Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
☀︎(Y/N), a serving girl, is rescued by Ex-Templar Gilbert Beilschmidt after brutal raid on her Byzantine caravan. Hardened by weeks of isolation in the desert, Gilbert claims her as his property and takes her to a remote caravanserai, where he forces her to be his. As he shatters his vows of chastity, (Y/N) tries to use her resources to escape from his clutches.☀︎
☀︎☀︎☀︎☀︎☀︎☀︎☀︎☀︎☀︎☀︎☀︎☀︎
She was six days from Jerusalem when the attack happened.
Rouge saracens had come on their horses of black and massacred her people. Jewels, silks and spices were depleted from her chests and now only sand and blood filled them. But the tattered banners of the Byzantine Empire had caught the eye of Gilbert Beilschmidt, who had been wandering the desert for thirty-three days and surviving off the remnants of abandoned caravans and stealing food off of unknowing saracens.
The desert did horrible things to a man, and Gilbert was no exception. He was headed to a settlement just outside of Jerusalem where there were women and drink. Ever since the french king had put a bounty on the head of the templars,Gilbert had indulged himself in the sins of the flesh, no longer seeing himself as the once pious knight. Now, he so desperately craved a soft woman to take out his sexual frustrations on.
Gilbert got off his horse and went over to a ruined caravan. He opened one of the chests hoping to find water, food, anything; but he closed the chest roughly when it was empty.
He was heading back to his horse when he kicked an iron helmet, causing a sharp pain to spring through his foot. He hobbled in the sand, nearly loosing his footing.
“Verdammt !!!!” Gilbert screamed at nothing. There was no one here in the desert. No one but him and his horse. God had deserted them, and had even used the king of France as his hand in hunting him. Him and the rest of the templars.
The brotherhood was all he had known. Now, it was gone and shunned, hidden by the pope and clergy who had wished to eliminate the knighthood.
Gilbert stood there, breathing hard through his teeth, foot throbbing, staring at the helmet as though it had personally wronged him.
"...Help..."
A voice cried out from across from him. A voice that was thin and hoarse, but gentle in the way that belonged to a maiden.
Gilbert went still. His head turned slowly, his ears doing the work his eyes couldn't in the sun’s glare. A cruel little smile played on his lips. A woman’s voice, a voice that was alive. It had been so long since he had had a woman.
"...please... water..." she rasped in Greek, then Latin, testing him and praying he wasn’t there to kill her.
"Hallo?! Say that again! I couldn't hear jou! Wo bist du?!"
"...here..." (Y/N) did not know his language so she spoke in her native tongue. She closed her eyes in the sun, unable to speak anymore through her drying lips.
Where was she?
She was supposed to be on a pilgrimage with her lady. Until they weren’t and she was under a caravan.
He followed the voice past the gutted chests to where a whole side of the caravan had come down in the raid, timber and canvas and iron fittings collapsed in a heap. Under it, a hand with seldomly moved. Fingers, moving weakly in the sand.
“Vell…Vell…”Gilbert dropped to his knees. He shouldn’t be helping her. He was a wanted man, and his head on a spear could bring a peasant out of poverty. But he had been alone, but this woman was too small to fight him. "Heh. vhat's this? A little Byzantine dove, buried in the dirt, ja?"
He looked at her in the way a vulture looks upon a dying rabbit it had found after months of thirst.
“Water…” she rasped again.
"Ja, okay, okay! I see jou now! Don't…don't do anything stupid! Just hold on!"
He shoved away debris, ignoring the splinters he earned. Under the wreckage he found her. A woman no more than (age) with (h/c) that had been matted and filled with sand, pinned from the waist down under a beam and half a collapsed wheel. Her face was burned and peeling, and her lips were cracked and her eyes barely open but fixated on him as though he were a blinding light she could not look away from.
"Please," (Y/N) wheezed. "Water. I just need…"
"I don't have any… I'll get jou ovt first, then vater, then everything, ja? Just hang on!" Gilbert was already moving, getting his shoulder under the heaviest beam, boots digging into the sand for purchase. "Can jou feel jour legz? Tell me jou can feel jour legz."
"...yes. It's just… heavy. I can't push it."
"Hah! Leave itz to thez awesome me.” Gilbert grunted as he heaved, the muscle in his bicep flexing, mail creaking. The wreckage groaned, it lifted, not much, but enough. "Come on, Mädchen! Move already! I'm not holding zhis all day! I already told Gott He's on my bad side today, ja!"
(Y/N) freed herself, using her arms to slide herself from under the wreckage. She bit back a cry as her legs were officially freed and he let the beam drop back into the sand.
(Y/N) coughed into the sand and reached forward, not towards anything exactly but to the bleak, dryness of the Judean Desert.
He stood over her, chest still heaving, sweat cutting clean lines through the dust on his face as he looked down.
Before she could protest, he grabbed her by the waist and hauled her up roughly, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. She coughed into his blouse and attempted to scratch him, wanting to be put down.
“Quiet,” Gilbert barked, swatting her thigh hard enough to get her attention. (Y/N) made a small, startled sound against him, and he huffed something that might've been a laugh. "Jour with me now. I dug you ovt of zhat grave. That means jou belong to me until I decide otherwise."
(Y/N) was too weak to fight him. She did not struggle, and if any onlooker were watching they would assume she were either willing or dead. But she were neither, not yet at least.
Gilbert carried her to his horse and threw her over the saddle like baggage. He mounted behind her, pressing his chest flush against her back, one arm locked around her waist.
“Keep squirming like zhat and I’ll snap jour kneck,” Gilbert said as he took the reins. “I’ve gone thirty-three days vizhout a woman. Don’t test me, little serving girl.”
The journey was long, but she didn’t remember any of it. The sun had taken her and (Y/N) had escaped to the dream world. When she awoke, she was on a bed in a room she did not recognize.
Gilbert had paid the caravanserais’ keeper with stolen gold, and had dragged her through the courtyard into a dingy room that had certainly seen better days. There was a single bed with furs of animals she had never seen, a pot that hung over a fire, and a single chair in the corner of the room that was beneath a window.
(Y/N) groaned and sat up straight. Her body had been cleaned and her hair washed of the sand that had braided itself into her strands.
Gilbert stood in the corner of the room, unlacing his shirt. His pale scarred skin and white hair made him look almost demonic in the fire’s light.
“Finally. I vas starting to zhink I carried a dead weight all zhe vay here for nozhing.”
(Y/N) whipped her head around and looked at the corner of the room where he stood.
There he was, with his arms crossed and leaning against the wall. He'd shed the mail somewhere along the way; just a linen shirt now, sleeves shoved up, a bowl of water and a cloth resting near him like he'd been in the middle of something before she awoke.
"Where am I?"
“Some shithole caravanserai two days’ ride from vhere I found jou. Safe enough for now. Nobody here asks questions if you pay zhem enough gold.” Gilbert said slowly as he pushed himself off the wall and stalked closer to her. "Jou don't remember any of it, do jou. The horse. Me talking to jou the vhole vay like an idiot so jou vouldn't slip off."
(Y/N) shook her head, then looked around the room.
Dirtied, silver chainmail rested near the chair along with a surcoat where a cross shape had been picked at and half removed. "You're a Templar… Aren’t you?”
"...Vas. A Templar. Emphasis on vas, little serving girl. Keep calling me zhat and I might get annoyed.”
Gilbert sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that his thigh pressed against her hip. He looked over her shamelessly, as though she were already his property and his for the taking. He grazed her thigh, but she quickly retracted herself so she was pressed against the bed’s headboard.
“So jou are a serving girl, hm?” Gilbert laughed to himself. “No noble blood und noo rich betrothed coming to save jou. Just a soft, helpless little thing vizh und no one left to miss her.. Makes zhis very convenient for me.”
(Y/N)’s cheeks burned as she stuttered: “Didn’t you take vows of chastity?”
For a moment Gilbert stared at her, before throwing his head back and laughing, at (Y/N) as she clutched onto the blanket beneath her.
He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye as he looked down at her clutching the blanket like a shield.
“Chastity?” he repeated in mockery. “Ja, I took zhem. Swore my cock to God and zhe Order like a good little soldier.” He leaned in closer, one hand planting on the mattress beside her hip, trapping her. His red eyes gleamed with something feral. “But zhe Order is dead. Zhe Pope pissed on our graves. Zhe King of France hunts us down like rats. So tell me, little serving girl…” His free hand shot out and gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “Vhy zhe fuck should I deny myself anymore?”
(Y/N)’s lip trembled as she tried to turn away from him, but he kept her in place. She would have rather been anywhere but here, even scrumbing the palace floors back in Constantinople. But no, somehow she ended up in the bed of a red eyed heretic.
“I haven’t had a warm cunt in zhirty-three days. Zhirty-three. Days.” Gilbert spat at her, breaking her from her trance. “And now I’ve got a soft, helpless girl in my bed who owes me everyzhing.Jou should be zhanking me.I could’ve left jou to rot in zhat sand. Instead, I carried jou, cleaned jou, and brought jou here.” His hand slid from her jaw down to her throat, squeezing just enough to make her breath hitch. “So here’z how it’z going to be.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Jou’re going to be my good little serving girl. Jou’ll spread zhese legs when I vant, Joure mine vhore.” His knee shoved between her thighs, parting them as his voice turned vicious. “Fight me… and I’ll sell jou to a caravan. Scream for help… and I’ll kill every man in zhis caravanserai before I break jou. I’ve been patient enough. Now it’s time for jou to start paying me back.”
He pulled back just enough to stare down at her, eyes burning with dark hunger.
“Vell, Mädchen?” His fingers teased as he slowly guided himself under her dress and into her cunt. “Are jou going to be gut… or do I need to teach jou how to serve jour new meister tonight?”
“Please,” (Y/N) gasped as she felt his finger inside of her, “I just want to get to Jerusalem.”
“Jou’re not going anywhere.” He sneered as he added a second finger, stretching her.
Gilbert shoved the blanket aside and pushed her dress up to her waist with a harsh tug. His fingers left her cunt only so he could free himself from his breeches. His cock was already hard, thick and beating, leaking at the tip after so many days without release.
“Please…” (Y/N) tried again, but Gilbert grabbed her and shoved her so that she was directly under him.
“Halt den Mund und akzeptiere es!”
He spread her legs forcibly, then inserted his manhood into her tight, wet cunt. He was so big, causing (Y/N) to shriek from the sudden pain. Gilbert groaned loudly, eyes rolling back for a moment.
“Fuck… so tight. Zhat’s it… take every inch like a good little slut.”
He didn’t give her any time to adjust, as his hips snapped forward hard and fast. He fucked her roughly as though he were hungry, which made the bed creak under them. Each thrust drove deep, filling her up completely with his manhood and precum.
“Zhirty-three days,” he groaned, thrusting into her. “Zhirty-three fucking days vizhout zhis. And now I have a varm cunt all to mineself.”
(Y/N) whimpered and gasped with every brutal thrust that he gave her. Her cunt clenched around his manhood as though she wanted more, and in that way her body betrayed her. He shifted his angle, hitting a spot that made her shutter with pleasure. A dark laugh left his lips when he felt her clench tighter around him.
“Cum on my cock like zhe desperate little slut jou are. Show me how grateful jou are zhat I didn’t leave jou to die.”
The combination of his brutal pace and the relentless pressure on her clit finally pushed her over the edge. (Y/N) finally came. Gilbert cursed loudly in German and fucked her through it and came shortly after her.
Gilbert filled her with his seed, staying inside her as he loomed over her with his shaking body.
He then pulled out of her, and got up from the bed. Panting, as he picked up his trousers and retired them to his waist. Gilbert poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down as he stared down at her. (Y/N) didn’t move, she didn’t know how to.
Gilbert set the empty cup down with a clink that seemed too loud in the quiet room. The fire had burned low and he stood there a moment with his back to her, shoulders still rising and falling.
“They were right about you people.” (Y/N) said finally, breaking the silence.
Gilbert glanced back at her over his shoulder, one brow lifting. "Vhat's zhat supposed to mean."
“The Templars… everyone said you were no better than beasts… They were right.”
Silence filled the room, and (Y/N) could only hear the flicker of the fire and the beats of her heart. Then Gilbert laughed, though it was a laugh without humor. He stalked back to the bed, grabbed her ankle, and dragged her roughly toward the edge until her legs dangled off.
“If I’m a godless heretic, zhen jou’re a whore.” Gilbert exhaled sharply through his nose and then released her ankle. He straightened up, running a hand through his messy white hair.
“Scheiße…”
He turned away from the bed and began pulling on the rest of his clothes quickly as though he were irritated.
“Jou’re lucky I have better thingz to do vight now.” he said coldly, not even looking at her. “Stay here.”
Gilbert grabbed his sword belt and buckled it around his waist as though he were ready for violence.
(Y/N) watched as Gilbert walked over to the door and placed his hand on the knob. Without another word, he pushed the door open and walked out, making sure to lock it behind him.
Desperately, she pushed herself off the bed and began looking around the room.
She found it on the small table near the fire pit, half hidden under a cloth: a short skinning knife, the kind used for game. It was still a blade, and a blade could be used on a man. Her hand closed around the worn wooden handle before she'd even decided to reach for it.
Would she stab him? Or would she be too frightened to wield it?
The night ahead would show her who she really was.
ᯓ★ (Y/N) and Ensign Vorik have been bickering since the USS Voyager got lost in the Delta Quadrant. When their latest fight ends with both of them lying on the engineering room's floor, Captain Janeway sentences them both to twenty-four hours in the ships brig as punishment. Vorik just happens to be experiencing a Vulcan's Pon Farr, and (Y/N) is the only eligible mate in proximity. ᯓ★
(Y/N) sat with her arms crossed in the grey brig.
Across from her, was Ensign Vorik, the reason why they were in this mess to begin with.
It was just another Tuesday aboard the USS Voyager. (Y/N) had been assigned to run diagnostics on the warp drive. A task which was usually simple, routine, and uneventful. That expectation vanished the moment she glanced at the duty roster and saw who had been assigned to work alongside her. She rolled her eyes.
Ensign Vorik.
The two had been bickering ever since the Earth Station McKinley where they first departed. For a Vulcan, Vorik sure had a lot of attitude. And his antics had already started to annoy ensign (Y/N) ten minutes into the diagnostic.
“I have already recalibrated the plasma injectors,” Vorik said without looking up from the control console.
“No, you recalibrated them to starfleet specifications. They’ve been running outside those tolerances since we entered the Nekrit Expanse.” (Y/N) said as she glanced over his shoulder.
“Starfleet’s specifications exist for a reason.”
“And reality exists for another.” (Y/N) said, crossing her arms. Her comment caused Vorik to finally look at her. She continued now, looking at his face which she once joked was punchable to another colleague. “They’re the only reason this ship hasn’t shaken itself apart every time Lieutenant Paris takes us to warp.”
“An illogical exaggeration.”
“Just because you’re a Vulcan doesn’t make you right, so stop undoing my work.” (Y/N) reached past him and restored the calibration he’d just overwritten. But just as fast as she restored it, Vorik reversed it again.
“The adjustment is illogical.”
Again she changed the settings.
Again he changed them back.
The console then made an odd noise in response to the commands being entered too quickly. Vorik then placed his hand over (Y/N)’s, preventing her from reaching the control buttons.
“Ensign.” He said as though he were above her in rank.
“Did you just… did you just grab me?” (Y/N) stuttered as she yanked her hand free.
“I prevented further interference. You were compromising the diagnostic.”
Their voices, (Y/N)’s specifically, had grown loud enough that several engineers had stopped pretending not to watch. B’Elanna Torres had emerged after hearing the disruption.
(Y/N) stepped forward, jabbing a finger into his chest. But Vorik caught her wrist before she could shove him, surprising (Y/N) with his strength.
“Your conduct is inappropriate, Ensign (L/N).” Vorik said.
“Let go of me!”
(Y/N) struggled in his arms as she tried to break free, but he was too strong. It was bad enough that he had his gross Vulcan hands on her, but now the whole engineering floor was watching them. Their struggle then caused them to collide with the engineering console, sending tools clattering to the deck.
(Y/N) found herself pinned between his legs as Vorik used his hands to pin hers against the floor.
“Computer! Yellow alert!” Lieutenant Torres shouted over the chaos.
“Janeway to Engineering.”
"Captain... we've got a situation." Torres said as she pressed her combadge. It wasn’t the first time she needed to contact an authority to deal with these two.
"...I noticed,” Captain Janeway’s voice rippled through the room, in a dangerous way. Both (Y/N) and Vorik knew that they were about to regret their decisions that led up to their argument. "Both ensigns are to report to my ready room. Immediately."
⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
Captain Janeway stood behind her desk in her office, somewhat annoyed that she had to deal with these two again. (Y/N) and Vorik stood at rigid attention on opposite sides of the room, both sporting fresh bruises.
"I've reviewed Engineering's security recordings," Captain Janeway said. “And I have also spoken with Lieutenant Torres. I expect disagreements among my crew. I even expect arguments…”
As the captain spoke, (Y/N) kept her eyes forward. Though she felt ashamed that she had been brought in to be scolded by the highest ranking officer on the ship, she did not regret yelling at Vorik. The damn Vulcan deserved it goddamnit!
"What I do not expect is for two Starfleet officers to settle those disagreements by wrestling across Main Engineering." Captain Janeway continued, looking in between both of them. "I've tried assigning you to different shifts. I've spoken to each of you individually. Clearly, neither approach has worked. For conduct unbecoming of Starfleet officers, I am confining both of you to the brig for twenty-four hours."
"The brig?" (Y/N)'s eyes widened and her foot began to tap unknowingly.
Vorik remained expressionless.
"Yes, Ensign," But Janeway wasn't finished. She stuck one finger in the air and looked at (Y/N) and then at the security officer standing by the door. "And since neither of you can seem to function professionally apart… One cell.”
Vorik raised a single eyebrow and (Y/N) stared in horror. But Captain Janeway, the bringer of the punishment, almost smiled.
"Perhaps after twenty-four hours of each other's company, you'll either learn to work together… or you'll discover that silence is preferable."
So that was what brought them here, to the small brig room which contained both of them. There was one bunk, one replicator for food, and the massive window which gave them each a view of the hallway. There was supposed to be a security guard stationed outside, but he had been gone for some time.
(Y/N) got up and started walking around in circles. It was better than sitting four feet away from the Vulcan who'd just pinned her to the engineering deck.
Vorik had taken up a position against the far wall, his spine straight as he sat, and his hands clasped in front of him. He was meditating, something that angered (Y/N) who found no peace in their arrangement.
"You could at least pretend to be upset about this," (Y/N) said. "Or is 'inconvenienced' as close to an emotion as you people get?"
"I am attempting to remain composed…"
"Composed," she repeated slowly. "Vorik, are you okay?"
Vorik’s breathing wasn't as steady as usual. A fine sheen of perspiration had formed along his brow, and every few moments his fingers curled ever so slightly against his knees before relaxing again.
"I do not have time to belabor the point." Vorik said as he got up from the ground and straightened."Ensign. (Y/N)."
"That's my name, yes."
"Let me take this opportunity to declare koon-ut so'lik." Vorik said. He was now super close to her, so close that (Y/N) could feel the beats of his heart and his elevated temperature which made it seem as though he were experiencing a human cold."My desire to become your mate."
“What!?”
"In human terms, I am proposing marriage." His eyes didn't leave hers, didn't waver, even as a muscle in brow ticked with the effort of holding still. "Do you accept?"
"Vorik, we were fighting over plasma injectors four hours ago."
"I am aware of the timeline. But my attempts at meditation are proving insufficient. The condition does not respond to logic. Only to bonding."
(Y/N) took a step back, bumping into the edge of the bunk. "Okay, back up. Back up. What condition, Vorik, tell me, don't just…" she gestured helplessly at him, "...loom at me."
"Pon farr." He said the words like they were being extracted from him through torture. "The Vulcan blood fever. It occurs every seven years and it is… not optional to endure alone."
“But don’t you have a mate back on Vulcan?”
“She has sufficient reason to consider me lost, and has most likely chosen another mate. It's appropriate for me to do the same.” Vorik responded, not stepping away from (Y/N).
"Oh, well, when you put it that romantically…"
"I have come to greatly admire not only your impressive technical skills," he continued, plowing forward as though if he stopped talking his control might go with it, "but also your bravery, and your sense of moral duty. All excellent qualities in a prospective mate."
(Y/N) turned her face away from his as he had cornered her against the brig wall.
"You're proposing to me in a brig cell!"
"The location is not ideal," he conceded. "But time is a factor I do not control."
"There is a security guard right there…"
"He departed several minutes ago." A pause. "It is reasonable to assume that he will be gone for some time."
(Y/N) continued to look away from him, her heart racing in a way similar to adrenaline, which is what she told herself it was.
"You may wish to reconsider your refusal," Vorik said."Your choices for a mate are currently limited to seventy-three male crew members on this ship. Some of whom are already unavailable."
"Did you run the numbers on my dating pool while you were dying of Vulcan hormones?"
"I calculated it several hours ago. Before the onset made concentration difficult."
She should have said no. She knew she should have said no, there were about nine violations of protocol happening in this cell already, and marriage proposals from feverish Vulcans mid-biological-crisis were probably number ten. He was insufferable, whenever he sat with the rest of the engineering crew for lunch, (Y/N) would immediately find another table. If he walked into a turbolift, she'd suddenly remember she needed to be on a different deck. If Lieutenant Torres assigned them to the same maintenance rotation, she'd spend the entire shift arguing with him over tolerances, calibrations, and whether "good enough" was, in fact, good enough.
But he was standing there white-knuckled and honest in a way she'd never once seen him be.
"Fuck it," She said, mostly to herself as she closed the distance between the two and pressed her lips against his.
Their kiss was clumsy. (Y/N) seized her impulses and her feelings of frustration and became one with the heat radiating off of Vorik’s body than any practiced grace. The moment (Y/N)’s lips met his, something in the Vulcan caused him to seize (Y/N)’s waist and pull her against his own body.
(Y/N) gasped into his mouth as he deepened the kiss, his tongue demanding entrance with a Vulcan’s typical precision turned feral. She tasted spice and heat, something uniquely him, and her fingers tangled in the short hair at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to draw another rough sound from him.
“Vorik…” she managed to breathe when they broke apart for air, but he didn’t let her finish. His mouth trailed down her jaw to the sensitive skin of her throat. One of his hands slid to unzipper her uniform, using his hands to freely explore her bare skin. He pressed her hard against the brig wall.
“The bond… it must begin,” he whispered against her collarbone, his voice strained, barely recognizable. His usual stoic tone had dissolved into something needier. “Accept me, (Y/N).”
She should have hesitated longer. Protocol, duty, the fact that they’d been at each other’s throats hours ago. She yanked open his uniform top instead, exposing the hard planes of his chest. “Then stop talking and show me.”
Vorik’s control shattered. He lifted her onto the narrow bunk with his vulcan strength that surprised (Y/N) as she let him guide her. Their uniforms were shed in a frantic tangle of fabric as they fell to the ground beneath them.
His hands were everywhere, tracing her fragile body with desperate reverence. His fingers traced the curve of her breasts, with his thumbs brushing over hardening nipples until she arched into him with a sharp moan.
When he settled between her thighs, she could feel the rigid length of him, hot and heavy against her core. Pon farr had left him aching, leaking, the head of his cock already slick. He paused only long enough to meet her eyes, pupils blown wide with lust, the last thread of Vulcan composure fraying.
“Say it again,” he rasped.
“Mate with me, Vorik.” she moaned, widening her legs further.
He thrust into her, burying himself into her tight core. (Y/N) cried out at the sudden stretch, the burning fullness. He was thick, pulsing inside her, and the heat of him made her clench around his cock. Vorik groaned and began breathing ragged as he fought not to lose himself immediately.
Vorik’s hips then snapped and he began to fuck her hard. (Y/N) had been with a man once while at the academy, but being with a vulcan hard from pon farr was a completely different experience. He offered her no mercy. Fucking her so hard she was forced to moan as loud as she could.
The brig cell echoed with the wet sounds of their joining. He whispered vulcan sayings against her skin as she gasped into the swollen air.
One of his hands found hers, fingers touching in the vulcan kiss. While his other hand steadied himself against the narrow cot. He angled her so he could grind against that perfect spot inside her with every stroke. He was so close, but (Y/N) beat him to it as she came first with a sharp cry, walls fluttering and squeezing around him, nails raking down his back.
Vorik followed moments later, burying himself deep as he spilled inside her with a guttural snarl, hips jerking through the aftershocks. But his pon farr wasn’t satisfied. He stayed hard, still buried in her heat, and rolled them so she was on top, hands guiding her hips as he looked up at her with raw hunger.
“Again,” he commanded, voice hoarse. “We are not finished.”
She smirked down at him, breathless and flushed, rolling her hips experimentally. “Then you’d better keep up, Vulcan.”
The night hours came. They fucked through the night cycle, slow and deep, not caring is a night guard or any of the cameras were watching them. They fucked aganist the wall, bent over the bunk, her riding him until her thighs shook… And each orgasm fed the bond, weaving their minds closer. Vorik’s touches grew more possessive, his mouth marking her neck and breasts, while (Y/N) whispered filthy encouragements that made his control fracture over and over.
By the time the security guard finally returned to check on them, both were spent, tangled naked on the bunk, sweat-slicked and breathing hard. Vorik’s arms were wrapped around her protectively, his head pressed to hers in a lingering mind-touch.
⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆
Epilogue
Ensign (Y/N) and Ensign Vorik both stood at attention in Captain Janeway’s office. She looked between the two of them as she sipped her cup of coffee. Lieutenant Torres stood idly behind her.
"Well," she said. "You're both still standing, which I'll count as an improvement over yesterday. I take it twenty-four hours in close quarters did the trick? Have you resolved your differences?"
(Y/N) glanced sideways at Vorik. Vorik glanced back, and something passed between them that had nothing to do with plasma injectors.
“Actually, Captain…” (Y/N) began, “we’d like to get married.”
“Married.” Janeway repeated as her coffee cup stopped halfway to her mouth. "I'm sorry. I don't think I heard you correctly."
“Yes, Captain,” Vorik confirmed, calm as ever. “Ensign (Y/N) has accepted my proposal of koon-ut so’lik. We wish to formalize the bond under Starfleet regulations as soon as it is convenient.”
Captain Janeway pinched the bridge of her nose, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward despite herself. “Of course you do. Because nothing about this situation could be simple. Well… the Delta Quadrant has seen stranger things. Lieutenant Torres, prepare the necessary paperwork. We’ll schedule a ceremony once we’re not actively dodging plasma storms or hostile species.”
Captain Janeway looked between them for one last time, her expression softening,
“Congratulations, Ensigns. Dismissed. And just try to keep the arguments to a minimum from now on.”
“Yes, Captain,” they both replied in unison.
As they turned to leave the bridge, Vorik’s fingers brushed (Y/N)’s again. She hooked her pinky around his for just a second, a small, secret smile playing on her lips.
They then went their separate ways. Leaving Captain Janeway pinching her nose in her office.
𓃦(Y/N) has grown up in Jorrvaskr with Farkas since being rescued by The Companions. Slowly, as (Y/N) grows up, she notices Farkas grow cold and distant. When they are sent away on a mission together, (Y/N) learns why he has become so distant... It's the wolf inside of him that wants her, and he's been fighting it for longer than she knows.𓃦
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧
Life in Skyrim was short.
So short that (Y/N) remembered every aspect of it, even before joining The Companions.
She was a nord, the daughter of traders and treasure hunters with a vagabond lifestyle that would rival a wandering khajiit trader. There was never a time in which (Y/N) ever walked through a door and called the room inside her home.
The home of the (L/N) dynasty was under the stars. Though it wasn’t much, it was enough for the ignorance of (Y/N)’s heart, for she knew no walls save the mountains that watched the roads, and no ceiling save the endless vault of heaven strewn with stars. The turning of the seasons was her inheritance, and every winding path seemed not to lead her away from home, but ever deeper into it.
That was until they wandered into a cave that had no light, and when the light came, it was a cruel radiance that spilled from the depths like the awakening of something that had long been left undisturbed.
It came for the souls of her parents.
There was no cry that reached her, no farewell carried upon the stale air. The young (Y/N) was left alone in the coldness of the cave, left with all the treasure that a trader would pay a hefty sum of gold for.
Then one night, when (Y/N) had grown hungry and tired from listening to tales from the bandits that had made their home in the cave, they came.
There was bloodshed. More bloodshed than the mountain had swallowed in a hundred winters. The steel of greatswords colliding with shields caused the cave to shake. Firelight danced around screams that were cut short almost as soon as they rang.
Curled into the narrow crevice where she had hidden for days, (Y/N) squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, yet she could not escape the dreadful symphony. Boots thundered past her hiding place, allowing her the simple peace of thinking she was invisible.
Then, a lone figure appeared. Broad shouldered, with armor she had only seen on royal hunters. Suddenly, the figure paused before the cleft in the stone, right where (Y/N) was hiding.
"Come out," a deep voice said with a gruff. "There are no wolves left in this den."
(Y/N) did not move, choosing to cover her face with her arms as though they would shield her from his greatsword.
The figure then knelt, though the wolfskin draped across his shoulders still brushed the stone. His beard was silver as frost upon the pines, and the years had carved deep lines into his face, yet there was nothing of the brigand in his eyes. He looked upon her as one might regard a frightened fawn caught alone before winter.
“And who might you be?”
(Y/N) did not respond, but held her face tighter.
"Kodlak! The cave's clear." Another voice rang from deeper in the cave.
"See to the wounded. We'll be along shortly." He returned in the same gruff voice. But the man called Kodlak did not turn his gaze from the shivering child.
His companions moved away, their footsteps fading until only the old warrior remained.
"You've been here some time."
(Y/N) did not move.
"Hungry?"
(Y/N) then nodded, removing her arms from her face which earned her a smile from the old warrior who unfastened a small leather pouch from his belt. He pulled out a coarse heel of bread and a strip of dried venison. He set them upon the stone between them before easing back a step.
For the past month, (Y/N) had been eating the cold scraps and crumbs left from the bandits. It had been some time in which she had a meal.
"I'm not asking you to trust me. Trust isn't given because a man asks for it."
“Then why are you giving me food?” (Y/N) asked from her hiding spot.
"Because no child should have to wonder whether her next meal comes from thieves."
The small and frail (Y/N) hesitated before inching forward. Her fingers trembled as she snatched the bread, retreating into the crevice as though expecting him to seize her.
But he did not.
He simply waited while she ate. When she had finished, Kodlak rose to his feet and held out a weathered hand.
"My name is Kodlak Whitemane. You've nowhere left to go, have you?"
“No.” (Y/N) answered softly to his gentle question.
"Then come with me."
"Where?"
"To Jorrvaskr. There you'll find warm food, a roof that doesn't leak, and folk who know that strength isn't measured by the weight of a sword alone," He answered with a softened expression. “But you must first answer my question?”
(Y/N) looked at him with a confused look but took his hand.
“What is your name?” he asked.
And this time, she answered.
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧
Kodlak carried her out of the cave, for her legs were too frail to walk. (Y/N) hugged onto him, as though if she let go then she would fall back into the cave.
Outside, the night air was sharp and clean, causing (Y/N) to take a huge gasp. A short distance away, torches burned in a loose ring where the Companions had made camp. Horses stamped softly at the edge of the firelight. Steel was being cleaned and wounds were being bound from their onslaught.
A young man stood near one of the horses, adjusting the saddle with the impatient strength of someone still growing into his own power. His hair was as dark as the night and he had war paint on his eyes that made him look tired. Even then, he was broad-shouldered and large—Farkas looked up when Kodlak approached.
“Kodlak,” he said, nodding as he looked between the girl that held onto the older warrior.
“We’ll be moving soon.” Kodlak responded.
Farkas glanced toward the cave entrance, where smoke still drifted lazily from the dying torches within. “No survivors?”
“None worth leaving behind,” Kodlak answered. “But this one’s coming with us.”
Farkas straightened slightly. “With us? To Jorrvaskr?”
“Aye.”
There was a brief silence. It was not judgment, just a short stint of confusion but alas, the one named Farkas decided to trust the older warrior who had years of experience above him.
Kodlak stepped a little closer to the horse Farkas was preparing. “She’ll ride in front of you. She’s not used to horses or people either . You’ll go slow. Keep her steady.”
Farkas looked down at the girl again who now stood properly this time. She didn’t look at him at first, only at the horse who seemed large and grand though scary at the same time. Maybe if she looked for too long, they would all turn into monsters.
Then, after some time, she did look up.
“Aye,” he said at last, giving a short nod. “I can do that.”
Kodlak gave a faint, approving hum. “Good.”
He placed a hand briefly on Farkas’ shoulder as he passed, a silent passing of responsibility more than command. Then, softer he whispered.
“Take care with her. The world has already been too sharp.”
Farkas didn’t answer with words. Instead, he went over to the horse loosened the reins, and held out a hand, not quite as gentle as Kodlak’s, but careful enough.
“Come on, then,” he said. “I’ll get you to a safer place.”
And (Y/N) stepped forward and Farkas leaned down, hooking his hands beneath her arms and lifting her onto the horse as though she weighed no more than a bundle of hay.
(Y/N) became stiff at her new found hight and her hands shot out to grip the pommel of the saddle until her knuckles went pale.
"Easy," Farkas said, swinging up behind her. "Horse won't buck. Not with Kodlak's lot around to hear it complain."
Something inside her loosened and she waited for them to move. The rest of the warriors gathered themselves in the dark as they attached their belongings and loot to their horses. . Kodlak rode near the front, though he glanced back more than once to where Farkas held the reins with the girl tucked against him.
They rode through the night. (Y/N) didn't sleep, though her eyes grew heavy more than once. She watched the mountains pass, their vast shoulders lost to the night, black upon black beneath a sky thick with stars like cold fire scattered across the dome of the world.
For the first time in a month, she did not feel the cold quite so sharply, wedged as she was between Farkas' arms and the warmth of the horse beneath her.
"You've got a name," Farkas said at some point, not quite a question.
"(Y/N)," she said, so quiet he nearly missed it over the wind.
