a stimpack pushed into his bare arm greeting him. The answer as to why he'd woken up. A discarded kolto tank lay some several feet behind it, no doubt the reason why he wasn't dead - yet. The scarce medical attention would be enough to keep him alive long enough to make it to a medcenter, perhaps, but it was a temporary fix at best.

A sinking feeling told him, however, that he wasn't going to be heading towards a medcenter.

With no small amount of effort and several elaborate gasps of agony, the devaronian managed to prop himself up on his elbows to better survey his surroundings. Before him, just barely out of arm's reach, the speaker crouched on balanced heels. He wore a sleek uniform of dull, ashen gray and black that had clearly been fitted to his lean, wolf-like frame. Matching black boots and gloves, somehow immune to the dust and decay that often so layered everything on Nar Shaddaa, gleamed in the dim city lights, hands clasped together in a patient expression. A long, black coat similar to the devaronian's own finished the ensemble - save for the long-barreled rifle slung over his left shoulder. Stark, hungry features regarded the devaronian with a passive, predatory curiosity - a gaze that the devaronian was not unfamiliar with. More notable than any uniform, however, were the token indicators of his species. Blue-gray skin that seemed to devour any light that touched it, accented by contrast of vibrant, blood-red eyes.

Chiss.

"Imperial," Vahlmar snarled, equal parts confused and enraged. "You meddle in affairs sanctioned by your own Empire?"

"Hardly," The chiss responded, the aristocratic tone with which he spoke touched by a flair of disinterest. Jahk had heard stories of the chiss, that they were little more than ghosts, wraiths in the night - cold, and unfeeling. He couldn't help but feel ill at ease, and more so than because of his current predicament. "They were informed that you were handling a bounty, of course, something of which is hardly considered illegal in their jurisdiction. That being said, what happens to you beyond their checkpoints is hardly of their concern." He paused, adding with a touch of irony that wasn't lost on the wounded bounty hunter. "You are an alien, after all."

"You serve the Empire, though," He hissed back. "Wear their uniform, doing so when you shoot Vahlmar is sanction enough."

"Correct; sadly, you were not quick enough to facilitate a change of clothes, but my superiors are hardly going to be aware of my involvement in this matter. I've taken the necessary precautions to ensure of that." The devaronian stared at him in disbelief. To think that he wouldn't acquire enemies in his line of work would be foolish, but Vahlmar had never crossed the Empire, and he certainly hadn't done anything to make enemies with a chiss. This was, perhaps, his first actual encounter with the species outside of holovids or passing through Imperial halls. "A timeline, mind you, that you did not meet and as a result will not be receiving the second half of your payment." The chiss offered a subtle smile, an expression that was somehow more cold than allowing his features to remain distant and passive.

"Wh-"

"I trust you found your voyage to Nar Shaddaa agreeable?" The chiss slipped into the balosar accent as easily as he breathed, stunning Vahlmar into silence once more. "It took a great deal of effort to get you here," He continued, moving back to his basic accent once more. "Quite frankly, I wasn't sure it was going to work. It was more of a gamble really, knowing that you rest easily on your personal fortune and your family's holdings. Knowing your history with Nar Shaddaa, however, and a lure of more credits than a second rate bounty has ever accrued - I had so hoped you would accept. Imagine my delight when you didn't disappoint."

"You know who Vahlmar is," The devaronian snarled, consumed by hatred and realization. "And yet you still fire against him. You may wound or kill Vahlmar, but the Jahk family will -"

"Hunt me down and kill me?"

"And your loved ones."

Again the chiss smirked, shifting lightly on the balls of his feet. "Unlikely. I buried my identity under multiple others, transferred holdings, false accounts - shell corporations," He added, leaning forward and reaching into Valhmar's pockets to remove the holocron at his waist, in addition to his identity chip and spare credit holdings. "Now, it's possible that given enough standard cycles they'll piece together enough information to have a general idea of what they're looking for. The local authorities, which will only bother because your family will raise a fuss, will write this off as a simple theft and murder. You came to the duros sector, which despite being predominately alien, is still one of the more hostile zones. You were hunting a high value target - with enough credits on your person to buy and renovate a small portion of this area. Who wouldn't want to kill you?"

"More so, you have a storied history, Valhmar Jahk, of the Jahk clan, son of the patriarch," He continued without further preamble. "You've accrued enemies across the stars, and while your family title has protected you from rival families and most criminal organizations, that hardly matters on Nar Shaddaa where ninety-three percent of violent crimes are committed by the underprivileged, who conveniently make up a majority of the population."

"The rise of Sith activity and cults also lends to some mystery, and all things considered, this is nothing special, Vahlmar Jahk. You may think of this as a personal slight to your family standing, but this isn't a matter of fairy tales where your brothers will discover and avenge you, it's a simple matter of mathematics," The chiss paused, pocketing his belongings. "In your past you were a warrior and a bounty hunter, but before that you were a slaver - a slaver belonging to a family of slavers. You may be feared on other planets, but out here you're nothing more than a statistic."

Jahk bit back bitter silence, hatred creasing his features. The chiss knew of him, of his past, of his family. He was uninterested in any of it, save perhaps for taking a personal vendetta with certain aspects of his lifestyle, but the details mattered little. Instead, he could only seek answers. "Why?" He hissed. "The Empire has little interest in Vahlmar's past, so why do you?"

