In the Shadows Between Stars
Sith Lord (OC, Twilek) x Reader
(This is my original character, Veykhos, I thought people would like him so I ended up doing a little thing, a little nervous about this but... Enjoy!)
The air felt colder than it ought to have been.
The deserted Republic station was utterly lifeless, drifting just beyond the brink of a collapsed hyperspace lane. No illumination. No functional sensors. No reason for anyone to be here— except for the encrypted message on your datapad indicating that someone would arrive.
You had encountered bounty hunters, warlords, and even Inquisitors. Fear was not unfamiliar.
A sense of dread settled in—heavy and silent, as if the galaxy itself was holding its breath.
You moved past the hull breach, your boots softly crunching over broken glass, the beam of your flashlight slicing through the thick dust. The docking corridor loomed ahead, empty and shadowed.
He was here. You could feel it.
You just didn’t know who he was.
The holos never showed his face. Only his deeds.
A disassembled Star Destroyer, its crew vanished without a trace. A Jedi outpost burned to ashes. An entire shadow cell in the Outer Rim that fell silent mid-transmission.
A name murmured only in hidden corners.
And now… he was right behind you.
You didn’t hear him approach.
You simply sensed him—a heaviness in the Force tightening your chest.
You spun around too quickly, weapon raised—
But he was already there.
Tall. Motionless. His red skin faintly glowing in the dim light, lekku draped over his shoulders, tattoos tracing the planes of his face and arms. His robes were singed at the edges as if he’d walked through fire, yet the polished metal at his belt—the curved hilt of his saber—was flawless.
His expression was unreadable. Sharp. Alien.
And when he smiled, it was slow and unsettling. As if your fear amused him.
"You're braver than I expected," he said, voice rich, smooth, and infuriatingly calm. "Most scream when they realize they’re alone with me."
You inhaled, a breath that felt shallow.
"I don’t scream," you replied, steadier than you felt.
He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle already solved.
"No," he murmured, stepping closer, "you burn too slowly. It’s almost… impressive."
You barely held your ground.
His smile widened. "You came to me, little spy. Shouldn’t I be the one asking?"
You clenched your jaw. "I’m here with a message."
He stayed calm. "Then deliver it."
You reached for the datapad.
In an instant, he closed the distance. You didn’t see his hand move—but the datapad was now between his fingers, held effortlessly. His presence pressed against you like the heat of a plasma core—intense, magnetic, impossible to evade.
He stayed still. Didn’t touch you.
Aware of the exact angle to stand so your breath caught.
Aware of how close he could get without contact.
Aware of how fear could shift into something else.
"I’ve read the message," he said, eyes scanning the encrypted text. "It’s a distraction. You’re the real delivery."
"Yes," he interrupted gently, stepping closer, "you do."
Before you could react, you were pressed against the wall. The cold durasteel dug into your back, his foot sliding up to your thigh, trapping you.
He didn’t need to touch you to claim you.
Every inch of skin tingled under his gaze, your hands trembling with adrenaline, anger, and something you dared not name.
"You’re trembling," he murmured, lips near your ear. "Not from fear. You’ve imagined this moment."
His breath brushed your skin.
"Let me be clear," he said, voice dark and low, "I don’t kill without reason. But I have no patience for lies. If you want to survive this—if you want to keep your mind intact—you must stop pretending this is only about politics."
"What do you want from me?"
Then, soft and deliberate, he said:
Your knees nearly buckled.
The cell was small—four durasteel walls and the faint hum of a repulsor engine above. No lock, just the silent agreement that escape would be foolish.
That was the most unnerving part.
Veykhos left you there after the encounter—after he’d taken your datapad, read your mission like it was tattooed on you, and declared he wanted everything.
Then he simply turned and walked away. Calm. In control.
As if he hadn’t just unraveled you without laying a finger on you.
You stared at the far wall, heart pounding. You couldn’t tell if you felt fear, anger, or—
"I wasn’t sure you’d still be here," Veykhos said, voice low.
You avoided his gaze. "You didn’t leave me a map."
Then: "You could’ve tried."
You glanced at him. He stood in the doorway, arms folded behind his back, crimson skin glowing in the cold white light. His tattoos shimmered like scars. His face was unreadable—more so than ever.
"I thought Sith liked control," you said. "Are you letting me roam?"