"Farkas." He said simply before speaking again. "That's my brother's tunic you're eyeing, by the way. Vilkas won't be pleased I let a stranger stare at his stitching."
She hadn't been looking at anyone's tunic. But she looked up at him anyway, confused, and caught the corner of his mouth twitch, not quite a smile, but close enough that some of the tightness in her chest eased.
They came upon Whiterun as dawn was breaking over the plains, and the first pale light of morning lay like silvered mist upon the grasslands, stirring faintly in the breath of the wind. Far off, the city rose upon its ancient stone. (Y/N) had seen cities before, from a distance, always at the edge of some trade road with her parents pointing out which gate offered the fairest tolls. She had never ridden through one at the head of a company of warriors, never had guards on the wall call down greetings to the man riding beside her.
"Companions return!" someone shouted from above, and the gate groaned open before they'd even slowed.
As they entered the city, (Y/N) watched as market stalls were just beginning to open, the smell of sweet rolls from a bakery, a blacksmith already hammering away despite the early hour. And then, at the top of the hill, stood Jorrvaskr.
Farkas brought the horse to a stop in the yard below the mead hall's weathered steps. "Here we are," he said, and swung down first before lifting her off after him, setting her feet on solid ground.
Kodlak dismounted nearby, stretching the ride from his back before crossing to them. Companions filed past in twos and threes, some casting curious glances at the small girl standing stiff and silent beside Farkas, but none of them lingered on it.
"This way," Kodlak said, and started up the steps.
(Y/N) hesitated, until Farkas' hand settled briefly, lightly pushing her to follow the older warrior.
The doors of Jorrvaskr opened onto warmth and firelight and the low murmur of voices, long tables scarred by years of blades and tankards, the smell of mead and roasting meat thick in the air. It was louder and stranger than anything she'd known, and for a moment she stood still in the doorway.
“Come along,” Kodlak said. “We need to get some meat on your bones before we start training you.”
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧
Winters came and passed at Jorrvaskr, and (Y/N) was no longer cold. She now had blankets and a bed she found every night. She had grown taller and stronger with calluses that had grown on her palms from Farkas’ relentless drilling.
He was not much older than she, she would come to learn. Though he was stronger and faster and was in the circle.
She was no longer the frail fawn Kodlak had carried out of that cave, but a warrior who could hold a sword steady and could even hold her own against Aela, her shield sister.
The training yard behind Jorrvaskr had become as familiar to her as her family's old wagon once was. Sun-warmed dirt, the clang of practice blades, Aela's dry commentary from the sidelines, Vilkas' needling. It was home now, in the way the mountains once had been.
But Farkas had changed.
Not all at once of course, but she couldn't point to the day it started. It had crept in slowly, the way frost creeps up a window pane before you notice the whole thing's gone white.
Where he'd once ruffled her hair or tossed her an apple from the kitchens, now he mostly just nodded. Where he'd once lingered to talk after sparring, now he ended their sessions quickly, already turning for the mead hall before she'd caught her breath.
But to her, he had always seemed as steadfast as the mountains. Even as he grew to be the man every tale promised he would become. He was now as broad as Gildergreen, strong enough to split a shield with a single stroke, his laughter capable of filling the great hall when it escaped him.
Perhaps that was why her heart, foolish and unbidden, had settled upon him.
It had happened so gradually she scarcely noticed. A lingering glance when he returned from a contract. A warmth she could not name when he praised her footing. The quiet disappointment whenever he chose another training partner. She kept these feelings locked away.
"Get up, shieldsister" he said flatly, circling her with his practice sword loose in his grip.
The training yard echoed with the commonplace sound of its music.
(Y/N) lunged, but Farkas’ blade was too fast as it turned hers aside with his finesse. Before she could recover, the flat of his sword tapped sharply against her shoulder.
"Dead." He said. No humor in his voice. Not even the ghost of the crooked half-smile she used to be able to coax out of him without trying.
"I almost had you."
"You almost lost your footing."
He offered no smile, only another stance. So she offered hers.
(Y/N) struck, he parried, and the blow rattled up her arm hard enough to sting. He didn't ease off the way he used to when she was smaller. He fought her now like he fought Vilkas, no softness left in it at all, and some stubborn, foolish part of her chest ached at that. She wanted the softness back, wanted to know what she'd done to lose it.
"You don't have to knock me down every time." (Y/N) said getting up.
"If I don't, the Silver Hand will."
She searched his face for the warmth she remembered from years before, the patient young Companion who had spoken softly so she would not fear climbing onto his horse. But she found only stone.
"Farkas." She lowered her blade. "Did I do something?"
He didn't meet her eyes. "You're dropping your shoulder before you swing. Fix it."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's the only thing that matters right now.”
“When did you become so miserable?" (Y/N) nearly yelled at him, lowering her blade.
Farkas then lowered his blade in return.
"If you're tired, we're done." He said firmly.
"I'm not tired."
"Then stop complaining."
"I’m just asking why you treat me differently than everyone else."
The yard continued to serve its purpose around them. Axes and arrows struck their targets as their wielders laughed amongst each other. Farkas looked away, turning as to put space between them and realign his stance. He said nothing, giving (Y/N) the opportunity to say what she was feeling.
"Come on Farkas… I mean, you smiled more at the training dummies than you've smiled at me this spring."
Something moved across his face, and then it was gone just as fast as it appeared.
"Pick up your sword," he said in a way that told her the conversation was over whether she wanted it to be or not. "If you're going to be a Companion, stop looking for kindness in a sparring ring."
(Y/N) felt a pang in her heart, as though it clenched her ribcage.
It became dark, and the women's barracks lay hushed beneath the blanket of midnight. (Y/N) laid on her bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling above, replaying the whole exchange the way she always did. She didn't understand how that boy who had helped her on the horse and the man circling her with a blade could be the same person. It sat heavy in her chest long after the torches in the hall had burned low.
"You're doing that thing again," came a voice from the bed across the room. Njada, propped up on one elbow, watching her.
"What thing?"
"That thing. The sighing." Njada smirked. "Is it some boy in the market you're smitten with? Some farm lad who smiled at you buying turnips?"
"I'm not smitten with anyone."
"Mm." Njada didn't look remotely convinced. "So who is he?"
“I already told you that there isn't anyone.” (Y/N) said annoyingly, flipping herself over on the bed so that she was facing the wall.
"Is it some boy guard?" Njada asked, still not convinced. "One of those smith's apprentices? Maybe a merchant's son? You do disappear long enough after errands."
"No."
"A bard?"
"I'd sooner wrestle a troll."
Njada barked a laugh loud enough to earn a sleepy groan from another Companion.
“Or maybe it's a nord twice your size who won't say two nice words to you in the yard."
(Y/N) sat up sharply. "That's not … it's not like that."
"Sure it isn't. Go to sleep, lovesick pup. You've got an early spar."
(Y/N) threw a balled-up shirt at her, which Njada batted away without even opening her eyes, laughing quietly to herself in the dark. (Y/N) pulled her blanket up and said nothing else, though sleep was a long time coming.
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧
The seasons turned again, and again, until the girl Kodlak had carried out of a cave was a shieldsister any of the Companions would be glad to have at their side. She'd bled for Jorrvaskr, bled for Whiterun, bled for strangers on roads she'd never have walked if not for the wolfskin cloak she now wore over her shoulders.
The night it happened, the whole of the circle had gathered with nothing but torchlight casting their faces.
“You have proven yourself, (Y/N) (L/N),” Skjor said. "In blood, in honor, and in loyalty to this circle. Rise as one of us. You are Companion, and you are worthy."
(Y/N) then drank Aela's blood and became what the companions were rumored to be.
She had been given the blessing of lycanthropy.
There was a beat of silence, and then the hall broke into it, Aela's hand clasping her shoulder, Vilkas' rare approving nod, and Skjor’s low laugh and rough congratulations. Kodlak embraced her the way he had that very first night, with everything unsaid folded into it.
Farkas said nothing.
He stood near the back of the circle, arms crossed, and when her eyes found him through the crowd he only gave the smallest nod before turning and heading up the stairs, gone before anyone else seemed to notice he'd left.
The pride she felt that night dimmed.
Later, when the hall had thinned and most had gone to celebrate properly with mead upstairs, Aela found her alone near the training yard.
"You're wondering why he didn't say anything."
(Y/N) looked up at her.
"I'm not … "
"You are." Aela said sharply. "Listen to me. Stay away from him. There are things about him — about what happens in the circle… that you don't understand yet. Things you're not ready to carry."
"Then tell me."
"Not tonight." Aela's hand found her shoulder, firm. "Just trust me on this one thing. For your own sake … keep your distance from Farkas, whatever you're feeling toward him. Let it go before it becomes something you can't."
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧
It wasn’t long before (Y/N) and Farkas were arguing again.
(Y/N) had been readying herself for a day out in the town when she noticed she was missing her…
"My dagger!" She said loud enough for all those around her to hear.
Farkas didn't even look up from the stone in his hands as he sharpened his own steel dagger.
"What about it?"
"My elven dagger. The one I took from that cave near the mountain."
"I don't know." He responded. The scraping of steel against stone continued and of course, Farkas did not look up.
"You don't know? It was on the nightstand above my bed this morning."
"Mhm."
"And now it's gone."
"So find it."
"I am finding it," (Y/N) said as she planted both hands upon the table between them. "And somehow I've ended up here."
"...Meaning?" Now Farkas finally looked up.
"Meaning you're the last person I saw anywhere near my room."
Around them, conversations throughout Jorrvaskr had begun to die as the rest of its inhabitants began to eavesdrop on the growing argument.
"Oh, this should be good." Vilkas said as he leaned comfortably against a pillar.
"I know you took it," (Y/N) insisted.
"And why," Farkas asked slowly, "would I steal your dagger?"
"Because mine is sharper than yours."
Laughter erupted from half the hall and Vilkas nearly dropped his mug.
"I have six other blades."
"None of them are mine."
"I don't want yours."
"Then where is it?"
"I don't know, (Y/N)!"
They had become loud enough for Skjor to emerge from the end of the hall, his footsteps were loud which caused everyone to turn and look as he walked by, obviously not in a good mood.
"What in Shor's name..." His gaze swept over the gathered Companions before settling on the two standing nose to nose. "...is this?"
Both of them answered at once, their voices frightening over each other.
"He stole…"
"She’s accusing me of…"
Skjor raised one hand and yelled "Enough!" for the whole hall to hear.
He sighed the sigh of a man who had dealt with this far too many times.
"Farkas."
"I didn't touch her dagger."
"(Y/N)."
"He absolutely did."
"I absolutely didn't."
"I don't care." Skjor's eyes flicked between them. "There's a troll problem harrying travelers on the road near Riverwood. The two of you are going to go deal with it. Together. And you're not welcome back in this hall until it's handled and you've remembered how to speak to each other like Companions instead of children."
(Y/N)'s smile vanished.
"...Together?"
"Together."
"That wasn't a request." He was already turning away. "You'll spend three days on the road together so I suggest you pack your things and leave quickly."
(Y/N) then shot Farkas one last look before storming to her bed, packing fresh provisions into her satchel. Farkas found his way into the stables and was tightening the straps on his armor when Vilkas wandered over.
“Three days on the road with her,” Vilkas drawled, voice low enough that the stable hands wouldn’t overhear. “Alone. Just the two of you, the wilds, and that pretty little warwolf you’ve been pretending not to notice.”
Farkas didn’t look up. “Not now, brother.”
“Oh, I think now is exactly the time.” Vilkas pushed off the post and stepped closer, voice dropping further. “ I can smell it on you, Farkas. The Circle can smell it. That beast inside you doesn’t give a damn about your noble silences anymore. She’s one of us now. And it’s only gotten worse, hasn’t it?”
Farkas finally straightened, turning to glare at his brother. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to grab an axe. “She’s a shieldsister. That’s all.”
“A shield-sister whose scent makes you want to pin her against the nearest tree and mate her until she is claimed. Don’t bother denying it. I’ve seen the way you watch her when she shifts back after a hunt. You are howling for her, brother. Loud enough that even Kodlak’s probably noticed by now. You nearly broke Torvar's arm because he called her pretty.”
"He called her distracting."
Vilkas folded his arms.
"I've spent so many years telling myself she was the frightened little girl Kodlak carried home..." Farkas’s eyes flicked toward the doors of Jorrvaskr, then back. Heat crawled up his neck, not all of it from anger. The beast inside grew at his words. "...that I don't know when she became a woman."
Ever since (Y/N) had joined the Circle, the pull had become unbearable. Her scent had changed, deeper, richer, laced with the same feral power that ran through his own veins. It called to him in ways no ordinary woman ever had.
“But I’m not some mindless beast,” Farkas growled.
“She’s stronger than you think. And she looks at you the same way, but keep snarling and pretending. See how well that works when you’re sharing a campfire for three nights and her scent is all over the wind.” Vilkas then stepped back, noticing (Y/N) approach the stables. “Try not to mount her against a rock before you even reach Riverwood. Or do. Might solve both your problems.”
Vilkas disappeared before (Y/N) approached Farkas with her satchel slung over her shoulder and her bow at her hip.
“Ready?” she asked.
He gave a short nod, swinging up onto his horse without offering her a hand up her horse this time. The wolf inside him paced and growled, thrilled and tormented by the coming journey.
It was going to be a long journey for the both of them.
And a long journey it was.
On the first day, they were ambushed by a group of orc bandits. (Y/N) was scrapped but nothing came of it, Farkas didn’t even offer to help her tend to her wound.
On the second day, they covered more ground than they expected until they were ambushed once more, this time by a troll. The troll clawed at (Y/N), causing her to be thrown off her horse and for the stallion to run off into the tree line. It was only when (Y/N) gave her finishing blow to the troll did she notice her horse was gone.
She screamed into the treeline for him to come back.
Farkas brought his own horse around at a slow walk, surveying the empty tree line where her stallion had vanished. For a moment he remained quiet, and she braced herself for some cutting remark about her horsemanship, or lack of it.
Instead he just sighed, and reached down to check the strap of her satchel where it hung crooked off one shoulder.
"You're bleeding."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine, it's dripping down your side." He said as he swung down off his horse. He closed the distance between them and pulled back the torn edge of her tunic to look at the gashes beneath. "Deep enough to need binding," he murmured, already digging through his pack for cloth. His hands were rougher than she remembered, but he made sure to be careful.
He wrapped her wound with the clean cloth, and she watched his face as he did so. At the war paint that dripped down from his eyes which were sharp and cold.
"There." He tied off the bandage and stepped back, some of the distance already creeping back into his expression. "That'll hold till we make camp."
"Thank you," she said quietly.
He grunted something that might have been acknowledgment, then looked past her toward the empty road, the problem of her missing horse settling over his features. "Riverwood's still the better part of a day off. Can't leave you here to wait on a horse that might not come back at all."
"So what, I walk as a beast?"
"You'll slow us both down walking with that wound." He said it plainly. For a moment he looked around the trees. They were close enough to the town now, and if anyone were to see her in her beast form she would surely be attacked and their presence unwelcome. After a long moment, he spoke again. "You'll ride with me."
“But…”
"Unless you'd rather wait here alone in troll country," he said, already moving to remount, "in which case, good luck to you."
(Y/N) huffed but moved to jump behind the saddle behind him.
"Hold on," he said, gruff, not looking back at her.
She hesitated only a moment before her arms came around his middle, hands finding purchase against the worn leather of his armor. He was warm, and solid, and smelled of pine sap and horse and steel, and she was suddenly, acutely aware of every inch of space that no longer existed between them.
Farkas said nothing, but she felt him take one slow breath before nudging the horse forward, and the wolf pacing behind his ribs went quiet. Or at least he tried to make it quiet, but being in close proximity to the unclaimed woman made it hard for him to keep focus.
Farkas could feel (Y/N)’s untamed heat, and the sound of her heart as it beat against his back.
When they laid out their bedrolls for the night, Farkas found himself unable to sleep while (Y/N) had found perfect rest.
She slept curled on her side in her bedroll a few feet away, the clean linen of her fresh bandage just visible beneath the edge of her cloak. The wound he’d bound earlier still carried the faint copper tang of her blood on the night air.
His body betrayed him.
The wolf inside stirred again, drawn by the lingering scent of her.
He shifted, as one of his hands unconsciously pressed down over the growing hardness as if he could will it away.
She’s hurt. She’s unclaimed. She’s… right there.
The thought came unbidden, raw and primal.
He could cross the space between them in two strides. Peel back her bedroll. Wake her with his mouth on her neck, his hands sliding under her tunic to feel the warmth of her skin, the curve of her waist, the softness…
The wolf growled approval at the thought, urging him to claim what his instincts screamed was his to take. To bury himself in her and drown out the constant pacing in his blood.
Farkas sat up slowly, muscles coiled tight. His breathing had grown heavier, the front of his trousers tented obscenely. He stared at her sleeping form, the way her hair spilled across the ground, the subtle rise and fall of her chest. One step. That was all it would take. She might even welcome it.
But he stopped himself.
His fists clenched at his sides until the knuckles cracked. The wolf howled in protest.
He forced himself to lie back down, turning onto his side away from her. The ache in his groin throbbed insistently, but he ignored it.
“Damn it,” he huffed under his breath.
✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧
They reached Riverwood by midmorning, the mill wheel turning lazy and steady over the river, smoke curling up from chimneys into a sky gone the color of pale steel. Alvor met them at the edge of town, wiping soot from his hands, relief plain on his face at the sight of two Companions riding in with weapons already drawn.
"Thank Talos you've come. Lost two sheep and near lost a boy last week, thing's been coming down from the hills past the old mill, tearing through anything that moves..."
"Big one," Farkas said, crouching to look at the tracks.
"Big and hungry," (Y/N) added, testing the draw on her bow.
It didn't take long for them to find it. Trolls rarely hid and when they did, they weren’t that hard to find.
Farkas drew its attention head-on, greatsword flashing, while (Y/N) circled wide and put arrow after arrow into the thing's hide until it staggered. When it finally turned to swipe at her, Farkas was already there, blade opening its throat before it could land the blow.
"That's that," Farkas said.
(Y/N) lowered her bow, some of the tension she'd carried since the ambush finally draining out of her shoulders. "They will be pleased."
They walked the horse back toward town together, the animal plodding along riderless between them now that the danger had passed, and Riverwood came alive with quiet gratitude as they passed through, a nod from the miller, a murmured thanks from a woman gathering her children in from the yard, Alvor himself pressing a small pouch of coin into Farkas' hand.
By the time the sun began sinking gold behind the mountains, painting the river in long amber ribbons, (Y/N) could feel the ache of the last three days catching up with her all at once. She turned towards the inn ahead and at Farkas who kept his gaze straight.
"We should stay the night," she said. "At the Sleeping Giant."
"Skjor said to handle the trolls and come back."
“But it will be dark out soon. I’d rather sleep tonight in a bed with a hot meal and possibly a sweet roll. I'd rather not reopen this wound riding through the night."
He considered it a moment before giving her a nod. "One night."
They led the horse to the stable round back, and (Y/N) pushed open the door of the Sleeping Giant to a wash of firelight and the smell of roasting meat.
"Companions," Delphine, the innkeeper, said, setting down a rag. "Heard there was trouble up near the mill."
"Not anymore," Farkas said.
"Good." She reached beneath the counter for the keys as they exchanged coin.
(Y/N) took one key, and Farkas took the other.
(Y/N) lingered at the top of the narrow stairs, key warm in her palm. The hall was quiet save for the low crackle of the hearth downstairs and the occasional creak of old timber. Farkas stood at the door across from hers.
“Goodnight, Farkas,” she said softly.
He met her eyes for a beat longer than necessary.
“Sleep,” he grunted. “You need it.”
She slipped into her room, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. The bed was lumpy but blessedly soft after three days on the road. She peeled off her armor, cleaned the wound as best she could with the water basin, and crawled beneath the furs still wearing her light tunic. Exhaustion pulled her under quickly.
Hours later, the inn was silent with nothing back the sound of crickets offering noise.
A soft sound pulled (Y/N) from sleep, a faint thud of a boot outside her door. She sat up, heart suddenly pounding, hand instinctively reaching for the dagger beneath her pillow. The floor creaked again. Someone was there.
She rose on bare feet, padded silently to the door, and cracked it open just enough to peer out.
Farkas filled the doorway.
Before she could speak, he stepped forward, pushing the door open with one massive shoulder. In the same motion he crowded her back into the room, one large hand closing the door behind him with a decisive thud. The next second her back hit the rough wooden wall, the impact not painful but firm enough to knock the breath from her lungs.
He loomed over her, one thick forearm braced beside her head, the other hand gripping her hip hard enough she could feel the heat of his palm through the thin tunic. His chest rose and fell with heavy, controlled breaths. The war paint around his eyes looked darker in the moonlight, his gaze burning as it dropped to her mouth, then lower, tracing the line of her neck and the curve of her breasts.
“I tried to stay away,” he growled, voice low and rough, edged with the wolf. “But I can’t. Not tonight.”
(Y/N) could feel the hardened press of his member against her core. It proved how much he needed her, making (Y/N)’s breath hitch as she grew weary.
“I need you,” he rasped, the words dragged from deep in his chest like a confession. “Like a man needs a woman.”
The rawness of his voice sent a shiver racing down her spine. Before she could respond, his mouth crashed down on hers. His kiss was wanting and hungry, showcasing the years of his discipline breaking.
Here she was: limp as he pressed her against the wall, ready for him to take.
Farkas grew harder as his length throbbed against her, trapped between them. He rolled his hips, grinding into her as she panted against him.
Heat pooled low in her womb, making her thighs clench around the solid muscle of his leg. (Y/N) looked up at him, lips parted, eyes dark with the same need.
“Then take me,” she whispered.
A deep, feral growl tore from his throat. In one swift motion, he shoved her tunic up around her waist, his large hand gripping the back of her thigh and hoisting her leg up around his hip. He pinned her firmly against the wall with his body, the rough wood biting into her back as he freed himself from his breeches. His thick, heavy cock sprang free, hot and throbbing, the head already slick as it nudged against her entrance.
“Good girl,” Farkas rasped against her ear, the praise low. “So fucking ready for me.”
He didn’t wait. With one powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt, stretching her open around his girth. (Y/N) cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as her walls clenched tight around him.
His fullness was overwhelming, but the burn melted into sharp pleasure almost instantly.
Farkas groaned, pushing deeper into her core as he began to thrust.
The song of her moans and his grunts filled the small room as he fucked her hard against the wall, each thrust driving her higher up the wooden planks.
“Talos… you’re so tight.” he growled.
He kept her pinned, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her ass as he drove into her again and again. The angle had him hitting that perfect spot inside her with every roll of his hips, making her moan and whimper against his neck.
“That’s it… good girl,” he praised, breath hot against her skin, fangs grazing her throat. “Take every inch like a good girl.”
The wolf was fully awake now, rumbling in his chest as he fucked her like he’d been starving for her.
(Y/N)’s back arched as she tightened around him, her core growing wetter.
Farkas snarled in satisfaction as he came inside of her, filling her with his seed. He stayed buried deep, holding her pinned against the wall as aftershocks trembled through both of them, his lips brushing soft, almost reverent kisses along her jaw.
“…Good girl,” he murmured again, softer this time, voice thick with lingering hunger. “But we’re not done yet.”
Farkas held her there for a moment longer, buried deep inside her as her walls fluttered around him. Then, with a low, possessive growl, he pulled out and spun her around in one fluid motion. Before she could catch her breath, he scooped her up and threw her onto the bed.
(Y/N) landed on her stomach with a surprised gasp, the furs soft beneath her. She barely had time to push up onto her hands and knees before Farkas was behind her, knees sinking into the mattress. His big hands gripped her hips hard, yanking her ass up and back toward him.
“On your knees,” he ordered, voice dark and rough.
He didn’t give her a chance to settle. One large hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pushing her chest down into the furs while he kept her hips raised high. The new position left her completely exposed to him.
“Good girl,” he praised, voice thick as he rubbed the thick head of his cock along her folds. “Look at you… dripping for me… Do you want more?”
(Y/N) had tears in her eyes as she nodded, pressing her ass against him.
Then he thrust back in, tearing deep into her core. (Y/N) moaned loudly into the furs as he filled her again, even deeper due to the angle.
Farkas groaned deeply as he sank back into her tight heat, the slick sound of her pussy taking every thick inch filling the room.
“You want this, don’t you?” he growled as he slowly dragged his cock out and slammed back in. “You want me to fuck you like this… hard and deep.”
(Y/N) moaned helplessly into the furs, nodding frantically. Her body trembled beneath him, completely at his mercy. The bed creaked loudly under the force of his thrusts, each one driving him impossibly deeper.
“That’s right… good girl, You want my seed, don’t you? You want me to fill this tight little cunt until it’s dripping with it.”
He punctuated his words with a particularly hard thrust, making her cry out. His pace grew faster, more primal, the wolf riding him hard now as he fucked her relentlessly from behind.
“Answer me,” he demanded, one hand sliding up to wrap around her throat, not squeezing, just holding her possessively as he railed her. “Tell me you want my seed. Tell me you want me to claim you as my own.”
(Y/N) whimpered.
“You do want it. You want me to pump you full until it takes.”
He reached beneath her again, rough fingers circling her swollen clit while he drove into her without mercy. His thrusts grew, more desperate as he neared the edge, whispering filthy promises against her skin between heavy breaths.
He seeded her again, coming inside of her as his body stiffened. He pulled out from her and laid down next to her, tracing her breasts with his finger tips.
Farkas rolled over, his back now towards (Y/N). The sudden shift left the air between them strangely cold despite the heat still lingering in her body.
“You should get some sleep.” He said.
(Y/N) lay there for a moment, chest still heaving, thighs slick with his seed. She reached out slowly, fingertips brushing along the warm skin of his back.
“Farkas…”
He tensed under her touch, muscles tightening like coiled steel, but he didn’t pull away.
“I shouldn’t have come in here. “The wolf… it doesn’t settle easy around you. Especially not after that.”
He rolled onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling beams. One arm came around her almost instinctively, pulling her against his side. His hand resumed its slow, absent tracing along the curve of her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple in lazy strokes as if he couldn’t quite stop touching her.
“You’re hurt. We’ve got a long ride back to Whiterun tomorrow. You need rest.” His voice softened just a fraction. “Not me keeping you up all night like some damn beast.”
Despite his words, his cock twitched against her thigh, already half-hard again.
(Y/N) shifted closer, draping one leg over his, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. “I’m not complaining,” she murmured against his warm skin.
“Greedy woman,” he said, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice. He turned his head to look at her, eyes still dark with lingering hunger. “Sleep. That’s an order.”
He pulled the furs over them both, tucking her against his large frame.
For now, though, he held her close and tender after the way he’d just ruined her against the wall and on the bed.
They would return in three days, and he would hope that his scent would disappear from her in time.
Or else he’d never hear the end of it from Vilkas.
Thank you for reading! I would like to thank : @/im-not-a-pleeb for making the beautiful dividers (the sword ones) and also @/droideplane for the rose dividers.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
☾☼ I've been experimenting with the American traditional style of art. I really Like the Retro look of it and thought it was most appropriate to do a Star Trek piece LOL. I also added a trigger to the phaser because I thought it looked cooler.☾☼
𓃗 In a post-Civil War Arizona, a hardworking saloonkeeper's daughter named (Y/N) falls for Alfred F. Jones. A union solider who has been assigned to watch over the newly freed Arizona territory. After weeks of secret nighttime rendezvous under the sonoran stars, they begin to fall in love with each other, with Alfred being (Y/N)'s first love. Soon, he is called to attended to other duties, leaving (Y/N) all alone and waiting for him to return. 𓃗
જ⁀➴.°˖⋆ ℧ 𓃗 .°˖⋆જ⁀➴
The days came and went.
Every morning the same.
(Y/N) would rise before the beaming sun of Arizona territory chose her as a victim. The wind of the dusty frontier still managed to dirty her, even after bathing herself in the basin she had prepared the night before.
The wind tugged on her skirt as she balanced the basket of chicken feed on her hip, starting her morning chores as she had always done.
The saloon had seen an influx of travelers since the war was over and Baylor had been hoisted from the west like a rabid dog. Soldiers returning home, cowboys looking for work, and families seeking new starts all passed through the saloon’s doors. Business was good, better than it had been in a long time which meant that the work never stopped for the (L/N) family.
(Y/N) could hear the laughs and the clashing of tins from outside as she walked across the porch and descended the wooden stairs to the coop.
Pa was attending to the bar and kitchen which meant outdoor chores were left to (Y/N).
The sun glared in her face as she looked up into the sky, immediately loosing her line of sight as she needed a few moments to adjust. Moments that costed her her footing as the world around her began to tilt.
Strong arms caught her, wrapping around her waist and pulling her against a solid, hard chest. The scent of worn leather, gun oil, and something faintly sweet like apple pie hit her all at once.
“Whoa there, miss! Easy now,” a bright, confident voice laughed right above her ear. “Can’t have the prettiest girl in the west breakin’ her neck on my watch!”
(Y/N) could feel her heart beating against her chest and her face turn a deep crimson as she became limp in his arms. She slowly looked up to meet blue eyes that sparkled with mischief under the brim of a well-worn Stetson hat that could barely hide a blond cowlick that managed to escape its cover.
“I… I… thank you, sir,” (Y/N) stuttered as her legs felt like churned butter. Grain crunched under her boots where the basket had spilled. “I didn’t… the step…”
“Hey, no need to thank me! Catching beautiful damsels in distress is basically my national specialty.” He said with a grin. “Name’s Alfred Jones.”
Her cheeks burned brighter than the western sun.
“I’m (Y/N). (Y/N) (L/N). Thank you again, Mr. Jones. I’m not usually this clumsy.”
He chuckled while he slowly but almost reluctantly, loosened his hold but kept one hand lightly on her back as she stepped back to compose herself.
“(Y/N), huh? Pretty name for the prettiest girl this side of the Mississippi.” Alfred flashed a dazzling grin, tipping his Stetson back with two fingers so she could see his eyes better. “And hey, no ‘Mister’ stuff. Just Alfred. Besides, after four years of war, a little clumsiness on some rickety stairs is nothin’.” He winked, then crouched down without missing a beat to help scoop the scattered feed back into the basket.
“You fought in the war?” She asked kneeling next to him.
Alfred’s grin faltered for just a second, before it returned. “Sure did. Fought like hell to keep the Union together. Now I’m out here helpin’ put things back together, one town at a time. Heard this saloon serves the best whisky west of Albuquerque so here I am.” He stood, offering her his hand. She took it and allowed him pull her up easily. “And lucky me, I got to play hero on day one.”
“Well… thank you, Alfred. The stairs have been warped since the last big storm. Pa keeps meaning to fix them.”
“Say no more!” He grabbed the refilled basket in one hand and offered (Y/N) his arm with the other. “Lead the way to the coop, miss (Y/N). I’ll walk you to make sure you don’t fall again.”
He winked, a playful gesture that seemed to radiate off him like the desert sun itself.
(Y/N) slipped her arm through his, the warmth of his skin seeping through his up sleeve. She didn’t know what else to do. There weren’t many young men in the town besides travelers and outlaws who needed a place to hide. She wondered if he was one of the men her father had warned her about. A man that would use her then leave her dry. The type of man that had became indigenous to the west.
“Jones! You lazy son of a gun, get back in here! We’re settin’ up a game of cards and I need my lucky charm! Don’t tell me you’re already sweet-talkin’ the locals!” A loud voice called from inside the saloon.
Alfred groaned and then glanced over his shoulder. One of his older soldier buddies, a greying man with a thick mustache and a faded Union jacket draped over his chair,
leaned out the window, grinning like an idiot.
“Hold your horses, Brandt! I’m bein’ a gentleman!” Alfred shouted back, laughing. He turned to (Y/N), regret flickering in those bright blue eyes. “Duty calls, I guess. They don’t let a fella rest easy. But I’ll catch up with you later, yeah? When can I see you again? How about tomorrow before sunrise?”
Before she could respond, he gently squeezed her hand, flashed one last dazzling grin, and jogged back toward the saloon, calling out a playful insult to Murphy as he went. (Y/N) stood there for a moment, basket in hand, cheeks still burning as she watched him disappear inside.
The day seemed shorter than usual.
It seemed to slip past her fingertips as every chore was finished with her thoughts wandering back to the morning again and again. (Y/N) touched her lips as she thought about his grin and the way he smiled at her.
The evening came, and when dinner at the saloon was over , (Y/N) sat at the family table in the back kitchen. The oil lamp cast a soft glow over the simple meal of beans, cornbread, and leftover roast. But her fork barely moved. Her pa had noticed and cleared his throat. “That Yankee boy’s been askin’ about you, y’know.”
(Y/N) startled, nearly dropping her fork. “Pa!”
“Alfred Jones, right? Tall fella with the loud mouth. Helped Brandt and the others with some stories earlier, then cornered me at the bar askin’ all sorts of questions. ‘What’s (Y/N)’s favorite time of day?’ ‘Does she like apple pie?’ Real subtle, that one.”
(Y/N)’s face flushed crimson all over again. She stared down at her plate, pushing a bean around with her fork. “He… he just caught me when I nearly fell this mornin’. That’s all.”
Her pa raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Mm-hmm. And now he’s askin’ after my daughter like she hung the moon. Just mind yourself, darlin’. World’s still raw after the war.”
(Y/N) didn’t trust herself to speak. She simply nodded.
He leaned back in his chair, studying her with that familiar mix of protectiveness and weariness that came from years of running the saloon alone after her ma passed.
“Just… don’t go fallin’ in love with the patrons, darlin’,” he said as his voice deepened, though his eyes were kind. “They roll through here lookin’ for one thing: whether it’s a hot meal, a soft bed, or a pretty smile to make ‘em forget the war for a night. Most of ‘em are gone by sunrise. Yankee or not, that Jones boy is still just passin’ through. Mind your heart.”
(Y/N) swallowed hard, the dreamy haze around Alfred’s smile dimming just a little under her father’s words. She knew he was right. The saloon had seen its share of broken promises and lonely mornings after charming strangers moved on. Still, the memory of Alfred’s strong arms catching her, his easy laugh, and the way he’d looked at her like she was more than just the saloon-keeper’s daughter made it hard to heed the warning.