"Convenience. Don't mistake this as an attempt to seek moral high ground, quite frankly, you and I are likely both damned," The chiss responded, retreating a short distance to retrieve a satchel he'd brought up to the rooftop. "Dar'Erebos was a high value target to the Empire, one that had initially managed to elude Imperial Intelligence by falsifying documents to incriminate his employers rather than himself. By the time the oversight had been discovered, it was entirely too late to actively pursue martial justice, and he was allowed to slip back into the shadows. The fact that I discovered him was entirely a mistake of his own making, flagging a purchase in recent logs that was deemed suspicious for the duros sector. Subtle tracing allowed me to discover his location - a fact which I did not share with my superiors. Despite his value, the Empire is far more concerned with Republic activity in the area, and felt it unnecessary to waste resources to hunt the doctor down."

"The remnants of those he betrayed, however, were more than willing to fund a venture - one that, again, I was able to secure through misdirection and misinformation. I saw it as an opportunity to eliminate both a target for the Empire and a target off of my own, personal list. Hence why you were contacted - and I assure you, five-hundred thousand credits was a small price to pay in order to do so."

"But why?"

The chiss paused, reaching into his bag and setting several items out against the duracrete floor. A small canister of anthracite fuel, a deactivated holoimage, and an exothermal flare. The devaronian swallowed hard, his lips curling back to bare sharp teeth and contempt, but his defiant nerves were slowly slipping away as the chiss met his gaze once more.

"Did you know," He finally spoke, not looking away from the devaronian bounty hunter for even the briefest moment. "That in some of the more simple human cultures, they believe the devaronian's to be literal demons, creatures from mythology, stories they tell their children in an attempt to make them behave." The narrative was told as idle hands made use of themselves, slowly unscrewing the cap from the unrefined fuel. "Obviously untrue, but a quick examination of the details can certainly make one understand how they could make such a mistake. The engine discharge from your trademark Hellfire MK-II afterburners has a notable...red flare, while the rest of your ship is designed to be somewhat inconspicuous. Naturally, to more industrialized sectors, those used to space travel will see it for what it is - display, and little more."

"To more impoverished settlements, however, they believed it was your people arriving in a flash of fury and...well, hell fire. It explained your sudden appearance, your...devil-like qualities, and why you would steal children in the middle of the night, only to sell them into slavery. The families left behind believed you devoured the children, and they adapted this to their night-time horror stories. Even as their cultures evolved and adapted over hundreds of cycles, even after they knew you were what you truly were, the stories remained as part of their history."

"What I find most interesting, however, is the various powers the mythos often give your species. Immune to conventional weapons, primitive blasters and the like - no doubt due to various high grade armor, but we've obviously disproved that," He dug a finger into the bolt wound in Vahlmar's stomach, and the devaronian screamed in pain. "Possessing super strength, speed - enhanced in every aspect, despite your relatively similar size. We both know that's due to your species' evolution, and your remarkably high mass density, despite your overall average height and width."

"One in particular, however," The chiss dumped the fuel over the devaronian with callous disregard, Vahlmar sputtering and whimpering as the caustic chemical burned his exposed flesh and wounds. "Has particularly held my absolute fascination." A gloved hand reached for the holoimage and activated it, the captured portrait of a young human female snapping to life before being dropped to the devaronian's chest as he attempted to desperately crawl backwards away from the chiss. "For whatever reason, these...human tribes, if you will, believed that as you traveled using hell fire, that you, yourselves, must be immune to fire. A camp fire, perhaps, but then I wondered if that would hold true with the use of an accelerant." The scratch of the exothermal flare against the duracrete ignited the thin tube, and vibrant green flames hissed to life with a shower of sparks and lighting the chiss in a hellish, viridian glow. The imperial agent took another step forward, advancing on the whimpering devaronian with the same predatory stride he'd approached Dar'Erebos, flare in hand.

"Let's test that theory together."



* * *


"You're late," The words held the faintest attempt to sound stern and disapproving, but faltered beneath the weight.

Cipher Agent Sirko, of the Chiss Ascendency and Imperial Intelligence dipped his head in mock apology, running a gloved hand through dark locks of professionally groomed hair. "My apologies, master Sith," He intoned with mock seriousness. "Our mutual contact was late for our arrangement, and I'll admit I found myself trapped beneath his company for longer than I anticipated."

"Don't call me master," His companion shot back instinctively, and a subtle touch of suspicion narrowed brilliant, green eyes. "And it's certainly not like you to be 'caught' in conversation with anyone. That even implies that someone would want to talk with you." A delicate hand touched thoughtfully to her chin, and the young woman continued to eye him for a moment's pause. A human female still in the barest years of adulthood, Ivaelia had served as the Sirko's unlikely partner for well over a cycle. It wasn't uncommon for Imperial Intelligence to work alongside the Sith, but it was admittedly rare for a standard human to accept an alien partner. Military rank mattered little, as the Sith were the true ruling power of the Empire, with even the lowest of acolytes holding more political and militaristic standing than all but the highest levels of authority in intelligence - most of which were high ranking Sith, anyway. She stood nearly a full head beneath him, with thick locks of vibrant red hair that framed pale skin and emerald-toned eyes, a subtle smile always pulling at full lips that often parted in a white-toothed, crooked grin.