"I let you pretend," he said simply. "It keeps you from breaking too soon."
You hated how collected he was. Every word measured, deliberate. He didn’t carry himself like most Sith. No snarls. No boasts.
Wore you down with quiet.
"So," you said softly, rising, "what now? Will you dissect my mind? Or have we passed the torture stage?"
You meant to sound bold. Instead, your voice wavered.
When he spoke, his tone softened.
"I’m not going to torture you."
"It wouldn’t work." His eyes locked on yours. "You’re too stubborn. You’d rather bear pain than give me satisfaction."
"Besides," he murmured, "I don’t want broken pieces. I want the whole you."
Not just the words. The way he said them—as if your existence was a burden.
He turned away, hands clasped behind him. A flicker of something—barely visible—crossed his face.
Not with outbursts or flaws, but in subtle cracks beneath the surface.
He should’ve shattered you already. He knew that.
Yet here you were, unbroken.
And now, in your defiance, he sensed something.
You saw it in his hesitation when he should have left.
In how he looked at you—as if you mattered—and resented that you did.
You stepped forward. Carefully.
"You’re losing your hold," you said softly.
He tilted his head, eyebrow raised.
As if you’d found something lost long ago.
"You do," he said, eyes burning amber. "Because you were never meant to matter."
The air thickened with tension—neither trust nor warmth.
Two broken souls circling something sharp.
And in that frozen moment…
No warning. Just suffocating darkness.
You recoiled, hands searching the walls for footing, heart racing.
You couldn’t hear him, but you felt it.
Like prey when the hunter circles silently.
You whispered, "A new trick?"
Only a low hum—not from the walls, but from him. Power vibrating, waiting.
You turned, heart pounding.
He was behind you. His hand slid to your throat, resting lightly. Testing your fear or your will.
“I don’t play tricks,” he whispered near your ear. Breath warm. Too close. “I reshape.”
“You’re not going to kill me.”
A pause. You felt his slow smile.
“No,” he agreed. “Because I haven’t decided where I want the fractures yet.”
You met his glowing amber eyes in the dark.
They glowed molten—more a promise than a flame.
“I know what you’re doing,” you said, trying to steady your breath.
“Oh?” His hand slid down your spine. “Then why are you still here, trembling as if I already touched you?”
He baited you. Wanted a reaction—fear, lust, anger. And it worked.
“You think control means power,” you said, “but the moment you want something—”
One hand slammed beside your head, pinning you to the wall. His body caged you, not touching but suffocatingly close. His knee slid between your legs, near but not touching, signaling if you moved, you lost.
His breath grazed your lips.
“What I want,” he said, voice sharp, “I take.”
Your whisper was defiance. “Then why haven’t you?”
Silence shattered like lightning.
Then he laughed—quiet, cold, unsettling.
“You’re the most dangerous fool,” he said. “Because you think not breaking you now means I won’t.”
His hand moved to your chin, tilting your head back. His thumb brushed your lip—mocking tenderness.
“You want to hate me,” he said. “You want control. But you already know.”
“That you don’t want me to stop.”
And that was the worst truth of all.
Because somewhere inside, you feared he was right.
The cell felt smaller, the dim light carving shadows across his sharp features. Silence stretched like a taut wire—ready to snap, but neither breaking first.
Veykhos moved slow, deliberate—a predator savoring the chase. His amber eyes held yours captive, unblinking and intense. Heat radiated from him, pressing in from every side.
He tilted his head, smirking like he dared you to resist.
“You think you can resist me,” he murmured, voice velvety and sharp.
You met his gaze, voice steady. “I can.”
That smile deepened—not reaching his eyes—a warning and a promise.
“Such conviction,” he breathed, stepping close enough to count scars on his lekku. The scent of burnt spice and cold iron filled your senses, intoxicating and dangerous.
Your breath caught as the gap closed.
“I know what I resist,” you whispered.
He arched a brow, embers flickering in his gaze. “Oh? Then tell me what makes you so sure you have a choice?”
Your eyes flicked to his lips—full, parted—before snapping back up.
“The part of me you cannot reach,” you said quietly.
His eyes darkened; a storm brewed beneath the surface.
Neither moved as tension crackled.