“I know, Pa,” she murmured softly, finally meeting his gaze. “I’m not… It’s nothing.”
Her father grunted, unconvinced, but let the subject drop as they finished clearing the table in comfortable silence.
At night, (Y/N) lay in her narrow bed upstairs, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling while the sounds of the saloon slowly quieted. She thought of her pa’s words and the truth that had stung to them.
“Don’t go fallin’ in love with the patrons… they want one thing… most of ‘em are gone by sunrise.”
She turned onto her side, pulling the thin quilt tighter around her shoulders. Alfred’s bright laugh, the warmth of his hand on her back, the way he’d looked at her like she mattered—it all felt too good to be real. He was a soldier, charming and larger than life, and he would be gone once the territory was secured. Better not to get attached. Better to keep her distance before her heart ended up as dusty and broken as the steps outside.
By the early morning, she rose even earlier than usual, and skipped the back porch steps where she’d promised to meet Alfred, and instead helped her father hitch the old wagon for their usual Sunday trip into town. Church was a ritual they never missed. No one ever skipped sunday mass in the west.
The ride was dusty and quiet. (Y/N) kept her eyes on the horizon, ignoring the faint pang of guilt twisting in her chest. Alfred would understand… or maybe he wouldn’t wait around long enough for it to matter.
She silently hoped that he would be gone, that he would leave the saloon and attend to his duties and forget about her.
The small wooden church stood at the edge of town, its bell ringing clear across the scrubland. (Y/N) sat beside her pa in their usual pew near the middle, smoothing her best Sunday dress over her knees as the congregation settled in. The preacher began speaking, his voice steady and robotic.
As she bowed her head during the opening prayer, eyes closed in reflection, something made her glance to the side, toward the stained-glass window where morning light filtered through in soft colors. In the corner of that gentle reflection, she caught a glimpse of movement in the pew directly behind her.
A familiar blond cowlick and a blue uniform with the cap off sat directly besides him.
He sat straight with his hands clasped in front of him.
When the prayer ended and people began to sing the first hymn, (Y/N) felt his gaze on the back of her neck like a warm touch. She didn’t turn around, but her pulse quickened anyway, Pa’s warning warring with the flutter in her chest.
The final amen rang out and folks began filing outside, (Y/N) lingered, helping her father gather his hat.
A gentle tap on her shoulder made her turn.
"Morning, Miss (Y/N)," he said with a sheepish smile. "Or should I say good mornin'."
“You come to church?” She asked, blinking.
"Well..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I did say I'd see you before sunrise. Didn't exactly expect you to stand me up."
Heat rushed to her face. Travelers usually never came to the town’s church, especially soldiers as they usually had a chaplain that traveled with them.
"I…I wasn't standing you up."
"Weren't?" he asked, though there wasn't any accusation in his voice.
"My pa..." She looked toward the wagon where her father was exchanging greetings with a rancher. "We always leave early for church."
"I figured as much after about twenty minutes." He chuckled. "Thought maybe I'd said somethin' wrong."
"You didn't."
"No?"
"I..." She hesitated as she shook her head. "I just thought... perhaps it wasn't wise."
"'Cause I'm a soldier, just passin’ through?"
"...Yes."
They walked together outside as the wind stirred the bushes around the little church, carrying with it the smell of dust and horses.
"Can I tell you a secret?"
She nodded, allowing him to continue.
"I don't know where I'm headed."
"I thought you said you were helping secure the territory."
"I am." He shrugged. "Army's got me running messages, helping rebuild towns, escorting supply wagons. Truth is… War ended and suddenly nobody tells you where home is anymore."
There was something painfully honest about the confession as yesterday’s laughing hero had disappeared, revealing a tired young man who looked older than his years.
"I enlisted when I was fourteen."
"You did?"
"Fibbed about my age." He smiled weakly. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
"And now?"
"Now I'm twenty-four." He laughed under his breath. "And somehow everybody expects me to know what I'm doing."
"You don't?"
"Not a clue."
(Y/N) couldn't help smiling, watching as her father was saying his goodbye’s to the rancher.
"I know one thing though."
"What?"
"I wanted to see you again." Alfred finished quietly, his usual bravado stripped away under the gentle shade of the roof.
She looked down at the ground, suddenly fascinated by the dusty toe of her boot. Her father was still talking with the rancher by the wagon, but she could feel his occasional watchful glances in their direction.
“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted softly. “Travelers come and go. Pa says they always do. And after the war… everything’s so uncertain.”
Alfred rubbed the back of his neck again, that sheepish smile returning. “I know your pa’s probably right to warn you. I’m just another soldier passin’ through with dusty boots and too many stories. But… I haven’t been able to stop thinkin’ about you since I caught you on those steps. Not just ‘cause you’re pretty, though you are, real pretty, but ‘cause you…”
Then her father called her name
"(Y/N)!"
She looked over instinctively. Pa stod beside the wagon with the reins already gathered in his hands. He wasn't angry, merely waiting, but the look he gave her was enough to remind her of everything he'd said over supper the night before. Alfred followed her gaze and gave a small, understanding smile.
"I reckon that's my cue."
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
"Don't be." He tipped his hat. "Wouldn't dream of keepin' a lady from her pa."
She smiled apologetically.
"I'll... I'll see you around."
"I surely hope so."
For just a moment, it seemed like he wanted to say something more. Instead, he simply stepped back, placing his hat back on his head.
"Have yourself a swell Sunday, Miss (Y/N)."
"You too... Alfred."
She turned and hurried toward the wagon, painfully aware of his eyes following her until she climbed aboard. Her father clicked his tongue, urging the horses forward. The church slowly disappeared behind them and for several minutes, neither of them spoke. Finally after some time, her father broke the silence.
"He seems respectful."
"He is." (Y/N) said as she looked over.
"He didn't try to touch you."
"No, sir."
"He kept his distance."
"He did."
Her father adjusted the reins.
"That's more than I can say for half the young fools who pass through."
A small smile tugged at her lips.
"I suppose."
"But… Respectful don't change the fact that he's still leavin’."
"I know."
"I ain't sayin' he's a bad boy."
"I know."
"I'm sayin' don't build a future with a man who's only promised you tomorrow."
"I understand."
"Do you?" Her father glanced sideways, looking at her with the same look he had given her ma right before they moved west from the city.
She didn’t answer, because she wasn’t sure if she did.
By Monday afternoon, the small western town had settled back into its usual routine. The bell rang for the midday, children ran around after school, and the general store was busy with with ranchers buying flour and nails.
(Y/N) walked beside her friend, Mary Acker, each carrying small baskets after delivering fresh eggs and preserves for the saloon.
Mary Acker nudged her with her elbow.
"So."
(Y/N) pretended not to notice.
"So?"
"So..."
Mary Acker drew the word out dramatically.
"How handsome is he?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." (Y/N) said as she nearly stumbled.
"Oh, don't you dare."
"I'm serious."
"The entire church watched him staring at you."
(Y/N) buried her face in one hand.
"Oh, Lord..."
"I'm only saying what everyone else is thinking."
"There isn't anything to think."
"Mhm."
"There isn't."
"If you say so."
Before (Y/N) could defend herself again, a burst of loud laughter echoed from across the street.
A group of Union soldiers emerged from the saloon, led by Brandt, who carried himself with the easy confidence of a victor finally enjoying peace. Alfred walked beside him, jacket slung over one shoulder despite the afternoon heat. He was in the middle of telling a story, waving his hands dramatically enough to make the others laugh.
"...and then Brown falls clean into the river! Boots and all!"
Then men all laughed amongst each other, distracted while Alfred looked across the dirt street, sensing her gaze. The moment Alfred’s blue eyes found her, his entire face lit up. Without a second thought, he excused himself from the conversation and crossed the street.
"There he goes again!" Brandt called after him.
"Told you he was sweet on her." Another soldier laughed.
Alfred ignored every word and stopped a respectful distance from the two young women.
"Afternoon, Miss (Y/N)." he said as he tipped his cap.
"Afternoon, Alfred."
"And who's your friend?"
Before (Y/N) could answer, Mary gave her name.
“Mary Acker.” She said simply with a smile and a taut giggle that she hid behind her lips as she watched the pair.
"Pleasure's mine, Miss Acker.”
"I've heard quite a bit about you."
“Mary!” (Y/N)'s eyes widened as she gasped.
"What?" her friend asked innocently. "I only said everyone in town knows the handsome soldier who nearly let the preacher finish service by himself because he was too busy watching one particular pew."
"Guilty as charged," Alfred laughed as he looked back at (Y/N), his expression growing softer as he noticed her flushed face. "I was wonderin'... would your pa mind if I stopped by the saloon this evenin'?"
"I don't know." (Y/N) hesitated.
"Fair answer."
"I could ask him."
"I'd appreciate that."
"Jones!" A soldier’s voice called booming through the road.
"I swear he can smell when I'm happy." Alfred sighed dramatically.
The soldiers across the road chuckled.
"Either get over here or we're eatin' without you!"
"I'm comin'!" Alfred rolled his eyes before looking back at (Y/N). "I'll see you later... if your pa allows it."
He gave a small, respectful nod instead of trying to take her hand. Then he jogged back toward his soldiers. Brandt threw an arm around his shoulders the moment he returned.
"Lucky for you," Brandt teased loudly enough for half the street to hear, "the saloon-keeper's daughter hasn't chased you off with a broom yet."
"No... not yet." Alfred laughed.
"He is absolutely smitten with you." Mary teased (Y/N) on the walk back, nudging her with a smile as the sun’s heat burned between them.
(Y/N) watched Alfred disappear around the corner, unable to hide the small smile growing on her face.
"...Do you really think so?"
"'Think so?' (Y/N), that poor yankee looked at you like you'd hung every star over Arizona."
The afternoon rush had already begun by the time (Y/N) returned back to the saloon. Horses were tied to every hitching post, laughter spilled from the structure her pa had built with her ma. As (Y/N) approached, her pa’s wagon rolled to a stop, and her pa climbed down.
"Help me unload these sacks, would you?"
She nodded automatically, though her thoughts remained elsewhere as she kept wondering if Alfred Jones would actually come.
The lunch rush passed as guests filled every table, mugs clinked together, and the piano in the corner struggled to stay louder than the conversations surrounding it. Singing and dancing could be heard from (Y/N)’s peep hole in her floorboard, a peep hole she used as she laid down on her belly and looked for one man in particular.
Soon, every plate was cleared and the noise died down. (Y/N) descended down the stairs and found her father wiping down the bar. She lingered awkwardly for a moment before calling out to him.
“Pa?”
"Hm?"
"Alfred… the solider… asked if... if he could stop by this evening."
"He can." Her father continued wiping the counter for several seconds before answering.
"He can."
"...Really?" Her face brightened as she gasped.
"But… I ain't invitin' him here to come see my daughter."
"I figured." Her shoulders slumped as she helped him put away a glass.
"I need someone to keep an eye on the place."
"What do you mean?"
"I've got a delivery needs collectin' from Lemuel's ranch before sundown."
"...Tonight?" Her heart sank as she stuttered out the question.
"Tonight." Pa confirmed.
"But I…"
"You've made that trip a hundred times."
"I know, but…"
"And I can't leave the saloon."
"So you're sending me away."
"I'm sendin' you to do your job."
"Right when he comes."
"Exactly when he comes."
"Pa."
"Darlin'," he said gently, setting the rag down. "If that young man wants to know you, he'll still want to know you tomorrow."
Outside, the evening sun had begun its slow descent, painting the Arizona sky in warm shades of amber. (Y/N) didn’t need to squint as she hitched the old mare to the small delivery wagon. She checked the harness twice, tightened the straps, and climbed onto the driver's seat to make sure everything was secure.
She loaded her revolver, then placed it in its holster near her skirt, hidden but reachable if need be. Just as she reached for the reins, a familiar voice drifted across the yard.
"Well now..."
She looked over to see Alfred leaning against the porch railing, his hat tipped back on his head and a teasing grin already spreading across his face.
"A pretty lady like yourself goin' out all alone?"
"Yes."
"That don't seem right." He said as he walked closer to her carriage.
"I've done it before."
"I don't doubt that."
She climbed back down to tighten one last buckle.
(Y/N) hesitated, Pa’s earlier maneuvering still in her mind. “It’s not far. I’ll be back before the moon is fully up.”
Alfred rubbed the back of his neck, glancing toward the saloon where her father was visible through the window. Then he looked back at (Y/N) as she pulled herself back on the wagon.
“Mind if I ride along?” he asked. “I’ll keep my distance if you want, but I’d feel a whole lot better knowin’ you’re not out there alone. Hero habit, y’know. Plus…” He flashed that bright smile again. “Gives us a chance to talk without half the town watchin’.”
Her cheeks warmed, but after a moment she nodded. “I’d… like that.”
Alfred’s grin returned full force. He swung up into the seat right next to her.
"Much obliged, Miss (Y/N)," he said, "Promise I won't be too much trouble."
"I somehow doubt that."
"I've been told I'm excellent company."
"By who?"
"Myself."
She rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a laugh as she flicked the reins. The mare snorted before starting down the dusty trail leading west from the inn. For a few moments, neither of them spoke, the only sounds were of the wagon wheels creaking over uneven ground and the clop of the horse's hooves.
"It's beautiful out here." Alfred said as he rested his forearms on his knees, looking out across the endless stretch of sonoran desert.
"It is."
"I've marched through half the country these last few years."
“Have you seen a lot?” she asked, not knowing what else to say.
"Seen forests so thick the sun couldn't get through 'em. Rivers wider than towns. Snow taller than a horse."
"And Arizona?"
"Arizona's honest."
"Honest?" She looked at him curiously.
"It doesn't pretend to be easy." His gaze swept across the saguaros standing like silent sentries over the landscape. "It'll bake you in the daytime, freeze you at night, and if you're foolish enough not to bring water… well thats on you.”
She laughed and dipped her head down. They rounded a bend in the trail, the saloon disappearing behind a line of saguaros. After another few minutes, Alfred spoke again.
"So..." He began to say in order to break the silence again, “You always carry that revolver?"
"I do." Her hand instinctively brushed the holster hidden beneath the folds of her skirt.
"You know how to use it?"
"My pa made sure of it."
"Well I'm relieved."
“Pa says that if you can hit a bottle, then you can hit a rattlesnake.”
"And can you?"
Instead of answering, she pointed toward an old fence post nearly thirty yards off the road. Balanced on top sat an empty bottle left behind by some ranch hand.
"See that?"
"I do."
Without another word, she drew the revolver in one smooth motion and shot echoed across the desert. The bottle exploded into glittering shards and Alfred eyebrows shot up. (Y/N) calmly spun the revolver once before slipping it back into its holster.
"I am suddenly much more interested in stayin' on your good side." Alfred said as he glanced at the shattered glass for another second before laughing.
The two shared another laugh before the wagon rolled into a comfortable silence once more. The sun hung lower now, casting long golden shadows over the trail. After a while Alfred cleared his throat.
"Can I ask you somethin'?"
"You may."
"What do you want?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." He gestured vaguely toward the horizon. "Everybody asks what they're supposed to do. Nobody asks what they actually want."
"I've never really had time to think about it. The saloon keeps us busy. I mean, I wake before dawn and go to bed way after the sun is gone. There’s not much time to think."
"...there has to be somethin'."
(Y/N) then thought to herself. Was there a dream, a wish, anything she wanted. Anything at all. She watched the fading Arizona sun for a long moment before speaking.
"When I was little...I wanted to see the ocean."
"The ocean?"
She nodded. "I've read about it in books. Endless water that goes on farther than you can see. I always wondered if it really looked like that."
Alfred's expression softened.
"It does."
"You've seen it?"
"Atlantic."
"What was it like?" (Y/N) asked with childlike curiosity.
He smiled.
"Big."
"I gathered that."
"No..." He chuckled. "I mean... bigger than your mind can make sense of. Makes a fellow feel mighty small."
For a moment, neither of them noticed that the ranch was beginning to come into view in the distance. They were too caught up in the conversation. But soon the mare stopped, already knowing her stop before (Y/N) did. Alfred helped her load the crates and sacks into the wagon. His sleeves were rolled up, and he worked without complaint, muscles flexing under the lantern light Lemuel had left out for them. Once everything was secure, they climbed back onto the wagon seat and started the return journey under a sky now deepening into velvet blue.
The stars were beginning to emerge, one by one, like scattered diamonds across the vast desert sky. About halfway back, Alfred gently took the reins from her hands.
“Mind if we pull off the trail for a bit?” he asked, voice soft. “There’s a little rise just up ahead. Best spot I’ve found around here to watch the stars. I’d… like to show you.”
(Y/N)’s heart fluttered, but she nodded.
He guided the wagon off the main path to a gentle hill overlooking the darkened landscape.
They stopped, and Alfred helped her down, spreading his jacket on the ground for her to sit on. They settled side by side, the night air cool and quiet around them.
For a long while, they simply watched the stars bloom overhead. The Milky Way stretched like a river of light across the sky, brilliant and endless. The only light offered to them was from the generosity of the stars overhead.
“It’s beautiful,” (Y/N) whispered.
“Yeah,” Alfred murmured, but when she glanced over, he wasn’t looking at the stars. He was looking at her. “It really is.”
Her breath caught as he shifted closer. One of his hands came up slowly, gently cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing across her skin with the tenderness of a secret. The desert air grew colder, but where Alfred’s hand rested against her cheek, a radiating warmth blossomed. (Y/N) didn’t pull away.
“(Y/N)… I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I caught you on those stairs,” he said lowly. “If you’ll let me.”
She barely had time to nod before he leaned in and kissed her.
It was soft and hesitant at first, his lips warm against hers under the vast desert sky. (Y/N)’s eyes fluttered closed as warmth bloomed in her chest. Alfred’s free hand found hers, fingers intertwining as the kiss lingered.
She had never been kissed before, and had only imagined the feeling from the words of authors in her books. There had been times, when one of the serving girls had kissed a cowboy in the saloon and (Y/N) had watched through the peep hole. But this kiss was not like that. This was raw and real, wanting more and giving him nothing less.
When he finally pulled back, he was smiling.
“First kiss?” he asked softly, a hint of that playful grin returning.
“Yes.” (Y/N) nodded, somewhat embarrassed.
Alfred’s grin widened, bright and boyish under the starlight. “Gotta say, I’ve faced down Confederate lines and stubborn mules, but kissin’ the prettiest girl in Arizona might be the bravest thing I’ve done all year.”
“You’re ridiculous.” (Y/N) looked away with a blush.
“Only when it comes to you,” he teased, still holding her hand. The playful sparkle in his eyes made the cool desert night feel warmer. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles once more before reluctantly letting go. “So… when can I see you again?”
She bit her lip, smiling despite the flush still heating her cheeks. “Tomorrow evening? After the supper rush dies down. But you’ll have to be secretive, come through the back door again maybe?”
Alfred chuckled. “I’ll risk it. Worth every second.” He stood and offered her his hand, helping her up with the same gentle care he’d shown all evening. He shook out his jacket and draped it lightly over her shoulders before guiding her back to the wagon.
The ride home was quiet but comfortable, filled with stolen glances and soft laughter. When they reached town again, Alfred stopped the wagon a short distance away so they could walk the rest of the way together.
At the bottom of the porch steps, he tipped his hat with a dramatic flourish. “Until tomorrow, Miss (Y/N). Sweet dreams… and don’t let the coyotes steal that smile.”
She waved back to him and then closed the door behind her. When the door was fully closed, she leaned against the closed door, pressing her fingers to her lips again, feeling the touch of his lips against hers. She wished to be with him again, all night, to grow closer to him, closer than she ever had been to a man before.
The next night, Alfred slipped through the back door just as the last lanterns were dimmed. He met (Y/N) with a conspiratorial grin and a blanket tucked under his arm. They rode out to the same little hill, spread the blanket under the stars, and spent hours talking, laughing, and stealing sweet kisses.
It quickly became their secret routine.
Some nights they simply sat wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing stories until the stars began to fade. Other nights Alfred would bring small gifts, a wildflower he’d picked, a shiny stone he swore matched her eyes, or a piece of hard candy he’d saved from his rations…
Weeks slipped by in a haze of stolen moments and stolen kisses. Pa suspected something, but as long as (Y/N) kept working hard around the saloon, he chose not to notice.
One warm evening, several weeks later, Alfred came to her door again. The air was thick with the scent of desert blooms after a rare rain. They rode out to their hill as usual, but this time the kisses grew deeper, slower, more heated.
They lay together on the blanket, the stars blazing overhead. Alfred’s hand traced gentle patterns along her side as he kissed her.
Her fingers tightened in his shirt as the kisses grew more heated, more urgent. Clothes loosened, hands exploring with growing confidence. Alfred pulled back just enough to look at her, his blue eyes dark with desire but still soft with affection.
“(Y/N)…” he breathed, voice rough. “Tell me what you want.”
She swallowed, heart pounding. “Promise you won’t leave me.”
Alfred’s expression softened instantly. He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks as he gazed at her lovingly.
“No,” he whispered, smiling gently. “I don’t plan on leavin’ you. Ever. I plan on marryin’ you… if you’ll have me.”
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but they were happy ones. She pulled him down into a fierce kiss, whispering against his lips, “Yes, of course.”
His kisses grew deeper on her skin. Clothes were shed slowly between soft laughs and tender touches until there was nothing between them but raw skin. He was patient, reverent, kissing every inch of her as if she were something precious.
He entered her slowly. The first stretch burned, a sharp sting that made her gasp and tense beneath him. Alfred froze immediately, pressing gentle kisses to her temple and whispering soothing words.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” he breathed. “Breathe, darlin’. I’m right here.”
It hurt more than she expected at first. She was tight and overwhelmed. She clutched his shoulders, breathing through the discomfort as tears pricked her eyes. Little by little, her body relaxed. The discomfort faded as she shifted her hips experimentally and let out a soft, surprised moan, Alfred groaned in response.
“You feel incredible,” he whispered, voice rough with awe. “So perfect.”
He began to move slowly, gentle thrusts that quickly turned pleasurable. (Y/N) wrapped her legs around him, gasping as sparks of delight replaced the initial pain. Alfred kept his pace steady and loving, one hand intertwined with hers, the other cradling her face so he could watch her expressions. The stars wheeled overhead as they moved together, lost in each other. Pleasure built slowly, cresting in waves that left (Y/N) trembling and crying out his name. Alfred followed soon after, burying his face in her neck with a deep groan.
Afterward, he held her close, panting above her.
“I love you, (Y/N).”
And she kissed him in return.
The glow that spread across (Y/N)’s body never left, even after that night under the stars. It felt as though sunlight was trapped inside her own chest, kept safe and sound. She moved through her chores with a secret smile, her steps lighter, her heart fuller than it had ever been. Even the dusty desert wind felt gentler.
That evening, after the supper rush, Alfred found her on the back porch. He didn’t greet her with his usual playful grin. Instead, he looked serious, almost pained, as he took her hands in his.
“(Y/N)… I need to talk to you.”
Her stomach twisted at his tone. They sat together on the steps, the same ones where he had first caught her. The sun was setting in streaks of orange and pink, but the warmth in her chest was already beginning to cool.
“The Army sent word today,” he said quietly, staring at their joined hands. “They’re calling me south. There’s trouble near the border, raiders, supply lines that need protectin’, folks still tryin’ to rebuild after the war. I… I have to go. I leave at first light.”
His words stung like an Apache’s arrow. (Y/N) pulled her hands away, and turned to fully look at him with her eyes widening.
“You promised,” she whispered, voice cracking. “You promised you wouldn’t leave me. You said you planned on marrying me. You said…”
“I know.” Alfred’s voice broke. He reached for her again, but she stood up, wrapping her arms around herself. Tears burned in her eyes. “I know what I said, darlin’. And I meant every word. This isn’t what I want. But I gave my word to the Union.”
“I gave myself to you, Alfred. I trusted you. And now you’re just… riding off like every other soldier who passes through?”
He stood too, stepping close but not touching her. “I’m not them. I’m not leavin’ you forever.” His voice grew thick with emotion. “I swear on everything I am—I will come back. I’m gonna marry you, (Y/N) (L/N).I want to give you my name, and I’m gonna build a life with you right here. This isn’t goodbye. It’s just… not yet.”
She turned away, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. “It feels like goodbye.”
Alfred gently turned her back toward him, cupping her face with trembling hands. Tears glistened in his own blue eyes, something she had never seen before.
“I love you,” he said. “More than I ever thought I could love anything after the war. You’re my home. My reason to come back. Please… wait for me. I’ll write every chance I get. And when I ride back over that hill, I’m comin’ straight to your pa to ask for your hand. I promise.”
(Y/N) leaned into his touch, crying harder as she clutched his shirt. “You better come back, Alfred Jones. You better come back to me.”
“I will,” he whispered, pulling her into a tight embrace. “I will. I swear it.”
They held each other as the sun disappeared and the stars came out, the same stars that had witnessed their first night together. Alfred kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, pouring every ounce of love and promise into each one.
The next morning, long before dawn, (Y/N) stood on the porch in her shawl, watching him ride away with a small group of soldiers. He turned in the saddle one last time, raising his hand in farewell, his bright smile strained but determined.
“I told you,” her pa said behind her. “Just another one passing through.”
જ⁀➴.°˖⋆ ℧ 𓃗 .°˖⋆જ⁀➴
It would be a month before his first letter came, and (Y/N) opened it on the way to Mary Acker’s wedding.
The days after Alfred left dragged on like an endless drought. (Y/N) threw herself into work at the saloon, scrubbing floors until her hands were raw, helping her pa with the bar, feeding the chickens at dawn like she always had. But every morning she lingered on the porch steps a little longer, staring at the empty trail where he had ridden away. Every night she lay awake, pressing her fingers to her lips and remembering the stars.
The post post rider caught up to her and handed her a slightly battered envelope with a kind nod.
“From down south, miss. Looks like it’s been through hell and back.”
Her heart leaped into her throat. She thanked him quickly and stepped off the road under the shade of a store.
My dearest (Y/N),
Hope you're doing okay, sweetheart. If this letter made it to you without getting eaten by a horse, blown away by the wind, or stolen by some bandit who can't even read, then I guess my luck's finally turning around.
The ride south's been one heck of an adventure. Dust everywhere, you'd think the west was trying to swallow me whole. Been helping escort supply wagons, chasing off raiders, and lending a hand to folks rebuilding after everything the war left behind. It's hard work, sure, but somebody's gotta do it... and, well, I'm pretty great at being somebody.
Still... none of it compares to being back home with you.
I keep thinking about that night we sat under the stars. I know I joked around a lot, but I wasn't joking when I made you that promise. I meant every word.
I miss hearing you laugh at my terrible stories. I miss seeing you roll your eyes whenever I act like the hero of every tale. I miss you pretending you don't blush whenever I tell you you're the prettiest girl in the whole territory, even though we both know you do.
Believe it or not, I even miss helping chase those stubborn chickens around the yard. Well... maybe not helping. Mostly watching you chase them while I claimed I was "supervising."
Every night I look up at the sky and wonder if you're looking at the very same stars. It makes the miles between us feel just a little smaller.
I'm coming home, (Y/N). That's a promise. Soon as I've earned my honorable discharge and wrapped up my duty, I'm riding straight back to you.
And when I do, I'm going to ask you to marry me. For real this time. No more waiting, no more goodbyes.
So hang on for me a little longer, okay? Keep smiling. Keep taking care of yourself. And if anyone gives you trouble while I'm gone... just tell 'em Sergeant Jones coming back.
I love you more than all the stars above us, and that's saying something.
Forever yours,
Alfred Jones
Tears blurred (Y/N)’s vision as she clutched the letter to her chest. A sob escaped her, half relief and half longing. She could almost hear his voice in the words, and traced the words with her fingers as though she could imagine being with him as he wrote the letter.
He was probably in a tent somewhere cold, or maybe he was sleeping outside.
She wiped her eyes quickly, careful not to smudge the ink, and folded the letter neatly before tucking it into the bodice of her best dress. Mary’s wedding was today, and she couldn’t show up with red eyes and a runny nose.
She touched the letter through the fabric of her dress and whispered to the wind, “Come back to me soon, you ridiculous hero.”
The church bells began to ring in the distance. (Y/N) straightened her shoulders, a small, hopeful smile forming on her lips despite the ache in her heart.
He had promised.
And Alfred Jones always kept his promises.
Months blurred into a year.
Then another.
Alfred’s letters came sporadically, sometimes weeks apart, sometimes months, each one worn and travel-stained. He wrote of harsh conditions, long rides, skirmishes with raiders, and the slow work of rebuilding towns still scarred by war.
(Y/N) kept every single one tied with a faded pink ribbon under her pillow. She read them until the paper grew thin, tracing his handwriting with trembling fingers on lonely nights. The warm glow inside her had dimmed to a quiet ache. She still rose before dawn to feed the chickens, still helped run the saloon, but the laughter that once came so easily now felt forced.
The desert felt wider. Emptier.
One cold evening, her father’s health began to fail. The man who had run the saloon with iron will and quiet strength grew frail. (Y/N) sat by his bedside for days, holding his hand as fever and exhaustion took their toll.
On his final night, as the wind howled outside the saloon, Pa squeezed her hand weakly. His voice was little more than a rasp.
“I’m sorry, (Y/N)’,” he whispered, eyes heavy . “I’m leavin’ you alone… with no husband. No one to help you carry this place. I tried to protect you… but I failed.”
“You didn’t fail, Pa,” she said softly. “You raised me strong. I can care for myself. I’ve been doing it for years now. The saloon, the chores… I’ll keep it going. I promise.”
He gave her a faint, proud smile. “You always were stubborn. Like your ma.” His grip loosened. “If that Yankee boy ever comes back… tell him to take good care of you. Or I’ll haunt him from the grave.”
A weak chuckle escaped him, then faded. He slipped away quietly in the early hours of the morning, leaving (Y/N) truly alone.
The funeral was small, the whole town came. Mary Acker, now Mary Thompson, held (Y/N)’s hand through the service. When the last guest left and the sky grew cold, the weight became too much to bear, and (Y/N) broke down crying.
She was the only one left. The last of her kin in this town.
Days turned into weeks of mechanical routine. (Y/N) ran the saloon alone, serving drinks with tired smiles, mending linens by lamplight, feeding the chickens at dawn with numb hands. The laughter of guests felt distant. The desert wind seemed colder. At night she sat on the porch steps where Alfred had first caught her, rereading his old letters until her eyes burned.
The post rider came trotting up one morning. “Letter for you, Miss (L/N). Looks important. Came all the way from the southern border.” He said as his horse kicked up some dust.
Her heart stuttered. She set the broom aside with trembling hands and took the envelope. The familiar handwriting made her knees weak. She sank down onto the porch steps, the same steps where everything had begun, and tore it open with shaking fingers.
My dearest (Y/N),
Sorry it's taken me so long to write. Things have been crazy down here. Raiders have been keeping everyone on their toes, supply wagons always need another escort, and there are still families trying to put their lives back together after the war. Every time I sat down to write, something seemed to pull me away.
But this time I've got news worth writing about.
They're letting us go.
I'm coming home.
If the weather behaves itself and my horse doesn't decide he's in charge, I should be back in town by the end of next week.
I've been counting the days.
When word reached me about your pa... I just sat there for the longest time. I couldn't believe it. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. More than anything, I wish I'd been there with you. I wish I could've held you, let you cry, and reminded you that you didn't have to carry all that hurt by yourself.
I'm sorry you had to be so strong while I was so far away.
But you won't have to do it alone anymore.
I'm coming home for good.
I still remember that night beneath the stars like it happened yesterday. Every promise I made, I meant with my whole heart, and I still do.
I want to marry you, (Y/N).
I want to wake up beside you every morning. I want to help keep the Saloon running, even if I'm probably better at talking to people than fixing leaky roofs. I'll haul supplies, mend fences, chase those stubborn chickens, and make a fool of myself just to hear you laugh again.
So wait for me a little longer, okay? Keep that beautiful smile ready for me, because I've been missing it every single day we've been apart.
And fair warning, I plan on hugging you the second I get there, and I don't think I'm letting go anytime soon.
I love you more than I could ever fit into one letter.
Forever yours,
Alfred Jones
Tears streamed down (Y/N)’s face as she clutched the letter to her chest. Finally, after being alone for so long, she would have him here.
He was coming home.
She pressed the letter to her lips, whispering into the cold air, “Hurry, you ridiculous Yankee. I’ve been waiting long enough.”
The week dragged on like an eternity.
(Y/N) barely slept. She kept the letter tucked in her apron pocket, reading it whenever the ache in her chest grew too heavy. Every hoofbeat on the trail made her heart jump. Every stranger who walked through the doors of the saloon made her look twice, hoping, praying, it was him.
But day after day, it wasn’t.
Until one quiet evening, just as the sun dipped low and painted the desert in deep golds and purples.
(Y/N) was behind the bar, wiping down the counter with slow, tired movements. The saloon was empty, too early for the evening crowd, too late for afternoon travelers. She had sent the last helper home and locked the front door, wanting a moment of peace before another long night.
A firm knock sounded at the door.
She didn’t even turn around, continuing to wipe the same spot on the counter.
“We’re closed,” she called out, voice flat and weary. “Come back tomorrow.”
Another knock. Louder this time.
“I said we’re closed,” she repeated.
The knocking stopped. Then a familiar voice, deeper now, rougher from years of dust and shouting orders, spoke through the door.
“…Even for a hero who promised to come home?”
(Y/N)’s heart stopped.
The rag slipped from her fingers. She spun around so fast she nearly knocked over a bottle. Her hands shook as she rushed to the door, fumbling with the lock before yanking it open.
There he stood.
Sergeant Alfred Jones.
He looked different, thinner, older, with a new scar across his left cheek and dust coating his worn uniform. His blond hair was longer, his blue eyes tired but burning with the same bright intensity she remembered. The Stetson in his hands was battered and sun-faded.
For a moment, she couldn’t speak. She just stared, afraid he was a mirage that would vanish if she blinked.
Then he smiled. “Miss me?” he asked softly.
A broken sob tore from (Y/N)’s throat. She threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his chest. Alfred caught her instantly, wrapping her in a crushing embrace as he buried his face in her hair.