She was an oddity, especially amongst the Sith, having somewhat fallen into the title, rather than being bred for it. The dark side of the force was often manipulated by the Sith, or rather, they were manipulated by it - serving as a vessel, as Sirko understood, for the raw power that the Sith were so often fond of displaying. They were able to harness this power through anger, hatred, and in some cases, fear. Strong emotions of all shades were tapped into in order to strengthen their personal power and garner standing amongst the ranks of the force-sensitive; but they were emotions that Ivaelia rarely displayed. The power answered her call, but the passion from which she drew her strength did not manifest in the same raw fires that often corrupted and empowered her kin. This duality, between her personality and power, had often been a subject of surprise for both the chiss and their opponents. Rival powers who often viewed her as a threat were often offered forgiveness in exchange for penance - and when that kindness was denied, their disbelief was apparent as shadow and lightning answered her call, nonetheless.

It was her calm demeanor, that specific duality of her nature, that reminded the chiss why planetary storms were so often named after people.

"Yes, well, believe it or not, some find my charms irresistible," The chiss responded, holding out a small gray satchel for her to take.

"You? No," She responded absently, taking the bag from his hand and flipping open the contents. "One of your covers, perhaps, but none save the Watchers and myself seem to appreciate your...what did you call them? Charms?" She teased, flashing another smile in his direction. "You didn't kill anyone for these, did you?"

The brief hesitation was enough, and almost immediately he felt her reach out with the force. She wasn't intentionally invasive, it came naturally to force users, just as much as looking with one's eyes or hearing passing conversation. Words could be far more easily manipulated than feelings, and it was the quickest way to discern one's true intentions - it was a talent that that she'd employed many times in their travels, against both him and those they'd encountered. The only difference, was that he'd been trained to deal with force users, having been surrounded by them for most of his natural life. It was a rare necessity, as with Ivaelia, he often considered himself an open book. They were friends, and had been so for longer than any attachment he could previously boast - but this was a moment of rare necessity. For all their camaraderie, the two were different in many aspects. Ivaelia understood the teachings of the Sith, but she embodied the compassion of a Jedi while leaving her passions unrestrained. Her past, a childhood stolen, had left her wounded - but she was at peace with this, uninterested in seeking revenge against those who had stolen her away in her youth. Slavery was a common practice in the galaxy, and one that would persist long after both of them had passed. He'd suggested locating those who'd wronged her many times before, but each time, she'd turned down such thoughts. The risks were great, and the intentions were far from pure.

Sirko had no such reservations.

Still, the force probe touched his mind, and rather than indulge her with the smoldering image of Vahlmar Jahk's charred corpse, he deflected her with a quick misdirection. Rather than see his own cold, predatory satisfaction as he dropped the flare onto the fuel soaked devaronian, she saw the twitch of her own lips pulling into a gentle smile. The only fire she witnessed was the color of her own hair, a flash of her eyes, the soft curve of her body - modestly covered, but appreciated none the less. The force probe pulled away with a flush of her cheeks, quickly distracting herself with the contents he'd handed her. It was an embarrassment she would never speak of, let alone to admit that she'd attempted to search his thoughts, and he was content to allow her that peace. It wasn't a kind thing to do, but certainly effective, if her reaction had anything to say of it.

"Something wrong?" He asked, his tone casual.

"Not at all," She replied quickly, dismissing the notion with a wave of her hand. "How," She began, quickly changing the subject. "Did you manage to get the terentatek claw and the rakghoul viscera in the same trip? I thought we'd have to go to another sector in order to procure both?"

"I had our mutual contact meet me in the duros sector, where a recent rakghoul outbreak happened - uncommon for Nar Shaddaa, but they happen. A few extra credits, and he was willing to make the trip and meet me on the far side of the sector so I could procure both in the same trip."

"Zash will be pleased," She responded with a grin, gathering the items and placing them back in the satchel before signaling for them to depart back to their ship. The two began to exit the landing back, and in a gesture that they'd fallen into so many times it was as natural as breathing, she looped her arms beneath his as they walked. "That was very clever of you, killing two mynocks with one stone," She continued, referencing the rare materials he'd procured for her. "And Force knows I do admire a practical man."

A second Star Wars tale featuring the same characters! This one, however, does indeed contain sexual content in detail. It is very sappy, and very romantic, however, so for those of you wanting something more aggressive you'll have to wait until my next update - sorry, these take a lot more time to edit than I expected!

Star Wars: Bonds

"You always manage to surprise me, my dear," The words were pleasant, but shallow. "Both in your ability to exceed my expectations....and to disappoint me." Finely manicured, painted nails slid easily over a chunk of carved metal, fingers slipping between the narrow grooves of the ancient Sith holocron with poorly concealed hunger and a mark of desperation. "My sources indicate that Darth Haas, a man I sent you to kill, has fallen into Republic custody for conspiring to violate the treaty. You've secured his relics, naturally, and his power base is all but eradicated...and yet..."

