Sweat beads on his foreheads and though his arms sting from exertion they do not slow or quiver. Ben is accustomed to strain and training with the Knights is different but it is only more difficult in that he does not yet understand the parameters of what they require of him and his shadow (but there’s no other choice, no other place to fit, no where else his jagged edges will fail to be tempered by meddelsome hands who complain when they cut themselves when they knew better than he what a danger he presented). His breath comes a little faster as he faces the other knight before him, a little more than a handful of years his senior. He is fast. Strong. He doesn’t appear to tire, even as the humidity clings to their skin.

And he weilds the most impressive weapon outside of a lightsaber that Ben has ever seen. For the sake of sparring they possess weighted clubs, and Ben is accustomed to moving quickly with or without tapping into his innate abilities in the force. It might be cheating to impress those whose ranks he hopes to join, and an over reliance upon a thing makes one weak and lazy. So he reads body language, strain of muscles, a flick of the eyes, the shifting of weight from one of Cal’s feet to the next and finally lands a blow. It’s merely a glance to a shoulder as the other corrects himself but he’s surprised by the shock to his own shoulder and for the briefest of seconds he glances to see if he, too, has been hit.

the end of tros doesn’t exist

he should’ve known, he should’ve seen, if he hadn’t been so fucking stupid he would’ve seen. he’d known cal had the force, his own connection to that had made it clear from the moment they met, but that wasn’t uncommon, and poe was long used to keeping that information to himself. but he couldn’t have seen this. cal is...he’s something more, something worse maybe, and poe had apparently decided to ignore it.

“shut up!”

he’s pacing, crossing and uncrossing his arms, he wants to hit something, hurt something, and poe is not a violent man. but he feels it now, that desire, and he blames cal for that too. 

✯ IT’S NINE TO FIVE IN SOME ARBITRARY CLOCK IN SOME     ARBITRARY PLANET THAT’S FAR FROM HERE, FAR FROM     CORUSCANT. FAR FROM HOME. A MEASURE OF DISTANCE     AND TIME, SURELY, THAT IS THE POINT—YET A MEASURE OF     NOSTALGIA. TRICKERY OF THE GOOD OLD DAYS, REMEMBER     ONLY THE GOOD, PAINT THE BAD IN PINK, CALL IT A DAY.     THE INDUSTRY IS GRUELING BUT IT KEEPS HIS FORM IN CHECK     AND THE HAZARD PAY FOR SOMEONE FAR MORE ATTENTIVE     THAN THE AVERAGE WORKER. TODAY AT LUNCH, I SAT ACROSS     a working man with a missing arm. He asked me about my missing eye.     I chuckled without a response, as did he. I LIKED THAT ABOUT HIM.

SIGH AS HE SITS HIMSELF down on the couch, hard working man’s ritual, head thrown back, deep inhale. A little something finds himself upon his lap, smirk to his face up to the ceiling, head still thrown back, pretending to pay him no mind. POINT OF NO RETURN, heavy calloused hands to his hips, pull him in, pull him down, closer & affixed on his lap, where he belongs. Head raises—the man’s attention to you, which you so evidently needed, is it the pouty expression in your face or the wanting in the air that gave it away? ❝If I’d known I’d be welcomed with this kinda face... would’ve stayed at work.❞ The first stage of the tease. Innocent posturing. Brighten up, sunshine.

❝WELL, I’M ‘ERE NOW, pretty boy. Yer gonna tell me what yer waitin’ fer all day?❞ HANDS RIDE UP THE WAIST, slipping under and through clothing, warm and rough, tight grip around his lean form. A squeeze for good luck, chew him like a toy, hope he squeaks like one too. Get him singing. ❝Or should I start guessin’?❞

the pilots often go out to drink, relax, and start trouble whenever they get back from scouting missions. any mission, really, but scouting especially because they were gone for so long and typically ended up bored out of their skulls. they had energy to burn, stories to tell, and the new republic was more than willing to give them a few free hours to burn all that off. it made sure they were more ready to focus when going back in, and they needed the fun. 