“I’m home,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’m home, sweetheart. I’m so sorry it took so long.”
She cried harder, fists clutching his shirt as if he might disappear again. “You promised… You took so long… I thought…”
“I know. I know.”
They stood in the doorway for a long time, the desert wind swirling around them, as years of waiting, grief, and loneliness poured out. When (Y/N) finally pulled back enough to look at him, Alfred cupped her face with both hands, thumbs wiping away her tears.
“I still want to marry you,” he said, voice raw. “If you’ll still have this beat up soldier.”
“Yes. Of course yes.”
“Now… how about you let me inside? I’ve got a lot of making up to do. Starting with helping you run this place… and ending with making you Mrs. Alfred F. Jones.”
(Y/N) took his hand and pulled him inside, closing the door behind them.
England x Reader
͙ ͙۪۪̥ ͙ ♡𐡘 𐡘 𐡘 𐡘♡ ͙ ͙۪۪̥ ͙Read me on AO3 ͙ ͙۪۪̥ ͙ ♡𐡘 𐡘 𐡘 𐡘♡ ͙ ͙۪۪̥ ͙
✿(Y/N) was the Pope’s ultimate weapon, his chosen arrow sent to reclaim England in blood and assassinate the Protestant Queen Elizabeth I. But her mission is derailed by Arthur Kirkland, the enigmatic and ruthless "Queen’s Shadow" who claims her body right after interrupting her mission.✿
✩｡:*•.───── ❁ ❁ ─────.•*:｡✩
It was bright outside, so bright it was as though god had blessed the day. But to the pope’s assassin, (Y/N), today was a fall from grace, the day in which England finally fell to protestantism.
Queen Elizabeth Tudor had been given the crown of England, and any minute now she would ride out in her chariot and pass this very street, the exact street where (Y/N)’s crossbow was aimed and waiting.
Her loyalty to the pope and her faith was forged through her father, who had his land stripped from him under Henry the eight after he refused to convert to Protestantism. After being stripped of his land and titles, he led a failed rebellion against the English Crown that ultimately cost him his life and sent (Y/N) fleeing into bitter exile. She was taken in by the Church and molded into the ultimate weapon.
She was the Pope's own arrow, sent to reclaim England in blood.
There was no doubt why the Pope had chosen her for this job; she was, without question, the best assassin in all of Europe. Earls, lords, priests… none were exempt from the sharp arrows she had built herself.
To her, she was doing god’s work.
From the high window she had chosen to shoot from, the crowded London street looked like an anthill of heretics, all cheering for a bastard queen who had turned her back on the true Church.
The roar of the crowd grew louder. Their cries of joy stung (Y/N)’s ears as she averted her eyes and her crossbow as well.
There she was. Elizabeth. The golden chariot rolled into view, and the sunlight caught the jewels of the crown the pope wanted for a Catholic.
(Y/N)’s finger slid over the iron trigger.
This was it. Just one press of her finger and she would be back on a boat to the Vatican. She began to sweat in her dress, waiting for the queen to just turn her head…
Thwack!
A gloved hand came and angled the crossbow so that it was angled towards the sky, causing the heavy bolt to unleash and send the arrow to bury itself deep into the roofline across the street.
"Now, that is no way to greet the queen on her coronation day," a dangerously posh voice said right beside her.
Before (Y/N) could drop her crossbow and reach for her dagger hidden in her dress, she was yanked from the windowsill and crashed onto the floorboards of the abandoned room.
Dust seeped through her closed eyes, causing her to flinch and tear as she attempted to rub her blindness away. Above her stood a man dressed in the fine, dark velvet of the Tudor court, his green eyes flashing with fierce intensity.
"The Pope is getting desperate if he's sending pretty little birds to do his dirty work.” He said.
“Who are you?” She asked as the dust settled slowly around them.
“I am Arthur Kirkland, poppet. The Queen’s shadow,” His voice was velvet over steel, with a hint of amusement as he kicked her crossbow from her reach. “Did His Holiness really think a single bolt from a pretty face would undo everything I’ve built? How adorably naïve.”
She had been warned about him of course through the Pope’s intelligence, but seeing Arthur Kirkland in the flesh was something else entirely. Tall, sharp, featured, with that infuriating aristocratic sneer curling his lips.
“Get off me,” she hissed, twisting beneath him. Her fingers inched toward the dagger strapped to her thigh, but Arthur was faster. He dropped to one knee, catching her wrist.
“Tsk. Feisty little thing, aren’t you?”
(Y/N) bared her teeth, yanking against his hold. “The true Church will not fall to your heretic queen. Elizabeth is a bastard and a traitor to God. One day…”
“One day?” Arthur leaned closer, his green eyes narrowing dangerously. The scent of gunpowder, ink, and something faintly floral clung to his dark velvet doublet. Tea perhaps? “One day England will stand stronger than your crumbling Vatican ever dreamed. And you, poppet, are going to watch it happen.”
With a swift motion he hauled her to her feet, twisting her arm behind her back and pressing her against the dusty wall.
The crowd outside grew louder and louder, mocking her as she struggled for her life.
He was taller than her and obviously stronger. She could feel the heat of his body through her gown, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against her shoulder blade.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, almost softly. “First time failing, I take it?”
“I don’t fail.”
Arthur chuckled low in his throat. “You just did. And now you have a choice, little assassin. I could turn you over to my men. Let them drag you before the new Queen in chains. Imagine how that would look on her coronation day. Or…”
He released her wrist but didn’t step back, caging her with his arms on either side of her head. His gloved fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her face almost gently.
“Or you could come with me. Quietly. I have questions about your dear Pope’s plans. And perhaps… I could use someone with your particular talents. Properly directed, of course.”
(Y/N)’s pulse hammered in her ears. This was not how today was supposed to go.
“Why would I ever help you?” she whispered.
Arthur’s smile was sharp and wicked.
“Because deep down, you know this day was inevitable. And because I suspect you’re far too clever to throw your life away for a losing cause.” His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest moment. “Besides… I’d hate to ruin such a lovely face.”
Outside, the crowd erupted into fresh cheers as Elizabeth’s procession continued down the street, oblivious to (Y/N)’s struggle.
“Well, poppet? What’s it going to be?”
(Y/N) thought of her father who was beheaded and her mother who died with him. She starred her (eye colour) eyes deep into his green ones and shook her head.
“I would never help you.” She spat.
“Then You’re going to watch it happen, poppet,” he murmured, voice low and laced with cruel delight. “You’re going to watch your precious plan die right in front of your eyes.”
Before she could snap back, he spun her around and forced her to the right so that she was once again looking at the same window she had aimed her crossbow out of. One strong arm banded around her waist, the other pinning her wrists together in front of her. He shoved her forward until her hips hit the windowsill, the bright afternoon light flooding over them both. Below, the crowded London street was alive with cheering heretics, golden banners waving, and in the center of it all, Queen Elizabeth Tudor in her glittering chariot, waving regally to her people.
“No…let me go, you bastard…”
“Shh.” Arthur’s gloved hand yanked her skirts up roughly, bunching the heavy fabric around her waist and exposing her bare thighs and ass to the cool air. “Eyes on your queen. That’s an order.”
She felt him free himself behind her, the hard length of his cock pressing against her bare skin a moment later. He kicked her legs apart just enough, one hand gripping her hip while the other kept her wrists trapped. The roar of the crowd grew as Elizabeth received flowers from a subject.
Then he thrust his long, hard manhood into her in one thrust.
A choked cry escaped (Y/N)’s throat as he filled her completely, stretching her without mercy. Arthur groaned low, the sound vibrating against her back.
“Fuck… tighter than I expected,” he growled, already pulling back and slamming in again, setting a punishing rhythm. “Look at her. Look at Elizabeth. The woman you failed to kill. The woman who’s going to rule a Protestant England while you’re up here getting fucked by her shadow.”
Every thrust rocked her forward against the windowsill, forcing her to stare down at the bright street, the cheering masses, and the golden figure of the new queen who was supposed to be lying dead by now.
Arthur’s hips snapped forward harder, one hand sliding up to grip her throat lightly, tilting her head so she couldn’t look away.
“That’s it… watch her smile. Watch them cheer for the bastard queen. And feel me, poppet. Feel how deep I’m buried inside you while your precious Pope’s plans crumble.”
He fucked her relentlessly, the wet slap of skin and her unwilling moans lost beneath the roar of the crowd. His pace grew faster, more demanding, each thrust driving her closer to the edge whether she wanted it or not. His velvet-clad chest pressed flush to her back, lips brushing her ear as he panted.
“Say it,” he demanded, voice rough with lust and triumph. “Say her name while I fuck you.”
Arthur’s grip on her throat tightened just enough to make her pulse flutter wildly under his gloved fingers. He slammed into her harder, the force of his hips driving her pelvis painfully against the rough wooden windowsill.
(Y/N) bit down on her lip until it bled, trying to hold back the broken moan tearing from her throat as his cock drove impossibly deeper.
“E-Elizabeth…” she gasped, the name tasting like sin on her tongue.
“Louder.” Arthur’s hand cracked sharply across her exposed ass, the sting blooming hot as he immediately followed with another punishing thrust. “Let the heretics hear how you’re wet for me.”
“Elizabeth!” she cried out, voice cracking as he fucked her even harder. Tears of shame and unwanted pleasure streamed down her face while she was forced to stare straight down at the glittering queen waving to her adoring subjects.
“Good girl,” Arthur growled as he yanked her head back through her hair. “Look at her. Your precious future is getting fucked just like this tight little cunt. The Pope sent you to kill a queen and instead you’re creaming all over my cock.”
His pace turned savage. It made her cunt burn as she endured his torture.
He shoved two of his fingers down her throat, causing her to choke as he pressed down on her tongue.
“Suck,” he ordered. She obeyed involuntarily, tongue swirling around his gloved digits while her walls clenched desperately around his thick cock.
Arthur’s free hand slid down to rub harsh, possessive circles over her swollen clit. “You’re going to cum while watching her, poppet. I want you to fall apart with your eyes on the woman who just buried your entire mission.”
(Y/N)’s body betrayed her completely. The overwhelming stretch, the relentless friction, the humiliating thrill of being used so openly…
Her vision blurred as the orgasm ripped through her, cunt spasming violently around him.
Arthur didn’t stop. He fucked her straight through it, growling praises and degradations in that posh accent that made everything worse.
“That’s it…good girl. Oh, you feel perfect. So wet for me…” His rhythm faltered, growing erratic and even deeper. “I’m going to fill you up. Brand you from the inside while your queen celebrates below.”
With a final, punishing thrust, Arthur buried himself to the hilt and came hard, flooding her clenching pussy with hot, thick spurts. He groaned long and low against her neck, hips jerking as he emptied himself completely, marking her as his.
Arthur then pulled out slowly, watching with dark satisfaction as his seed leaked down her trembling thighs.
He spun her around, pressing her back against the wall, and tilted her chin up with two fingers.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, thumb brushing her tear-streaked cheek. “And this is only the beginning, poppet. You’re mine now.”
→A young country enters an arranged marriage with Germany in order to secure peace for her people. AO3
⁂ The Pope's Arrow and the Queen's Shadow (England/Reader)
→(Y/N) was the Pope’s ultimate weapon, his chosen arrow sent to reclaim England in blood and assassinate the Protestant Queen Elizabeth I. But her mission is derailed by Arthur Kirkland, the enigmatic and ruthless "Queen’s Shadow" who claims her body right after interrupting her mission. AO3
⁂Under the Sonoran Stars (America/Reader)
→In a post-Civil War Arizona, a hardworking saloonkeeper's daughter named (Y/N) falls for Alfred F. Jones. A union solider who has been assigned to watch over the newly freed Arizona territory. After weeks of secret nighttime rendezvous under the sonoran stars, they begin to fall in love with each other, with Alfred being (Y/N)'s first love. Soon, he is called to attended to other duties, leaving (Y/N) all alone and waiting for him to return. AO3
⁂ Found in Sand (Prussia/Reader)
→(Y/N), a serving girl, is rescued by Ex-Templar Gilbert Beilschmidt after brutal raid on her Byzantine caravan. Hardened by weeks of isolation in the desert, Gilbert claims her as his property and takes her to a remote caravanserai, where he forces her to be his. As he shatters his vows of chastity, (Y/N) tries to use her resources to escape from his clutches.
AO3
Note: Credit for the divider goes to @/designlikenonsense
✿A young country enters an arranged marriage with Germany in order to secure peace for her people.✿
✩｡:*•.───── ❁ ❁ ─────.•*:｡✩
The land was young , but so were you.
It was cold and that was all she remembered.
Perhaps it was the overwhelming dress that was sewn onto her , or maybe it was the giant veil that dragged behind her feet when she walked. Though she had remarked to the old (C/N) Empire that the dress was beautiful and deserved to be worn by someone greater than her. Oh the white jewels , they glicened in the sunlight that had crept through the church’s stained glass.
It was a dress approved by her husband, so she had been told. But she didn’t believe that men cared about such trivial things- especially since he had never seen her before .
She sealed her letter at her vanity with the words :
“Bye ,Grandmother, for this is my last letter as (Y/N)(L/N). I am now Lady Ludwig Beilschmidt”.
With nimble and graceful hands, the young country handed the letter to the older brunette who watched her from the corner of her eye. She had once been forced to marry too, now it was her duty to welcome the young (C/N) into her home. Though she remained happily married to the Austrian, she still feared for the awkward youthfulness that overcame the young country’s shaking hands. A crystal was forming in her eyes, but she did not look up at Mrs Hungry.
“He vill treat jou vell,” The older country interrupted the pregnant silence with her slight lisp. “He vill not mistreat you. I knov’ vhat jou feazr. If anything, his brother vill be more ov a chore than he”.
“Are you his sister?”
“His cousin’s vife.” she smiled at the maiden bride’s trembling voice. For once, she seemed real through the transparent veil that clung to her face. “Ve live together. All of us.Even that balfácánt he calls ‘bruder’”.
A white smile formed upon the maiden’s face. A maid stepped back from fixing her veil and she stood up from the pink chair that had been sat in front of the vanity. “Not even my Grandmother could make it.” (C/N) remarked “She refused to see me marry him. Such a historic day in my country’s history and she doesn't even seem to care.”
The wooden door was burst open and (Y/N)’s boss burst in with all his glory plastered on his chest. Medals made of silver and gold that had been mined in the deep (C/N) caves that they now only have half control over. The flashes of silver and gold almost seemed to mock the girl who was only there considering that he had lost the (C/N)-German war due to his lack of leadership. That was her opinion. The opinion of many.
He was half-German himself. The people had been reluctant to coronate him for they believed that a certain bias would be present when dealing with the Europeans . They were right , of course. There is no other explanation for being so oblivious in a time of war. His sharp glare watched her slowly ascend and take the cornflower bouquet that rested in the case of water. Her gloves wet and she watched as they slowly became a deep red when she took the hands of her boss. Hungry took the train of the dress and straightened it, earning a grumble from the royal.
He rushed her forward , but the bride turned to look at her newly found companion , “Thank you, Ms Hungry.”
“Sok szerencsét, lánytestvér”.
✩｡:*•.───── ❁ ❁ ─────.•*:｡✩
The immaculate door intimidated her as light seeped through its delicate cracks. Two guards stood at either side , awaiting for the grand piano to sing its awaited song. She wiped her gloves on her white dress in an attempt to rid of the red liquid that stained the pure witness of her gloves. Then the people started talking and the door slightly cracked open and she worried that the sweat forming on her forehead would mess up her hair.
Her boss squeezed her hand, annoyed at her trembling and crying. Her eyes found his cold dark pools of blue and wondered if her bridegroom would be as cold and distant as he. What if he hit her? What if he made her a territory ? What if he decided that (C/N) should no longer be a country and simply just use her for the resources she has, slowly killing her. The piano began to play, but (C/N)’s feet did not move. Chains grew in place of the satin shoes that were a few sizes too small for her feet. Her boss pushed her forward, the guards opened the door, and she was free no more. The aisle was long and tedious, but when she appeared everyone stood from their pews to sneak a look at the freshly matured country. It did not please her to look at the people around her, so she looked forward. But when she looked forward, a blurry silhouette of a country that was to be her husband awaited . Maybe he was as reluctant as she and would divorce her as soon as he got his fair share of gold and weapons.
No, a respectable man would not do such things.
The whispers of others taunted her. They all turned and commented about how meek and young the country was. Some of them wished that they had known that she was so young , for they would’ve attacked her, but after knowing who her bridegroom was , they did not fancy the idea.
She walked up the altar steps , her shoes slightly taping on the cool marble.
“Mister Germany, please take the hand of your wife.” The minister spoke.
Her boss gave her hand to Germany, letting him touch her for the first time. He seemed clueless as to what to do with her hand. He fumbled her hand before squeezing it tightly so as to not let her go, as if a harsh breeze would sneak into the church and knock her over.
She glanced down at her hand, feeling the sudden pain of his strength before glancing at his face. He was made of stone , a statue imported from Rome. The thin line that was held by his lips told her that he was as reluctant as she, and though he gained more from the marriage than she ever will, he still did not fancy the idea of being married to some random country.
The piano stopped playing and all attention was diverted to the couple. Lingering murmurs were silenced by the minister’s soporific voice and speech as he opened his book and side eyed the albino man who stood near the altar. She had never seen a man so white , but Hungry was sure to warn her of the ‘devil spawn’ that was Prussia, the brother of her husband.
A speech so long and boring would make anyone tired and (C/N) was no exception. She decided to look up and examine her bridegroom for the man he was , and though her vail did make it hard to see, she was still able to see the pools of blue that resembled the sternness of her boss. ‘They really are the same’ she thought to herself, ‘at least he’s not bad looking.’ However, her daze was cut short when he glanced at her swiftly.
“Vilt‘ thou have zhis voman to thy vedded vife, to live together ufter god's ordinance in zhe holy estate ov matrimony?” The minister began as his attention grew on Germany. She noticed his grip growing tight and his eyes becoming slightly constricted. The couple looked at each other in the eyes, for a moment he doubted his decision. He only agreed to the marriage as a consequence of the pressure that Austria and Prussia had bestowed upon him. The truth was that his economy was unsteady and he had grown sick from the peril known as inflation. He had stood in on a meeting, her boss and grandmother sat at the end of the table in grand thrones while Prussia and his own boss had sat at the opposite end.
<i>“Vhy don’t jou just get married? Un eazy vey tu solve jour probvlem.” </i>
<i>Prussia whipped his head back and let out a howling laugh. “Are jou kidding me? To zhat uld hag?” </i>
<i>“I have a daughter,” The old (C/N) empire spoke out, her hands moving to remove her spectacles “But if you had any honour you would not take her”. </i>
<i>“Und vhy is zhat?” </i>
<i>“She is far too young to leave her land and move onto another. After all , she is (C/N)’s personification .” </i>
<i>Prussia leaned back in his chair and looked back at his younger brother “how doez she look like. Is she hot vith voluptuous-” </i>
<i>“That is her right there.” The king of (C/N) pointed to the large portrait on the wall with a girl in ceremonial (C/N) dress. Her hair was pinned in the traditional fashion and her hands were fashioned chastily on her lap. </i>
<i>Germany had first noticed the gentle simper that had been painted with the painter’s red. She seemed pure, amiable, and unknowing. Her posture had indicated that she had never seen war, something he was so accustomed to seeing. </i>
<i>“So vest, jou vant ‘er ?” </i>
<i>Being lost in the colours of the painting, Germany looked back down at his brother. His cheeks were a crimson and he was at a loss of words . How could he be offered a wife without meeting her first ? Prussia grumbled something about being too awesome to marry anyway and that this woman would be a birthday gift to him, Germany ignored him. </i>
<i>“Ja, if it vhat i must do”. </i>
And now here he was , as powerful as could be. His uniform dripped with medals and gold that had reflected from the sunlight into her eyes to make them burn. One of the golden pendants was a gift from her. It was golden of course, and in the shape of a star which symbolized something in her culture but he couldn’t remember.
“Vilt thou love er‘, comfort ’er, ‘onor, und kepe ’er in sickenesse ubd health? And forsaking all uther kepe thee only to ‘er, so long as jou both shall ‘live?”
Germany slipped the ring onto her finger before glancing into her eyes. He could barely see her through the veil that had been so heavily draped across her face . But he knew one thing, she was trembling.
“Ja”
The minister gruffed . Looking at the veiled country, he began to read the words from his book.
“Vilt thou have zis man to zy vedded husband, to live in zhe ’oly estate of matrimony? Vilt thou obey him, und serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness und in health? Und forsaking al other keep thee onely to him, so long as jou both shall live?” His voice trailed off as the prolonged stare between the couple continued for a lifetime. Her shod feet twitched as her toes moved in a way so that they were facing together; it became hard to stand.
“I will”, she responded in her language , unable to translate the words in his. Then she put the golden band on his finger
It didn’t matter if she said ‘I will’ or ‘I don’t’ , as long as she was married and away. The minister didn’t understand her language, nor did he make an attempt to read her body language. He hurryingly closed his bible and sighed in almost a mocking way as if this marriage was not significant or valid. “Jou many kiss jour bride”.
The bride and groom grew flustered, it would be the first time either of them kissed. Germany’s hands reached to pull her veil from her head but he halted as if he were frightened to view his wife bare from her veil.
“Hurry up, vest” Prussia nudged his brother “I bet jou she’s cute under zhat veil und under zhat dress too.” He whispered the last part expecting her not to hear him. But she did and her cheeks turned redder.
Other countries began whispering amongst each other, eager to leave the church and attend the reception. If only he would kiss her and leave, this whole ordeal would be over. She would not be standing there, absorbing all the lingering stares that were concentrated on her body. They whispered false ideologies about her , how they believed her to be the weakened version of her grandmother and the empires that came before her.
Then he pulled the veil back, viewing her genuine features for the first time. He nearly stepped back, her portrait did not deceive him. He awkwardly pulled her in, his hands firm against her shoulders as if to keep her from escaping. Slowly she closed her eyes, allowing him to kiss her.
Cold and hard lips met her luscious and soft ones. soft ones as they kissed in front of the marble altar. It was an awkward kiss, his teeth fortuitously grazing her lips as she nearly jolted back. But just as the kiss began, the kiss ended with him pulling away.
✩｡:*•.───── ❁ ❁ ─────.•*:｡✩
The reception bored her. Nor was she pleased with the food that she was served.
He sat beside her , ignoring the dancing and music as much as she did.
The colors of fair maidens' dresses blurred in her vision as she rested her eyes on the hectic ballroom. ‘If only I were so fair that my husband would look at me longingly’.
“So…” she looked at him and waited for his gaze to turn to hers “What is your favorite color?”
It was a sad attempt but an attempt nonetheless to get him to talk to her. He didn’t seem annoyed at the question until he bluntly answered “orange” and went back to eating his food.
She sighed and played with the foreign food on her plate.
“Und Jours?” he asked.
“(F/C), it’s the color of my country.”
He looked upon her smile before going back to finishing his meal. Germany, while at the head of the table , sat next to his older brother who whispered dirty jokes into his ear. His face turned a deep crimson red, but (C/N) acted oblivious. She wrapped her hands around her waist tightly in fear that all her organs would spill onto the table and she would make a fool out of herself. She heard her boss’ voice in her head scold her, telling her to sit up straight and act as an (C/N) lady would. She didn’t want to be a lady.
“Gentlemen ,” A man placed a hand on the trembling girl’s shoulder and looked over at her new husband “May I steal your bride for a dance?”
The young country only nodded, not knowing the sharp grip that pressured the girl’s shoulder would leave a lasting bruise. Though an ‘acquaintance’ and only having just met his wife, the weary expression she held was enough to alarm him. He turned in his chair, watching the uncoordinated couple trip onto the marble floor. Something didn’t seem right about him, nor the little woman he arrived with.
Germany looked back at his brother who tried to cover his laughter with his gloved hand.
“Vhat are jou laughing at?” He cut a link from his plate.
“He’s a little rough with her , no?” Spain sat at her empty seat, drinking her nearly untouched goblet of wine. “The señora doesn't drink?”
Belligerently, (C/N) found herself being pushed into one of the many rooms of the estate. It was of a similar fashion to all the other rooms that she had seen, but the walls seemed to close in on the country and her king as music and laughter still managed to overpower the room. She whimpered, her face confused and her dress stained with tears , she did not look as a bride would on her wedding day.
“You know what you must do.”
“You are putting all this pressure on me . I can’t-”
<i>Slap</i>
The sound was clear as day. If only the door was slightly ajar then it wouldn’t have blended in with the music. Just like the slap, her bruise blended in with her already red face.
“In order to successfully unit the two countries you must consummate. It will be watched by a priest and two diplomates to make sure it is done correctly-”
Then the door cracked open and the king took his hands off (C/N) when he saw Germany standing in the doorframe. Unbeknownst to them, he had been standing there the whole time, listening to every little word that was said. He had had the same talk with his own boss, though the talk was a little less violent and emotional.
“It’z time to retire.”
“Yes, I believe so too.” her boss acknowledged , “It’s after midnight, what is a bride doing away from her husband on her wedding night.” he joked though the new couple did not seem to find the jest amusing.He took her hand and stepped from the room with her, making sure to not step on the train of the never ending dress. The sea of arachnids grew silent as they parted to make way for Lady and Lord Beilschmidt.
And in that moment , innocence was lost and she was made a woman. Their dance was awkward at first, with him being stiff and her being unknowing, but the marriage was final, and her lily and loyalty was given to him. That was all that mattered , to her boss at least.
✩｡:*•.───── ❁ ❁ ─────.•*:｡✩
“That iz my piano. Do not touch my piano”
“That iz zhe first thing jou say to jour new cousin , Austria ?”
Light cracked through the windows as she stood there awkwardly , hitting her dress slightly to outline the golden and yellow seams. It matched her wedding band which locked so heavily on her ring finger. If only it didn’t bother her so much then maybe she would have acknowledged the thick band’s beauty.
“I am tired of zese ‘children’ moving into my home. First Prussia and now zese girl.”
The oak doors burst open, revealing Hungry holding a white envelope with the seal of (C/N).
“(C/N)!” she had a distressed look on her face and she closed in on the girl “It comes from jour boss.”
“My boss has passed. We haven't crowned a monarch yet.”
Overtime , Hungry had noticed a slight change in the country’s attitude. After the death of her boss, the people of (C/N) began a revolution, killing those with the emblem of Germany etched into their hearts.
The young woman seemed panicked, clenching her satin covered heart and helping herself to the velvet seats made for Austria.
“(C/N),” Hungry placed her hand on the shoulder of the younger girl, thankful that she was not in her place “Jou must asx jour husband for council.”
“No, I am a country. I must deal with this on my own.”
“No. Jou are a joung gurl, jou must ask for help when needed. Germany vill know what to do.”
And so, later that night when she had had her dinner and dismissed her handmaiden , she dressed again and did her hair in the fashion in which she knew he liked. He once gifted her perfume from France which she had never worn. Though she had doubted that he himself had picked out the perfume for he rarely thought of her (or so she thought) , she decided to adorn herself in it in order to appeal more desirable to him.
She needed money.
She was going to ask for money.
After all, he had owed it to her.
The crown his queen wore was crafted from her blood. The ring his king wore came from the teeth of her grandmother . The child she would hopefully never birth would be carried by her.
She did the sign of the cross.
She ascended into the hallway , sweeping her skirt along the tile.
Laces that sinched her waist and held her body constricted her , making her smaller and smaller as she stood beneath the immaculate doors . Those doors , the doors that separated her and him. In those days during that time, women were not allowed in the studios of men. It was respected as his space , a space in which she was not allowed.
Tonight, she was not a woman.
Tonight, she was (C/N).
The air that flooded the hallway became heavier and heavier until she stopped breathing. A tear began to form and she did not know why. Was she afraid to talk to her own husband ?
Suddenly, the door swung open and hit (C/N) on the nose . Causing her to stumble back and hit her head on the tiled floor. There was no carpet to break her fall, only the stone which nearly caused her to bleed.
“(C/N)?” Germany looked down at her, startled . He offered his hand to hers , hoisted her to her feet. “I did not expect jou to be up so late”
She was too startled. Her heart raced and suddenly she forgot to speak her own language. The world around her spun and she worried that he would kill her then and there. No, he wouldn’t do that , would he ? She didn’t know. What she did know was that he had the money that she needed.
“Germany,” she kissed him on the cheek gently, regaining her composure “I must speak to you, it’s urgent.”
“Vhat could be so urgent at this hour sigh … jou knov vhat, come inside. Jou are my vife after all.”
He opened the door for her, allowing her to step into the room for the first time .
Everything was tidy. The curtains were perfectly ironed , the books were arranged by author and colour, and his medals were nicely seated next to each other in the order in which he received them. There was not a speck or a crumb on the floor, as if he had just swept the floors.
“(C/N), Jou bleed.” He states , coming close to her body.
The mirror she looked into showcased her bleeding nose. She was perfect in every way but that. She wanted to cry, she had put so much effort into her makeup and just a simple mistake had ruined everything.
“Here let me help.”
He sat her down and came upon her with his handkerchief. Somehow it disappeared, and her face was cleaned from his magic hand. Even the red stains that had sunken into her pores were gone, as if he were a painter painting a clean, pure woman.
“Thank you.”
“Ja” he turned around and placed his handkerchief carefully on his desk. “Knov vhat is it jou vant?”
“I need help!” She blurted out . “I am ashamed to ask you for it, but I need you to help me. Your people have mined hard and deep into my soil. Women are raped by your occupiers and boys are taken to become soldiers. All I ask is that you police your men and compensate me for my precious medals.”
He placed a finger on his chin, as if he were thinking.
“Vhou is jour debt to?”
“England.”
“Then the matterz iz finished.”
“But I need you to send at least half of your men away.”
“Done.”
“Just like that.”
“Und just like that.”
She straightened her neck and wondered why she had even stressed in the first place. Still, he stood in front of her tall and strong , intimidating her immensely . She felt small and weak still, even though she had just gotten her way.
“Alvright, if zhat iz it then let me valk jou to jour room.”
“That would bring me much joy, yes.”
He offered her his arm to latch herself onto, to which she gladly accepted . She wanted to leave that room as quickly as possible . So once they stepped from the overly clean room, she let out a sigh of relief and a small prayer to her god.
The amount of steps it took them to reach her room was 392, which was only one or two off from the amount it took her to reach the office. She probably miscounted , or got distracted by the sound of her heels hitting the tile.
“Alvright,” he kissed her on her cheek, ”gute nacht.”
“Gute nacht.” She responded and watched him turn her back on her , making his way in the direction of his room.
Their arranged marriage had been a union of convenience, a merger of two powerful countries, but the emotional distance between them was palpable. Tonight, however, C/N was determined to bridge that gap.
“Wait!” She called out to him, figuring it was either now or never. “Would you like to come in?”
She no longer wanted to feel lonely, she wanted the feel of his skin and the kiss that came from his lips. She wanted him to love her , like a husband loves a wife . In her books she had read of this love, when a man whispers sweet prayers into a woman’s ear, and begs that she do the same. She had experienced love from him physically, but wanted him emotionally. She wanted his heart to join with hers , she hoped he could see that.
His nod was all she needed .
She invited him into her room, making room for his tall and bulky frame.
“May I speak freely?”
He nodded again.
“We spend our nights alone though we are husband and wife. Why is it such?”
A crimson blush crept upon his cheeks and he shuffled uncomfortably, searching for an answer in the pure white tile.
“Vell-“
She abruptly cut him off.
“I want to know you as a wife knows her husband.”
“Ve have already come to knov eachother in zhat vhey.”
“No, we have not.”
"Then lets us."
The air was thick in their unspoken tension. His blue eyes bore into hers , making her feel small but not inferior to him. It was an odd feeling.
In the dimness of the room, she noticed his blush and his fumbling hands. She reckoned that he was shy. Even with all his military regalia and medals, he did not know how to come with a woman. Slowly but desperately , he closed in on their small gap, wetting her lips with his own.
His kiss was warm and his body hot against hers.
As their kisses grew more fervent, C/N stepped back slightly, her hands moving to the ties of her gown. With a slow, deliberate motion, she loosened them, the fabric falling away to reveal her bare skin. Germany's blue eyes widened, his gaze roaming over her body with a mixture of awe and desire. It was a feeling he had not felt in awhile. Even on their wedding night, he did not lust for her. It was a duty, a chore . But now, she was a goddess, her curves soft yet seductive , her nipples tight against the coldness of the room.
He removed his clothing and picked her slim body from the floor to throw her on her bed. He had chosen that bed for her, that much was true. It was purchased before their wedding in (C/N) of hopes that she would come to feel at home in her bedroom.
His touch ignited her body, creating a flame that warmed her body. She lusted for him, and he for her.
She grabbed his manhood, slowly pleasuring him until he felt it was right to insert himself. Her walls closed on him, creating a warm , wet embrace over his manhood. He thrust himself into her, over and over again.
It didn’t take long for him to release, with his seed pouring into her. As countries, it was highly unlikely that a child would conceive , but if one did , then it would become the land in which it was conceived.
(C/N) moved to the left of the bed, allowing Germany to sleep on the right.
"Gute Nacht," he whispered to her with a short kiss.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Batonn did not look the same six years later. Though the cruel scars of Imperial bombardment still presented a hollow and sobering aspect where once thriving districts and fair farmlands had flourished. The silver blue light of morning still graced the majestic sea cliffs with unalterable beauty, the bustling animation of the summer markets had happily returned to the southern provinces, and the cheerful voices of children once more animated the very palace corridors that had so narrowly escaped total destruction.
Indeed, in the stillness of a summer afternoon, a gentle observer might find that it began to resemble a proper planet once more, rather than a mere monument to past sorrows.
It was in the privacy of the palace gardens, which were now blooming in all their seasonal opulence beneath a declining sun, that (Y/N) found a moment of elegant repose. Seated beneath the cool shade of a white stone colonnade while the sweet strains of music drifted from the open arches above the sea, she remained in close companionship with her young son, the stately double viol resting between them with an air of quiet domestic tranquility.
Once, she had seen his face as foreign to hers. She had only seen him, her chiss husband that had been forced upon her. Now, she was herself. The gentle bump of his nose, the tilt of his eyes, and his nimble hands which had been hers and the subject of teasing from her brothers.