"We've been over th-"

"Do not interrupt," Zash spoke with an air of command, aristocracy. It was an old song and dance, one that the Master and her apprentice often performed together, but this held an electric edge that was unfamiliar. The Darth was often more casual about Ivaelia's lack of...brutality, focusing more on the ends than the means, weighting results over method. "Haas has secrets, knowledge that could used against the Empire, should he break under interrogation. More so, you flaunt your...morality, as though the other Darth's are unaware of such...misguided behavior. You restrain your passions, and by doing so, you appear weak. Is it your desire to be preyed upon? To be killed, or to return to slavery?" Ivaelia moved to speak, but again, Zash waved a dismissive hand to silence her. She was under pressure. Zash's campaign, her rise to Darth, had been a violent one. She'd moved against her superiors in a fashion that was only tentatively accepted by the Sith, most of them preferring shadow games over outright displays of power and violence. It was only natural that she would be held under close scrutiny, and perhaps an apprentice that would not kill made for a more appealing target. "And you," She murmured, setting the holocron aside and slipping her hands behind her back. "I find myself increasingly disapproving of your presence with my apprentice, given your lack of...effectiveness."

"Need I remind you, it was your idea that he accompany me," Ivaelia retorted, a white hot flash of anger rolling out of her. She'd become accustomed to Zash, to the other Sith, but for all her self-control, this was not something she'd be willing to back down from. A subtle gesture of his hand, however, and the young woman visibly attempted to relax, brushing a tangle of vibrant red hair behind her ear. They had prepared for this, rehearsed and practiced.

"Fond of your pet, are you?"

Ivaelia leaned back on the heels of her feet, folding her arms defiantly across her chest in an almost childish fashion. "We've accomplished what you've asked and more," She responded, the passionate edge in her voice dulling with each word. "Besides, he makes for a lovely accessory; his eyes match my hair, after all."

Carefully plucked eyebrows needled into a concession of a move well played, and pale, blue-grey lips pulled into a dry smirk. Zash's gaze flickered between the two, only withdrawing when her gaze fell upon the chiss and he offered her a subtle tilt of his head. Admittedly, Sirko preferred their bickering to the silence that stretched between the pair, but he was well aware of his placement on the food chain amongst current company. When Sirko had first met Ivaelia, and Zash for that matter, they had all been very different than their current states. Ivaelia was more tame, more demure. Her spirit was there all the same, but carefully restrained with the rest of her emotions - moral, but dutiful. Zash was ambitious, but those same ambitions had not yet been realized. They were little more than whispers, soft promises of a future with power, with status. Before she'd found Ivaelia, she'd been a low-ranking Lord, cunning, but without the same promise of advancement that was afforded the more...obedient Sith. Her interests were obvious, and by making them so, she defied tradition and was punished into relative obscurity for it. Sirko, himself, had cared little for either of them. Imperial Intelligence, despite being a core of military power for the Empire, was secondary to the Sith hierarchy. They were both human, both...emotional, irrational beings - uncomfortable, unfamiliar. The irony was not lost on him, but they had both felt so alien.

Now, however, he and Ivaelia stood together. Zash had indeed contacted Imperial Intelligence, vetting agents in order to assign one she felt would be appropriate for her apprentice. Many of his comrades had been interviewed, had been researched and weighed - and found wanting. Sirko, however, had checked boxes that Zash hadn't even realized she was looking for. His past, his reputation, his résumé, had been penned in blood. More than that, however, he wasn't the passionate killer that Ivaelia held with such moral disdain. He was cold, logical. Death was an art, and he was a master painter - not some butcher looking to make a mark, but merely an extension of the blade that pressed between ribs and faded lights throughout the galaxy. She'd believed that his influence, his practical and necessary approach to the subject, would be enough to convince her apprentice that such a final solution wasn't inherently wrong.

Sirko had shared that thought, perhaps.

They'd both been wrong.

Ivaelia had proven to be the stronger of the pair, and Sirko found himself...weaker for it, perhaps. He'd found a balance for their moralities, for their opposing natures; but often he found himself wanting to be different. Wanting to be better.

"To curb you," Their conversation had continued while Sirko had found himself lost in thought. "Not to indulge you."

"The only indulgent one is you," Ivaelia snapped, her patience beginning to wear thin, that carefully placed mask slipping ever so slightly. "In a debate that we have long since settled. You follow the tenets of the Sith in your path, and I shall do so in mine. Haas was an obstacle to your power, and I removed him. His death, however, would not have dissolved his power base, nor his control of the impoverished on Balmorra. Handing him over to the Republic ensures that both your goals, and my goals are met. Are the Sith not about personal gain?"

"Your gain is for what you perceive as the greater good, my dear apprentice," Zash responded, fingers massaging at the space between her eyes. "Perhaps you hold a point, however. This is, after all, cause to celebrate - not to suffer on the shortcomings of your naiveté," She turned her attention to the holocron once more, attempting to dismiss the subject - no doubt seeing it as a lost cause, once more. It wouldn't be until their next mission that she would remember that Ivaelia would spare her enemies, convincing Sirko to do the same, and finding some creative, possibly unhealthy fashion to both meet their objective and satisfy her moral high ground. "With Haas removed and his collection in my possession, we're one step closer to achieving my," She paused, correcting herself. "Our, greatest victory. For all their disapproval, the Dark Council only speaks in one language, my apprentice, and that's power. This holocron is another piece in a much grander design, one that will both secure a seat for myself on the council - and benefits to you as well, of course."