Then suddenly, his hand rose, fingers brushing your jaw with deliberate claim. His thumb traced a slow line beneath your ear.
The touch sent shivers down your spine. You wanted to pull away, but your body betrayed you.
“Yet,” he whispered, voice dropping low, “you tremble.”
You clenched fists, nails digging into palms to ground yourself. Breath caught, heart pounding.
His foot slid along the floor, pressing lightly against your ankle, tracing your calf with a teasing, possessive touch.
“You walk a blade’s edge,” he murmured close to your ear. “One wrong move, and I’ll have you broken.”
Your knees threatened collapse. You forced yourself to breathe.
His lips curved into a wicked smile—danger and delight promised.
“But for now…” He pulled back just enough to let the space between you burn, “you still resist.”
Your gaze locked with his, fierce and unyielding.
“Why keep me alive?” you demanded, voice raw.
He crouched, meeting your eyes. The glow softened for a moment.
“Because,” he whispered, “your fire is rare. Fascinating. Break you, and I lose more than a pawn. I lose a game worth playing.”
You shivered—not just from fear.
The storm inside—rage, defiance, desire—tightened, caught in the eye of his relentless presence.
The flickering light cast jagged shadows on his face, twisting his features darker, more predatory.
Veykhos stepped forward, eyes sharpening, colder—like ice cutting flesh.
“Do you feel it?” he whispered, voice a deadly caress. “The hunger beneath calm. The storm ready to break.”
This time, his hand didn’t merely brush your jaw—it seized it firmly, fingers pressing in with a ruthless reminder of who commanded this moment. His grip was both cruel and reverent, as though you were both his prey and his prize.
Your breath hitched; your heart hammered wildly as the air thickened under the weight of his oppressive will.
“You fancy yourself strong,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly, “but strength crumbles when staring down the void.”
Behind him, his lekku twitched with restless menace, like venomous snakes poised to strike.
Without breaking your gaze, he leaned in until your lips almost met.
“I could destroy you,” he whispered, “reduce you to dust—and you would beg for it. Yet”—a cruel twist played on his lips—“you stand. You dare.”
A shiver ran through you, caught between the urge to scream and the pull to surrender.
His foot slid forward deliberately, pressing against your hip, forcing you back against the cold steel wall. The unyielding metal bit into your skin—a brutal reminder of your confinement.
His voice dropped to a growl. “You belong to me now.”
There was no question in his claim. No room for defiance.
His hand closed around your throat—just enough to steal your breath, not enough to choke.
“You will learn,” every word a razor’s edge, “that power is not given—it’s taken. Piece by piece, I will strip everything away until you break. Then I will decide if you remain worth anything.”
Your fingers curled, nails scraping lightly against his hand in silent defiance.
Yet the fire within you flickered, dangerously close to extinguishing.
His lips brushed your temple—a dark promise whispered only for you.
“Fear me,” he said softly, “hate me. But never forget—without me, you are nothing.”
The space between you crackled with tension, every second stretched taut, every breath a struggle.
And beneath the menace, the dark magnetism held you captive—dangerous, devastating, irresistibly consuming.
The silence didn’t break.
Warped under the weight of something deeper than noise—something primal. A hum in the marrow. A pull in the dark.
Veykhos still hadn’t moved.
And yet, you felt shifted. Like something inside you had tilted, permanently.
His hand lingered at your throat, not constricting now, but anchoring—claim without closure. His fingers traced your pulse, and he knew. Knew what that trembling rhythm meant, knew you were fighting something more dangerous than fear.
He leaned in closer. Not a threat. A promise drawn across inches. His breath traced down your jawline, slow and deliberate, every molecule a challenge. His voice was velvet and ash.
A confession. An accusation. A tether pulled tighter.
Your lips parted—not to speak, but because breath had become an afterthought.
He smelled like storm-warmed metal and scorched ozone, a heat that didn’t belong in the cold of the derelict station. The scent of power, and ruin, and something unspoken that curled around your ribs and refused to let go.
“I should end this,” he murmured, his thumb dragging just beneath your lower lip. “I should reduce you to cinders before you get beneath my skin.”
You found your voice, brittle and edged. “Then why haven’t you?”
A flicker crossed his face. Not weakness. Not doubt. Something worse.