Now, he was hers.
“No,” she laughed softly, adjusting his fingers again, “not like you’re threatening the instrument. Gentler.”
“I am being gentle.”
“Your father gave this to me, now treat it as such.”
The young prince huffed with a most dramatic show of grievance before adjusting his posture to draw once more across the strings. The note flowed with a decidedly smoother grace, and though it could not yet boast of absolute perfection, it was sufficiently improved to win a faint, approving smile from his mother, the Queen (Y/N).
“There. You see?”
He appeared immensely pleased with his own performance, before his attention drifted towards the vast expanse of the ocean beyond the garden walls. It was a countenance that unhappily possessed the very eyes of his father, Grand Admiral Thrawn, a striking resemblance that still had the power to inflict a sharp pang of sorrow upon his mother's heart. Such moments of painful remembrance did not, it is true, assail her with constant regularity, but they occurred with sufficient frequency to disturb her hard won peace of mind.
“Mother?”
“Yes?”
“Did my father play music?”
“He appreciated it,” she answered carefully.
“That means no.”
(C/N) permitted the viol to rest idly across his lap, his youthful features clouded by a seriousness beyond his years. The older he became, the more fraught and difficult these maternal conferences grew, for the passage of time had failed to dim his earliest perceptions.
“What was he like?” the boy asked softly.
How could she explain a man like Thrawn to a child?
A conqueror. A strategist. A husband. A father. A man she had once betrayed while loving him simultaneously.
“He was very intelligent.”
“That is not a real answer.”
“It is absolutely a real answer.”
“It is a boring answer.”
She smiled faintly despite herself.
“He noticed things other people missed,” she continued softly. “He could walk into a room and understand everyone inside it before they even spoke.”
“Like you.”
“No,” she said immediately. “Not like me.”
“Did he love us?”
The sudden question inflicted an immediate and hollow ache within her breast, quite robbing her of her accustomed composure. Her treacherous memory conjured the vivid image of Thrawn’s blue hand, long ago, caressing her bare skin with a tenderness she had never thought to find in so severe a man.
(Y/N) looked toward the sea because it was easier than looking directly at her son for a moment.
Memories rose anyway...
Thrawn standing beside her portrait like he could preserve happiness through observation alone.
Thrawn touching her hair with impossible gentleness while suspicion slowly grew between them….
And that final look in the doorway before she fled Coruscant.
“Yes,” she said quietly at last. “He loved us in the only way he knew how.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Centuries later, historians would argue endlessly over what became of the imperial Queen of Batonn.
Records from the Imperial era remained fragmented following the collapse of the Empire and the later conflicts that scarred the early New Republic. Official archives described her as Lady Thrawn, the once thought deceased wife of Grand Admiral Thrawn and mother to a Chiss-human heir whose existence itself became the subject of political speculation and rumor.
Batonnese oral histories remembered her differently.
She became a tragic figure: the sovereign who survived long enough to watch her kingdom become mythology. The Batonn that existed before the insurgency no longer existed though she tried to rebuild it with the hands she had been given. She ruled from Coruscant until she came home after the war was over and ruled on the throne of her father.
Smugglers on Nal Hutta spoke once of a human woman with royal manners and a Batonnese signet ring who traveled with a red-eyed son and played the double viol in dimly lit cantinas for information instead of credits. Then one day she disappeared, never to be seen again. One smuggler found an old pamphlet with her face on as she stood near a chiss imperial grand admiral. Later, he traveled to Batonn and found that the woman that once played the double viol in that old cantina was the queen of Batonn.
Historians would later call the fete week pamphlets one of the greatest examples of Imperial propaganda ever produced. Yet what fascinated scholars most was not the Admiral’s expression. It was hers. Because even centuries later, no one could fully agree what emotion existed behind the queen’s smile.
Grand Admiral Thrawn deliberately stalls the Empire just long enough to ensure his family's permanent disappearance into the shadows.
Masterlist, Part 31
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
“I don’t want to go back,” (Y/N) panted as they approached the Lothal residence, “please, they already know.”
“We must act as though none of this happened, (Y/N),” Irtur said.
“My son, what will they do to my son? What will I do as someone who has given life and has now slain Batonnese blood.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
She didn’t rest that night. Beside the crib of her son, she sat upon the cold floor, drawing her knees close against her breast. She had she washed her hands three times in the clear waters, seeking to cleanse them of the night’s dark work, yet still, in the secret chambers of her mind, she deemed she could feel the phantom stain of blood lingering upon her skin, a river that no stream of earth might ever wash away.
The prison corridors replayed endlessly behind her eyes. Gret standing inside the cell. The sound of the blaster…
She placed her hands over her ears, as though they would prevent the sound from playing in her head. After some time, she removed them and looked into the cradle of her child.
“My sweet boy,” she whispered.
The bedroom doors slid open softly behind her and she turned too quickly. Thrawn stood in the doorway still wearing his uniform though the long evening had left faint exhaustion beneath the perfect composure of his posture.
His eyes found her immediately.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked calmly.
“Yes,” (Y/N) lied softly.
“You are awake very early.”
“I could not fully settle.”
Thrawn stepped farther into the room, his gaze moving briefly toward (C/N) asleep in the crib before returning to her.
“There was a security incident tonight near the northern detention district,” he said evenly.
“A prison break attempt?” She gulped, attempting to remain still.
“One detainee was killed during the event.”
“I had not heard.”
“No,” he said. “The information remains restricted.”
Thrawn caressed the dress he had folded the other night as it was still in the same position he had left it.
“One of the surveillance sectors failed shortly before the incident,” he continued. “Several reports are still being compiled.”
(Y/N) folded her arms lightly across herself to conceal the trembling beginning again in her left hand.
“A maintenance issue?”
“Possibly,” His eyes remained fixed on her face, “I dislike incomplete reports.”
Her breath caught violently, because he said it while looking directly at her.
Behind them, (C/N) shifted softly in his sleep. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Thrawn’s voice came again, calm as ever.
“I am relocating the household temporarily.”
“What?”
“There is a secured residence outside the capital district,” he said. “More isolated. Easier to manage during the remainder of Fete Week.”
“The prison incident changed this?”
“It accelerated an existing consideration.”
“And Irtur?”
“He will accompany the household in his diplomatic capacity.”
Thrawn stepped closer then, stopping beside the crib. His son slept peacefully beneath the low nursery light, entirely unaware that his parents stood above him speaking in half-truths and concealed suspicions. For the first time that evening, something in Thrawn’s expression softened slightly as he looked down at the child. Then he said quietly:
“You appear anxious.”
Then, his crimson red eyes averted to her.
“I wonder why.”
Under the unblinking stare of those crimson eyes, her breath caught, and a sudden tremor shook her left hand. She strove to hold his gaze with a proud front, yet beneath that piercing and ruby light, she felt the chill of an inner dread, as though the innermost secrets of her soul were laid bare before a silent judge.
“You should rest while you can,” he said with gentleness that nearly broke her apart. Because it would have been easier if he were cruel. So much easier.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
The new residence sat far from Lothal’s capital in the eastern highlands where the land opened into rolling green plains broken occasionally by pale stone cliffs. It was beautiful in the deliberate way Imperial residences often were, isolated enough to feel peaceful while still remaining heavily guarded. Somewhere deeper in the residence, Uiona tended to (C/N) while the security detail rotated outside with quiet military precision.
(Y/N) hated it immediately.
She stood near the fireplace with her arms folded tightly across herself as Irtur poured something expensive into two glasses he had absolutely not been given permission to open.
“I think he knows,” she said.
“How much?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head once. “Enough to move us here.”
He handed her one of the glasses.
“That alone proves nothing.”
“He asked where I was.”
“And?”
“And I lied.”
“That has not historically stopped you before.”
“This was different,” (Y/N) said before she moved toward the window, staring out toward the rain-covered hills. “He mentioned the prison break immediately. He said the reports were incomplete and then he looked directly at me when he said he dislikes incomplete reports.”
“Well. That is unfortunate.”
“That is your response?”
“It is my calm response. My internal response is significantly worse.”
“Why hasn’t he sent me back to Coruscant? If he truly suspects me, why am I still here?”
“Because it is still Fete Week. The Empire would not publicly remove the Grand Admiral’s wife during a major military celebration unless they possessed undeniable proof.” His expression darkened slightly. “Not you specifically. Not now. Not while your face is currently hanging from half the city.”
The perfect Imperial family, the thought of it made her ill.
“He is containing the situation,” Irtur continued. “Which means he does not yet know enough. I need to go to Batonn.”
“What?”
“I do not know what Gret told them before we reached him.” His voice remained calm, though she could hear the exhaustion beneath it now. “If the ISB pulled names from him, routes, old contacts…”
(Y/N) looked away immediately because she knew he was right.
“I need to clean this mess before it spreads further,” he continued. “Destroy records. Move people if necessary. Speak with the northern cells directly.”
“They’re watching Batonn closely.”
“They always are,” Then Irtur stepped closer to her, “You should remain here.”
“In this beautiful Imperial cage?”
“For now.”
“And what if Thrawn already knows?”
“Then he has already made an interesting decision by not turning you over.”
Carefully, he turned her wrist upward and pressed a brief kiss against the Batonnese signet ring she still wore despite everything.
“You are still our queen,” he said quietly.
“Irtur…”
“If this worsens,” he interrupted softly, “protect the child first.”
“When do you leave?” she asked.
“Within the hour.”
He moved towards the doorway, his black and white clothing swaying behind him.
“This marriage does not end peacefully,” he said quietly. “You know that.”
The very moment he crossed the threshold and stepped out from her sight, heavy rain began to fall, as if nature herself were hastening to wash his earthly frame clean of every past transgression. It was an melancholy departure, for though he walked with a steady step, the relentless downpour seemed to weep for a man who was leaving the comforts of life behind forever.
She moved to sit near the hearth, the fire feeling unnaturally cool on her skin. (Y/N) stared at it for some time, before removing her prosthetic from her left hand to feel the fire dance between her fingers. The fire danced between her, but if she got too close it would inevitably burn her, but she didn’t care. She simply wished she could throw herself into the flame, the cold flame.
Thrawn.
She woke up near the hearth, the fire had been extinguished and for some reason, the room felt warmer.
(Y/N) fixed her gown and had just descended into the lower receiving hall when she saw the stormtroopers first. There were four of them, positioned at the entrance and Lord Kaelor Virex was situated in between them.
For a second, she thought that she was looking at Gret again, that he had somehow raised himself from the dead and had come to seek his revenge.
But Kaelor stood harder than his son ever had. The stormtroopers watched him closely enough to make the purpose obvious.
(Y/N) slowed near the staircase.
“My Lord, I did not expect you here on Lothal,” she said though he was meant to greet her first.
“I am here to collect my son’s body,” he said in his strong, rugged voice. Kaelor’s eyes moved briefly over the polished Imperial surroundings with visible disgust before returning to her. “I was informed the Empire would release his remains under supervision.”
“You may stay here tonight,” she said after a moment. “The city is still unstable after the incident.”
“In your residence?”
“It would be safer.”
“For whom?”
“I am trying to help.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You are trying to ease your conscience, Queen Geronh.”
The stormtroopers shifted subtly at the tone. One hand moved nearer to a holstered weapon. Kaelor noticed that too and smiled faintly in the way broken men sometimes did.
“I will not remain beneath Imperial protection,” he continued. “Especially not yours.”
“You should not travel alone on Lothal right now.”
“My son was tortured in an Imperial prison,” Kaelor replied evenly. “I no longer possess a meaningful relationship with caution.” He now lowered his voice and stepped closer to her, he now towered over her and it frightened her. He never frightened her before. “When Gret first joined the resistance, he still believed in you. He said the queen would remember Batonn eventually,” His expression hardened further. “I told him queens who marry conquerors do not return.”
(Y/N) could not breathe properly for a moment as Kaelor stepped back again before she could answer. Then one of the stormtroopers moved forward stiffly.
“Transport is prepared.”
Kaelor did not look at the stormtrooper and kept his eyes fixated on her.
“You wear grief beautifully,” he said coldly. “The Empire trained you well.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
As Fete week came, it had gone. The banners were slowly removed from the capital. Portraits came down from shop windows and government plazas. Imperial officers departed in waves of polished transports while the city returned to its ordinary rhythm beneath the Empire.
Just as quietly as she had arrived on Lothal, (Y/N) was sent away.
The transport waiting on the landing platform was sleek and immaculate, its engines already humming softly in preparation for departure back to Coruscant. It rained again that day, and she wished she could’ve said that it was a beautiful day but it wasn’t.
She stood near the boarding ramp holding (C/N) against her shoulder while attendants finalized the luggage transfers behind them. Uiona remained nearby speaking quietly with one of the pilots as too many stormtroopers lined the platform perimeter.
Everything lately felt watched, even when she was alone in the darkness of her bedroom, she felt watched.
“Lady Thrawn,” Thrawn called as he approached across the landing platform in full uniform, white against the muted grey morning. “You are prepared for departure?”
“Yes.”
She answered too quickly and he noticed, of course he noticed. It caused him to step closer, focusing his attention on the child in her arms.
“The journey to Coruscant will take approximately sixteen hours,” he said. “The child’s medical supplements have already been transferred aboard.”
“Thank you.”
“You will remain within the Imperial Residence District upon arrival.”
She nodded once at the instruction. (C/N) stirred lightly against her shoulder and Thrawn’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly as he reached out, adjusting the edge of the blanket away from the child’s face with careful precision. The gentleness of it worried her.
“You should avoid public appearances for several weeks,” he continued carefully. “The celebrations were… extensive.”
“Am I being hidden?” (Y/N) asked as she looked up at him.
“You are being protected.”
“Is there a difference?”
“To you, there often is.”
Wind moved across the landing platform, carrying the distant scent of rain and engine fuel. Her grip tightened unconsciously around (C/N). (Y/N) lowered her eyes briefly toward her son because suddenly looking directly at Thrawn felt dangerous again.
“You are quiet this morning,” he observed.
“I’m tired.”
“No, you are troubled.”
A long silence filled the distance afterward as machinery and the smell of rain filled the room. Then, before she could retreat from it, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against her forehead.
“You should rest when you arrive on Coruscant,” Thrawn said as he pulled away. “You have not slept properly in days.”
Throughout the long flight, she remained utterly motionless on her bed, seeking refuge from her sorrows in an unceasing slumber. She did not rouse herself to partake of any refreshment, nor did she once address her companions, preferring the silent oblivion of sleep to the painful reality of her thoughts. The entire duration of the transport was passed in a state of sorrowful torpor, her mind stubbornly closed against a world that now afforded her so little comfort.
And when she arrived, Coruscant greeted her with the same grey coldness she had grown accustomed to. Though her imperial attendants greeted her with a bow and smiles she felt as though these actions felt unreal. She had too much to burden, and too much to hide that returning a smile would be against her.
(Y/N) moved through the enormous apartment like a ghost while (C/N) slept against her shoulder. The nursery had already been prepared before their arrival. Fresh flowers sat arranged beside the windows. New toys had been placed carefully near the crib. Someone had anticipated their return perfectly. The empire anticipated everything, nothing escaped its sight.
Days passed strangely slowly after that.
She stopped attending dinners and appearing publicly. When invitations arrived from senators or officers’ wives, she declined them all through formal correspondence drafted by assistants she barely listened to anymore. Most mornings she remained in the nursery long after (C/N) had fallen asleep again, sitting beside the crib while Coruscant’s endless city lights glowed beyond the windows.
She had not heard from Irtur in some time and it frightened her.
Sleep never found her, and it hadn’t since her academy days on Hosnian Prime.
Some nights she woke abruptly convinced she had heard stormtroopers entering the apartment. Other nights she dreamed of Gret inside the prison cell with her gun pressed to his heart. But sometimes, on the odd occasion when sleep did find her, she dreamed of Clvtorig in the oasis on Batonn. Desperately, she tried to forget him as someone she could never love, but his face was the only thing that could bring her comfort.
But when she couldn’t sleep or couldn’t stand, she found herself in the nursery with her son.
“You should eat something,” Uiona said gently one evening while standing near the nursery doorway.
(Y/N) barely looked up from where she sat near the window holding her son.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You have said that twice today.”
“I wasn’t aware you were counting.”
Uiona fell silent immediately following the guilt that ran across (Y/N)’s face.
“I apologize,” she whispered tiredly. “I did not mean…”
“You are frightened,” Uiona said softly.
“What if something happens to him because of me?” (Y/N) said looking down at her son, moving his growing hair from his face.
“The child is loved,” she said carefully. “Whatever else may exist around this family… that much is true.”
That night she walked the corridor and reached out the door of Thrawn’s office, she asked V3PO to open it and it did. The office remained immaculate exactly as he preferred it. Traces of him were everywhere and it bothered her so much that she stormed out.
In a few mornings, (Y/N) sat alone at the writing desk near the nursery with untouched tea growing cold beside her. There was still nothing from Irtur of Batonn and it worried her. Her hands trembled slightly as she unfolded a sheet of expensive cream-colored correspondence paper bearing the Imperial household seal. Lady Sereth would answer if anyone could.
(Y/N) dipped her pen in ink, the traditional Batonnese ink before writing.
‘Lady Sereth,
I apologize for the lateness of this correspondence. Fete Week required rather more public participation than I had anticipated. I confess I find myself missing quieter company.
There is another matter for which I seek your discretion.
I have not heard from Lord Irtur since our departure from Lothal. This silence is… unusual. I would ask whether Count Clvtorig Tronstad remains within your reach and, if so, whether he might be persuaded to contact me through secure means.
You understand my caution in writing this directly.
Please do not respond through official household channels.
And my Lady,
If there is something I should know, I would prefer honesty over comfort.
With affection,
(Y/N) Geronh.’
When she finished, she stared at the page for a long time. Then carefully folded it closed. She handed it quietly to Uiona, a woman she knew she could forever trust.
“I am sending you to Batonn,” She whispered as though someone was watching them in her own sitting room, “Only to Lady Sereth.”
Uiona bowed, then said, “Of course, your Majesty.”
Afterward, (Y/N) remained standing alone near the apartment windows long after the letter had disappeared into Coruscant’s endless machinery below.
Uiona arrived two weeks later with another note in her hand. Well, it was one note until she flickered her finger and another one appeared under it. (Y/N) took the note outside, to the gardens where she had once walked with Thrawn. She stopped at the same bench she had once sat at with him and opened both of the notes.
Lady Sereth’s handwriting remained as elegant as ever.
‘My Queen,
I received your message safely.
Clvtorig remains alive. That alone is presently a blessing.
Batonn has become unstable since the incident on Lothal. Entire districts in the north are under increased Imperial review, though no public explanation has yet been issued. Several names connected to the old resistance routes have disappeared within the last week.
Irtur has not returned.
No one seems willing to say this aloud, but fear has begun moving through the remaining houses.
I do not yet know which possibility terrifies me more.
Clvtorig refused to remain here long enough for proper conversation. He requested only that this second note be delivered directly into your hands.
You must be careful now.
There are rumors that Lord Vader himself has begun reviewing reports connected to the prison incident.
Burn this after reading.
— Lady Sereth’
She opened the second note that was not as pleasant as the first one:
‘I will return when I am needed.’
(Y/N) stared at the words for a very long time. Then slowly lowered the paper into her lap. Suddenly, she felt more alone than she had since Batonn had bled.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Six months later
The senate session had run long.
It always ran long when Restos was presenting, which she had come to understand was a deliberate strategy rather than a failure of brevity, the longer the session, the less time the opposing senators had to organize their responses before the vote closed.
She was tired from all of this and sat her bag down inside the apartment door and reached up to remove the first earring without looking. The apartment was quiet in the way it was quiet when the household staff had stepped back for the evening. She removed the second earring and moved to her bedroom where she thought she was alone.
Thrawn was sitting in the chair near the window.
Not the workspace chair, the one she had come to think of as his reading chair, the one angled toward the Coruscant night, though he was not reading. He was in his uniform, the Grand Admiral's white, which meant he had come directly from something official and had not yet changed, which meant he had come directly here, which meant…
She stopped in the doorway.
He was not supposed to be on Coruscant.
The Lothal campaign. He was not supposed to be on Coruscant for another five months.
He looked at her and she looked back at him, nearly jumping at the surprise. She set the earrings on the side table.
"You're not supposed to be here," (Y/N) said.
"No," Thrawn said. "I'm not."
She did not move from the doorway. She stood in it with the bag still over her shoulder. He looked back at her with the expression she had been building a vocabulary for over the years of their marriage, the one that was not the Grand Admiral and not the cold and was the thing she had the most words for now and still not enough.
"There will be an ISB inquiry tomorrow morning," he said. The words arrived with the evenness he applied to everything.
"About what?"
"You," he said, looking at her steadily.
"You," he said.
She could hear the faint sounds of the nursery, Uiona moving, the particular quiet of a room where a child was sleeping and the people in it were being careful about it.
"How long?" Not how long until the inquiry. She was asking how long she had.
He understood the question. He always understood the question.
"You should leave before 0400," he said.
She looked at the window, at Coruscant. At the city that had never been hers, that she had learned to move through and had never learned to love, that was about to become the last thing she saw of this life before it changed into whatever came next.
"Will you come with us?"
"No," he said.
She held his gaze.
“Why?”
He was quiet for a moment. Not the quiet of a man constructing an answer. The quiet of a man who had already made a decision and was now delivering it with the precision he brought to things that had cost him.
"Because someone must remain here," he said, "long enough for your absence to become irreversible."
She set the earring down beside the other one.
She straightened and went to the nursery.
(C/N) was asleep. His hair was getting longer and she moved it away from his face. She lifted him and turned to Uiona who was already in the doorway.
"We do not have much time," Uiona said.
"I know," she said.
"Irtur is waiting. Lower levels. The service corridor on the thirty-first, the same route."
The same route. The maintenance alley and the freight elevator and the hood pulled low and the city that did not watch boxes, only people. She had learned this years ago in a different life and it was still true.
"The child's things," she said.
"Already done," Uiona said. "Two bags. I packed them this morning."
She walked back through the bedroom without looking at the chair by the window, without looking at the Coruscant night, without looking at any of it, and she went to the corridor and she stopped.
She turned.
He was standing in the bedroom doorway now. She had not heard him move. He was looking at her with the expression that had no name in any language she knew.
She looked at the same man who had stood next to her and married her, who had cut her hair and kept it. Who had given her her first child, who she had slowly fallen in love with.
She opened her mouth.
She closed it.
There was nothing that fit inside the available time.
She inclined her head and he held her gaze for a moment before inclining his and watched her walk toward the service corridor and did not look back.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Irtur was where Uiona had said he would be.
He was in a dark cloak, the hood down, his face carrying the exhaustion of a man who had been moving carefully through the wrong places for months and had arrived here at the end of it.
"He's gotten bigger," he said.
"They do that," she said.
She turned to Uiona.
Uiona was already there. She had been there the whole time, the two bags at her feet, the expression she had been wearing since the nursery doorway, the one that was not performing anything.
She stepped closer to her and pulled her in, hugging her until her face turned red.
"You know where to go," she said instead. Into her hair. "You know what to do."
"I always do," she said.
"Yes," Uiona said. "You always do."
She stepped back.
"Thank you," she said. Which was not sufficient and was the only word available.
Uiona straightened.
"Go," she said. "Your people are waiting."
Everything echoed as (Y/N) and Irtur descended into the darkness. (Y/N) kept the hood low over her face as they moved quickly through the lower maintenance levels. Irtur led them through narrow passages lit only by flickering strips of emergency light while Uiona’s final words still echoed painfully in her chest.
‘Your people are waiting.’
She no longer knew who her people were she thought to herself as they rounded another corner and stopped abruptly. Someone stood waiting in the darkness ahead.
She stepped back as the tall, dark silhouette stepped forward into the light.
Clvtorig.
His brown hair was longer now, tied roughly at the nape of his neck, his face thinner than before. There was dried blood staining one sleeve of his coat that did not appear to belong to him. (Y/N) let out a breath she had not realized she’d been holding.
“You’re alive.”
“Disappointing for several people,” Irtur replied dryly, causing Clvtorig to shoot him a look.
“(Y/N),” Clvtorig moved her hood from her face and cupped her cheeks with his gloved hands, “I can’t believe it’s you. It’s almost as if you are an illusion I cannot grasp.”
She placed her hand on his before his eyes drifted to the child in her arms.
“You took too long,” he said, hearing Irtur nearly trip over a crate.
“Yes,” Irtur agreed calmly. “It has been a very difficult month.”
Clvtorig looked back toward (Y/N).
“You ready to disappear, Your Majesty?”
“No,” she admitted softly.
“Good. Sensible people rarely are.”
There was no more time after that. The transport hangar sat buried beneath the lower industrial districts where freight ships came and went too often for anyone to remember faces. Steam drifted through the loading platforms while workers shouted over machinery in a dozen languages. Irtur approached the checkpoint first while she stayed slightly behind him holding (C/N) tightly beneath the cloak.
“Identification,” A bored security officer said as he barely looked up.
Irtur handed over three forged chain cards casually and the officer scanned them. He looked up at them before rescanning them, then he looked up again slowly.
Then back down at the IDs.
“These say you’re Twi’leks.”
Irtur blinked once.
“What are you,” he asked tiredly, “some type of racist?”
The officer raised an eyebrow but it only remained raised for half a second as a violent force suddenly exploded through the checkpoint and Irtur was hurled backward into a cargo container hard enough to dent the metal. (Y/N) screamed instinctively and stumbled backward as the lights above them began to flicker.
Clvtorig sensing the issue as one requiring him as a jedi, igniting his lightsaber which caused people to run and scream, trampling over (Y/N) and Irtur in the process.
An Inquisitor stepped from the shadows beyond the loading platform dressed in black armor beneath the crimson glow of an ignited spinning lightsaber. Her face was pale and severe beneath tattooed markings across her jawline.
“Well now,” the woman drawled coldly, “Ah knew yew rats would try somethin’ dramatic.”
When she spoke, her voice carried a sharp outer-rim accent curled around every word.
Stormtroopers flooded the platform instantly behind her with their blasters raised. Clvtorig swore softly. (Y/N)’s pulse turned to ice.
The Inquisitor’s yellow eyes settled immediately on him.
“Oh, Ah know yew,” she said with ugly amusement. “Little Jedi survivor playin’ revolutionary.”
Clvtorig stepped slightly in front of (Y/N) instinctively.
“I knew the Empire would send one of you eventually.”
“Aw, sweetheart,” she sneered, spinning the saber lazily through one hand, “yew flatter yourself.”
Suddenly, Clvtorig jumped at the inquisitor and the sound of their sabers clashing cracked through the hangar like thunder. The green and red blades moved impossibly fast through the darkness. The Inquisitor fought viciously, using the Force to tear loose crates and machinery, hurling them across the platform hard enough to shatter durasteel.
Clvtorig barely avoided one piece of debris before driving forward again.
“You should’ve stayed hidden!” she spat, locking blades with him.
“And miss this conversation?”
She snarled and slammed the Force outward violently. Clvtorig crashed across the floor. The Inquisitor turned instantly toward the crates where (Y/N) hid and Irtur. (C/N) who began to cry beneath the crate stirred under (Y/N)’s coat.
“Oh?” the woman smiled cruelly. “There yew are.”
(Y/N)’s blood froze.
The Inquisitor lifted one hand and Clvtorig drove his saber directly through her chest from behind. The red blade sputtered violently. For one stunned second the woman simply stared downward at the glowing weapon protruding through her armor. Then Clvtorig ripped it free. She collapsed hard against the platform floor.
Dead.
Silence followed.
Only smoke.
Burning circuitry.
And the sound of (C/N) crying softly against her shoulder. Clvtorig stood breathing heavily in the center of the ruined checkpoint while stormtrooper bodies lay scattered around him. Then slowly he turned toward her.
“Hiding strategy was excellent,” he said hoarsely.
(Y/N) stared at him in complete shock.
Irtur groaned somewhere behind a destroyed cargo container.
“I despise Jedi,” he muttered weakly from the floor.
They ran onto the transport before any more inquisitors could appear from the shadows. The transport doors slammed shut behind them just as blasterfire tore across the landing platform. “GO!” Irtur shouted from somewhere near the cockpit.
The ship lurched violently almost immediately, engines screaming as the pilot forced the transport upward through the industrial traffic lanes of lower Coruscant.
(Y/N) nearly lost her footing, but Clvtorig caught her arm before she could fall while (C/N) cried loudly against her shoulder, frightened by the noise and sudden movement. Outside the narrow viewport, red emergency lights flashed across the hangar district below as Imperial sirens began rising through the city. They had minutes at best before the Empire locked down the lower sectors. Irtur disappeared toward the cockpit muttering something furious about Inquisitors and concussions while the ship climbed sharply into the endless layers of Coruscant traffic. The cargo bay remained dimly lit, trembling softly from engine strain. For a while neither of them spoke. Only (C/N)’s crying filled the silence. (Y/N) finally managed to calm him enough for him to fall asleep again against her chest.
She sat heavily against one of the cargo crates.
Clvtorig remained standing nearby, one hand still resting against the wall from the turbulence. There was blood on his sleeve again. More now.
“You’re injured,” she said quietly.
“It’s superficial.”
“That usually means it’s serious.”
A faint smile touched his mouth briefly.
“You’ve spent too much time around soldiers.”
Too much time around Thrawn but neither of them said it aloud.
(Y/N) looked down at the child sleeping against her.
“Where will we go?”
Clvtorig leaned back against the wall opposite her.
“Batonn isn’t safe,” she continued before he could answer. “They’ll search it first. Every remaining house is compromised. Every route monitored. They will find me there.”
“They will,” he agreed quietly. “Nal Hutta. We will go there.”
“Nal Hutta?”
“It’s where I’ve been hiding.”
“The Hutt systems? I thought you were with the Sereth clan. ”
“The Empire avoids direct interference there whenever possible.” He shrugged slightly. “Too expensive. Too complicated. Too corrupt even for them.”
“I used to know exactly who I was,” she whispered.“And now look at me.”
“A fugitive?”
“A traitor.”
His expression hardened immediately.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You betrayed the Empire,” he corrected calmly. “That is not the same thing.”
“You sound like Irtur.”
“He’s usually right. Unfortunately.”
Slowly, she reached toward her hand, toward the Batonnese signet ring still resting there. The metal caught softly beneath the cargo lights. She stared at it for a long moment before pulling it free. Clvtorig immediately straightened slightly. (Y/N) held the ring in her palm for a second before extending it toward him.
“I’m not worthy of this anymore.”
He stepped closer but did not take the ring immediately.
“You still believe crowns are earned through purity,” he said softly.
“They should be.”
“No,” Clvtorig replied. “They’re earned through survival.”
“I slept beside the man who destroyed my world.”
“And still helped save what remained of it.”
“I loved him.” The confession fell into the cargo bay so quietly she almost thought the engines swallowed it, but Clvtorig heard it, of course he did. For a long moment he said nothing at all. Then finally he took her hand gently instead of the ring, closing her fingers back around it.
“That does not erase who you are,” his voice lowered now as he spoke in the dim light “The people remembered you negotiated for civilians when the Senate abandoned us. They remembered you walking through refugee camps yourself while Imperial officers hid behind escorts. And they remembered that even after marrying Thrawn… you never once stopped grieving Batonn. They know that you did it as a duty.”
Tears burned suddenly behind her eyes.
“I failed them.”
“No,” Clvtorig said firmly. This time he took the ring carefully from her trembling hand, then pressed it back into her palm once more. “You are more than worthy of this.”
She looked at him helplessly.
“You carry Batonn differently now,” he continued quietly. “Not as a palace. Not as titles. As memory.” His eyes lowered briefly toward (C/N) sleeping against her chest. “And memory survives longer than empires do.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside her. Clvtorig sat beside her finally, close enough that warmth lingered between them in the dim cargo hold. The ship continued carrying them farther and farther away from Coruscant.
Away from Thrawn.
Away from the life she had built accidentally beside the enemy she had once sworn to hate.
A Roman slave named Ianthe is captured and condemned to the arena to be claimed and bred by the winning gladiator.
(Original work, read on AO3)
˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀➷
Ianthe.
That was the name written on her bracelet - the name she had always been called. It was most likely the name of a former mistress or trader, but for now she was ‘Ianthe’.
It was a name screamed, a name that was commanded, but never a name that was begged. For Ianthe had learned her place as a slave and did not wish to anger the fist of her master. That was until her mistress desired to cut her striking red hair to weave a capillamentum for herself to wear. She did not wish for that old hag to wear her hair, so she ran into the city and hid for days until she was caught by the guards, who recognized her markings and returned her to her master.
Rome was never kind to slaves, especially those with features deemed desirable.
“That dreadful girl,” Nerilla was so angry she kicked over the vase her late husband had gifted her last spring.
All the slaves in the household stood idly in a single line, not daring to move or flinch while watching the tantrum thrown by their superior.
“Where is she?”
“She is locked in the cellar as ordered, mistress.”
“I am sending her to the gladiator games.”
No one said anything, but they all shared a consistent look of fear, for it was known what happened to girls sent to the arena after the games. As a girl, she wouldn’t fight but be a gift to the winner, who would breed her in the center of the arena for all to see. Sometimes they put up a fight, but usually they calmly bowed their heads and accepted their fate. Knowing Ianthe, she would put up a fight , which worried them.
So that night, the slave Prima hurried down to the cellar with the chain of heavy keys she had taken from their leader. Unlocking the heavy door, she became engulfed in the darkness , absorbed in the scent of salty tears and dried blood.
“Ianthe,” she called to the answer of whimpering and soot. “Ianthe, where does Nerilla have you chained?”
When she stepped into a pool of blood, she hit a soft, fleshy leg that had been damaged and bruised by the whip. A whip her redheaded friend knew all too well.
“Ianthe, oh you poor thing,” In all her years as a slave, she had never seen a woman so beaten and so wounded. Even during the war, when the Romans conquered her home, enslaving her people and enacting their fatal campaign.
“I am alive. That is all Phanes has gifted me.”
“And I have news.”
“News of when I will die? Have the gods spoken to you?”