Ivaelia relaxed, glancing to the side at Sirko and offering a subtle, confident grin. She'd played her part beautifully and was proud of doing so, as she should be. The longer the pair were together, ultimately the more scrutiny they would face. Zash had not been the first to take notice of their bond, and it was highly unlikely that she would be the last. It would take practice, repetition, to keep the true nature of their companionship a secret from those that would use it against them. Sirko had little to lose, save perhaps his life, but attachments were viewed as a liability to the Sith. One that that could be exploited to wound Ivaelia grievously. Even as close friends, there was risk - and ever since Dromund Kaas, Sirko had found himself struggling to define what they were.

It had been a heated moment, brief, but no less passionate for it. She'd stepped to him, pressing her lips to his, hair slick in the rain. Human customs were not something he was unused to, but he'd found himself breathless. In that moment, she was the stormy skies of Dromund Kaas, and before her, he was little more than a drop in a downpour.

So caught up in her smile, was he, that he failed to recognize the danger as a saber blade hissed to life. The red tip lanced towards his vision, and the room filled with a scream and the sizzle of burning flesh. His vision hazed, Sirko saw Ivaelia's eyes open wide with shock, the chiss stumbling backwards in stunned agony. A familiar hum of power crackled at her fingertips, the anger and raw emotion plain on her features - but Zash was already prepared. One delicate hand gripped the hilt of her saber, blade still thrumming with vicious life, while the other extended in a burst of will that caught her apprentice in the stomach like a balled fist. "A demonstration then," Zash murmured smoothly, taking a step forward and hovering the blade just below his chin. His own hand had instinctively been drawn to the smoldering flesh of his cheek, ignoring the searing agony from the long gash the powerful blade had cauterized into the side of his face. "Do you think I need to be looking at you to feel you gloating, my dear?" Zash continued, the blade steady at Sirko's throat but her full attention pressed to her apprentice stooped at her side. Ivaelia had recovered, but with the heat of the saber burning uncomfortably beneath his chin, he knew she would be helpless to react. "You would do well to mind your emotions," She hissed, pushing the blade a hairs breadth closer. "I've tolerated your...camaraderie, despite obvious disappointments, but your flights of fancy leave you unfocused, vulnerable. Perhaps losing him would provide you with the proper motivation to learn your place."

"My thoughts were -"

"Though I usually encourage it, in these circumstances I wouldn't recommend lying to me, dear," Her eyes narrowed, and briefly her attention flitted back towards the chiss agent she'd scarred. Sirko, in turn, glanced towards Ivaelia as she stared with bitter desperation. Her cheeks flushed red, her eyes brimming with tears - a mixture of guilt and rage. Sirko's thoughts could wander without concern for much scrutiny, but Ivaelia...she was under a much harsher scrutiny. One that perhaps had been revealing to more than one party in the room. "I can't say your services have been satisfactory up to this point," The Darth lamented, her grip loosening slightly on the hilt of the saber. "But I believe it may be time to terminate your contract."

"No!"

"I do this for your good, girl," Zash practically snarled, struggling to keep her own emotions in check. "Make a move and you'll only die sooner."

"Likewise," Sirko responded, his expression flat. The Sith fed on emotions. Ivaelia's own were a revelation, and they hummed through the air with a crackle of force lightning practically begging to be unleashed. Zash was furious, and the edge of her raw anger cut against the passions of her apprentice like unseen blades dueling - the chiss offered no such defense or protest. He'd been caught unaware, true, but not entirely. The fury of the Master ebbed briefly at his words, and he savored the fleeting look of confusion on her painted features. Another subtle tilt of his head, risking a second cut on the blade, and her eyes followed the gesture to his hip, where his free hand had unclipped the snub-nosed blaster pistol from his belt and had carefully taken aim at his attacker. Zash had been quick enough to close the distance, to strike a superficial blow sharp enough to make a point - but the kill itself required a lesson, and that lack of fatality had given him more than enough time to draw the blaster and level itself against his side. "I wager well enough that I'll still be dead after I squeeze the trigger," He practically murmured, his hand and voice steady. "But we both know a shot is going off - and that there isn't enough distance between us for you to deflect it."

"You may survive," He continued. "The bolts are standard, not fragmentation or piercing. I imagine with my corpse busy falling to the ground, the shot won't be as clean as I'd like, landing in non-vitals or perhaps crippling you if I'm lucky. The question is, though, do you think you'll be able to handle her, once you are wounded?" Zash followed his gaze to Ivaelia, a white-hot crackle of violet lightning clawing at her fingertips, the sudden hatred having turned those lovely green eyes into twin burning suns. Her passion stemmed from a childhood lost, from loved ones torn away - and an inability to reconcile those actions with the Jedi code - but rationales mattered little to the dark side of the Force. It fed on those angers, on the fears she held now - and it funneled them back into her with the threat of a storm that would leave both Zash and Sirko little more than charred remains.

"I'll already be dead," He added, knowing that the Darth's thoughts would likely follow his own. "When you join me, you'll have to tell me what it felt like."