which is why poe finds himself out in the city, his uniform left behind, and his body relaxed. it had been a scouting mission, a boring one, and despite his ability to focus on the job he was not good at sitting still. and his eyes were roving everywhere, looking for someone specific but he wouldn’t tell any of his friends when they asked. he was their commander, there needed to be some barriers, admittedly they didn’t push hard, too focused on their own pursuits. 

shameless joy blooms in her chest when she finally is met with cal again.   she’s always liked him,   even if him and his boys caused a good amount of trouble for her and her town at first.   she’s long forgiven him though--   had already forgiven him the first time they crawled into bed together.   but it was fun pretending she was still upset.   he didn’t take long to figure out she was faking it so he would stay longer with her,   but hey,   it worked out in the end,  didn’t it?  he stayed---   stays most of the time and so does she,   but sometimes work needs her to travel to other towns and sometimes she ends up staying there for an entire fucking week.  she’s lucky she’s got reliable deputies,   or else she’d be chewing at her nails in worry the entire time.   thankfully,   she’s back in her town now and she’s clearly surprised to see cal already waiting for her when she enters her private office.   she’s glad he hasn’t lose the spare key she gave him.   he’s the only one who has a key besides her.   it shows just how much she trusts and cares for him.

INCOMING TRANSMISSION // @warknighted​:  ❛ ❝ you’re too late. ❞ ❜

𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁. ↳ 𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶

      three words (  three syllables  )  have the power    to destroy her completely  .  she drops to her knees  ,  the devastation bearing down on her until her legs no longer support her weight  ,  nor the weight of his words  .   she doesn’t mean to cry  ,  doesn’t even really notice the tears as they well up along her waterline and breach her lower lids  .  salted liquid leaves tracks along the dirt and grime coating her cheeks  ,  falls from her chin and waters the ground  .  if only this pain could grow something beautiful  .  her chest aches  ,  her throat burns with the urge to scream her agony away  ,  release it into the galaxy so it will no longer burden her with it’s incessant need to tear her down every time she thinks she’s gained her footing  . 

            she pleads with him  ,  gaze burning into his as if it would give him the power to undo what has already been done  ,  as if it would give him the power to bring them back  .  rey has nothing  ,  cannot offer any more of herself than she already has  .  she’s given everything she has to the cause  ,  and in turn she’s lost everything she dared let herself love since leaving jakku  .  she’s too late   ––––––––     his words are seared into her memory  ,  played on a loop to torment her and showcase her failure  .  she’s too late  ,  she’s too late  ,  she’s too late  .  

            her head shakes back and forth  ,  denial setting in before she has the chance to properly work through what her next steps need to be  .  it consumes her  ,  denial battling grief battling anger battling pain  .  ❝  no  ,  ❞  she whispers finally  ,  though she cannot bring herself to stand  .  her heart is too heavy  ,  too broken  .  what is left for her to do  ?

            but rey knows this isn’t the way it will end   ––––   it can’t be  .  she’s worked too hard  ,  given too much to let it be in vain  .  her masters would be disappointed  ,  if she curled up and died there with the rest of them like her heart is begging her to  .  she doesn’t remember standing  ,  nor does she remember igniting her saber  .  rey barely realizes she’s stepped towards him until the light emitted from her weapon glows against him  .  rey doesn’t even know if he’s the one responsible for this  ,  but she does know one thing   ––––    if he follows ren  ,  he is not on her side  .  she raises a shaking arm  ,  brandishes her weapon before her  .

she has witnessed hope buoy people before. hope or sheer stubbornness or spite. even hunger will do - to get to the next meal, to find the perfect piece of scrap. it's a desperate, scrabbling sort of hope-fuel that wears you out just as quickly as it propels you forward, but it gets the job done.

she has also seen the way pain and torture turn people into ghosts of themselves. fear, of what's to come or what has been, turns blood to steel and knuckles white.

rey looks at him, this knight of ren, with his quiet and simmering rage that carries him wildly through the currents of the force. perhaps this is his buoy. that pain, that dread, it keeps people ensconced in the dark, convinced they can hide or overcome their weaknesses. that what they have endured, what wrings them dry, will open their eyes to power unlike they have ever seen. and for the right people, it does. how strange to find that here, in the antithesis of hope, people are still held aloft. somehow. whether with power or a desire to escape. one of these must have brought cal to the first order. it’s a sickening thing to realize.