“No, Nerilla did.”
She picked herself up, now fully interested in what her sister slave was about to tell her.
“You are to be sent to the games.”
“The games?” She gasped and held her chest in shock. She was almost bare, for her blue tunic had been cut and slit at the chest, exposing her and causing her to become as cold as a corpse. “But I am woman; I am weak ; I can’t walk without a limp. How am I to fight a gladiator?”
“You are not to fight, Ianthe.”
The woman she had come to know as a sister looked upon her with pity and woe. Not even she had the courage to educate her friend about what was to come.
“You are to be a gift.”
“No…”
“Do not worry,” Prima knelt down and poured oil on her lame woman’s open wounds. “For it is rumored that Vitus’ slave Septimus will be fighting, and he is almost free. He may petition to keep you as his own.”
“Is he almost free?”
And Prima nodded, giving her friend hope of escape.
So in the morning, Prima made sure to keep close to her mistress to overhear the date and competitors of the next match. She soon confirmed that Septimus would be fighting and that the match would be held in a few days. All the while, Ianthe was being held in the cellar, starved and void of light. It had been days before she was finally let out, but Nerilla decided to still starve her slave of the glow of light.
As soon as she was guided from her dank prison, a mask cloth was tied around her eyes. It was something she never expected to pray for, but every day she prayed that Helios would rip her from her clothed prison and allow the sun to warm her skin and bless her eyes. As the sun in Corinth was when she was young and free.
One day, her prayer for sun would be answered.
Prima visited her sister slave that morning with olive oils and a vase of fresh water. She lathered Ianthe’s naked body in the oils, then scrubbed it off with her own cloth and water. The cloth of her tunic, a part of it she had ripped from the one item she owned, she allowed to become dirtied for the sake of her friend’s beauty.
She was fed a Pomegranate, which stained the pinkness of her lips. It was rumored to boost fertility in the times of Jupiter . Ianthe hoped that becoming with child would allow pity to be bestowed upon her, something she most dearly needed.
Most slaves were discarded after the games , but Ianthe wished Septimus would enjoy her and keep her as his own. She did not want to be killed or, even worse, be sent back to Nerilla.
She was forced to stand in the pit next to her mistress, still with the cloth over her eyes, to avoid the sun. Unable to see the gladiators fighting, she could only make out who was winning through the yells of the crowd.
“That large fellow over there. Though you cannot see him, he will be the one to deflower you, you criminal,” her mistress whispered in her ear. “It is what you deserve, Ianthe. After all, you need to be taught a lesson.”
“Ede faecam,” she responded in a tone that would’ve gotten her killed if she had not been reserved for her current punishment.
Soon, the scent of blood filled the air and, with it, the cheers of an unforgiving crowd. It was then she began to breathe heavily, nearly breaking out of the rope she had been forced into. She yearned for the sun, and that was what she was allowed when she suddenly found herself in the center of the arena. A rough hand cut her blindness from behind, allowing her to eventually see the world around her. But her eyes did not wish to see , and she stumbled back, hitting a bulking frame who attempted to save her from her fall but failed.
Her head hit the hard ground, and she screamed and clenched her eyes shut, the newfound sun blinding her. She did not know what to do , so she simply screamed, as she had done as a child. The entire colosseum roared in laughter, laughing at the small slave as she laid in the shadow of the Gladiator.
He picked her up, using her shoulders to give her balance. It was then she was able to awaken her sense of sight, looking up at the towering man. She had recognized him from the streets of Rome and the graffiti that featured his victorious name and strength. Her mistress had bet on him several times before, boasting to her confidants about the money she had won.
“Πραΰς,” he muttered to her in her native language. He reached out to her cheek, stroking her soft skin with his woundedness. Never had anyone been so still in his arms, especially in the arena. It got him excited, almost making him feel powerful, given his title. “You will not struggle, or I shall kill you. It is my right.”
“I am not the slave of Septimus but of Nerilla,” she looked crazed , her eyebrows creating wrinkles on her forehead as she pushed them up with unease.
“I have won.”
He turned her body around, ripping her dress from behind.
“I am Victor.”
He pushed her to the ground by her shoulders, forcing her knees to become buried in the ground.
“I am free.”
She stared at the crowd in front of her and wished that her blindfold was still tied around her eyes.
“If I shall enjoy you, then I will keep you.” He kneeled down behind her, smacking her buttocks, making her gasp. “But if I find you unwilling, I will kill you. Now, I am your master, and you are my slave.”
He poked at her pussy lips with his hardening cock, determining if he should go slowly or roughly. But then he realized that she was his prize, a lowly slave who was available for him to use and do as he wished.
He wanted her to feel pain. To wish she was dead, for that was the only emotion he knew to inflict.
Slowly, he inserted himself into her. She began to attempt to push away, but he used his strength to grab onto her legs and draw her closer to him. He groaned. Feeling her tightness hug around his bulging and growing cock. He began humping into her, using his free hand to take hold of her hair and pull so that she was forced to stare into the crowd of spectators.
It was a feeling she did not expect. She felt a mix of pain and pleasure, a moan flying from her mouth.
“You like that, you little whore?”
Feeling ashamed, she did not respond. So hearing silence, he became rougher and faster , causing her to bleed.
“Your master asked a question,” he pulled from her and stood tall, grabbing her from the floor, positioning her so that she was bending over. “You may be too small to carry my seed, but I will force myself until you are bred and unable to walk.”
He inserted himself again, this time faster, which caused her to leap and gasp.
“Please,” she began to plead, “please keep me as your own, and I promise to reserve my pussy for your seed so that only you are allowed to defile me in such a way.”
“With me, you will never be free.” He grabbed her neck and forced her to look upon his scared face. “If you escape from me, I will not be as forgiving as your old master.”
Her lust was palpable with a red face and aroused pussy, and he noticed. He used his hand to grip onto her pussy, rubbing her forcefully as he fucked her from behind.
“You’re my little girl,” he spat on her face. “You were made for me, Ianthe.”
The way he said her name caused her to squirm in his arms.
The crowd watched eagerly, waiting for him to breed the slave girl. They grew impatient, but her echoing moans subsided for some entertainment in the meantime.
“My body, my soul and my womb are yours, master.”
And with those nine words, he came into her , fertilizing her womanly body with his warrior seed. She will give him sons whom he will eventually send to the arena to fight for his glory.
He picked up her tired, fragile body before she collapsed into the floor. Setting her on his shoulder, he strode from the arena to never visit it again. Beyond the trials of the gladiator arena, he kept her in the shackles of his home, far from Rome. There was nowhere for her run, not that she ever thought of the idea for his arms of steel frightened her.
When an urgent schedule change forces a desperate prison break on Lothal,(Y/N) risks everything to rescue a rebel ally, all while keeping the ISB away. The mission takes a devastating toll, forcing her to commit a terrible act of betrayal that will forever shatter her secret life as Grand Admiral Thrawn’s wife.
Masterlist, Part 30
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
The queen of Batonn’s shoes made a clanking sound on the floor that made her ears cringe. She walked through seats led by an attendant who stopped at a chair positioned correctly near the front, close enough to observe the military procession while still maintaining the hierarchy expected of the Grand Admiral’s household.
Lord Irtur was already seated but when (Y/N) approached, he stood and gently bowed to her and only sat once she sat. The parade had not yet begun. Below them, officers and local dignitaries gathered beneath white banners while military orchestras tuned instruments along the lower avenue.
“You look miserable,” Irtur murmured pleasantly.
“I am wearing propaganda.”
“Yes, but elegantly.”
She gave him a flat look.
“There’s been a problem,” he said in a whisper in Batonnese. “We need to move quickly now.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The transfer schedule changed.” His eyes remained forward on the avenue below as though discussing weather. “The prisoner will not remain in the detention sector through the end of the week as expected.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“That soon?”
“Yes.”
For several seconds she said nothing, forcing herself to keep her expression composed while officials continued filling the surrounding seats.
“Fine,” she said, “I will pretend to be ill tonight and avoid the dinner.”
“I thought you loved dinner parties.”
“I do,” she replied dryly. “Just not as Lady Thrawn.”
Irtur laughed silently, twirling the propaganda pamphlet in his hand that had been in his sea before he had sat. A group of local officials entered several rows below them then, accompanied by a young woman in pale blue formalwear. His eyes followed her briefly.
“Lothal may be an ugly planet,” he murmured thoughtfully, “but it appears to contain beautiful women.”
(Y/N) immediately smacked him lightly across the arm with the rolled ceremonial pamphlet.
“Oh, stars above,” she hissed. “Can you behave like a revolutionary for five minutes?”
“I am behaving like one,” he said calmly. “Historically speaking, revolutionaries are terrible.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet beloved,” He looked again toward the governor’s daughter, “She smiled at me.”
“She smiled at everyone.”
“That is still encouraging.”
(Y/N) hit him again with the pamphlet.
This time he laughed quietly beneath his breath, but the humor faded quickly as the orchestra below them began playing the opening procession anthem while stormtrooper formations moved into precise lines along the avenue.
After a long moment, she exhaled slowly.
“Are we really doing this?” she asked softly. “All while the ISB is already circling us?”
“We crossed that threshold long ago.”
She watched officers gathering below, watched citizens wave small Imperial banners while holo-cameras drifted overhead preparing to capture the parade. Somewhere in this city Gret was imprisoned. Somewhere else Thrawn was likely preparing to stand before crowds beside the Empire he served with terrifying devotion.
“If this fails,” she whispered.
“It cannot fail.You once told me Batonn deserved witnesses. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“Then remember this also: empires survive because everyone eventually convinces themselves that resistance is too dangerous.”
“And what if they are right?” Her eyes lowered briefly toward the folded pamphlet in her hands.
“Then at least,” he said quietly, “someone still tried.”
A line of white-armored stormtroopers marched into the avenue first in perfect synchronization, followed by naval officers in dark uniforms edged with silver. The crowd erupted into applause almost immediately, citizens rising to their feet as banners unfurled from the surrounding towers. Then the Chimaera’s insignia appeared overhead across the massive holographic projectors suspended above the plaza an of course beside it, him. Even at a distance there was something unmistakable about him.
“You’re staring at him,” Irtur murmured.
“I’m thinking.”
“That is usually worse.”
Below them, Thrawn paused briefly near the central reviewing platform as governors and naval officials approached to greet him. Cameras turned toward him instantly. (Y/N)’s fingers tightened unconsciously around the ceremonial pamphlet in her lap.
“If something happens to me,” she said quietly.
“Do not.”
“If something happens,” she repeated softly, eyes still fixed on the parade below, “I want you to watch over my son.”
“No.”
Her head turned sharply toward him.
“No?”
“I will not sit here while you speak like someone preparing for martyrdom.”
“This is serious.”
“I am aware it is serious.”
The applause below them rose louder as Thrawn acknowledged one of the sector governors with a slight inclination of his head.
“He needs someone who will tell him who he is,” she continued quietly. “Not what the Empire says he is. Someone who remembers Batonn before all of this.”
“He will have you.”
“You cannot promise me that.”
“If the worst occurs,” he said softly, “I will protect him as though he were my own blood.”
Pain shot straight to her heart it hurt, she swallowed as though to wash it away. Below them, Thrawn finally lifted his eyes toward the viewing platform, towards her more specifically. Even across the distance, she felt the weight of his attention settle precisely onto her.
It filled her with shame that he was the man she loved, and the man she was actively betraying.
By the time the parade concluded, her face hurt from smiling. The military procession had lasted nearly three hours beneath banners and applause and endless speeches praising Imperial unity. Citizens lined the streets waving printed copies of the household portrait while officers discussed strategy and expansion beneath decorative lanterns meant to soften occupation into celebration.
Now the evening reception had begun inside one of the capital’s upper ceremonial halls.
Music drifted softly beneath crystal chandeliers while officers and dignitaries moved through clusters of conversation with glasses of champagne balanced elegantly between gloved fingers. White uniforms filled the room like an extension of the architecture itself.
(Y/N) stood near one of the towering windows with (c/n) resting against her shoulder, exhaustion beginning to settle deep into her bones. Her son had tolerated the day remarkably well. Too well, perhaps. Every officer who approached had smiled at him like he was proof of imperial success.
She hated how gently they spoke to him.
“Lady Thrawn,” a familiar voice said beside her. Thrawn had finally escaped whatever cluster of governors and admirals had trapped him for the better part of the last hour. The sharpness of formal command still clung to him.
Before anyone nearby could properly observe the moment, he leaned down and pressed a brief kiss against her cheek. The gesture was perfectly appropriate and somehow unbearably intimate anyway.
“You did very well today,” she told him quietly.
“As did you.”
(C/N) stirred lightly between them at the sound of his father’s voice. Immediately, Thrawn’s attention shifted downward.
Before either of them could continue, another officer approached through the crowd. It was Captain Pellaeon, she recognized him from her wedding. He had sent her a star chart as a gift and she had written him a card saying ‘thank you’, that was the last communication she had had with him. He had not changed, she had noted, as he was still grey and old.
“Grand Admiral,” he greeted immediately before inclining his head respectfully toward her. “Lady Thrawn.”
“Captain,” Thrawn replied evenly. “You have not yet formally met my son.”
“Well, he looks exactly like you sir,” Pellaeon said with surprising softness, “with his mother’s smile.”
(C/N) blinked up at the captain with the solemn concentration infants occasionally possessed, one tiny hand still curled stubbornly into the front of Thrawn’s white uniform. For a moment, Pellaeon seemed genuinely uncertain whether he was permitted to smile at the child and he did anyway.
“A dangerous combination,” he added dryly.
“The fleet survives many dangerous things,” Thrawn replied calmly.
“Yes, sir,” Pellaeon said. “Though I suspect this one may prove considerably more difficult.”
(Y/N) laughed softly.
Pellaeon’s eyes shifted briefly toward her then.
“I was pleased to hear the star chart reached you safely after the wedding, Lady Thrawn.”
“It did,” she said warmly. “I appreciated it very much.Thank you.”
“It was a chart of the outer rim,” Pellaeon explained to the child very seriously, as though (C/N) were capable of understanding. “Your father is deeply offended when people gift him things that are inaccurate.”
She allowed her son to play with his father’s rank for a moment before being sucked back into reality.
“I apologize,” she said quietly after a moment. “I do not believe I will remain much longer tonight.”
Thrawn’s eyes shifted immediately back toward her face.
“You are unwell?”
“Only tired,” she said carefully. “The day was… extensive.”
“Entirely understandable, my lady,” Pellaeon said as he immediately straightened.
Thrawn continued watching her for a moment longer than necessary, as though trying to determine whether exhaustion was truly all that troubled her.
The attention unsettled her, causing goosebumps to crawl upon her skin.
(C/N) made another small restless sound against her shoulder. She adjusted him carefully, brushing her lips once against the soft blue skin near his temple. The child’s eyes were already beginning to close.
“You should take him back to the residence,” Thrawn said.
“Yes,” she admitted softly. “I think I should.”
“You did well today,” he said again, more quietly this time.
“Thank you.”
“I will return after the reception concludes,” he said.
“I will wait up for you,” she said quietly.
Then he leaned down once more and pressed another brief kiss against her cheek, perfectly appropriate beneath the watching eyes of officers and governors nearby. But his hand lingered lightly at her waist for half a second too long.
In her quarters, she sat for a moment. Not for long, but long enough for it to feel long. She sat on the bed, while holding her son who was too young to ever understand what she was about to do, and who he was born to. She looked out the window, out to the fields of grey.
‘If we do not get to him, then they will get to us,’ she thought to herself.
Pressing a soft kiss to her son’s forehead, she inhaled his sweet, innocent scent, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. How had she allowed her heart to become so desperately tangled up in the enemy? Thrawn was a conqueror, a brilliant and ruthless architect of Imperial dominance, yet in the quiet dark of their quarters, he had become her sanctuary. His touch, his rare but profound tenderness, and the fierce, protective way he held their family had cracked her defenses until she was completely undone. Loving him was a beautiful tragedy.
And now, she was going to break him.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into her son's soft hair, the words meant entirely for the father who wasn't there to hear them. "I'm so sorry."
Gently, she laid the sleeping boy down in his crib, her hand lingering on his small blanket for one final, steadying heartbeat. When she pulled away, the warmth of her domestic life vanished.
“Uiona will be here soon,” she said, kissing him one last time as the door chimed three times. But three was not the number of Uiona, it was the number of Irtur.
She pressed the button to let him in, allowing the door to slide open.
He stepped inside wearing dark civilian clothing instead of formal diplomatic attire, the coat fitted close enough to conceal weapons beneath it.
“We need to move now,” he spoke in the darkness of the room.
“Has something changed?”
“Security rotation shifted earlier than expected. We have less time.”
Irtur reached slowly beneath his coat and withdrew a blaster wrapped in dark cloth. He stepped closer and placed the wrapped weapon carefully into her hands.
“This does not mean I enjoy bringing you.”
“You think I enjoy coming?”
“You look frightened,” Irtur observed quietly.
“I am frightened.”
“Good,” he said. “Fear keeps people alive.”
“If Thrawn discovers this tonight,” she said, “I do not know what survives afterward.”
“Then let us ensure he does not.”
Clad in garments of deepest shadow, she hoisted the blaster on her belt and they snuck into the corridor, being mindful of the cameras and roaming droids that operated at an hour where everyone was partying.
Together, they descended toward the lower transport hangars where the speeder waited in darkness. The speeder cut silently through the sleeping sectors of the capital while Fete Week celebrations continued somewhere behind them in distant bursts of light and music.
(Y/N) sat rigidly in the passenger seat with every patrol speeder making her jump and every glimpse of stormtroopers at intersections tightened something painfully inside her chest. Lothal at night felt different from Coruscant. Cleaner. Wider. The white stone buildings rose high beneath the moonlight while banners bearing Imperial insignia shifted softly in the wind between towers.
Irtur drove one handed with infuriating calm.
“You are gripping the seat hard enough to damage it,” he observed.
“I am considering throwing myself from the speeder.”
“That would complicate the evening.”
“You brought me to a prison break.”
“You volunteered.”
“I was emotional.”
“You are always emotional.”
She glared at him while Irtur smiled faintly and took another turn sharply enough to force her against the door.
“You drive like a criminal.”
“I am a criminal.”
As they journeyed onward, the fair face of the city began to alter, fading as they left behind the high and luminous citadels of the central lands. Here, the golden garlands of the Fete Week grew thin and ceased to shine. In their speeder, no joy was found, but only the cold, unblinking glare of stormtroopers who carefully walked in their formations.
Eventually the prison complex emerged in the distance.
(Y/N) watched as Irtur slowed the speeder several blocks away in a narrow maintenance sector partially hidden beneath elevated transit lines. He killed the engine and for one frightening moment neither of them moved.
“You can still remain here.”
“And let you get yourself shot alone? Absolutely not.”
A faint grin touched his mouth.
“There she is.”
Together they exited the speeder and moved quickly into the shadows between buildings. Her boots struck metal walkways softly while cold night air swept through the narrow industrial corridors. They reached the rear maintenance district bordering the outer prison infrastructure. Here the walls connected to adjoining service buildings and elevated energy conduits that stretched overhead between sectors. Irtur stopped beside one of the narrow maintenance towers and looked upward.
“We climb from here.”
(Y/N) stared up the side of the building. He began climbing before she could say anything, leaving her below him. Swearing quietly beneath her breath, she followed. The cold iron of the high tower bit deep into her hands as she clung to its steep flank, while far below, the dizzying abysses of the city stretched out like a grey and bottomless sea. With every cubit they won upward into the dark air, the tide of her heart thundered louder against her ribs.
“You are doing wonderfully,” he said.
“If I die, I am haunting you.”
“You would be unbearable as a ghost.”
They finally hauled themselves onto the rooftop breathing hard. From here the prison stood terrifyingly close. Searchlights swept rhythmically across adjoining rooftops while cameras rotated along mounted security rails. (Y/N) crouched immediately behind a ventilation structure. Irtur peered across the gap between buildings calmly.
“Yes, this part is unpleasant,” he noted.
A surveillance camera rotated slowly toward them. Without hesitation Irtur picked up a loose piece of metal piping from the rooftop and hurled it. The pipe struck the camera with a sharp crack. Sparks burst instantly and the lens went dark.
(Y/N) placed both her hands over her mouth and then turned sharply to Irtur.
“You cannot simply do that to Imperial surveillance equipment!”
“Come,” he whispered, already moving again. “Before someone notices.”
(Y/N) looked down once and immediately regretted it. Searchlights swept slowly across the prison walls below them. Every movement felt deafening. Every breath too loud. Irtur crouched near the edge of the rooftop and examined the adjoining structure carefully.
“There,” he said quietly, pointing toward a maintenance access panel partially concealed behind cooling conduits. “That connects to the secondary security corridors.”
“And how exactly do we reach it?”
“We climb.”
“I thought you hated climbing, remember Nar Shaddaa?”
“I do hate climbing,” Irtur informed her immediately. “I have always hated climbing. Revolutions should occur horizontally.”
They crossed the narrow service bridge one careful step at a time while cold wind moved violently between the buildings. The prison walls towered around them now, pale stone and dark steel lit harshly by rotating floodlights. Below them, patrol officers moved through lower courtyards completely unaware that two idiots were currently climbing into an Imperial detention complex above their heads.
(Y/N)’s hand was trembling again. They finally reached the maintenance structure attached directly to the prison exterior. Irtur eyed the vent system with immediate disgust.
“No.”
“What?” (Y/N) asked.
“I refuse.”
“You refuse what?” (Y/N) asked again.
“The vents.”
“You brought us to a prison break and your moral boundary is ventilation?”
“I am not crawling through industrial ductwork like some sort of underpaid spy holo character.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I have dignity.”
She covered her mouth briefly to stop herself from laughing too loudly. He examined the wall again before visibly relaxing.
“Thank the gods,” he muttered. “We do not need to.”
He pointed toward a partially unsecured maintenance hatch built into the side of the structure beneath one of the energy relay systems.
“Service access.”
“That seems almost suspiciously convenient.”
“Most Imperial architecture is designed by people who assume nobody would be stupid enough to climb the exterior walls.”
“That feels insulting.”
“It should.”
Irtur knelt beside the hatch and produced a thin slicing tool from inside his coat. Sparks flickered softly as he bypassed the locking mechanism. (Y/N) kept watch nervously behind him, every distant footstep making her pulse spike.
“How much longer?” she whispered.
“Patience.”
A final spark burst from the panel, then the hatch slid open with a soft hiss. Darkness awaited them below. As cold recycled air drifted upward from the access shaft beneath them.Irtur peered down into it.
“Well,” he said quietly, “this feels deeply illegal.”
“You think?”
“Mm. It has atmosphere.”
Then they climbed down into the prison. The shaft opened into a narrow maintenance corridor lined with exposed piping and dim emergency lights. The moment her boots touched the floor, (Y/N) exhaled shakily.
“You see?” Irtur whispered behind her while resealing the hatch above them. “Much better than vents.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
At nearly the same hour, the rooms of the Imperial quarters remained wrapped in a deep and heavy silence.
Thrawn entered their private chambers without ceremony, the doors slid shut behind him with a muted hiss. The room was dim except for the pale city glow filtering through the long windows.
He expected to find her sleeping as she claimed she had retired to do, but instead the bed was empty.
His gaze moved across the room once before he stepped further inside.
“(Y/N)?”
But no answer was given, only silence, heavy as the emptiness that lay between the sheets.
His eyes settled briefly on the vanity where several jewelry pieces from the evening had been discarded carelessly beside a brush. Then he noticed the gown. The ceremonial dress she had worn during the parade and reception had been left draped across the chaise near the window, abandoned in visible haste rather than properly stored by attendants.
He approached it slowly.
For a moment he simply looked at it.
The silver embroidery caught the dim light softly. One sleeve had slipped partially onto the floor while the fabric still held the faint shape of where it had rested against her body hours earlier. Thrawn reached down and lifted part of the gown carefully between his fingers. The fabric was still warm, but not from her skin.
Thrawn looked briefly toward the windows. Then back toward the empty room. Slowly, he folded the gown neatly over his armchair instead of summoning attendants to collect it.
For the first time in that dark night, a shadow cold and unbidden crept into the hidden chambers of Thrawn’s heart, bringing with it a sudden and strange misgiving.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
The corridor hummed softly with machinery. Somewhere deeper within the structure alarms chirped intermittently while detention systems cycled through their endless automated routines. Straightway, a great sickness fell upon her; the solid floor beneath her feet seemed to tilt and sway like a ship in an evil sea, and the heavy air choked her throat as if the very walls were leaning in to crush her. For a terrible shadow from years gone by rushed back to claim her mind. Fourteen long and bitter months she had spent entombed within just such an Imperial abyss, where the sun was forgotten and the days were measured only in torment. The phantom chains of that ancient captivity seemed to bind her limbs anew, and the iron walls whispered of old despair, threatening to drown her spirit in the dark waters of remembrance.
Irtur pulled the folded datapad from inside his coat and activated the dim projection of the prison schematics she had helped piece together from memory and stolen authorization glimpses. It pulled her out of her sweeping sickness when he called her name a few, bringing her back to the current.
“Aurek-17 detention wing,” he murmured softly into the gloom, “Northern interior block.”
“That’s three levels below us,” she said, her voice strained.
“Yes.”
“You neglected to mention that as well.”
“You were already unhappy.”
With wary steps they crept along the shadow-bound passageway, their steps falling as light as ash upon the iron floor. At every turning of the way, a sudden dread seized her body, and each distant murmur of speech smote her breast like a lightsaber. At one intersection they froze completely as two officers passed through the adjoining hall laughing quietly about Fete Week celebrations above the city. (Y/N)’s hand instinctively found the blaster beneath her cloak.
As the officers disappeared in their walk, she looked down at her left hand and only then did she notice its tremor.
“This was easier in my imagination,” she whispered once they continued moving.
“That is because your imagination is optimistic.”
“I am beginning to understand why rebellions fail.”
“Mostly logistics.”
They descended two maintenance stairwells successfully before reaching the first secured interior checkpoint. A narrow blast door blocked the corridor ahead while a security terminal glowed softly beside it.
The access panel was revealed, the code she had memorized.
“This is my part,” she said to Irtur, walking towards the panel. She used her right hand to punch in the code she had memorized only some hours ago.
For one terrible heartbeat, Lothal hung in an awful stillness, and nothing stirred. Then, with a sudden, sharp clang of iron:
‘ACCESS ACCEPTED.’
The great barrier of steel slid back, and the dark way lay open before them. They stepped in, the iron of her blaster was the only light. She looked around and saw cells lining the walls behind reinforced energy barriers. Some prisoners found slumber, while others watched silently from the shadows.
(Y/N) kept her hood lowered and her eyes forward until they came upon a familiar face down the hall, sleeping.
The young Lord Gret Virex sat inside beneath dim light, bruised heavily but alive.
For now.
Then the muffled voice of a Stormtrooper called…
“Hey!”
Two stormtroopers rounded the corner instantly, white armor catching the dim prison lights as their rifles lifted toward them. Everything happened too quickly afterward.
“Hands where we can…”
(Y/N) fired first with the recoil jolting her arm violently.
The blaster bolt struck the nearest trooper directly through the chestplate with a violent burst of sparks. The soldier collapsed backward against the wall hard enough to rattle the corridor.
The second trooper swung his rifle upward…
Irtur shot him. Inside the cell, Gret was now stared through the energy barrier at her with exhausted disbelief.
(Y/N) looked physically ill.
“If you wish to survive the next five minutes, I recommend emotionally processing it later,” Irtur said, moving to Gret’s cell panel, ready to fire again.
A warning light suddenly flashed red across the terminal.
Irtur cursed under his breath in Batonnese.
“What?”
“They initiated a secondary lock.”
“Oh, excellent.”
“Your sarcasm is becoming stressful.”
Behind them, one of the fallen troopers’ comm units crackled faintly to life.
“North corridor unit, report status.”
Then:
“North corridor unit, respond immediately.”
And suddenly the prison alarms erupted into a deafening sound. A fierce and bloody light flooded the long corridors in an instant, as though the very walls had run red with the wrath of the enemy.
Irtur swore under his breath while trying to override the final detention lock manually, sparks flickering from the terminal.
“It’s freezing the release sequence.”
“We do not have time for this,” (Y/N) snapped.
“No, really?”
Another voice crackled across the stormtrooper comlink somewhere down the corridor:
“Containment breach reported in Aurek sector. Respond immediately.”
Heavy footsteps echoed faintly in the distance as (Y/N)’s pulse hammered painfully in her throat.
“Move,” she said suddenly as she shoved past him toward the terminal, mind racing through the authorization patterns she had memorized days earlier.
Her trembling fingers moved across the controls.
“(Y/N)...”
“I know.”
The terminal flashed red once, then it became green.
‘ACCESS ACCEPTED.’
The energy field around Gret’s cell flickered violently before disappearing entirely with a sharp electrical hiss. The silence afterward lasted less than a second as it was time to now do what they had came to do.
“We need to be quick,” (Y/N) said to Irtur, for some reassurance.
Gret remained seated. He looked terrible with bruising darkening one side of his face while dried blood stained the collar of his prison uniform. His eyes remained sharp however as he watched them intensely.
Slowly, she raised the blaster toward him.
“Get up,” she ordered quietly.
Gret stared at her for a long moment, then he laughed.
“Oh,” Gret said proudly. “I already told them everything.”
“What?” (Y/N) questioned as she went completely still.
“They were very persuasive.”
“You’re lying,” she whispered.
“Am I?” His eyes moved over her dark clothing, “Look at you. You arrive in a Grand Admiral’s residence ship. Wrapped in Imperial silk. Carrying Imperial clearance codes. You are no queen.”
Irtur moved toward him but Gret continued over him now, years of bitterness spilling out violently, “No Veil of Batonn. No daughter of the palace. You are weak. You married them. You sleep beside them while our people disappear into prisons like this one. You bred with them.”
“Enough,” Irtur said dangerously, but Gret’s eyes remained fixed on her.
“You stand there wearing their power and pretend you still belong to Batonn?” His laugh was ugly now. “You are an Imperial wife playing at rebellion because guilt finally became inconvenient.”
The blaster shook visibly in her hand.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Oh, I know exactly what I’m saying.” Gret stepped closer slowly despite the weapon pointed at him. “And the saddest part?”
His voice was sharper now, filled with hate and demons.
“You are not even strong enough to shoot me.”
As the noise of the alarm surrounded them, she pressed her blaster to his heart and then pulled the trigger, sending him back. He was cast backward into the blood red gloom, slain by the hand of his Queen.
Then, beneath the roaring of the red alarms that filled the hall, she raised the blaster unto her own head. Her (s/c) fingers trembled upon the trigger, and a great darkness fell upon her mind.
‘What madness has fallen upon my mind? I have a son, I have (C/N) who needs me,’ she thought. Yet another thought, older and more bitter, rose up from the depths of her fourteen months of torment to answer it. ‘My spirit was slain long ago in the dept of the Empire. I am already dead, and Gret has sealed my fate.’
Then Irtur pointed the blaster to the wall, away from her head.
“(Y/N) are you mad?” He screamed at her. “We have to go.”
“I just executed him.”
“Yes.”
“I just…”
Heavy footsteps thundered somewhere nearby, causing Irtur to grab her hand.
“Move.”
And together they ran, breaking her paralysis. The detention corridor exploded into motion around them as security doors began sealing throughout the prison complex. Red emergency lights flashed overhead while stormtrooper voices barked through distorted intercom systems.
“Containment breach in Aurek sector!”
“Seal the north stairwell!”
“Find them!”
(Y/N)’s breathing came ragged now as they sprinted through the corridor. A blaster bolt suddenly struck the wall beside them. Stormtroopers rounded the far end of the corridor.
“There!”
Irtur fired instantly.
Red, white sparks burst from armored chestplates as one trooper collapsed. The second opened fire wildly down the hall. (Y/N) ducked instinctively behind the corner as a blast nearly struck her shoulder. Irtur grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward an adjoining maintenance corridor before more troops could reach them.
The prison had become chaos now.
They forced through a narrow service hall barely wide enough for both of them while emergency lighting flickered overhead. Behind them, voices grew louder.
“They’re heading toward the maintenance sectors!”
“They cannot reach the exterior!”
Irtur laughed once under his breath.
“That feels optimistic.”
“You are enjoying this entirely too much!”
“No, I’m panicking elegantly.”
They reached the maintenance shaft again breathless and sweating. Above them, the hatch still waited open toward the rooftops.
“Climb,” Irtur ordered.
Her muscles screamed in protest as she hauled herself upward onto the ladder. Below them, blaster fire erupted again somewhere nearby. They had seconds at most as (Y/N) reached the rooftop first and nearly collapsed against the cold surface while wind tore violently across the buildings. Lothal spread beneath them in glittering white lights completely unaware of the violence erupting inside the prison walls. Irtur climbed up after her and resealed the hatch immediately.
Then searchlights swept suddenly across the rooftops.
“Oh no.”
A security siren erupted from the tower above them.
“They’ve spotted movement!”
“Run,” Irtur said calmly.
“THAT IS YOUR PLAN?”
“It is currently the best available plan!”
They sprinted across the rooftops while floodlights chased behind them. Blaster fire cracked through the night air. One bolt struck the rooftop beside her feet hard enough to shower sparks upward. (Y/N) nearly slipped. Irtur caught her again instinctively. They crossed the service bridge at nearly a run now while alarms consumed the entire district behind them. Below, prison personnel flooded into the courtyards. Above, Lothal’s festival fireworks suddenly burst across the sky in brilliant white and gold.For one surreal moment the city celebrated while two fugitives fled murder beneath the light of Imperial banners. Irtur finally dragged her into a narrow alley between two closed market buildings several districts away from the prison perimeter.
She bent forward immediately, bracing both hands against the wall as she fought to breathe. Beads of sweat now dampened the stray tresses of her hair, which had fallen in disarray from the braided splendor ordered for the parade. The dark mantle of her disguise hid much from the eye, yet no longer did she bear any likeness to that tranquil Lady Thrawn from the parade.
Irtur moved toward the alley entrance and checked the street carefully before finally returning,“No patrols yet.”
“I did not want his last words about me to be true,” she admitted softly.