The silence, brief as it was, felt like it spanned an eternity - only interrupted by this hiss of the crimson blade deactivating. An oppressive flood of tangible emotions drained from the room as relief washed over Ivaelia and Zash regained control of her own anger. For much of her training, Zash had been a surprisingly supportive mentor. She'd disapproved of the younger woman's methods, but ultimately, she'd served more as council than control. The attack was uncharacteristic, and it was only in this light, did Sirko notice that she appeared older somehow. Tired and worn - perhaps frail, as though the years were suddenly weighing on her in the short span of a few minutes. "There will be others," the Sith remarked, glancing briefly at Sirko before drawing the hood of her cloak over her head and turning away from the pair. "I rarely advise it, but I find it a more common practice with you," She continued, speaking to Ivaelia once more. "Temper your emotions. Your attachments can be forged into powerful tools to be used against you, and your weakness will get you both killed. Should my enemies take notice, we all stand to suffer for your...indulgence."

"Now, leave me."



* * *



"What right does she dare -"

"Ivaelia -"

Trembling hands fussed over the sealed wound on the side of his face, a damp kolto cloth dabbing gently at the freshly burned scar. At their side, portable bacta tanks bubbled with curious green gel, small patches and med-adhesive waiting at the ready, strewn across tables of white and gray durasteel. Decades of military research had culminated in the creation of the X70B-Phantom class starship, with only a small handful being commissioned by the Imperial Intelligence unit, largely because the tech involved was simply too complicated to mass produce. Those in circulation were practically little more than high-functioning prototypes, from the radar-resistant plating to the durable mix of alloys that allowed for a sleek, accessible interior. Navigation systems, weapons arrays, dampening fields - all several classes above any ship boasting a similar size. The Empire had spent planetary fortunes constructing a number that could be counted on one hand in Corellian basic - and currently, it was being used as a haphazard hospital for a wound that had healed the moment it had been formed. The cauterized scar certainly didn't feel good, but the threat of infection was nonexistent and the injury was superficial at best.

"-hould've known better, I should've waited until after we'd left her chambers," Ivaelia was furious, her brows tight with concern, a half-ashamed frown tugging ever so slightly at her lips. "It was stupid, stupid, and I..." Tears began to the threaten her eyes, quickly welling up to dampen eye lashes with the promise of an emotional deluge. "I was so st-"

"It wasn't your fault," The chiss responded quickly, cutting her off. "She caught both of us off guard," He reminded her, dull red eyes searching to make contact with her own. When they finally did, the regret and grief came off of her in waves, the Force mourning in tandem with the sorrowful reflection in her vivid green gaze. "Nearly losing control wasn't you fault, either."

"I was close," She whispered, a small tremor running through her delicate frame. Kolto cloth still in hand, she took a step back from him, her head bowed as she wrapped herself in a loose embrace of crossed arms. "I could feel it. It didn't feel wrong, she was going to kill you. I..." Ivaelia turned her head, wavy locks of thick, red hair falling from her shoulders to hide her face. "I wanted to kill her."

"Perhaps that's what she wanted," Sirko mused, leaning forward from the bulkhead he was resting against. "For you to know the feeling. What the dark side actually feels like when you embrace it, not just wield it."

"You think it was a play?"

Sirko offered a small smile, gently placing one hand beneath her elbow and tilting his head to better meet her eyes, avoid it as she might. "I think Zash is a Darth, and she didn't get there by accident," He assured her, mulling over the words. "What I know, is that it wasn't your fault. It's barely a cut, anyway. Quite frankly, it's just part of a matching set," He stepped back, gesturing towards his lean frame, still cut sharp in the gray and black standard of his Imperial uniform. Agent or not, the chiss was a soldier and had spent most of his adult life in one war zone or another, and he bore the marks to prove it.

It was small, but it was enough. He watched as his companion uncurled slowly from herself, hesitant, but willing. She returned his smile with one of her own, bittersweet and insecure - but no less beautiful. The world was open behind her, the star-shielding on the bay window lifted to reveal all of space and a billion stars glittering at her back. Sirko had never been able to understand humans, despite having lived alongside them for so many years. The Ascendency, despite it's open support of the Empire, kept much of their culture separate - especially in the developmental years of a young chiss. Humans were emotional, they were...irrational. They hinged on emotion, on impulse. It was of little surprise to him that many Force sensitive humans were drawn to the dark side, simply for the indulgence of those emotions being heightened to levels more potent than any spice. In all honestly, outside of their uncanny ability to be emotionally unstable in any given situation, he'd never seen anything particularly interesting or special about the human race.

Billions of stars, burning brightly. Billions of them, forged in the desolation of space, fading like dying hearts and exploding to scatter their remains - only to once more be molded and reformed into new stars, into new planets. All of them, every single one, burned behind her - and yet, none of them were as bright or as brilliant as she was. They were merely candles to the sun, a soft glow on pale skin and fire-red hair. The cycle would repeat itself, for millions upon millions of years, and yet for all of their creation, they would never create another her.

"I think it's rather dashing, actually," She murmured gently, still avoiding his gaze. A tentative hand reached for the scar, only to fall short as his own caught her wrist. She paused, somewhat taken aback - a reaction he couldn't blame her for, but gently he released his hold on her until gloved fingers slipped between her own, pulling her closer. "Wha-" The words were muffled as Sirko closed the remaining distance between them, his free hand cupping the side of her face as he pressed his lips to her own. Weakness filled his body as the embrace pulled him into a warmth the pulled at every fiber of his being, every cord of his soul. A gasp, pleasurable but surprised, greeted him as the embrace tightened, their bodies pressing closer together as if the distance between would always be too vast. For a moment they hung in the air, suspended in the storms of Dromund Kaas, but the balance was a delicate thing - and the scales had long since ached to be tipped.