His grip on your throat eased, but he didn’t withdraw. Instead, his other hand rose, slow as orbit decay, brushing your waist—hovering. Not quite touching. Yet your body betrayed you, leaning into the gravity of him like he was the center of everything.
“I’ve killed Jedi for less,” he whispered, his voice rougher now. “Snapped the minds of spies twice as clever. But you…”
His mouth was near your ear again, breath threading through your hair like static.
You turned your face toward him—barely, but enough. Enough for your lips to nearly meet. Enough to call the bluff neither of you were willing to make real.
“Then maybe I win,” you breathed.
He stilled. A beat of absolute silence.
Then—he laughed. Low and bitter.
“No.” His lips hovered just above yours. “It only means we both lose.”
And then, finally, he kissed you.
Not gentle. Not soft. It was war. Teeth. Heat. A brutal, claiming press of lips that shattered breath and reason.
You didn’t yield. You met him. Matched him.
And that—that made him growl, low in his throat, one hand sliding behind your neck to crush the gap between you.
The wall was cold at your back. He was fire at your front.
The kiss deepened, dizzying, until you weren’t sure whose breath was whose. His hand slid lower, curling possessively around your hip, anchoring you in a storm you hadn't agreed to survive.
He pulled back only enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, the gold ring of his irises burning like collapsed stars.
“You have no idea,” he rasped, “how dangerous you’ve become.”
Your fingers tangled in the fabric of his robes—burned, tattered, reeking of death and battle—and still warm, still real.
“I know exactly what I am,” you said, your voice hoarse, wrecked. “You just didn’t expect me to like the dark.”
His eyes flared. A grin bled across his face—sharp, wild, reverent.
“Then stop pretending you want to be saved.”
He kissed you again. Deeper. Slower. A drag of teeth, a twist of control.
The next kiss wasn’t war.
Drawn deep and slow, like the pull of gravity—like the heat inside a collapsing star. No more testing edges or teasing restraint. This was Veykhos baring something darker. Not lust. Not desire. Hunger. A hunger that had been buried too long beneath control, sharpened by solitude, forged in violence.
His lips tasted like ruin. Like something sacred, desecrated.
His body caged you again, but this time, there was no space to escape. His thigh pressed firmly between yours, claiming territory in silence. His fingers splayed across your side, then traced upward—slow, deliberate—each inch of contact burning like circuitry under overload.
When his mouth left yours, it wasn’t mercy. It was strategy. He dragged his lips down your jaw, along your throat, breath ghosting against the pulse he had already memorized.
“You’re not afraid,” he whispered, and you felt the smile in his voice. “That should terrify us both.”
You shivered, but not from fear.
His hand curled at your lower back, pulling you flush against him—no room, no air, only the ache of friction and the unspoken truths in every locked glance.
You whispered, barely audible, “You think this is surrender.”
His teeth grazed your throat, a scrape that lingered too long.
“No,” he said. “I think this is beginning.”
A flick of power surged between you—dark, pulsing, like blood laced with voltage. It vibrated in your bones, made your knees buckle, made you gasp.
And still, he hadn’t truly touched you.
His power pressed into your skin like smoke with weight, a living thing that slipped past every defense. He didn’t need your permission. He’d already been inside your head the moment he whispered your name.
But this—this was worse. Better. Consuming.
He brought his face back to yours. His voice, when it came, was barely a breath:
“I will tear you apart… only to rebuild you in my image.”
Your heart beat once—twice—then stilled.
“Then do it,” you whispered. “If you dare.”
Not with violence. With precision.
His hand seized your thigh, pulled it up around his waist, forcing you to feel every hard edge of him. The other tangled in your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat fully—offering it to him like a challenge, or a gift.
He breathed against it. Lingering. Wanting. Denying.
“You don’t understand what I am,” he said, voice shaking now—not from uncertainty, but from restraint. “This is not affection. This is the storm choosing not to kill the tree it shelters.”
You exhaled sharply. “Then stop pretending you’re not already beneath my roots.”
For a moment, everything went still—your breath, his will, the fragile thread that bound the both of you to logic.
Then he kissed you again, vicious and deep, and this time it wasn’t a promise or a warning.
It was a claim. One neither of you could walk back from.
And in that tangled breath, you realized something terrifying:
You weren’t his prisoner anymore.
And that… that was the most dangerous thing of all.