“He was dying,” Irtur said quietly. “Dying men often mistake pain for clarity.”
“I feel sick.”
“You should.”
In the far distance, the voices of children rose like a sweet and fleeting music, rejoicing in the high revels of the Fete Week.
“Listen to me carefully,” Irtur said as he crouched down in front of her. “The prison believes this was an extraction attempt gone wrong. Gret is dead. The troopers who saw us are dead. No one there should know it was you.”
“But Thrawn…”
“Yes,” Irtur interrupted softly. “Thrawn is the problem.”
“What if he looks at me and knows?”
“He already looks at you like he is solving something. We need to return before your absence becomes suspicious.”
As he pulled her upright, she looked once more toward the distant prison lights still flashing red against the night.
“How much,” she asked quietly, “do you think he told them?”
“He was held by the ISB for months,” he said carefully. “Interrogated repeatedly. Isolated.”
“That does not answer my question.”
“No,” he admitted. “It does not.”
“If he broke…” (Y/N) wrapped her arms around herself tightly as her voice faltered. “If he gave them names…”
“He likely did.”
“Then Batonn is already dead.”
“No.” Irtur stepped closer again, lowering his voice instinctively. “Listen to me. Information becomes less useful with time. Cells moved. Routes changed. People disappeared. We adapted after the arrests began.”
“And if they have more than that?”
“They probably do.”
“You are calm about this?”
“I am extraordinarily afraid,” he corrected. “I simply have practice carrying it.”
“I executed one of our own,” She said as they continued walking, now further into the city.
“You gave him the only death the Empire was not going to give him.”
After a long silence, (Y/N) spoke again.
“If Thrawn discovers this…”
“He will,” Irtur sighed quietly. “Perhaps not tonight. Perhaps not tomorrow. But men like him eventually notice missing pieces.”
“And when he does?”
“Then,” he said softly, “we pray whatever he feels for you remains stronger than whatever he feels for the Empire.”
(Y/N) and her fellow rebel collaborator, Irtur, secretly plot a prison extraction after discovering that the Empire is holding and interrogating a vital figure from their past. Thrawn confront her.
Masterlist, Part 29
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
On an unused terrace overlooking the vast plains of Lothal, stood Irtur overlooking the stone railing. The wind tugged gently at his coat and he did not turn when he heard footsteps behind him.
“You’re late,” he said without turning.
“You sound like Thrawn.”
“That is the cruelest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
(Y/N) came to stand next to him, overlooking the same view he had been admiring since sunrise. Her smile vanished after a few seconds and she looked down into the cracks that somehow found themselves deeply situated into imperial perfection.
“What happened?” Irtur asked her, his expression deepening.
“I found the authorization rotation,” She muttered while looking at the stormtroopers who were stationed below them.
“The actual codes?”
“No. But I found the detention sector designation and the rotation cycle structure.” She lowered her voice further. “Aurek-17. Temporary transfer block. Rotating authorization every six hours through northern command.”
“How?”
“I wandered into one of the naval administration offices after the reception dinner. The lieutenant running logistics would not stop complaining.”
“That sounds stupidly reckless. You heard anything else?”
“They think rebels may attempt extraction already.” She hesitated briefly. “Thrawn knows the prisoner matters.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice tightened. “Enough to increase security personally.”
“We must move quickly. Perhaps after Fete week after all these stupid animals leave.”
(Y/N) played with her signet ring as she looked onto the grey abyss.
“This will go wrong. It is the nature of things here,” she sighed as her left hand started trembling. “There are too many imperials in this place for it not to go wrong.”
“You are risking everything.”
“So are you.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “But I chose this before I had anything left to lose.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment after that. (Y/N) let the wind talk for them, to blow a song that danced between both of them.
“We retrieve the prisoner,” he said calmly. “Then we decide what survives afterward.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then at least Batonn will know someone still tried.”
Now she looked at him sharply.
“Who is this prisoner anyway?”
For a long moment, Irtur said nothing. He intensely watched the fields below, fields he complained about only days ago. Then he spoke in a way that made a terrible feeling boil in her stomach.
“I told Clvtorig to handle it months ago.”
“Handle what?”
“To move him.”
“Irtur, what are you saying?”
“I thought he succeeded.”
The silence stretched too long. She simply stared at him, for she didn’t know what to do.
“It’s Gret,” he said after a long time.
“What?”
“It’s Gret Virex.”
“No,” she said immediately. “No, I thought you moved him off world after the northern camp operation. You told me he was safe.”
“He was supposed to be.”
“Then how is he in an Imperial prison?” Her shock turned into anger as she nearly lashed at him. Her face turned into a deep crimson and she gripped onto the railings.
“Clvtorig arranged transport through the Kestro shipping corridor. Quiet route. Unregistered civilian carrier. Gret was meant to disappear into the Mid Rim under a false identity,” Irtur said as he leaned back slightly, exhausted suddenly in a way she rarely saw.
“What happened?”
“The carrier never made rendezvous.”
“The pilot sold them out?”
“No. Worse.There was an inspection sweep two systems early. Completely random according to Imperial records, which means it probably wasn’t random at all.”
“And Clvtorig?”
“He tried to extract him during transfer. Failed.”
She pressed a hand slowly against her forehead and screamed, “Kriff!”
“The ISB buried the arrest quietly at first,” Irtur continued. “No public detention. No announcement. Then six weeks later they manufactured a financial terrorism charge tied to the bombing on Batonn.”
“They pinned the bombing entirely on Gret?”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense. Half the evidence was destroyed.”
“The Empire does not require evidence,” Irtur said coldly. “Only narrative.”
“The public thinks they finally captured the architect of the bombing. And now they’re keeping him alive because they think he’ll break. If the ISB has had him this long…”
“They are already interrogating him.”
“And you still think we can extract him?”
“No,” he said honestly, “We are going there to prevent the Empire from learning what he knows.”
“But why are they holding him here, on Lothal?”
“Closest prison I assume.”
“I wish I could hit you over the head with a staff right now.”
“Many women have said that to me before.”
Two droids came to the door, making the noise droids made when their machinery moved agonist hardened floors. Irtur turned to them then made a face of disgust, he always hated droids, just as (Y/N) did.
“Let us go into town. It is too dangerous to speak openly here.”
She glanced instinctively toward the door leading deeper into the residence where Aiocletian slept under Uiona’s watchful care.
“I cannot leave for long.”
“You will not.” He said. “But I would rather speak beneath an open sky than inside an Imperial residence arranged by Grand Admiral Thrawn.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
The speeder cut cleanly through the evening traffic lanes of Lothal’s capital. (Y/N) sat beside Irtur in silence at first, one hand gripping the edge of her cloak against the wind as the city unfolded around them in layers of white stone and glowing light.
Immaculate white towers loomed over them as she found herself gawking at architecture that moved too quickly.
White banners already hung between balconies for Fete Week. Strings of lights crossed the streets overhead in glowing arcs of gold and silver. Workers stood atop hovering platforms hanging imperial decorations that had been present on Coruscant.
As the speeder slowed near a plaza, she watched as children played around shops while stormtroopers stood idly at their post.
“In a few days,” she said softly as Irtur helped her from the speeder, “they’ll pass out my portrait in honour of the navy’s presence on this planet, and everyone will know my face.”
“They will,” Irtur said grimly.
She missed Batonn so badly she thought it might physically split her open.
The plaza around them glowed with warm evening light. Someone was roasting a native plant against a fire and selling them from his cart, the smell made her mouth water. It should have felt festive but instead it felt watched.
For a moment neither spoke.
“Do you even have blasters with you?” She asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“A concerning number.”
“Irtur,” She sighed as she stared at him in disbelief.
“What?”
“Do you have a weapons permit on Lothal?”
“No.”
She stopped walking outright.
“No?”
He looked genuinely confused by her reaction. “No.”
“You brought illegal weapons into an Imperial capital city?”
“Yes,” He answered as though it were obvious.
“You are unbelievable.”
“And you are suddenly very concerned with Imperial firearms regulations.”
“I am concerned because if they search you we both die.”
Irtur laughed softly under his breath as they continued down the crowded avenue.
“You care about this now?” he asked. “You, specifically?”
“Yes, because unlike you I currently have a child and a husband who commands an entire fleet.”
A group of children ran past them carrying little glowing lanterns shaped like Loth-cats. One nearly collided with her before hurrying away laughing. For a brief moment she watched them disappear into the crowd.
“How armed are you exactly?” She asked, stepping closer to him.
“One holdout blaster. One standard sidearm on me currently.Two knives.”
“You brought knives?”
“One knife is ceremonial.”
“That still leaves one illegal knife.”
“You are being extremely judgmental for a woman currently helping organize a prison assassination.”
They crossed deeper into the city together beneath the glowing festival lights while Imperial banners shifted overhead in the evening wind like something watching them move below.
By the time they returned toward the speeder platforms, the city had grown darker and brighter all at once. Music echoed from distant plazas while Imperial patrol speeders cut overhead through the traffic lanes.
“We should return,” (Y/N) said as she pulled her cloak tighter as Irtur unlocked the speeder. “It’s getting late.”
“We are not returning yet.”
“What?”
“I want to see the prison.”
Her head snapped toward him immediately, “You want to…what?”
“The detention complex.”
“No.”
“I need to understand the layout,” Irtur said as he climbed into the driver’s seat with infuriating calm.
“We are not driving to an Imperial prison complex at night.”
“Why not?”
“Because that is the sort of decision made by men shortly before execution.”
“We are only observing.”
“You are insane.”
“Frequently.”
“Irtur…”
“You worry too much.”
“And you do not worry enough.”
He glanced sideways at her with the faintest trace of amusement.
“Ugh, you are impossible,” she leaned against the door of the speeder, giving up.
“And yet remarkably charming.”
“You were more tolerable before the rebellion.”
“No I wasn’t.”
The city gradually changed around them as they moved farther away from its center. The decorative lights thinned first before the crowds did until the music chatter of the crowder did completely.
White civilian towers slowly gave way to grey Imperial structures reinforced with harsh floodlights and surveillance arrays. Security checkpoints appeared more frequently now, stormtroopers stationed at intersections beneath towering banners bearing the Imperial crest.
(Y/N)’s stomach tightened immediately.
“Irtur.”
“I see it.”
Ahead of them, the enormous walls of the detention center rose against the darkness. Even from this distance she could see the security towers.
“Turn around,” she said instantly.
“We’re too close now.”
“That is exactly why we should leave.
He slowed the speeder slightly near one of the outer service lanes, and then she noticed the blue security lights ignited behind them. An Imperial patrol vehicle descended sharply into the lane ahead, blocking the path forward. Stormtroopers emerged first before Agent Kallus did.
(Y/N) felt cold instantly.
Kallus approached the speeder with controlled professionalism, one hand resting near his weapon while two stormtroopers moved toward either side of the vehicle.
And Irtur had an illegal blaster under his coat, her pulse began hammering immediately.
“Agent Kallus,” she said smoothly. “We made a wrong turn. We will be on our way.”
Kallus looked from her to Irtur slowly.
“Lady Thrawn,” he said politely, which somehow made him seem more frightening. “This area is restricted after the twentieth hour.”
“Yes,” she said. “Which we realized somewhat late.”
One of the stormtroopers moved closer toward the rear storage compartment.
Irtur, unbelievably, smiled while (Y/N)’s stomach dropped.
“Very dramatic district you have here, Agent. I was beginning to think Lothal simply decorated everything in white stone and banners.”
“Ambassador Irtur,” Kallus said as his eyes shifted toward him.
“I assume this means we’ve stumbled somewhere unpleasant.”
“You’ve stumbled near a military detention complex.”
“Ah,” Irtur said pleasantly. “There it is.”
(Y/N) wanted to strangle him while the second stormtrooper circled slowly along the side of the speeder now, flashlight scanning the interior.
Kallus looked back toward her again.
“Does the Grand Admiral know you are out this evening?”
“I am a Senator on a diplomatic mission,” she said evenly, forcing herself not to tense. “I was unaware I required permission to observe the city.”
“No,” Kallus said calmly. “Though the Grand Admiral is generally informed of matters concerning household security.”
The stormtrooper near the rear compartment paused and for one horrifying second she thought he was about to open it.
“You know,” Irtur said conversationally to Kallus, with one arm leaning the steering controls, “where I come from, this is considered an extremely poor method of impressing a woman.”
(Y/N) nearly closed her eyes.
Kallus stared at him for a long moment.
“One wrong turn, Ambassador.”
His voice sharpened slightly.
“Do not make another.”
The stormtroopers stepped back and Kallus moved aside from the lane. (Y/N) nodded immediately and sunk into her seat and her hand stopped trembling.
“Of course, Agent,” Irtur inclined his head lazily. “An unforgettable evening.”
Kallus did not smile. The speeder lifted again almost immediately. Only once they had cleared three full blocks did she finally turn toward Irtur in absolute fury.
“You are never speaking again.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
By the time she returned to the residence, the halls had gone quiet and most of its staff had retired for the evening.
(Y/N) entered her room slowly, removing her prosthetic before running the water for a bath. She covered her body in the warm water, baptizing herself in the filtered, imperial water. When she was done, she tied on her white nightdress and sat at the vanity and sat down heavily before the mirror. For several seconds she simply stared at herself without moving.
She reached for her brush and made long strokes in a repetitive motion because it kept her breathing even.
Behind her, the door opened softly.
She saw his reflection before she turned. It was Thrawn, who entered wearing his white uniform. Though the upper collar had been loosened slightly in the rare concession to exhaustion he allowed himself in private.
His eyes settled on her immediately.
“You returned late.”
It was not accusation, at least not yet.
“Yes,” she said as she continued brushing her hair. “The city was crowded.”
Thrawn remained standing near the doorway a moment longer than necessary, watching her. There were times she thought his intelligence itself was the most dangerous thing about him. Not because he demanded answers, but because he noticed absences. Inconsistencies. The shape around a lie rather than the lie itself.
“You are unsettled.”
“No.”
“Something occurred.”
“We made a wrong turn near one of the military districts. Agent Kallus stopped us briefly.” She said as her grip tightened slightly on the brush before relaxing again.
“And?”
“And nothing.” She forced herself to sound amused. “Ambassador Irtur irritated him enormously and we were sent away.”
“That does sound probable.”
Thrawn stepped closer then, setting a datapad carefully atop the vanity beside her, causing her to look down. It was a proof of the Fête Week publication flyer. There was a heavy white print stock embossed with the Imperial crest in silver that decorated the publication with the words: ‘OUTER RIM STABILITY CELEBRATION WEEK’ gracing the top.
Below it were arranged portraits of senior Imperial leadership assigned throughout nearby sectors. The cold faces of Moffs, Admirals and Governors were printed on the publication along with theirs. Their portrait, for the whole galaxy to see.
Her stomach turned. Their child looked so small and happy while she looked so calm and content. Almost as though none of the galaxy’s horrors had touched them.
“It will be distributed throughout the capital during the military procession,” Thrawn said evenly. “As well as through sector publications.”
The Empire had turned them into architecture, a family constructed carefully enough to reassure entire systems. She hated how perfect and unbothered she looked, as though she were displayed next to her husband as some sort of reward.
Her hand started to tremor again, silently but knowingly.
“I will keep it with me, thank you,” (Y/N) replied, giving him a false smile that he could see right through.
Thrawn remained still for a moment behind her before speaking:
“You are afraid,” he said simply with his words landing harder than she expected them to. She set the brush down before he could see the slight worsening of the tremor in her hand. “You dislike being visible.”
“Yes,” she bit her lip “but I also dislike being owned.”
“The distinction matters to you.”
“It matters very much.”
She rose from the vanity then, needing movement suddenly. The flyer remained in her hand, the heavy Imperial paper bending slightly beneath her grip. Behind her, Thrawn remained silent long enough for her to know he was thinking carefully.
“You are displayed because you stabilize perception.”
“There are moments,” she said softly, “where the Empire feels less like a government and more like a machine that consumes meaning.”
“Regardless of the institution utilizing the portrait,” he said, “the child in this image is still your son.”
Her eyes lowered instinctively toward the flyer. Towards (c/n) who was still so small and skin so tender. His red eyes bright even in the carefully softened portrait lighting. One tiny blue hand curled against the fabric of her sleeve. Slowly, she reached out and touched the image with the tips of her fingers.Suddenly the fear beneath everything rose sharply enough to speak aloud.
“What happens to him,” she asked, “when he comes of age?”
“He will be educated appropriately,” Thrawn’s expression did not change as he spoke.
“That sounds Imperial.”
“It is Imperial.”
“Will they expect him to serve?”
“Yes.”
“The Navy?”
“If he is capable.”
“And if he does not want that?”
“Choice will always exist within limitations.”
Her fingers tightened against the portrait.
“I do not wish this for him,” she began to say after being silent for some moment, as though time would pass but would leave her in the present “It frightens me.”
Thrawn stepped closer behind her. His hand settled carefully at her waist, slow enough that she could have stepped away if she wished. She did not.
“You believe the Empire will take him from you.”
“I believe power consumes everything eventually.”
“And yet you remain beside it.”
“I have no choice.”
“No,” he said “Neither of us were given many.”
The room fell still again. His hand remained at her waist, steady and warm through the fabric of her gown.Then his voice changed slightly, more precise.
“You must also exercise greater caution moving forward.”
“With what?”
“I do not know what occurred on Nar Shaddaa,” he said evenly, “but whatever involvement you had there attracted attention.”
She looked at her finger, at the absence of her finger.
“I was under the impression my activities there were thoroughly documented through the Senate,” she replied carefully.
“Your official activities were,” His fingers tightened once at her waist before relaxing again. “You are no longer positioned to survive scrutiny as easily as before. You are now publicly associated with my household. More importantly, you are the mother of my son.”
“You speak as though I’ve become fragile,” she said quietly.
“No,” he corrected. “Valuable.”
“You should not protect me,” she whispered.
“And yet I continue doing so.”
His hand slid slowly up her back, drawing her closer against him. She felt him exhale softly against her mouth, controlled even now, though she had begun to recognize the small failures in that control.
“You are trembling again,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“Fear?”
She looked at him for a long moment.
“Yes,” she whispered.
But not the kind he assumed.
She looked at him for a long moment before leaning forward and kissing him again with guilt following immediately after. Affection and deception intertwined so tightly she could no longer separate them cleanly inside herself. She wondered right now, in this very moment, if he could feel it somehow. Her apology, laid in with every touch.
But if he did, he said nothing.
He pulled away gently and caressed her hair.
“You are troubled tonight,” he murmured.
“I am always troubled.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “But not always like this.”
Her fingers tightened slightly against the front of his uniform.
“I think that somewhere in another life we could have been happy without all of this.”
“Perhaps,” he said with an answer that hurt more than disagreement would have.
She kissed him more harshly this time, leading him to sit on the grey sofa as it was closer than the bed was. She could only look at him as she breathed in the air of the room which was thick from the suffocating remnants of their discussion.
She felt like a traitor to her own morals, a collaborator in her own bed. And yet, the guilt only served to heighten the arousal, turning the shame into a sharp, electric current that pooled between her thighs. It was so wrong that it felt inevitable.
Thrawn’s hand slid into her hair, tilting her head back to expose the line of her throat. He kissed her sensitive skin and spoke into her tenderness.
"I can feel your conflict, your resentment."
"Yes," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"And yet," he whispered, his hand sliding down to grip her thigh, pulling her leg high over his hip, "you continue moving towards me despite it."
Thrawn didn't wait for an answer. He reached down, his fingers hooking into the lace of her undergarments and ripping them aside with a single, decisive tug.
He then shifted himself as he slid down his trousers to free himself, not allowing her anytime to adjust. He guided himself to her entrance as she laid on her back, awaiting him, wanting him. As he pushed inside her in one deep, unrelenting thrust, she let out a strangled cry.
“You hate what I represent,” he said quietly, one hand steady at her waist. “And still you came back to me.”
She tried to look away, but his fingers tilted her chin back toward him.
“Do you know what fascinates me?” he murmured. “Not your anger. Anger is predictable. It’s that you continue choosing proximity despite it.”
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“The Empire took your world,” he said. “And yet here you are, in my quarters, wearing my name.”
“You want me to feel guilty?”
“No,” he replied evenly. “I want you to examine why guilt has failed to stop you.”
He used his free hand to grip onto her neck, forcing her to look at him while he continued thrusting into her, forcing her to surrender.
“Look at me!” he ordered, his red eyes the only light in the room. “Yet I find myself wanting to help you. There is something about you that I am drawn to.”
The sensation was overwhelming, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer to her. With every wet slide of his shaft, she felt her of him betrayal deepen. The wrongness of it was an aphrodisiac, a dark fuel that made her cling around him in desperate, rhythmic pulses.
The sofa creaked under their combined weight. He continued to claim her, slamming into her harshly, making her arch her back to adjust to him.
He gripped her waist, his fingers bruising her skin, and began to drive into her with primal power.
(Y/N) felt his orgasm building as he quickened his pace. With a final, deep plunge that seemed to pin her to the cushions, he let out a low, guttural roar, his body stiffening as he released inside her. He poured his seed into her. They remained locked together, chests heaving, sweat-slicked skin clinging. The silence returned, but it was different now, more knowing and more hurting.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Morning greeted her as it always did to those who did not belong. The sun arose unhurried behind the eastern crests, lifting a pale veil of mist from the shoulders of the grey fields, yet it brought little comfort to her heart. To the dwellers of Lothal, the dawn was a token of enduring life; but to a woman far from the hearths of her own planet, it was merely the turning of a page in an endless book of what seemed to be confinement.
(Y/N) stood before the mirror while attendants finished the final arrangements of her clothing. For the tenth time in ten minutes she adjusted the rings on her fingers.
“You have already fixed those nine times,” Uiona observed.
“I know.”
“You are nervous.”
“Yes.”
A soft chime sounded at the door as footsteps that were all too familiar to her were heard entering the room. Her pulse tightened as she turned to face Thrawn. He was in his white uniform with his medals aligned perfectly, and his uniform as crisp as the morning.
Neither of them spoke for a moment, as she allowed for his eyes to roam over her.
“You are late,” he said finally.
Uiona bowed her head once and quietly withdrew from the room with the attendants, leaving them alone.
“I am exactly on time.”
“You are three minutes behind schedule.”
“That still qualifies as on time for most species.”
“The Empire is not most species.”
“No,” she said. “I’ve noticed.”
His gaze moved over her again with slow precision. Not improperly, but in the way he allowed his attention to focus on a specific thing. The gown had been chosen carefully for the occasion. It was a political symbol that portrayed her as.
The wife of a Grand Admiral.
The surviving queen of Batonn.
The mother of the Empire’s newest carefully crafted image.
“You must remain composed today,” he said calmly. “There will be considerable observation.”
“And if I fail at being the perfect Imperial wife?”
Thrawn reached toward her then, adjusting one of the silver fastenings near her shoulder with careful fingers.
“You will not.”
His hand paused briefly against the fabric near her collarbone before falling away again while the certainty in his voice unsettled her.
He came to stand in front of her, with his eyes trailing to her lips. The air between them shifted into something more warm.
“You should not look at me like that before a public ceremony,” (Y/N) murmured.
“How am I looking at you?”
“As though you remember I am your wife and not merely useful to the Empire.”
“You are both,” he said.
She looked down briefly, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her gloves just to steady herself.
“You should get going or you will be late, Grand Admiral.”
“You are the only interruption I do not resent.”
Her breath caught slightly.
“You are making this difficult.”
“I disagree,” he said, using his thumb to brush her cheekbone lightly. Then he leaned down and kissed her. When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against hers. “You will do well today,” he said softly.
“So will you.”
Then the Grand Admiral straightened once more into military perfection, composure sliding back over him like armor.
“The procession begins in eleven minutes,” he said.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
(Y/N) navigates the suffocating performative domesticity of an Imperial portrait session while simultaneously conspiring against her husband. After a night of intimacy and guilt, she risks everything to secure the location of a high value prisoner for the rebellion and Batonn.
Masterlist, Part 28
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
She stood near the mirror while one of the attendants finished fastening the deep blue outer layer of her gown. Uiona announced Irtur before he fully entered her room.
“Ambassador Irtur to see you, Your Majesty.”
Irtur stepped inside still wearing a coat from the morning cold outside the administrative district. His eyes moved over her once, then narrowed slightly with immediate suspicion.
“Well,” he said slowly. “Something certainly happened during training."
“I have no idea what you mean, ” (Y/N) said, nearly dropping the clasp she was fastening.
“That is a lie of catastrophic quality.”
One of the attendants immediately found an excuse to leave the room. Irtur watched her expression for another second and then looked genuinely delighted.
“Very well.” He lifted both hands in surrender though he was still visibly enjoying himself far too much. Then, slowly, the amusement faded from his face. “There is another matter. I’ll do it.”
“What?”
“Gret.” His voice remained calm now. Steady. “I will handle it myself.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You should not have to carry that.”
“And neither should you.”
(Y/N) looked away towards her son’s crib, the words landing and settling in the room. Lord Virex and his lady will lose a son due to the bombing that was caused because of them. He will die to keep the secret, a secret that allowed many people to become liberated from the northern territories mining camp.
“He trusted us,” she whispered.
“He was already dead the moment the ISB began circling him.” Irtur removed his coat as he spoke. “There are some burdens a kingdom places upon its servants whether they wish to bear them or not. Better that the blade fall from the hand of someone who loved Batonn than from the hands of the Empire as my father would’ve said.”
“I keep thinking,” she admitted softly, “that if I had not brought him into this…”
“We gave him purpose,” Irtur interrupted gently. “And dignity. There are worse ends than dying in service to your people.”
“That sounds very noble when you say it.”
“It is easier to speak nobly about tragedy before it belongs to you personally.”
“When it is done,” she said, “I will arrange for his funeral rites to be held in the palace on Batonn.”
Irtur looked at her carefully, “The old palace?”
“Yes, of course.”
“The Imperials will object.”
“They object to everything.”
A faint smile touched his face, “That they do.”
“The young lord Gret deserves to go home,” she walked over to her child and gave him her finger to latch onto. “It is the least I can give him now.”
Irtur bowed his head once in quiet agreement.
“Another thing if I may, (Y/N).”
“Yes, go on.”
Irtur glanced once toward the closed doors before speaking lower, “There is a prisoner being held on Lothal.”
Her expression hardened instantly, “What kind of prisoner?”
“The important kind.”
“Who are they?”
“A Batonnese intelligence courier,” he said quietly. “Captured three months ago near the Kestro mining routes. Clvtorig believes the prisoner has information regarding several hidden imperial cells operating in the northern territories.”
“And they’re here? On Lothal?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because people still loyal to Batonn continue risking their lives to tell us things and he was working with the rebels here.”
“Where are they being held?”
“A temporary detention site near the Imperial district.”
“This is very dangerous and there are stormtroopers everywhere on this planet.”
“Yes.”
“You are not going alone.”
“I am.”
“You could be killed.”
“So could the prisoner.”
“Marc…”
“No.” His voice sharpened for the first time. “You have a child now. You are the surviving monarch of Batonn and the wife of a Grand Admiral. If you are caught anywhere near an Imperial detention facility the consequences will extend far beyond your own life.”
“And if you are caught?”
“I am easier to sacrifice.”
“That is not true.”
“It is practical.”
“I am coming with you.”
“No,” he said firmly. “Absolutely not.”
“I am the only person you can trust completely here.”
His expression shifted slightly because it was true. On Lothal every corridor belonged to the Empire. Every servant reported upward. Every official smile concealed loyalty to someone else.
But her…
She was the one variable neither side fully understood anymore.
“That,” he said quietly, “may be the most tragic sentence you have ever spoken.”
Before she could answer she heard her name called.
“(Y/N),” Uiona announced carefully, walking back into the room, “the portrait staff has now sent four separate inquiries regarding your arrival time.”
Irtur glanced toward the clock.
“You are late.”
“Yes, thank you, I gathered that.”
“The Empire will collapse without its family portrait.”
“Oh, be merciful.”
“I have never once been accused of mercy.”
Irtur looked toward the doorway as one of her attendants hurried past outside carrying folded garments and a datapad as a droid followed behind her, “What is your attendant’s name?”
“Which one?”
“The dark-haired one,” he said. “Very pretty. Terrifying posture. Looks like she could stab a man in a diplomatic hallway.”
“That describes half the women employed by my household.”
“The one who glared at me yesterday.”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“I merely asked her a question.”
“You flirted with her.”
“I admired her professionalism.”
(Y/N) turned toward the door before he could continue.
“I am late for my portrait.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
The portrait chamber had been assembled inside one of the upper administrative wings of the Lothal governor’s residence. Everything about it was aggressively Imperial in the way only carefully curated things could be. Pale grey walls. Precise lighting arrays. Dark polished flooring that reflected the glow of the chandeliers overhead.
A backdrop bearing the Imperial crest stood behind the raised platform where the portraits would be taken.
(Y/N) arrived twelve minutes late.
Not accidentally.
The attendant waiting outside the chamber looked visibly relieved when she finally appeared carrying (C/N) against her shoulder while Uiona followed behind with the child’s things.
“Your Majesty,” the attendant said carefully, “the Grand Admiral has already arrived.”
“I assumed as much.”
When the doors opened, conversation inside the chamber stopped almost immediately.
Military officers. Administrative personnel. The portrait artist. Two aides adjusting lighting equipment near the platform.
And Thrawn standing near the center of the room in full white uniform.
“You are late,” he said calmly.
“Eleven now,” he corrected after glancing briefly toward the wall’s clock.
She shifted (C/N) slightly higher against her shoulder. “I was under the impression the Empire possessed patience.”
“The Empire possesses schedules.”
(Y/N) walked further into the room slowly, taking in the setup properly now. It was worse than she expected. The entire arrangement had the carefully polished feeling of state imagery, the kind distributed through HoloNet publications during holidays to reassure citizens that the military leadership possessed families and humanity and ordinary domestic lives.
The artist approached nervously. “Lady Thrawn, if we could begin with the arrangement…”
(C/N) made a soft sound against her shoulder. Immediately, several people in the room looked at him. The subtle fascination in the faces of officers trying not to stare too openly at the blue skinned infant in the queen of Batonn’s arms.
Thrawn noticed the shift in her expression almost immediately, “Begin,” he said to the room.
Everyone moved at once.
The arrangement placed her in the center while Thrawn stood beside her with one hand resting against her waist. (C/N) remained in her arms initially, wrapped in dark blue fabric selected specifically to complement the color palette of the room.
The artist adjusted the angle of the lighting.
“Closer together, please.”
(Y/N) remained perfectly still.
Then she felt Thrawn’s hand settle lightly against her waist. It wasn’t a possessive feeling, but more of a positional one. The sort of touch expected in an official portrait of a high ranking Imperial family. Yet the warmth of it still unsettled her.
“Lift your chin slightly,” the artist instructed and she obeyed automatically.
The child stared directly at the camera equipment with startling intensity.
“He is extraordinarily focused,” the artist said nervously.
“Yes,” Thrawn replied simply.
The artist hesitated. “Would you prefer a softer expression from the child in the final selection, Grand Admiral?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“This portrait is intended to represent my household accurately.”
By the final sequence (C/N) had grown tired and restless. She took him back instinctively, settling him against her chest while he slowly calmed.
“Hold there,” the artist said suddenly.
Aiocletian’s small hand remained curled loosely against the fabric near her collar while Thrawn stood beside her.The room fell quieter because for one fractional second the performance disappeared. The artist lowered the camera slightly.
“Yes,” he said softly. “That one.”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
On the dark sheets of her bed, she dreamed of Batonn the way people dreamed of dead things.
Summer sunlight spilled across the white palace corridors while banners snapped softly in the warm wind. She was fourteen again, barefoot against cool stone, carrying her shoes in one hand while trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.
Her father walked beside her through the gallery halls.
Not the king.
Just her father.
He wore no ceremonial robes today, only the formal attire of the old court with the sleeves rolled carelessly halfway up his forearms because he had been working rather than receiving dignitaries. He was younger than she remembered him at the end. Healthier. Untouched by Imperial negotiations and military occupation and the slow exhaustion that had hollowed him out during the final years.
For a moment the dream became painful in the specific way dreams sometimes did, because somewhere inside herself she realized she was remembering something real.
Suddenly she was standing alone in the burned remains of Paeragosto City with smoke curling black into the sky while the palace crumbled somewhere far behind her.
Her father was gone.
In his place stood the enormous Imperial portrait banners hanging from Coruscant buildings during Fête Week. Thrawn’s face. Her own. (C/N) held between them like some holy offering to the machinery of Empire.
Symbol.
The word echoed violently through the dream.
Then another voice.
Real this time.
“(Y/N).”
Her eyes opened sharply and she rose herself from the bed.
The room remained dim except for the low bedside lighting and the glow from the city beyond the tall windows. She had fallen asleep atop the blankets still wearing part of her evening clothing. Her hair remained loose around her shoulders.
And Thrawn stood near the foot of the bed with a portfolio case in his hands.
“You were dreaming,” he observed quietly.
“What time is it?”
“Late.”
Helpful as always.
“The portraits,” (Y/N) said softly.
“Yes.”
He crossed the room and set the case carefully atop the bed beside her before opening it with precise movements. Inside rested several large printed proofs from the day’s session.
She looked at the first one in silence.
The seated portrait.
Thrawn standing beside her chair in full white uniform while (C/N) rested in her arms beneath the soft lighting of the governor’s residence. The Imperial crest behind them. Her blue gown blended almost seamlessly against the white and silver composition.
The Empire would love it.
She hated that part of her that loved it too. Her fingers moved carefully to the second portrait.
This one was near the windows overlooking Lothal’s skyline. (C/N) slept against her shoulder while Thrawn looked toward her instead of the camera. The next photo, the third one, showed Thrawn holding the child while (C/N) reached upward toward the white collar of his uniform.
And the final portrait…
Their son was half asleep between them while Thrawn’s hand rested against the center of her back and she looked downward toward the child instead of the camera. No perfect posture. No carefully arranged expression.
It looked almost frighteningly intimate.
“This one was not selected for distribution,” Thrawn said.
“No,” she said quietly. “I imagine not.”
Her thumb brushed lightly across the edge of the image.