The first kiss was followed by a second, and a third, and a fourth - brief, broken by heated gasps of breath and desperation, her hands pulling from his own to bury themselves in dark locks of hair, pulling him closer - deeper into the pull and tug of her lips against his own. His own hands found themselves at her waist, dragging her closer, fingers pressing into the fabric of her robes - desperate to feel the skin beneath. The chiss stooped slightly to accommodate the differences in their height, bearing down on her as they staggered forward on the deck in a haphazard tangle of limbs and uneven pace. Each soft exclamation of desire, each subtle gasp that escaped between teeth and swollen lips was answered by another, a flash of fire in her eyes that gave way to something sweet, something vulnerable, something desired. She pulled at him with a need that was only matched by his own, nearly bowling them both over to the durasteel floor as she pushed off of the ground and wrapped her legs around his waist with all the grace of a practiced dancer.

A grace that the chiss simply couldn't match, stumbling forward as hands sought purchase on her body to support her weight against him. The few rough steps ended with a satisfying thud as her back thudded against the wall with a surprisingly pleased exclamation that quickly turned to a giggle that bordered on the musical. Her body trembled as they hung suspended for what seemed like an eternity, the chiss looking up at her beneath a halo of ruby locks. They were close now, cheek practically brushing against cheek, and Sirko fought the urge to bury himself into her - to escape, to hide in her perfection like a frightened child. Her breath trembled against his ear, nervous and expectant, skin flushing bright as hot breath lanced on the sensitive flesh of her neck. He was gentle, but carefully placed lips pressed to her throat, suckling lightly at the skin behind her ear. With each step of the trail, her grip on him tightened; fingers pulled at the fabric of his uniform, clenching and unclenching as canines pressed to the side of her throat between each peck of his lips. The skin, sore and sensitive from each gentle bite, was rewarded with the cool press of a soft kiss, and the reaction crawled up her spine in the form of a pleasurable shudder of her body against his. Her hands left his back as she pulled away, drawing his head from her neck to find her own lips once more, locking him in an embrace that seemingly made the entire room spin, her legs gently unlocking from his waist to stand tip-toe on the deck.

Again and again, she pulled at his lips, matching his passion with her own - the gentle tug of her teeth on his lower lip, only to drag him deeper into the next one, tongue flicking against his own. Idle hands they were not, however, and for all the distractions, she began to unclasp the buttons around his neck and torso, gently tugging the fabric aside as his arms shifted to aid her in the removal. No sooner than the uniform clattered to the floor, her hands began to explore the blue-gray flesh that provided such a cool contrast to the pale ivory of her own, delicate fingers pressing to scars that marked his torso in lines of puckered and discolored flesh. Ivaelia indulged in gentle curiosity, pulling away from his lips to draw the map of ancient injuries with eyes and fingertips as his own hands slipped down the exposed skin of her shoulders, the cloth straps of her robes falling away with ease as fingers pressed themselves to her warmth, down her back and applying gentle pressure to her spine. The layers of her white robes fell to their feet, Ivaelia gently stepping out of them without parting their abdomens pressed together now with the dull warmth of bare flesh.

Tighter, once more, she pressed to him as his fingers began to unwind the wrap that supported her breasts, the subtle undergarments falling away to the audible quickening of her heart beat. Already, he was under her neck, once more paying attention to the soft flesh beneath and working his way down to nip at her collarbone, pressing his lips to each inch of pale skin as cloth slowly peeled away. His body sank lower against her, fingers trailing from his back, to his shoulders, until finally they tangled into his hair once more, pulling his head close as lips glided over breasts being rapidly exposed. The chilled air of the starship combined with his attentions brought bumps to the surface of her skin, teeth latching briefly to her lower lip as he followed the curve of her chest downwards - until the tip was exposed, a soft pink against pale, ivory flesh. The cold environment was nearly painful, but a dulcet moan escaped her lips, for the jarring temperature didn't last long as warm breath washed over the peak of her breast. One hand slipped to the small of her back, sliding down the curve of her spine to push her closer, while the other cupped the side of her waist, slowly moving upwards. As his hands slid over her body, moving with the subtle writhing motions, his mouth encompassed the nipple on her left breast - soft, pink nub of flesh pressed between his lips. The sensation caused her knees to tremble, and the taste of her skin to his lips was intoxicating. His tongue slipped over the stiffened flesh with delicate attention, tracing the flushed ring of her areola before flicking at the nipple itself in long, drawn out strokes. The scent of her body held close, the taste between his lips - lithe, supple frame writhing beneath him, desperate for his attention - and he, equally desperate for hers.

He suckled and pulled at her nipple, the gentle aggression sending shivers down her spine as her heart threatened to pound out of her chest. Nails clawed at his scalp, pulled at his hair, mewls of pleasure and pain mingling with the satisfied, hungry growls that began to drag from his own throat. Sharply, she pulled on his hair, roughly pulling his head back and up, dragging his body across her own to meet her lips with a fierce embrace. Thin fingers clawed their way through his hair, pulling and pressing, working down his neck and shoulders, nails scraping the bare skin of his chest and down his waist. Gasps gave way to panting, breaths in between passionate embrace growing hot and heavy as she pulled at the pants around his waist. When the fabric failed to immediately give way, a delicate hand simply slipped between band and flesh, a gentle but firm grip pressing against his undergarments, parting his lips in a surprised breath of his own. She grinned into the next kiss, using one hand to unfasten the clasps of his pants while the other continued to pull and massage at the rapidly hardening bulge trapped beneath tight cloth. His waist band loose, the pants falling to his ankles, she seized the opportunity without further need for prompt.

Her hand quickly and easily slipped behind the boxer briefs that hugged his legs, fingers slipping around the shaft of his member and firmly squeezing. With slow, deliberate motions, tightening and loosening her grip, she began to massage up and down his length, her own cheeks flushing as Sirko practically crumbled beneath her affections. The chiss leaned into her, his body pressing to hers as she worked him into full attention, using her free hand to slip the undergarments from his waist and to floor to join the rest of the discarded clothing lining the floor. She pulled him close, her thighs opening slightly to welcome him, pressing her warmth against his own. The entire galaxy seemed to freeze as his own hands slipped to the delicate, thin waist band of her own undergarments. With smooth ease, his thumbs hooked into the tight elastic band, slipping them downwards only to have them kicked aside with a small flick of her ankle. Again, she drew him close, one leg sliding up his thigh to rest at his waist. His hands on the curve of her body now, Sirko lifted her back against the wall until she was able to hook her legs around him once more, her weight resting precariously against his groin. The heat between her legs, inner thighs already slick with anticipation, brought his breaths out in shudders, head bowed.

"Stay with me," She whispered, her voice soft, surreal. A hand lifted his chin, drawing his face up to look her in the eye as she used the control in her legs and her free hand to guide him safely towards her. Her expression faltered, if only for a moment, as the head of his member pressed against her entrance, cheeks flushing once more with heated passion. There was a moment's pause, a hair's breadth of resistance, and he slipped into her with a mixture of pleasure and pain stamping her gentle, beautiful features. Again, his breath drew ragged as she used her weight to slip further down him, her legs gripping painfully at his waist as they drew in, inch by inch. One arm curled around the small of her back, serving as a ballast while the wall and her legs did most of the work to support her own body. A small whimper escaped her lips, trembling in the moment, while her hands worked over his chest, up the side of his face, one hand buried in his hair. Slowly at first, she slid upwards - only to allow her weight and gravity to drive her down once more. Whimpers turned to moans, ragged breaths to the dull roll of a pleasurable growl. His free hand slid up her back and buried itself in the tangle of red locks, slightly damp with exertion, coiling his fingers in her hair with a desire to never let go. Another song-touched moan escaped from her lips with a tremble - and he pulled, his hand wrapped in her hair, forcing her head back with an open-mouthed gasp of approval as his lips pressed to her throat, pushing their bodies closer together - and deeper inside of her. His rhythm joined her own, quickening in both force and frequency with each passing second until the hum of the navigation equipment was drowned out by the mingling of their voices.

"Stay...stay with me," She gasped, burying her hands in his hair as he loosened his grip on her own, her lips pressed to his forehead in frantic, feverish kisses between each thrust of his hips, each grind of her legs. "Stay...stay..." Fingers pulled at his hair, Sirko looking upwards once more into her downward turned eyes. Perspiration mingled as she pressed her forehead to his, lips parted between pleasure and exhaustion. "Stay..." The words raised in pitch, in desperation, and her cries muffled and mingled with his own as he pressed his lips to hers, the two crying out into the embrace as her weight fell against him, legs trembling as the climax took her body over the edge, trembling hands desperately pulling at him, mewling into the kiss.

His finish mingled with her own, practically snarling as the last few thrusts took him with the pull and clench of her muscles as she climaxed, drawing him in deeper and tightening down on his length. The heat, raw and pleasurable to the point of painful took him as he finished inside of her, pumping his hips with faded strength and rapture. Legs weak, she began to slip down his waist, but all Sirko could do was follow suit, their bodies sliding against one another as his own legs gave way, leaning backwards - fighting to remain connected. Chests heaving, Sirko embraced the cold metal as his back pressed to it, one arm guiding their descent while the other cradled his love against him. With a dull thud, they collapsed, Ivaelia curling on top of him with a content smile tugging at lips and half-closed eyes.

Again, it was silent, save for breaths slowly growing more steady with each passing moment. He leaned forward briefly enough, craning his neck enough to kiss the top of her head as she rested against him, looking to the stars once more behind her. Fatigue had already began to take her, and an idle hand traced gently over her skin, lulling her to sleep even as her body pressed tighter against him, seeking the warmth and affection. He hesitated in the silence, staring out into the empty space before lifting his head to rest against the tangled hair on top of her head.

"I love you," The words were quiet, little more than a murmur among the hum of machinery. He expected no response, content simply to profess himself in the quiet of their embrace. It sounded alie - no...it sounded very human. But cool, soft lips pressed to his chest, holding on just a heart beat longer than necessary before pulling away.

"I know," She teased, her voice equally soft, laced with exhaustion. "I lo..."

The chiss simply smiled as she drifted to sleep, content merely to lay beneath her - a drop in a downpour.