“Why did you bring them yourself?”
“Because I believed you would want to see them before the Imperial office altered them for publication.”
“Altered?”
“Minor corrections,” he said calmly. “Lighting adjustments. Composition refinement. Removal of visible fatigue.”
“They’re editing exhaustion out of the portrait?”
“Yes.”
“That feels symbolic.”
“It is.”
Outside the windows, Lothal’s night glowed gold beneath the darkness while the Empire slept around them. And slowly, without fully realizing she was doing it, she leaned into him when he sat beside her on the bed. Thrawn did not react visibly to the movement, though she felt the slight adjustment of his posture to accommodate her weight against his shoulder. The portraits remained spread across the blankets between them.
“Did you have a family on your homeworld?”
She felt him still beside her, though not dramatically, just enough for her to notice.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. The answer surprised her slightly. Not because she thought him incapable of family, but because he so rarely spoke about himself.
“What were they like?”
“My father served within the Ascendancy,” he said finally. “Administrative command rather than direct tactical deployment. My mother belonged to one of the lesser ruling families attached to our region.”
“You don’t talk about them often.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the Ascendancy values function over sentiment,” he said at last. “Personal attachment is not considered irrelevant, but it is rarely prioritized publicly. Particularly within military structures.”
“And were there…” She hesitated slightly. “Were there other women before me?”
The question escaped before she fully intended to ask it. Thrawn looked at her.
“There were political considerations,” he said. “Potential alliances discussed between families. None progressed significantly.”
“That is an extremely evasive answer.”
“It is an accurate one.”
“Did you love any of them?”
“No.”
Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the edge of one of the portraits.
“And me?” she asked softly before she could stop herself.
The room went very still. He looked down briefly toward the portrait resting between them. The candid one. Her leaning unconsciously toward him while (C/N) slept between them.
When he answered, his voice was quieter than before.
“When I first arrived in the Empire,” he said slowly, “I considered attachment a structural weakness. Useful in others. Dangerous in myself. The Ascendancy teaches discipline very early. Duty before personal desire. Clarity before sentiment. We are taught that emotional attachment compromises judgment. In many cases, this is correct.”
“And yet you married me.”
“The arrangement was politically advantageous,” he said automatically.
She gave him a look. A rare flicker of something almost embarrassed crossed his expression.
“At the beginning,” he amended.
“And now?” she asked.
“Now,” he said, “your absence alters the atmosphere of every room I enter.”
Something painful moved through her chest. She leaned forward slowly then and kissed him to hide her pain. His hand moved automatically to the side of her face, thumb brushing lightly against her cheek as he returned it with the same restrained intensity he seemed to bring to everything. When she pulled back slightly, their foreheads rested together for a moment in the dim light.
“You were not supposed to become personally significant.”
(Y/N) looked down at the portrait again because it was easier than looking directly at him.
“And yet?” she asked softly.
“And yet,” he said, “you did.”
There were moments with him that frightened her more than the Empire itself. Not because they were cruel, but because they were sincere.
“You make it sound accidental.”
“In part, it was.” His eyes lifted to hers again. “I understood the political value of the arrangement. I understood the Emperor’s intentions. I understood your intelligence, your usefulness, your symbolic importance.” A pause. “I did not anticipate attachment.”
“You are very dangerous to me,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“You should not say things like that to me,” she whispered.
“And why is that?”
“Because eventually I may start believing you.”
A faint shift touched the corner of his mouth at that, though his expression remained mostly unreadable.
“I suspect,” he said carefully, “that possibility passed some time ago.”
She leaned forward again and kissed him again, slower this time. His hand slid carefully to the back of her neck as he returned it with that same restrained intensity she had come to associate with him. Everything about Thrawn felt deliberate, even tenderness.
When they finally parted, he brushed his fingers against her jaw and spoke gently, “I leave again in ten days.”
“You always leave.”
“Yes.”
“But you come back.”
His gaze held hers steadily.
“Yes,” he said again, softer this time. “I do.”
But (Y/N) didn't want to talk about the ten days. She didn't want to think about the void he would leave in the room or the coldness of the sheets when he was gone. She wanted the weight of him, the reality of him, to anchor her to the present.
She shifted, her body sliding further onto the mattress, pulling him with her. Thrawn let her move him, following her fluidly. He braced himself on his elbows to avoid crushing her. His red eyes were glowing, searching her face with a clinical intensity that slowly melted into raw, unfiltered hunger.
"You are thinking too much," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against her gleaming (s/c) skin.
"I'm thinking about how much I hate that you leave," she whispered, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the powerful thrum of his heart.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he captured her lips in a kiss while his hand slid from her neck down to the curve of her waist, gripping her hip with a firmness that bordered on bruising.
He kissed her as if he were trying to memorize the very essence of her, as though he was attempting to burn her image in her mind to hold her in the coming weeks of his campaign.
(Y/N) groaned into his mouth and allowed her legs to wide around his waist, pulling him wantingly against her. Their clothing was a wall, a barrier, she needed the barrier gone.
Her hand found the opening of his trousers, pulling them down as he did with her own. Her hand felt warm against the cool of his skin and she traced his body with the fingers she still had.
She arched her back as he broke the kiss to trail his lips down her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her collarbone. "I do not wish to be disciplined tonight," she whispered against his skin.
“Then no discipline tonight,” he murmured softly against her. “Only honesty.”
She laid beneath him, naked and vulnerable under the dim light. His gaze swept over her body, at the rise and fall of her breasts, the curve of her stomach, the invitation of her thighs. The look was possessive, a strategist marking his most prized territory.
His hand slid down, fingers brushing against the damp folds of her core. She gasped, her hips bucking instinctively. He watched her face, observing the way her eyes fluttered and her breath hitched.
He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his shaft rubbing against her slickness, teasing her. Then, with one deliberate thrust, he buried himself inside her.
(Y/N) tossed her head against the pillows. He filled her, allowing her walls to close against him as though she were inviting him further into her. His eyes closed for a second, taking in her warmth before opening them again and thrusting in and out of her.
As his member filled her with every rhythmic thrust, she closed her eyes and found herself beneath the softness of his voice and the carefulness of his touch, living the unbearable truth of what she was doing to him.
She was lying to him, using the access his name gave her. Sitting in meetings beside Irtur discussing prisons and routes and rebels while Thrawn stood between her and the full violence of the Empire without fully realizing she was helping undermine it from inside his own household.
Guilt moved through her suddenly, sharp enough to ache.
When she came into his office with a list of requests before they married, all he had requested of her was honesty. And yet she couldn’t give it to him. Not even now as they laid as husband and wife.
Maybe in another life this could have been different. A quieter galaxy. A kinder version of history. No Empire. No Batonn burning beneath Imperial machinery. No arranged marriage turned into something dangerous and real by accident. But there was only this life. Only this room. This war. The conqueror holding her like she was something precious rather than politically convenient.
(Y/N) opened her eyes again and clung to him, her nails digging into the muscles of his back, her voice breaking into fragmented moans. He gripped her thighs, pinning them back towards the sheets and began to thrust faster into her. The friction was intense, as though he knew she would betray him and didn’t care. He was no longer the strategist; he was a man claiming his wife, his movements raw and desperate.
She squeezed him tight, her pussy walls pulsing in rhythmic contractions around his shaft. She screamed his name, her body shaking violently as he peaked inside of her, filling her up with his release. He throbbed inside of her as he emptied every drop of his seed into her womb.
For a long time, neither of them spoke, the only sound was the synchronization of two hearts slowing down. Thrawn shifted slightly, kissing her forehead.
(Y/N) watched silently as he sat up at the edge of the bed. Even now, after everything between them, he moved with the same composed precision. He reached for his uniform blouse from the chair nearby and began fastening it again beneath the dim gold light of the room. The sight hurt unexpectedly.
She pulled the blanket higher around herself.
“Will you sleep here tonight?” she asked softly.
Thrawn’s hands paused briefly at one of the clasps before continuing.
“No,” he said quietly. “There are operational matters requiring review before morning.”
She looked away toward the darkened ceiling.
“Of course there are,” (Y/N) sighed.
He crossed back toward the bed once more before leaving, one hand brushing lightly against her hair.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“I doubt I will.”
“I will return before morning if I am able.”
It was not a promise and she had learned this from the very beginning.
And after he disappeared into the adjoining office and the doors slid shut behind him, (Y/N) remained alone in the dim room.
She fell asleep for some time before waking up again. The room was darker this time and quieter. She rose from the bed and crossed silently through the darkened sitting room.
From the bedroom doorway, (Y/N) could see the thin line of light beneath the office doors where Thrawn had disappeared nearly an hour earlier.
The closer she moved toward the office, the more clearly she could hear the low cadence of his voice through the sealed doors. She grabbed her double viol and stood near the door.
“…temporary detainment transfers will proceed through the northern corridor rather than the central route.”
A pause. Another voice answered through the comm system, distorted slightly by transmission static.
“The Batonnese prisoner remains secured in Aurek-17, sir.”
“The current authorization rotation?” Thrawn asked.
“Updated every six hours, Grand Admiral.”
“Good. Increase oversight on all personnel assigned to the transfer. If extraction is attempted, I want advance indication before execution.”
She leaned slightly closer to the door despite herself.
“There has been increased chatter regarding insurgent interest in the detainee,” the officer continued. “Sector Command believes the prisoner may possess information connected to the resistance cells.”
“Then Sector Command is likely correct,” Thrawn said evenly.
He knew more than she and Irtur had assumed. She barely had time to step back before the office doors slid open abruptly.
Thrawn stood there immediately.
For one terrible second neither of them spoke.
“(Y/N),” he said calmly.
“I couldn’t sleep,” She said, forcing herself to breathe normally.
“And so you came here?”
“Yes.” She lifted the double viol slightly in her hands then, grateful she had brought it with her half on instinct. “I thought perhaps I could play for you.”
“You were standing outside the door,” he observed as the office behind him glowed softly with active holoscreens and military projections. Fleet movements rotated slowly in blue-white light across the walls.
“I did not want to interrupt your call.”
“You should have entered.”
The suspicion had not vanished entirely. She could feel it lingering beneath his composure like something submerged beneath water. But after another long moment, he stepped aside from the doorway.
“Come inside,” he said.
She entered carefully.
Thrawn deactivated the remaining transmission screens with a movement of his hand.
“You wished to play?” he asked.
“Yes.”
As the music filled the office, she wondered if he could hear the guilt inside it.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Midnight caused the residence to grow quiet.
(Y/N) waited another twenty minutes after the household finally settled before leaving her room. She wore one of the darker Senate robes rather than formal attire, her hair braided simply back away from her face. Not suspicious enough to draw attention. Not important enough to require escort protocols. The trick to surviving Imperial buildings, she had learned, was behaving as though you already belonged there.
She calmly moved through the upper administrative corridor, passing officers who straightened slightly when they recognized her before immediately looking away again. No one stopped her of course, she was Lady Thrawn.
She reached the secondary command offices near the northern wing and slowed slightly.
Earlier that evening she had listened carefully while Thrawn reviewed operational updates through a holo-call in the adjacent room. Temporary detainment transfers. Northern district holding rotations. Clearance delays due to increased insurgent activity.
Prisoners.
The detention facility Irtur needed.
A lieutenant emerged from one of the offices carrying datapads stacked against his chest. He froze briefly upon seeing her.
“Lady Thrawn.”
“Lieutenant,” she replied warmly.
He visibly relaxed and smiled when she smiled. He was young and young officers were easier to get information out of. He reminded her of Davio Langro from her bachelorette days on Coruscant.
“I apologize for interrupting so late,” she said softly, glancing toward the office behind him. “Grand Admiral Thrawn requested I retrieve the updated sector transit schedules. I believe they were forwarded incorrectly to administrative command?”
“Oh… yes, perhaps. I can assist you,” He said, blinking and allowing her inside the painfully grey office. On the grey walls a terminal glowed softly against one wall displaying regional security routing.
The lieutenant moved toward the central terminal.
“I believe the transport schedules were integrated alongside the detention transfer routes after yesterday’s update…”
‘Detention transfer routes.’
She stepped closer, leaning lightly against the edge of the console as though only half interested.
“You all work such impossible hours,” she said sympathetically.
“Recent insurgency activity has complicated things,” The lieutenant gave a tired laugh.
“I can imagine.” She glanced briefly toward the screen. “And all this for one prisoner transfer?”
He sighed immediately.
“Oh, don’t remind me. Security command’s treating the Batonnese detainee like he’s carrying plans to assassinate the emperor.”
“Really?”
“Tier-four encrypted detention protocols, rotating access authorization, direct review from the northern command office…” He shook his head. “It’s absurd.”
“Mm.” She tilted her head slightly toward the terminal. “That sounds expensive.”
“It is expensive.”
As he spoke, her eyes moved quickly across the active authorization screen.
Years in the Senate had taught her how to absorb information without appearing to.
“Though honestly,” the lieutenant continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I think Command’s worried someone might try extracting him.”
“That would certainly be dramatic.”
“Yes, well. Rebels are dramatic.”
He finally located the fabricated transit schedules she had never actually come for and handed the datapad toward her apologetically.
“My apologies for the delay, Lady Thrawn.”
“You’ve been extremely helpful.”
And I mean it.
She walked out of the office with swift haste and when she found the residence corridor she held herself against the wall and breathed in counts of eight. There was a window next to her but no light hit her face, the pale white ceiling light highlighted all her imperfections on her (s/c) skin from the sleepless nights which had now become routine. At least she was doing something now and not simply waiting in bed waiting for the sleep to find her.
(Y/N) and Thrawn have a much needed reunion after she arrives on Lothal.
Masterlist, Part 27
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Lothal greeted them with dust coloured skies.
The shuttle descended through layered clouds into the Imperial capital where everything looked half-built or half conquered. The landing platform itself was enormous, crowded with walkers, supply transports, and officers. As (Y/N) stepped down the ramp with (c/n) against her chest, she noticed all they eyes on her and how the security escort never left them.
Some of the workers stared because he was blue. Others because he was Thrawn’s. Most because they already understood he was becoming something politically useful. Irtur noticed all of it too.
“Well,” he murmured beside her as they were led toward the waiting transport convoy, “nothing says ‘welcome to Lothal’ quite like armed surveillance and atmospheric despair.”
“That is not the official tourism slogan,” she said tiredly.
“No? Could have fooled me.”
The Imperial residence assigned to Thrawn’s household was large and severe. Built in the clean angular style the Empire favored, where every hallway felt intentionally designed to discourage emotional vulnerability.
The officers escorted them through polished grey corridors while aides moved quickly ahead preparing rooms that had clearly already been prepared hours ago.
Irtur glanced once through one of the narrow windows overlooking the city below.
“Ah,” he said solemnly. “Excellent. They still have the same uncomfortable mattresses and grey views.”
Uiona made the faintest sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
“I was worried modernization had reached Lothal,” Irtur continued.
One of the officers looked deeply uncertain whether this was criticism and (Y/N) was too exhausted to save him from the conversation.
The bedroom itself was quiet when she entered. Quiet enough that the absence of Thrawn felt immediate. (c/n) stirred lightly against her shoulder as she crossed toward the bed.That was when she saw the note resting neatly atop the dark blankets. Her name was written on the front in Thrawn’s precise hand.
‘I regret that military developments prevented my presence at the landing platform. I understand the discourtesy of the absence, particularly given the circumstances of your arrival.
I will see you tonight.
— Thrawn’
Her heart jumped and slowly warmed as she traced her fingers over the note. Very carefully, she folded it once and placed it beside the bed instead of throwing it away.
The office assigned to her within the Lothal residence overlooked the capital district below, all pale lights and distant military traffic moving through the warm dark. It was connected to her room and left the door open, giving her the view of her bed. Somewhere farther out beyond the city the plains stretched into shadow, broken occasionally by factory lights or the blinking red of Imperial towers.
(c/n) was asleep in the nursery with Uiona.
(Y/N) stood beside the window holding a glass she had not touched while Irtur sat across from her at the desk, sleeves rolled back slightly, exhaustion visible around his eyes now that the formalities of arrival were over.
“I will never forgive myself for it,” she said quietly.
“No,” he agreed softly. “Neither will I.”
“He trusted us,” she whispered. “He believed we were protecting Batonn.We recruited him into something he did not fully understand.”
“That is how resistance movements survive.”
“That sounds very noble when you say it quickly enough.”
Irtur looked at her for a long moment. “You think I do not know what this is costing us?”
“I remember him we were young,” Irtur continued quietly. “Arguing with archive staff because he thought the royal preservation records should be public access. He nearly got himself removed from the embassy over it.”
“He was terrified of public speaking.”
“He still is. If we delay this the ISB eventually reaches him first.”
“And if we don’t delay it,” she whispered, “then we become the kind of people who murder boys we once promised to protect.”
“The Empire made that decision long before we did.”
A knock sounded suddenly at the office door and both of them went still instantly.
The shift was automatic now. Fear trained into reflex. Irtur’s posture changed first, expression smoothing into something lighter, safer. (Y/N) placed the untouched glass down carefully before speaking.
“Come in.”
The door opened.
Thrawn stepped inside still wearing his uniform from whatever meeting had kept him occupied since their arrival. The white of it seemed almost stark against the dim office lighting. His eyes moved first to her, then briefly to Irtur.
“Ambassador,” he said with polite neutrality.
“Grand Admiral.”
For half a second the room felt unbearably crowded with things unsaid before Irtur stood smoothly.
“I was just informing Her Majesty that training resumes tomorrow morning.”
Thrawn’s gaze shifted briefly toward her.
“Training?”
“She is improving,” Irtur said pleasantly. “Slowly. Against extraordinary odds.”
“Irtur,” she warned tiredly.
“What?” he said innocently. “I am encouraging morale.”
“By insulting me?”
“It builds character. I will leave you both to your evening,” Irtur said finally.
As he passed Thrawn near the doorway he paused just long enough to add lightly:
“And Grand Admiral? The mattresses are still terrible.”
Then he disappeared into the corridor before anyone could answer. The door swooshed closed behind him, leaving Thrawn and (Y/N) alone in their office.
“How was the journey?” he asked after a moment.
“Long. Over secured.” She folded her arms loosely. “Your officers stared at us like we were a classified military project.”
“In fairness,” Thrawn said calmly, “from their perspective you are adjacent to one.”
“That is not comforting.”
“No,” he agreed. “It was not intended to be.”
He stepped farther into the room then, “Did the transport present any complications?”
“No. Though Irtur spent most of the flight becoming increasingly convinced we were about to be arrested.”
“A rational concern.”
“You are not helping your case.”
“My case?”
“The one where I attempt to convince myself bringing our infant son to an active military sector was not a catastrophic decision.”
“And our soon?” he asked quietly then.
“He slept through most of it,” she said softer now. “Though Uiona says he dislikes turbulence less than I do.”
“A useful adaptation.”
“He also started screaming when one of the officers came into our room unexpectedly.”
“Screamed?”
“He didn’t knock.”
The corner of Thrawn’s mouth moved very slightly upward.
She stared at him in mild disbelief. “Was that amusement?”
“It appears the child has inherited strong evaluative instincts.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet you continue speaking to me voluntarily.”
The room grew quieter after that. Outside the windows, Lothal’s capital glowed in scattered gold and white beneath the darkening sky. Somewhere farther away she could faintly hear the distant engines of patrol craft moving through the atmosphere. Thrawn studied her carefully.
“You are thinner,” he said eventually.
“I had a child.”
“Yes,” he said. “And you are still thinner.”
“Coruscant was…” She searched briefly for the correct word. “Difficult.The investigation. The Senate. The whispers. Everything.”
Gods, she had missed him. Not safely. Not rationally. But genuinely. And perhaps he saw some part of that realization cross her face because his expression softened almost imperceptibly before he spoke again.
“I regretted my absence from the birth.”
The honesty of it caught her off guard again.
“You were commanding a military campaign.”
“That does not alter the regret.”
“You really did miss us,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” he said simply. “Very much.”
The distance of the past months suddenly felt unbearable in a way she had not prepared herself for. The calls through holograms and the war always existing around him like weather. And now he was here again, standing close enough to touch.
“Then you will see me tonight,” she said softly.
For the first time since entering the room, something in Thrawn’s composure shifted fully.
“Yes,” he said, quieter now. “I will.”
He stepped closer slowly enough that she could have moved away if she wanted to, but she did not. His hand lifted carefully to her face, fingers brushing lightly along her jaw with a gentleness that still startled her every time it appeared. She leaned into his touch before she could stop herself.
“You are exhausted,” he murmured.
“So are you.”
“That is likely true.”
“And yet here you are.”
“And yet here I am.”
Then he kissed her. Not like reunion after absence in stories. It felt instead like recognition. Like two people who had spent too long surviving separately remembering, briefly, that they did not always have to. Outside, Lothal’s city lights burned against the dark plains beyond the capital. Somewhere distant, ships moved through the atmosphere and alarms sounded faintly within the military district, reminders that the galaxy remained exactly as dangerous as it had been that morning.
But for a little while none of it entered the room.
His kiss deepened gradually, lips moving against hers with a tenderness that made her chest ache. Thrawn's hand slid from her jaw to the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair without pulling, just holding her steady.
(Y/N) pressed closer, her body molding to his, feeling the solid warmth of him through his uniform blouse.
He broke the kiss first.
“Your room,” he whispered, “If you'll have me there.”
She nodded, and they left the office together, steps soft on the carpeted floor. The door hissed open at her touch, revealing the bed with its dark sheets, a viewport framing Lothal's skyline.
He turned her gently to face him, hands at the fastenings of her blouse. Buttons slipped free one by one under his careful fingers, exposing her skin. The fabric whispered to the floor, followed by her skirt, leaving her in undergarments that he unclasped with the same patience. She stood bare before him, skin flushing under his steady gaze, dark eyes tracing her curves without hunger, just quiet admiration.
He stripped then, shirt tugged over his head to reveal a lean, blue muscled torso. She reached for him, but he caught her wrists softly, kissing her palms before drawing her to the bed.
They sunk onto the mattress together, him easing her back against the pillows. Thrawn hovered above, kissing her mouth again, then her throat, collarbone.
He pushed slowly into her, causing her to gasp at the feeling. They both stilled, savoring the join, her heat gripping his length, his pulse throbbing inside her.
She had forgotten how it felt. How it felt to be penetrated by him and allow warmth to cover her body. She felt the pain turn into ecstasy and arched her back into the mattress.
Movement began languid, he thrust into her with her walls clamping around him, welcoming him further into her tightened body. Her hands explored his back, feeling muscles flex under her touch.
(Y/N) shattered and moaned as she felt him release into her, her body quaking around him. Thrawn eased out after some time, allowing his release to stain the bedsheets.
(Y/N) lay against his chest half-awake, one arm draped loosely across him. In their fragile peace the room became quiet except for the soft hum of the residence systems and the distant sounds of the city outside. It was strangely peaceful. Dangerous in its peacefulness.
Thrawn’s hand rested carefully along her back.
“Irtur is going to complain tomorrow morning when I fail training again,” she murmured sleepily as she dug herself into his chest.
“He appears committed to your improvement.”
“He appears committed to my suffering.”
“A subtle distinction.”
For a few more minutes they stayed like that in silence.
Then, quieter:
“How bad is it here?” she asked.
He did not answer immediately, which was answer enough already.
“Manageable,” he said at last.
“You will tell me if it becomes unsafe?”
“Yes.”
“And you will actually mean it?”
“Yes.”
She also knew, however, there were limits even to what Grand Admiral Thrawn could protect.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
The training hall on Lothal was larger than the one on Coruscant and somehow even less welcoming. The walls were grey with one wall deviating and being almost entirely transparisteel, the Lothal morning visible through it, the dust-colored sky lightening slowly toward whatever color Lothal's sky decided to be at full light, the plains visible in the far distance beyond the capital's angular skyline.
(Y/N) stood near the center mat twirling the practice staff absently between her palms while waiting for Irtur to arrive. She ran it three times and her left hand was doing the thing it did when she pushed it past the comfortable interval.
The doors at the far end of the hall slid open. She looked up automatically, already preparing some insult about his lateness.
“...Oh.”
Thrawn stepped into the hall instead, dressed not in full uniform but in black training attire that somehow made him look even more dangerous.
"Where is Irtur?" She asked, confused.
"I sent him a communication this morning," Thrawn said. "His presence at the training session is not required today."
"And he accepted this?"
"He is a reasonable man."
"He is many things," she said. "Reasonable is not always one of them."
"Nevertheless," Thrawn said. He moved to the equipment rack as though he had done this before, selecting the staff that matched his height and balance with the same precision he applied to everything.
“You’re taking his place?” She asked.
“For this morning.”
“That feels deeply unfair.”
“How so?”
"You are the Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy," she said.
"Yes," he said. "Among other things."
She looked at the staff in her hands.
"Irtur is going to be very annoyed when he finds out about this," she said.
"Yes," Thrawn said. "I expect he will."
Something moved in her expression that was almost a smile.
She settled into the stance Irtur had been drilling into her for four months, the weight distribution, the grip, the specific positioning of the left hand that was harder with the prosthetic finger and that she had been compensating for in ways Irtur described as technically creative and practically problematic.
“Ready?” He asked, stepping onto the mat and lifting his staff into position.
“No.”
“An unfortunate but recurring condition.”
Then he moved fast.
Faster than Irtur.
The first strike cracked against her staff hard enough to jar her arms immediately. She barely blocked the second. By the third he had already twisted behind her and swept her legs cleanly out from beneath her.
She hit the mat with an offended noise.
Thrawn lowered the staff slightly while looking down at her.
“You anticipated the wrong angle.”
“You attacked from three directions in under two seconds.”
“A battlefield rarely limits itself to one.”
She accepted his offered hand this time mostly because her pride had not yet recovered enough energy to refuse it dramatically.
The second match was longer.
She managed two blocks she had not managed in the first, the deflection on the left side that Irtur had been working on, which hurt in the specific way of using the prosthetic finger under pressure but which worked.
“Your left side is compensating again,” he said as their staffs locked briefly together.
“Oh, wonderful,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “Now there are two of you.
“You shift your weight before impact,” he continued calmly, like they were discussing fleet logistics instead of actively trying to knock each other unconscious. “You anticipate failure in the hand before the strike lands.”
“It’s difficult not to when part of the hand is artificial.”
“The weakness is not entirely physical,” he observed quietly. “You hesitate before committing force with that side, not because you are incapable. Because you no longer trust it.”
She nearly had him before he moved in a way she had not mapped and (Y/N) was on the mat again.
The third match she lost in ten seconds.
It was the worst one. She had been adjusting and she had over-adjusted and the specific confidence of the adjustment had produced a gap in the approach.
He disarmed her halfway through and caught the falling staff before it hit the ground with irritating efficiency.
“You hesitate before committing to forward momentum,” he observed.
“Because forward momentum keeps resulting in me dying.”
“Only temporarily.”
The fourth match ended with her pinned flat against the mat, one of his forearms braced carefully across her wrist while the practice staff rested lightly against her shoulder.
She was breathing hard now, hair falling loose around her face.
He released her and stepped back immediately, offering space for her to stand.
She stared at him while catching her breath.
“You enjoy this.”
“The exercise is strategically useful.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the answer you are receiving.”
When the fifth match began, she stopped trying to overpower him and match speed with speed. So when Thrawn advanced again she moved differently. Closer instead of backward.
He blocked high expecting the same angle she had used before and she pivoted sharply beneath it, catching his wrist with the staff and using his own momentum against him the way Irtur had been trying unsuccessfully to force into her for months.
For one brief glorious second surprise crossed Thrawn’s face.
Then both of them went down hard onto the mat.
Except this time she landed on top of him. Her knees pinned his sides instinctively while one hand caught his wrist against the floor before he could recover the staff.
Her hair had come loose completely now, falling around her as she stared down at him breathing hard. It had grown since their wedding day, but not long enough to be woven into a proper Batonnese braid.
Thrawn looked up at her with unmistakable surprise.
“Better,” he said slowly.
For a moment neither of them moved.
And suddenly she became very aware of the fact that she was sitting on top of her husband in the middle of a training hall while he looked up at her with that unreadable steady focus of his.
“So,” she said quietly, still catching her breath. “Does this mean I’m improving?”
One corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
“Yes,” he said. “Considerably.”
The training hall suddenly felt much quieter than it had a moment ago. She had not moved and was still breathing hard from the sparring match, knees braced against his sides, one of his wrists pinned lightly beneath her hand.
“...Are we alone?” she asked softly.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the darkened edges of the training hall before returning to her.
“I believe so,” he said.
Something in the way he answered it made her heart stutter.
Then she leaned down and kissed him. For a second he seemed almost startled by it. Then one of his hands lifted carefully to the side of her face and the kiss deepened into something slower and far more dangerous.
The war. The investigations. The Empire. None of it disappeared, but for a few stolen moments it became background noise again, beneath the simple reality of missing someone too long.
Near the entrance to the training hall, the doors slid open quietly. Irtur stepped halfway inside carrying a datapad. He stopped immediately as (Y/N) and Thrawn remained entirely unaware of him.
Irtur stared at the scene for one exhausted second, then muttered something deeply disrespectful in Batonnese beneath his breath. He reached over and dimmed the training hall lights lower from the wall panel.
Then he turned around and left again without a sound.
Thrawn's fingers traced her cheekbone, then slid into her loose hair, cradling her head as their kiss grew hungrier. She shifted atop him, thighs squeezing his ribs, the thin fabric of her training pants rubbing against the hardness straining his trousers.
As heat pooled between her legs, she pulled back just enough to tug at his blouse. His blue chest gleamed under the dim lights.
The air in the room seemed to thicken as she worked his belt, the metallic click echoing in the silence. Her hand closed around him, stroking the velvet heat of his length, Thrawn’s composure finally fractured. A low hiss escaped his teeth, his hips bucking upward in a raw, instinctive search for friction.
Thrawn’s hands clamped onto her hips as she cast her top aside. She shoved her pants down her thighs and kicked them off along with her boots.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered into the cold air as he traced his hand over her bare chest. He traced her in the way one would trace a beautiful stone, as though to confirm it were real. She yelped and arched herself as his hand came upon her nipple.
She positioned herself and sank down slowly, taking him into her aching cunt. They both groaned, her walls clenching around his full length. She braced her hands against his shoulders and began to move. It was a rhythmic, rolling grind, gentle at first before becoming feral.
The sound of their union filled the room, a wet, rhythmic sliding punctuated by the heavy slap of skin on skin.
Thrawn’s thumbs dug into her hip bones to meet her every grind, the art of the war they had been practicing was utterly forgotten, replaced by her far more dangerous art of surrender.
Leaning forward, hands braced on his chest, she began to ride faster.
With a sudden flinch, he seized her waist. With the blur of motion, her world tilted; she gasped as he rolled her beneath him, pinning her into the yielding mat with the crushing, delicious weight of his frame.
He loomed over her, a silhouette of midnight blue against the dim light, his eyes glowing like dying embers in a forge. There was no more calculation in his gaze, only a raw, imperial demand.
"My turn to dictate the terms," he rasped. He caught her wrists, pinning them above her head with a single hand, forcing her chest to arch upward.
With a low, guttural growl, he drove back into her. She cried out, her head tossing back as he filled her. He moved with the cadence of a conqueror, each thrust a heavy, driving beat that shattered her composure into a thousand glittering shards.
Her legs tangled around his waist, her heels digging into the backs of his powerful thighs, silent pleas for him to never stop. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and ragged, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of her throat as he claimed her again and again.
Soon, Thrawn’s pace became relentless as (Y/N)’s fingers clawed at the mat as her breath came in jagged, broken sobs. The tension within her coiled tighter and tighter. Every time he withdrew, the void was a momentary agony; every time he returned, the impact sent white hot sparks dancing across her vision.
"Look at me, your majesty" he commanded, his voice a raw, jagged edge.
She forced her eyes open, meeting that burning crimson gaze. In that moment of absolute vulnerability, she released. The sight of her undoing was the final catalyst for his own. His muscles turned to iron, his back arching as he delivered one final, soul-shattering thrust. He buried himself within her as he poured himself into her with a force that left them both gasping.
The heavy, rhythmic silence of the training room was broken only by their synchronized gasping. He lingered for a moment longer, his weight a grounding heat against her, before he finally withdrew with a slow, lingering slide that left her feeling cold and achingly hollow.
He rolled onto his back beside her, his chest heaving as the dim overhead lights caught the sheen of sweat on his skin.
For a long minute, neither spoke.
Thrawn sat up with a fluid, disciplined grace that belied the feral energy of moments before. He reached for his discarded blouse. As he draped the fabric over his broad shoulders, he turned his head to look at her, his glowing crimson eyes regaining their sharp, analytical clarity.
(Y/N) remained stretched against the training mat, still trying to steady her breathing. One of her hands rested across her stomach while the other covered her eyes briefly in exhausted embarrassment.
“You are staring,” she muttered.
“You are distracting,” he corrected calmly.
“Then I wound you.”
A faint shift touched the corner of his mouth. Then his expression settled into something more thoughtful.
Then his expression settled into something more thoughtful.
“There is another matter. It is administrative,” he said.
“You sound ominous.”
“I have commissioned an official portrait.”
She lowered her hand from her face slowly. “A portrait.”
“Yes.”
“Of whom?”
“Us,” he said simply. “And the child.”
She stared at him for a moment in disbelief before letting out a quiet laugh that sounded almost pained.
“You choose now to tell me this?”
“The scheduling office confirmed the appointment this morning.”
“Of course it did.”
“The portrait will be archived through the Imperial household registry and distributed to several sector publications during Fête Week.”
It was an imperial tradition for high ranking officers during the holiday, to have portraits taken with their families in order to humanize them. (Y/N) had seen them before, even before the insurgency when the imperials first came to Batonn.
“The symbol again,” She said as she looked away toward the darkened ceiling above them.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“I also wanted one for myself,” he said, watching (Y/N)’s eyes meet his again, “You are both historically significant but that is not the only reason.”
“How sweet.”
Thrawn moved closer again, slower this time, and brushed a loose strand of hair back from her face with surprising gentleness.
“You should rest before tomorrow,” he said quietly.
areudirty
titsay
dailybridgerton
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
andulkaphoto
kianamaiart